Comatose in cyber space….

Time - warps when you are bored out of your tree. And today I have aged a million megabobs. I’ve just got out of a techno babble meeting with 3 techno babblists in person and 2 more via the chronically under-whelming alchemy of the ‘video conferencing’ facility at the end of the table.

"Hello, Jerry, can you hear us? …. Hello, Jerry, Jerry, Jerr-reee, caaan yooou hear usss?"

"Hi, yes,…Je…. y here…. Hope ..yo.. can ..he.r … us – OK?"

It sounds as if Norman Collier is on the other end of the empty baked bean tins and string ensemble, masquerading as cutting edge video conferencing technology.

Well, this is a bit more than I was expecting , I’ve been asked over to look at one of their web products, in a bid to sex it up a bit by bunging in a few graphics, nice menu, friendly and considered typestyling etc. The product has been developed and designed by the guys I’m about to meet – and as they’re all techno bods, it’s as interesting as Steve Davis’ diary on a not very busy Wednesday.

As I’m introduced to boffins 1, 2, and 3, I suddenly have a real feeling of dread. Me, creative bee-esser-in-chief, the broad-brush boy who soothes client worries with nothing more technical than "Look, don’t worry, it’ll be sorted, no problemo" has stumbled into a whole colostomy of real and virtual boffinistas….

They start, it’s all about java script, palava scroat and crypto flypto stuff. I’m going glassy. Floating away on a warm waft of white techno noise – a mixture of babble and air-conditioned hum-drum. I’m thinking about what I’ll have for tea, what telly I’ll watch, how many beers I’ll have tonight and is Kelly Brook really as fit as she looks on camera?…

Mental note – must make sure I get a pair of eyes tattooed onto my eye lids….. It wasn’t so much boring, more totally over my head…. I’m brought down from the blankosphere and an interesting conversation with Kelly, with a bang as I'm aware that someone is talking directly at me (and it aint Ms Brook)…

"What do you think?"

What?…What do I think? What was the question? Where am I?

"Err, sorry, just writing my notes, didn’t quite catch that"…

Boffin 2 repeats the question. The other boff - bros in the room are looking at me. The virtual boffins are giving me their collective on-screen once over as well….

Even the humdrum drone of the air-con has subsided as everyone and everything awaits my verdict.

Think, bastard well think! Come on you bloody genius, this is a tricky situation – but I’ve always got out of tricky-sits before. I need to get back to boff 2, with a response so damn cunning and destructive, it’ll mask the fact that I haven’t a bloody clue what anybody is talking about. Quick as a flash and with the rapier skill of a cunning fox with a sword - on an advanced fencing course, I retort to my feeble minded audience - "Look, don’t worry, it’ll be sorted, no problemo"

Well that was easy. Am I the daddy or what?

Did I really do that?…..

Did I really send a very important letter introducing our state of the art, cutting edge, can do, fly-by-wire services to a vitally important new client, who I had been wooing for months and who was going to give us lots and lots of new high end, high value business?

Yes I did...

And did I really pay extra special care to the content of my letter, paying particular attention to syntax, nuance, gravitas – with just the merest hint of friendliness – just to let her know that she’s dealing with a fully focused and professional operation and not with a complete and utter load of no-hope divvies?

Yes I did...

And did I really miss one vital and gut wrenchingly embarrassing spelling mistake in her very important job title, even though ‘spell-check’ failed to spot the error, mainly because the word with the spelling mistake still made a recognisable, if not entirely appropriate word?

Oh yes I did...

It should have read ‘Public Affairs Manager’
Unfortunately, I forgot to put the ‘L’ in.

Did she notice? Did she care? Was she shocked? Did she take offence? Was she a church going Christian, brought up in a Convent school? Did she give us any work?

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and no. .

Blessed is the Brian that impersonates Pavarotti……

Before I start, I’ll just make it quite clear that I am not a fan of ITV’s ‘Stars in your Eyes’. But when there is a celeb’ edition I do occasionally have a quick butchers – just to watch for the ‘cringe point’ – there always is one isn’t there?.... That’s the time when someone is on the box and they’re so embarrassing that you just have to put a cushion in front of you face and chant "Can’t hear, can’t hear" as loud as you can.

At least, on the Joe Public edition, there is a modicum of talent on show. "Young Billy Turner, a gas fitter from Bolton, who are you going to be?
"Tonight Mathew, I’m going to be Dame Nellie Melba"….

The ‘celeb’ edition is different – a lot different. The cringe point is much lower, much more achievable as someone from ‘Corry’ blows his or her credibility forever.

"And here is your host, Cat Deeley"… The intro’ credits have barely finished and I’m already reaching for the cushions. Yes, ego gets the better of talent as some zed list nobody is persuaded that they really can hit the same notes as Frank Sinatra. Or with a judicious bit of makee-uppy and the odd stick-on sideboard, you really will believe that Engelbert Humperdinck has just walked into the studio…

Saturdays edition, however, achieved a whole new standard of cringyness….. Brian Blessed was on.

"And tonight Cat, I’m going to be Luciano Pavarotti"…

Well that’s sounds easy then. All of a sudden, there isn’t a cushion to be had in our house - as the whole nation says "No, Brian, don’t do it.. just put the mike down and move slowly away"

I mean, suspension of belief is one thing. I just about believed that Brian, as leader of the ‘Winged People’ in ‘Flash Gordon’ had wings that could actually get his corpulent frame off the ground. Well, he had to didn’t he – otherwise he would never had uttered the films most memorable line "Gordon’s alive!"

But Pavarotti – that’s different gravy. Brian wobbles on - and now he's about to warble on. Well, he looks like the great tenor doesn’t he? I mean, he got a big floppy white hanky in his hand, he’s dressed head to toe in a penguin suit and he’s had some ‘stick-on’ comedy eyebrows stapled to his head.

And then he starts…..
The inhabitants of Alfie Towers chant in unison "La, la, la, can’t hear, can’t hear, can’t hear"….
Our collective heads are buried so low in our cushions that we are all in danger of committing some weird religious sect - type suicide pact. Well, if he doesn't stop 'singing', I'm going to kill myself!...

A new world record for ‘Cringyness’ has just been achieved.

Flying the flag, wearing the flower, drinking the beer…



Today, I will mostly be getting blathered, courtesy of

Bombardier Fine English Ale.

Eventually, I will be crying "For God, Harry and St George!"

Have a nice day, everyone.

"Faster, further, higher…. (and drunker) …"

Norris McWhirter, the ultimate facts and figures man died yesterday.

The original author of The Guinness Book of Records, Norris and his brother Ross took a vague enquiry from one of the Guinness family and developed it into the top selling, non religious publication in the world. It was a great concept, a book of trivia to help lift the drab, austere grey days of the mid fifties…..

I got one as a Christmas present in 1967 – and proceeded to read it from cover to cover. By Boxing Day I was boring everyone rigid … "Hey Dad, did you know that the biggest cheese ever made was"….

"No I bloody didn’t – and I don’t want to. Just sod off and eat your turkey butties"….

"Turkey? Did you know that the biggest turkey ever, produced 625 butties"…..

"Sod offfffffffff!"

Ever since then, I’ve always had an interest in the book. During my more vacant, looking down the end of a black velvet glass student times - we would often try to think of some so obscure activity to achieve a record. The more obscure, the easier to do, the easier to do, the more likely we are to get a record into the Book.

"How about ‘beer mat flipping’? Can’t be too difficult can it?"

Well, we had the pitch (the table), we had the ‘floppers’ (the beer mats) and we had the ‘flippers’ on the end of our arms.

In no time at all, the World Beer Mat Flipping Games were inaugurated. We had a ceremony to open them, this involved some more black velvets and a packet of crisps. We lit the sacred ‘flipping flame’ – this will remain lit as long as the games last – or as long as the upturned fag stays alight.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

We start with 1 and build…..

We flipped and drank.
Drank and flipped.
Drunk and flopped…..

Pretty soon, the ‘10 mat’ barrier was smashed. Incredible!

A lap of honour is run – well more properly described as ‘staggered’….. stopping off at the bar for a refuel. This sporting life is certainly thirsty work. The tension was tense as the new World record was achieved at about 10 o’clock that night. Just how many was our new and ‘never to be beaten’ World record? Seventeen. Only Seven-bloody-teen, that’s all!

After that high water mark, lactic acid, diminishing hand eye co-ordination and ever increasing bog trips took its toll. Those heady heights were never again repeated. I went home.

The next day, I eagerly dug out my Guinness Book, so I could contact Norris and tell him of our incredible feat of incredibleness.

Just to make certain – and to bury the nagging doubt nagging away in the back of my mind, I decided to look in the great book to see if there was already a category for ‘beer mat flipping’ Not very likely, I know – but best make sure eh? I scan the index, hmmm -

‘banana’ – biggest, bendiest, most like a penis…
‘beard’ – longest, shortest, flanging - the art of, twirliest..
‘beer’ barfing, most pissed, mat flipping…..

"Mat flipping - blast!" See page 546… I find the page ‘Klaus Webber, a German student successfully defended his beer mat flipping title and set a new world record of 92 beer mats’….

NINETY TWO! – He must have hands like spades. How the hell do you get 92 beer mats in your hand for God’s sake? Dejected, the letter to Norris is consigned to the ‘bin of failure’.

We reconvene at Games HQ for a summit meeting. OK we need to find activities so obscure that not even know all Norris McWhirter has ever heard of them. We draw up a short list…

1) Furthest Gob.
2) Furthest Gob.(Into a gale force wind).
3) Highest wee up the bog wall.
4) Loudest Fart.
5) Quickest wee into a pint glass.
6) Furthest distance you can propel the contents of a packet of crisps by stamping on one end of it.
7) Most people in a pub bog cubicle………

Most of the night was filled with making the list, having a laugh and getting pissed.

Years later, I’m recounting this episode of my student days to a client of mine. "Did you ever do any of them?" he said

"No, of course not! After all, you’d have to be seriously mentally moronic to have a go at a Guinness record wouldn’t you?"

It was one of those seminal ‘foot in mouth’ moments. As soon as I’d said the words – I knew, I just knew he had attempted one. Did I say ‘one’ – well I was wrong, he had been in the book three times. Bloody hell, what a stud-muffin!

"Three times? Wow, what for?"

This man of men, this tenacious terrier then recounted his finest hours to me…

"Yes, the first time I was in was for ‘Endurance Monopoly Playing’ …. 105 hours none stop……

The second time was for ‘Endurance Squash Playing’ ….. 79 hours non stop"

I am truly humbled. I’m clutching at any straws I can grab. Is playing squash more demanding than beer mat flipping? Probably not….

"And the third time you were in?"..

"Well, 2 months after we set the Squash Endurance record, some git went and broke it – by putting another 6 hours on…

"So me and my mate decided to go for the record again, which we did – we put it up to 92 hours…. We tried to make the 100 hours, but we were just too knackered, you know how it is"…

Yes, I know how it is alright, he had his 100 hour non stop squash playing barrier, I had my 20 beer mat flipping barrier, both targets unattainable to 2 finely honed athletes……. Ah well, never mind, we gave it our best shots but it was just not meant to be. Cue the 'Chariots of Fire' music.....

Damn Blast!…..

The Sunday Times Rich List was published yesterday and guess what – I’m not in it again..... It serves me right really, I should never have invested in ‘Chocolate Fireguards Corp’ in a bid to corner the chocolate craving, chilly woman market.

A trilogy in three parts. Part 3 – Peters overload……

By God, it’s cold. It’s a late November New York morning and it’s our second day of shooting our little filmlet on ‘The hunt for Spiderman’…. Over the next few days, we are off to the ‘Coca-Cola’ shop, Rockerfeller Centre, Empire State Building, Ellis Island, Central Park, The Staten Island Ferry and ‘The Battery’. As in "The Bronx is up and the Battery’s down, the people go through a hole in a ground, New York, New York, it’s a wonderful etc, etc. Phew, it’s a double chocked, choca block with crispy bits, schedule alright.

To get the day off to a warming good start, we head for a bit of brain storming at a real Big Apple Deli’ and some hashy browny, easy on the squeezy, sunny side uppy stuff to oil the creative wheels…..

I order. God knows what, but as I’m reeling it off to the little Greek guy behind the counter, I become acutely aware that I’m sprouting a bit of a Kojak inclination to the syntax……. The order finishes with …. "Thanks cup cake and all like that – and everything. Keep da change ya bum. Yaderra, yaderra"…

It arrives. Christ, it’s no wonder the USA is the lardiest, lard-arsed capital of the world is it? Desperate Dan in his cow pie-eating heyday would struggle with this cornucopia of fat encrusted embolism on a bin lid. How the hell am I going to eat this?

What would Kojak do in this situation?
Probably get one of the guys from the Bronx division to call him up and tell him a heist was going down, somewhere uptown. "Sorry, Tony da Greek, can’t finish the pastrami ensemble jas now, gotta go, send me da bill cupcake, ciao".

I don’t have a lollipop, or a pair of ‘70’s dark glasses, or a jaunty trilby, or a white mac’ or someone from the 39th precinct to ring me up and get me out of this fat fest - fast…..

Instead, I struggle. Forcing stuff down, oozing schmoozing hot gloozin’ stuff, processed to death, courtesy of Clogged-Arteries Just Like Mamma Had Inc. All I want is a nice slice of toast and a cup of tea for God’s sake. Eventually I wobble out of the Deli. With every New Yorker eating like there’s no tomorrow how does their sewage system cope? Just what makes all that steaming smoky stuff coming up through New York’s sidewalk vents and immortalised in so many Hollywood films?

I dread to think. The penny - and the breakfast has just dropped. I look for the John.

Post-dump. We make for The Battery and the ferry…..

‘Spidey’ dons his cozzy. The skin-tight Spandex is under severe strain. The big brekky has obviously taken its toll. Spiderman’s got ‘Deli-belly’. He looks like ‘Little Plum’ in a lycra suit.

The camera crew suddenly decides to go all artistic and obscure like….. Spidey’s ‘GutsterGate’ will be covered up. We get on the ferry. Not before some guy had seen portly Spidey walking towards the gangway. "OK, Spiderman, let’s see you jump onto the side of da ferry ya schmuck" …..

It’s Spidey’s biggest problem. Every time he dons the suit, Joe Public expects him to actually be the guy that can walk on ceilings and bound from building to building using nothing more than a length of spun silk ……. The man in the suit told me he has broken bones because enthusiastic New Yorkers keep on pushing him off high places, expecting arachnid skills to kick in. They don’t. Gary Gravity has the last laugh.

Whilst stuff is being shot, Andi starts to tell me how much he earned during the last fiscal year. Well, that really does cheer me up. He also tells me the fantastic branded ‘Nanook of the North’ anorak he is wearing is all sponsored – to the tune of about 20 grand a year – plus free anoraks. I’m depressed. I look at my coat. Bought from the Army and Navy Surplus Bargain Basement Bin, it doesn’t compare well with the anointed one’s ruggedly immaculate attire.

I’m green. Is it envy – or am I turning into the ‘Incredible Hulk’? And if I am beginning to split my pants with anger, is Andi safe? We’ll never know, because Mr TV is called away for a bit of filming…..

I start to doubt my worth. What does my Son think? An old, cold bag of spanners dressed in inadequate Army Surplus against a loaded 2 dimensional billboard-sponsored, shallow celeb’-obsessed has been? ….No contest.

Our days seemed to revolve around filming, eating and drinking. I can handle that, I even bought a few rounds – well, you’ve got to haven’t you? For Mr Peters however, this was an alien concept. He clearly comes from the ‘I’ve got money, and I’m keeping it’ school of self-centredness. No one seemed to mind – except me. Where I come from, you go to a bar, you pay your way….. or you get beaten up. That wasn’t the worse part of having a beer with Andi though. No, ‘namedropping’ is much, much worse.

"Yeah, Jamie and Louise Redknapp, good friends of mine….. Philip Schofield, great bloke …. Spice Girls - really, really talented girls"…..

Andi’s getting close. Closer than he ever knows to finding out first hand just what lies on the bottom of the cold, cold East River. My spirits are briefly raised when Andi bemoans the fact that he has bought a pile of videos from some shop on 5th Avenue and he forgot to check if they were PAL format suitable for viewing in Britain – which of course, they aren’t, they’re all U.S. format. Oh yes! Thank you God.

Then he tells me it doesn’t really matter as he has both types of video players at home……. I’m crushed.

He seemed to get on with my son though – and to be fair, John is an absolute natch in front of the camera. He’s even outshining the great Andi Peters. At the end of one of the really good days filming, Andi asks my son whether he would like a job in television. Please, please, just say "Yes" I silently plead. …. If you say "Yes" and work on Andi’s already colossal ego, he’ll get you a job on a kids show – and untold riches will follow…..

I wait, hanging on John’s carefully worded and fully considered reply.

"No thanks, I’d rather work with dinosaurs"

Shit! He still wants to be a Palaeontologist….

We decide to all have a day off from the epic-filled, crazy, hazy filming days of make believe. I must admit, I need it. I’m suffering from celeb-fatigue. If I hear one more story about how really interesting, sincere and talented, Ginger Spice is, I’m going to kill someone.

I put ‘Plan B’ into action. (‘Plan A’ is to win the lottery and retire).

I’ve been pumping Jeremy during the last few days about who exactly employed him in his role as Spiderman. His reply is music to my ears. Marvel comics, New York HQ.

It only took a day of constant nagging to swing the deal. Jez sets up the visit for our day off. "Are you coming with us?" I ask.
Jeremy declines. Andi’s not coming either – so that’s a win-win situation then! I get to visit the home of my childhood heroes – and it’s an Andi-free zone to boot.

We arrive in a big yellow taxi outside marvellous Marvel’s offices…... Marvellous. I switch to hunter gathering mode. I’m on a cadging mission and those Yanks have got no chance. My pockets are full to the brim of empty Macy’s plastic bags – just in case.

We enter. I’m a bit shocked at first though. We are met by another Spiderman – an impostor no less! I discover they, rather like Father Christmas – job share. Stand-in-Spidey shows me around. "Is Stan Lee in the office today? He is! Soooperb – can I meet him?

Kid in candy store (and I’m not talking about my son) reaches the inner sanctum – the archive room….. Aren’t Yanks polite? They just never seem to be able to say "No". And even if they say "Well, I’ll have ask someone" – I take that as a ‘Yes’ anyway - and start stuffing posters and artwork into my Macy’s bags. Badges, nick-nacks, T-shirts follow. I feel like I’ve cleaned them out……. Oh dear, I have.

The week rolls along. Andi’s day is made when, while we were filming on 5th Avenue, some British people actually recognise him…. Eventually…. The autographs flow.

The last day. The film is ’in the can’ as us film folk say and we are having a last few beers before we all go our separate ways. Me? Back to humdrumsville. Andi? On to L.A. and an interview with Michael Jackson, no less. I took this relaxed window in our busy schedules to ask Andi for 3 autographs to give to my Blighty-bound sons.

Andi says "Oooohhh, sorry, I’m far too busy at the moment"….. Too right – too busy drinking my beer from my round. He tells me he’ll do it later. I tell him to ‘shove it’.

And it was shoved – sideways.

I didn’t speak to him again……. Peace at last.

The kids did get their autographs though – I forged them. Well, I couldn’t disillusion them could I?

A trilogy - in three parts Part 2 Up, up and away….



My son with Andi Peters and Spiderman outside FAO Schwarz in N.Y.
(Spiderman is the one in the red Spiderman mask)

The great day arrives and we meet up with a BBC bodkin at Manchester airport. She has all the tickets and stuff. We meet, greet - and fleet of foot, we just manage to catch the shuttle down to Heathrow….

"Will we meet Andi there?"

"No – He’ll be getting a later flight"

"What flight are we getting then?"

"The ‘Air India’ jumbo to JFK. It takes off at 2.00pm"……

Hmmm, Air India…… I thumb through my recently bought leaflet ‘The World’s Top Airlines’ – to see just how Air India measures up. According to my leaflet, it doesn’t.

Apparently, for reliability and comfort, Air India ranks just in between ‘Air-Afghanistan’ and ‘Bedrock International Airways’ as used by Fred Flintstone.

"So what airline is Andi Peters getting then?"

"Virgin Club Class"

Do I really need to check in my little booklet just where ‘Virgin Club Class’ ranks in the Top Airlines list?

The booklet is consigned to the bin.

We get to the Air India check in desk at Heathrow. My heart sinks. It’s a scrum – it looks like first day of the Winter sale at Harrods Calcutta branch. There’s a guy with a walkie talkie in his hand and an Air India turban on his head screaming something to the heaving, pushing crowd.

Eventually, we get through check in and are welcomed aboard by a drop dead gorgeous stewardess in an Air India sari. She ushers us to our seats. Maybe Air India isn’t all that bad after all?

The engines roar, the g-force kicks in and we’re on our way. I settle back to explore the in-flight entertainment. Films. Any film you want to look at – as long as they are Bollywood ones. I’m not kidding, by the time we got to JFK I’ve seen an entire year’s output – and not a car chase, drugs bust, cyborg from the future or psychotic English villain in any of them……

Soon it’s time for dinner. The dream in the sari asks me what I would like to eat.

"What’s on the menu?"

I’ll have the Chicken Curry please"

The Curry was as hot as my pants in a sauna on the surface of the Sun. Even the guys from Madras were begging for water. The power of speech went first, as my tongue swelled to the size of a bouncey castle. Pretty soon, I’m in a coma and all my vital organs have shut down...

The dream sari girl gently wakes me with a tender kiss on each eye lid ... sorry, curry induced delirium.... she shoves a green card in my hand. Some of the questions are bloody awful. Does my stowed pack of 'Solpadeine' qualify as a class A drug? Fortunately, we sail through customs and move toward a waiting throng of people all holding up little bits of card with names scribbled on. And we are on one of them! This guy has got a peak cap on and everything, he tells us he’s off to get the limo’. We wait outside.

The limo’ pulls up. This thing’s so long, by the time it’s stopped, it stretches across 3 States and 2 different time zones ….

I feel like a million dollars as we cruise towards Manhattan. We check in at the Waldorf Astoria. The room, classy. The mini bar, emptying rapidly. The branded Waldorf nick-nacks, sewing kit, soaplet bar etc, gravitating towards my suitcase.
Well, you just never know when a sewing kit might come in handy do you?
We freshen up and get a call to meet in the bar.

I leave my son crashed out and flicking through 8 million TV channels and head for celebrityville… The director, an incredibly talented girl – all of 23 years old was really nice. She introduced me to Andi Peters. He was OK I suppose. A bit up himself, a bit Dale Winton, a bit of a sporty sweater wearer, a bit of a big head and a bit pissed off that no one else in the bar knew who the hell ‘Andi Peters’ was…..

The nice Director lady introduces me to ‘Jeremy’….

"Hello, I’m Jeremy Stooooooooart – I play ‘Spiderman’. At the moment, I’m out of uniform, obviously"….

"What, you’re here as Peter Parker then?"

He smiles, like he’s never heard of that line before…..

What a nice guy Mr Stooooooooart was. Unassuming, he told me that straight after he’d finished making the film with Andi and my son, he was off for the ‘Thanksgiving’ weekend up into Amish Country. Inspired, I tell that great joke "What goes ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ bang ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’…?"

Jeremy didn’t know.

"An Amish drive by shooting!"

Jeremy didn’t laugh. Maybe he could tell his Amish mates the joke when he goes up country?

Anyway, because I didn’t want to know just what Andi had to say about the Spice Girls, I speak at length with Jeremy.

"You come fram Liverpool? – I been there. I was on a daytime programme…. Richard and Dooody? I think it was called"…

Superb! I spend the next 15 minutes debunking the legend that is ‘Richard and Judy’. Andi looks nervous – he obviously counts them as friends….

The next day we rise early and dress, my son and I in matching ‘away’ Liverpool tops – well, we are in New York… We meet the others in the restaurant. Andi is in a flap. "Ooohhh Steve, they won’t let you eat your breakfast wearing that! … I mean, look at me. This top cost £200 – and I’ve had to put a jacket on over it".

I didn’t realise it, but Astorian etiquette has been seriously compromised. They don’t appear to appreciate my non svelte figure, closely wrapped in my team’s colours. The Maitre D slimes over with a dinner jacket and plonks it across my shoulders. I am now wearing a footy shirt with a tux jacket, Levi jeans and trainers. I look a right berk.

After breakfast, we all gather in the lobby – Jeremy joins us as well. I notice that he has changed a bit. Something is not quite right though, somehow he just doesn’t seem the same guy I met last night …. "Jeremy, is there something different about you, from last night?…"

"I’ve got my full ‘Spiderman’ costume on"

Of course he has. We meet the cameraman and sound dude – and then we’re off. First stop, the biggest toy shop in the world, FAO Schwarz – then on to Trump Tower……. And they call this work?……..

In the final thrilling instalment I narrowly avoid chucking Andi into the East River wearing concrete boots, as he really does begin to get right up my tits…. Tight arse Peters manages to do the whole trip without buying a round …. King Cadge strikes again! I manage to blag a visit to Marvel Comics’ New York H.Q. Their poster and artwork archive is well plundered as a turbo boosted scouser on a mission says "Oh ay, go on, gizz it" 514 times in just 1 hour…. Gasp at the way Andi Peters tells me that he is "Just too busy" to sign 3 post it notes for my other 3 sons… Sob As Andi asks my son if he would like to be a TV presenter. My son turns him down flat…… Bugger!



A trilogy – in three parts. Part 1 An Englishman in New York…..

So, there I am sitting in a swanky bar in one of the poshest hotels, in one of the most happening cities on the planet and I’m talking to a guy opposite who had actually appeared on our own Kings and Queens of daytime TV, ‘Richard ‘n’ Jooody’…….. which was nice.

Oh yes. I know about sophisticated small talk chit-chat all right.

Well, I had to try didn’t I? After all, can you bloody well believe it, I’m sitting in the cocktail bar of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel on Park Avenue in New York City.

How jammy is that then?

Bloody jammy actually. It was all to do with my eldest son entering a competition – and actually winning. He was always sending tatty little sealed down envelopes with some rhyming ditty off to a cereal or sweet manufacturer in the hope that it would win him a choccy bar, T-shirt or a years supply of creosote or whatever…..

I vaguely remembered him asking me to post yet another stuck down envelope with his usual scrawl all over it. This request obviously meant I had to pay for the stamp …. I almost chucked it in the bin for God’s sake.

Two weeks later, it’s a chilly October night, I’m on my Jack Jones and the ‘phone rings. It’s a BBC producer on the other end of the line. I stifled my first inclination to wittily tell my caller "Oh yeah, well I’m the Pope – and if you’re looking for Jesus, he’s just nipped out to get some chips to go with our 6 pack of Tennents Super Strong Lager" ….. Thankfully, I didn’t. Whether it was the poshness of her voice, the crispness of her syntax or whatever, I decided to listen……. "Blah, blah, blah, your son has won a competition"

I was barely listening …"What competition?" – (I expected a free cuddly toy)…

"It’s the BBC’s ‘Live and Kicking Spiderman’ competition – and your son has won first prize!"

Hmmm, the BBC. Their prizes are usually a bit stingy aren’t they? I mean, I grew up with ‘Blankety Blank cheque book and pen sets’ – and they cost about 15 bob per dozen didn’t they for God’s sake…..

Anyway, back to the telecon’…

"So, just what has he won?"

"A week in New York. He will fly over to JFK with Andi Peters. Once there, they will make a fi……

"Sorry, sorry, misheard you there, I think. Where did you say he was going?"…

"New York, in the USA"…..

"Oh"

"Yes, as I was saying, once there, they will make a little film for the show, where Andi and your son will look for ‘Spiderman’..

I’m gobsmacked.

"The problem is, he’ll need a chaperone. Could you or your wife accompany him to New York?

"Hmmmm. Let me think. Better still, I’ll have a look at my diary. I carefully place the handset down. Do I look for my diary? Nah. Instead, I thought I should do something a bit more constructive…. A silent goal scoring footy celebration with my shirt looped over my head mouthing ‘Oh yes baby!’ seemed to fit the bill.

I look for – and eventually find some decorum…

"Yes, I think I can fit that in"

"Or your wife, possibly?"

"We - ell maybe, but I know for a fact that she has a very important appointment soon. When is the trip?"

"It’s the end of November"

I rustle some sheets of newspaper for effect… "I’m just having a look at her diary to see ….. Oh dear, I’m afraid she has her very important meeting right smack in the middle of that week. It looks like I’m going to have to do the trip then, ho hum"…

The BBC producer briefly tells me the itinerary. "OK, that’s great, I’ll keep everything under wraps. OK, that’s great, Andi is going to ring my son live on air next week, OK, great, got it. Byeee"

I cringe – just how many times did I just say ‘OK great’? I could feel myself already becoming shallow, vacuous and vain – yes, delusions of celebrity were setting in….

I carefully replace the handset. "Back of the net!"
My real problem is trying to convince Alfreda what a really boring place New York is…. without actually losing my manly bits to a sharp upward knee thrust.

In tomorrow’sexciting instalment, we are off to the Big Apple. I team up with quite possibly the most talented BBC person ever. Oh, and Andi Peters tags along as well.

PLUS, we check in at the Waldorf Astoria….. GASP at the swankiness of it all..…… REVEALED – The strange stranger who has appeared on our own ‘Richard ‘n’ Jooody’…. READ how my first breakfast there is marred by the Maitre D insisting that I cover up my Liverpool away shirt… I deduce, he must have been a Man U fan…..

The Janet and Shane show

I’ve been 'Panicky Pete' this week. Absolutely everything I’ve tried to do has either gone tits up or down a plug hole….. Last night was the first time in days I could sit on me bum and watch the telly……

A few scoops helped – and a few home made lamb burgers – and a big packet of crisps….. and some more beers to wash it down. I was feeling a bit whoosey, it was a joint celebration - sort of getting rid of some work, by cunningly burying it in a clip file marked ‘Amnesia’ and chucking it in a cabinet called ‘black bin bag’….. The other reason was watching one of my favourite sports on the telly – the abject humiliation of a politician in her act of resignation … for all to see, marvellous.

With this in mind, I thought I’d watch ‘This Week’ (in politics) on BBC 1 last night and catch up on the latest goss’ on the resignation … Former ‘Sigue-Sigue Sputnick groupie, Janet Street Porter was hosting, standing in for Andrew Neill, who was ‘away’

I open another can……

Then, after media MPs’ Michael Portillo and Dianne Abbott have done their chicken entrails stuff on the Hughes resignation, Janet introduced the next item.

"And nouow, fresh from the starge at The Awlbert Hawll, let me intradarce Shane MacGowan to tell ars just what he thinks of the bar and restawrant smarking ban in Awrerland…

Comfy stupor becomes gobby smacked incredulity. Shane MacGowan!

Is this the same Shane MacGowan who was last sober when God was a lad and when we still had an Empire?

Am I that pissed? The Pogues bad boy is actually appearing to be on a political magazine programme – being interviewed by JSP. Yep, it's definitely the pointy toothed one all right.

The camera zooms in on a sweaty, glazed Shane. He replies to Janet’s first searching question ….. eventually. "WhatIzinkof ….. debannnizzzznotveymushhhhh"

Michael Portillo and Dianne Abbott, watch attentively.

Shane drones on "Oithinkitzzznawtroightzzzzzz ….. weallluvvasmoke…….."

You can tell it’s going pear shaped. Mike and Di’ are trying to finish off his sentences – well, they would if they could understand a word he was saying.

Janet’s a bit flustered. Fortunately, Shane comes to the rescue with a well timed pregnant pause – or is he asleep? The interview stumbles along, 5 minutes seems like 20, Abbott finds her shoes more interesting to look at. Portillo assumes a fixed stare. The sort of stare that says "Don’t talk to me and I won’t crack up into great fits of laughter"….

You can just imagine Beverley Hughes, sat at home thanking God for Shane and his diversionary words of wisdom…..

Tuesday short…….

Our venerable leader, Tony Blair announced a whole new initiative today. (Yes, another one).

Latest communique from planet BlairWorld – big Tone has set the full resources of Plod against the super criminal. He’s announced more resources, more protection for super grasses and more pressure put on the "People that are making each citizen’s life an absolute misery" as Tony so rightly screams from his pulpit….

‘Alfie the grass’ has been compiling a list of heavies that he knows has done terrible, terrible things to Joe public. Extortion, drug peddling, protection rackets …. You name it, these Mr Bigs have got their nasty, fat little digits well dug in – right up to the knuckles!

"Hello, is that MrBigStoppas?

"I’ve got some names for you in your campaign to rid us of the criminal super thugs that blight our land……

"The names? Yes, I’ve got them here – a right nasty bunch, have you got a pencil?

"Right, here goes….

Tony ‘the commissar’ Blair – the boss of bosses.

‘Gonads’ Gordon Brown – that’s his speciality, going for your balls as well as everything else.

John ‘don’t mess with me or I’ll eat your dinner’ Prescott – he’s ‘the enforcer’.

Geoff ‘no ammo, no brains’ Hoon – or ‘Buff’ for short – the quartemaster.

Plus loads of deluded gang members commonly known as ‘Yes men’….. I believe the gang is known as the ‘Nothing to do with me guv, Gov’

The Monday Obit’......

Peter Ustinov died today.
He was OK I suppose, wasn’t he?
I didn’t really get him. But he was a genius apparently, because everyone said so. I couldn’t understand why Michael Parkinson was always wetting himself every time Pete did one of those stories in one of his trademark European accents.

"……. Zo, ze vaiter zaid von loomp or two"…..

Parky wets pants….. "Ay up, Ustee, I've wet t'bloody kecks agin"....

He always seemed to be on ‘Parky’ – telling variations of the same old stories, in his fallback European accent (yawn)….. Him and the late Robert Morley, the two of them ALWAYS on that bloody talk show, boring me to death. The last time Robert Morley was on, was a bit awkward though.

‘Parky’ introduces his final guest "And my final guest is an actor, a raconteur and intellectual. Noel Coward said of him ‘He is a rrrright smart arse and general all round archetypal Englishman’ …. Please welcome Robert Morley"….

The Floor Manager started to mime to the audience that it was time to clap for all they were worth - which they duly did, sort of.
But above the clapperty frapperty came a voice from the audience, a shout of frustration, loud and ever so clear. Something along the lines of…..

"Geezuz H. Keeerista! Not boring old fat arsed Robert Morley AGAIN!!!!"

Tottering, moresome Morley. Awash with pinstripe and rolls of good living, ground to a halt. He looked shocked, moribund, suffering from an embarrassment embolism half way down the stairway to Parky lounge and his brown nosed adorer.

Parky came over all stern – like an angry ship. He stood up "Right. Who said that?"

No one owned up.

"No one is going home until the culprit owns up"

Parky strutted, like a public school House Master. The audience remained implacable - and mute. Parky purpled.

As far as I know, they may still be there, under the gaze of ‘Parky’s Yorkshire grit and Morley’s long departed spirit waiting for someone to own up…..

Back to Ustinov…

I was going to say "I’ll miss him", but I don’t really think I will – after all, we’ve still got Bernard Manning – and he tells stories in a funny accent – and they’re not funny either. He does look a bit like Peter Ustinov – but he’s not as dead as him. Although, Manning has been looking a bit ‘corpseulent’ lately….

Friday time warp……...

I’m 8 years old and I’m just about to invent a whole new game.
I’m in our back garden, with my best pal, Alan. We are mooching around in the borders – they are awash with bugs, creepies and crawlies. We start to turn over some old bricks scattered about. Under one of them, resided the biggest, blackest slug we had ever seen.

We pick him up, put him on the patio and wait for Sluggy’ to do something.

He does nothing.

We chant "Do something, do something, do something, Sluggy"

We invite sluggy to join our game – as if he had a choice. Alan gets the bumper pack of ‘Saxa Salt’ from the kitchen. Sluggy looks petrified. It's like he's frozen with fear, rooted to the spot as we start to draw lines of salt all around him.

The lines join up to form a brilliant maze, with Sluggy right in the middle of it. We invite our little quiet pal to try and find his way out. He seems reluctant to try, so we get some ‘slug prodding’ utensils from the kitchen, to help him on his way and give him a bit of 'incentive'. (Forks from the cutlery drawer, if I remember it right).

We prod. Doink, doink, doink.

Maybe we’ve underestimated his intelligence. Maybe we’ve underestimated his problem solving capacity. Maybe he couldn’t move very fast because he didn’t have any legs …. Or maybe the reason he wasn't doing much, was to increase the dramatic effect. Who knows? Sluggy seems transfixed with something or other. It seems he just cannot grasp the gist of the game. It’s like he doesn’t get it.

Hardly surprising really. Our maze wasn’t that good. Traditional mazes have a way of getting in and out – they have lots of blind alleys, but the basic premise is that eventually a way out can be found. That’s where our maze differed. It had no way in - and definitely no way out. Just concentric squares of salt, the smallest being just big enough to make Sluggy immobile.

Bored with the inactivity, we meander to our supper – and in the days before video games, a bit of telly then bed.

The next day, we come across what’s left of our forgotten playmate. What was once a slug is now a withered dried up shmuck of wrinkled black skin. During the night Sluggy obviously tried to make a break for it. He nobly tried to break free of those saline bonds. He must have taken a bit of a running jump at it though, because he travelled about half an inch before capitulating in a salty heap.

Sluggy, we salute you. We gave our little salt encrusted pal a full state funeral by chucking him over into next door’s garden.

Note: No slugs were actually harmed in this story. A very talented ‘stunt slug’ was employed. He wore a complete, all in one, salt proof body suit at all times….. (obviously).

Thursday’s helpful suggestion ……

In order that the Olympic Stadium in Athens be finished in time – (well, at least in time for the closing ceremony), may I suggest some extra athletic events. This way, the competitors can actually do the topping off, thus avoiding cringing embarrassment for the Greek Government.

1) Speed Bricklaying.
2) Time and Motion Marathon.
3) Bureaucratic Hurdles.
4) Scaffold-pole Vaulting.
5) Builders Bum Jump.
6) Hod Hump.
7) Pray like you’ve never prayed before sprint.
8) Get it finished or you’re for the high jump.

Or maybe they should postpone it for another year.
Cue ‘Chariot’s of Fire’ music….
Cue Anneka Rice and her ‘challenge’ to get it finished…..
Cue Jimmy Saville and will Jim fix it?….
Cue someone to invent a ‘slowing down time’, time machine….
Cue ‘Bob the Builder’ and a million of his mates…
Cue the 'Auf Wiedersehen, Pet’ crew….
Cue a bleeding miracle from the boy Zeus…..

Failing that, they could always transfer it to our local school playing fields…..

The Wednesday Conundrum……

Question: When does an International leader of State sponsored terrorism, suddenly become a really decent chap?

Answer: When Dubbya tells his European puppet, sorry ‘partner’ to "Get over to Libeeya and offer the hand of friendship to nice guy Colonel Muammar Gaddafi and seecure those oilfields for deemocrasee"

So that’s all right then.



The Wednesday Confessional……

OK, I’m not a Brain Surgeon, but I did, once have double helpings of soup with added croutons in a hospital. I fell for the old, "Do you want another dollop of soup love?" routine from the soup doling nurse…… Thick or what?

Perhaps my greatest food crime, whilst in hospital was to fill in the next day menu selection for breakfast, lunch and dinner…. Just as I was about to leave the ward having recovered from my illness.

The guy occupying my bed the next day would have:

BREAKFAST: Porridge (large portion). Dry toast.

LUNCH: Liver and Onions. Pink blancmange.

DINNER: Potatoes, butter beans, cauliflower cheese and streaky pork belly. Spotted dick.

Possibly - there's a lot of it about, but I don't know what was wrong with him.

May I rot in Hell’s kitchen….

Tuesday is 'trousering cash' day....

Inspired by the runaway success of the ‘Belle de Jour’ book deal (yawn), Alfie the plagiarist has decided to cash in on the ‘sex memoirs’ market.

Soon to be launched, ‘Alfie le rent boy’ will be a gritty, no holds barred account of a good looking, clear complexioned, slim hipped, slightly effeminate chap, making house to house calls in order to make a few quid.

I’m musing on a few gambits to open up with. It’ll need to be controversial - and I'll especially have to show how utterly contemptuous I am of all my clients. I’ll have to ‘paint the scene' through super duper descripto’ stuff, you know, like what those proper novella writers do …….

First posting (draft) …..
‘Allo, I am Alfie le rent boy’ and I’m about to see my first client of the day…. I am cruising down a notorious rent boy haunt in central London. A middle-aged businessman in blushing pinstripe approaches me. His vice like grip on his brief case is as tight as a vice in a vice like grip. Before he can say a word, I scream at him "You cannot afford me, oaf".

Crestfallen, the businessman stumbles away muttering "I only wanted to know the time".

I scorn him. "Consider yourself scorned" … And he was.

Soon 73b Notorious Road comes into view. The brightly painted front door from an age gone by gleams in the morning Sun. The big lion headed knocker, brassed off from being rubbed too much, catches my eye.

I knock.

And knock again.

The door creaks open like a wreaking creaking thing.

There, standing in the hallway is a seedy looking man of Mediterranean appearance and indeterminate age. Grime welcomes him like an old friend. Grease is the word and the time ... and the place is his hair. It’s Mazzola central in those follicles. He wears a vest, a cotton/synthetic mix that has seen 56 too many TV and curry suppers. His name is ‘Victor’.

Victor eyes me thoughtfully, he notices my God given Grecian good looks, chiselled chin and 6 pack stomach rippling through my skin tight shirt. My blonde, curly locks toss, tossily like a well tossed salad, caressed by a wafty wind originating from the scorched sand clad plains of Mauritania. Tiny beads of sweat form on my upper lip. My pecks are as taught as a Buckingham Palace Guardsman on special taught duty. Tension crackles through the air like a crackly tensioned torsioned piece of air. He doesn’t look pleased to see me.

"I’m Alfie le rent boy"

Victor says "I don’t have any money – so shove your rent book up your jacksy"

"You’ll have to pay double next week… And if you don’t pay, the landlord will chuck you out."

"Whatever"

With that, Victor slams the door – shut.

On second thoughts, best not give up my day job then…….

Monday shorts...

Diff’rent Strokes…..
Blackburn bathing pool have banned the backstroke at busy times because "It’s too dangerous"…… Thank goodness, they haven’t outlawed my favourite swimming style – ‘The arse-in-the-air-thrash-the-water-into-submission-and-move-with-the-grace-of-a-fat-drowning-jaffa, stroke’.

Well, at least not yet


Windy days …..

On Tuesday, the Sun was shining, the birds tweeting and sap was rising – all around. My thoughts turned to gardening … "It’s about time I visited the Garden Centre"…

On Wednesday, as a special treat, Alfreda bought me a neat little mobile seed propagator for the garden. It’s a tower of about 6 feet tall by 3 feet square, it’s got wire mesh shelving, sturdy tubular frame and a clear plastic, zip up skin. It’s just ideal for ‘bringing on’ delicate seedlings where garden space is too tight to allow a proper green house to be built.

On Thursday, I planted all my Summer seeds in my seed trays and carefully placed them into my brand new propagator.

On Friday, with the wind freshening I check that all is well with my new propagator and its precious cargo of germinating seeds – and yes, all is well. Solid as a rock.

On Saturday, sometime in the early morning, my propagator grew wings and split my garden scene. ‘Solid as a rock’ became ‘Flaccid as a lemon meringue’. All that was left was the base, smashed and twisted, a couple of non sturdy struts from the tubular frame and the carefully placed compost/seed mixture from 10 seed trays now dumped unceremoniously on the deck in a maniacally random way.

That’s put an end to the gardening fad then.


Marketing opportunity….

Idea: Front view mirrors for Blackburn’s backstroke swimmers.

Method: Simply rip off a car wing mirror and super-glue it to your face. Tilt it to an angle of 45 degrees. Thereby, you will be able to navigate your way ahead, carefully picking your route around bloated wobbly people, inconsiderate ‘wallowers’ and arsey posers as they try to impress the girls.

Extras: To effortlessly clear a path in the pool, whilst backstroking and really enhance your water presence why not purchase a two tone Maseratti horn and get it fitted to your trunks. Tune available: the ‘Jaws’ theme.

Are you sitting comfortably children?
Then I’ll begin………

So started Shadow Chancellor, Oliver Letwin’s Party Political last night on the telly. Well, OK, I’m exaggerating a bit - but not that much. Honestly, I thought condescending politicians were supposed to be a thing of the past – or the exclusive preserve of the Party in power. Isn’t ‘humility’ supposed to be the new black for Conservative MPs? Especially seeing how the sleaze disease took its toll on them in the ‘90’s.

I’m just tucking into my salmon steak and chips (with added gee-emery for extra flavour) when wide-eyed Olly shoves his moniker into my face. Well….. it’s better than Emmerdale I suppose?

Oliver starts his heavyweight fiscal fandango "Do you know kids, that when you borrow from the bank, you have to pay it back – that’s what Gordon Brown has done kiddie-winks. He’s spent your pocket money. He's raided your piggy banks and filched all your birthday money. He’s taken it to the tuck shop and wasted it on cream cakes and lashings of jelly, but you will have to pay for it"

"Naughty, Mr Brown, go straight to bed, there’ll be no jammy dodgers and milk for you tonight"

‘Simplistic’ was not the word for Mr Letwin’s performance. Well, it wasn't the word I was thinking of. ‘Herbert’ …. ‘Berk’ ….. and ‘Pinstripe-Prat’ are probably more apt.

After Oliver’s mindless meanderings he almost finished off with "Night, night children, sleep tight and don’t let the nasty Taxman bite"….

So much for incisive political debate.

Porn in my garden……

I’ve got shedloads of it. It’s ‘porn central’ in our garden at the moment. Gooey, sticky body fluids, writhing contorted bodies and non stop hedge to hedge jumpy-rumpy-pumpy-humpy action. Yes, frogs’ porn is back and it’s left a tapioca slick of Torrey Canyon proportions in my pond.

Frogs – millions of them, billions more probably, but I don’t want to get accused of hyperbole. They are bloody everywhere – and all desperate for a shag. Strolling through the daffs’ today, I was acutely aware of the all pervasive scent of froggy testosterone and the all too obvious ‘in tandem’ bouncing of amphibians on the grass and in the pond …. They’re all sex mad. I’ve come to the conclusion that frogs, when they are in the mood, will have a go at anything….

Several years ago, I found a half-dead carp flapping around on the surface of the pond. The fish didn’t look very well, not surprising really, on top of it with his little hands stuffed into each of the fish’s gills and hanging on for dear life was a randy rogering little frog. I mean, it's just not right is it? What future would their offspring have? Would they be called frish, figgs or foggs?

Good God almighty, I tried and tried to get that frog off the fish, but his little hands were shoved right into the gills, the more I pulled, the worse the fish looked.

Alfreda, helpfully suggested that a good dose of cold water sploshed over the couple would shock Freddie sufficiently to bring about coitus interruptus. I’m so desperate, I don’t even consider the insanity of the suggestion. Eventually, Alfeda’s ‘under the influence of drugs’ idea is refined. I grab my son’s ‘SuperSoaker’ water bazooka, take aim and fire.

Incalculable p.s.i. of pressure later and no effect whatsoever. The frog is still riding for all he’s worth. By now, the fish is well and truly buggered. Drastic situations require drastic actions. I land the two lovers in a net and put into action ‘PLAN B’.

It’s amazing how versatile a tool a cocktail stick can be. Sure, it skewers glace cherries and slices of lemon….. But it also makes a superb frog prodder. It’s my tip of the day. If you are ever in a position where you need to get a frog’s complete and undivided attention, then a 3-inch bit of wood will do it. A few well directed digs into his soft and wobbly nether regions soon does the trick – the frog rolls off, happy as you like and my carp is free, if a little weary.

Of course, frogs haven’t always had it so easy in our garden. Our late cat, Tizzy Wizzy Woo, especially valued this time of the year as a useful protein supplement. She would catch them, bite the legs and arms off the unfortunate amphibian, eat them - then calmly walk away, licking her lips.... Nice.

Sounds a bit brutal I know, but it was just a food thing with her – nothing personal. I tried to stop her as much as possible obviously, but ultimately I had to take a view. With the help of my pond, we raised thousands and thousands of froglets every year, a few got eaten, but most got away – it’s the law of my jungle.

Whenever I did find a Frog with an appendage deficiency of three or more as a result of Tizzy Wizzy Woo’s tyranny, I would get out my ‘despatching mallet’ and do the decent thing. If they only had one or two limbs missing then they coped pretty well, our pond is a wildlife haven – a frog doesn’t have to move very far to get a meal. Occasionally, she would bite off the limbs from one side only. Predictably, they swam in ever decreasing circles…….

Binge drinking……

I agree, far too much binge drinking around. I blame the cheap cost and the easy accessibility of booze.

I mean, it’s not as if they just have ‘Happy Hour’. What with all the subsidies, Happy Hour lasts for as long as the bars are open…….. Which is all the time. So, happy hour becomes happy days, weeks, months……

I’m on one of my favourite subjects again – the ‘don’t do as we do, but do as we say’ crowd from Westminster.

So when you’re sat there, in your local, nursing a taxed to the hilt pint that’s just cost you £2.25 whilst looking at a £6.85 lump of stale bread and cob of polystyrene laughingly masquerading as a nice bit o’ Cheddar combo, consider this…..

The Palace of Westminster has over 20 bars and pubs within its boundaries. Well that’s nice – and thoughtful, that makes for an average of around 31 MPs per bar, thus avoiding unseemly and plebeian behaviour such as pushing and shoving to get served first. (I haven’t included any of your Lordships, I couldn’t locate any during my in depth survey).

Notice, I didn’t say ‘pushing and shoving to get served for last orders’ - this being Westminster means that there are no last orders. Licensing hours within can only be described as ‘non-existent’ The bars have a 24-hour license; whenever the 2 Houses are sitting, the bars are open 24/7. Well that’s comforting – no ’10 to 11’ panic induced scrum for them, then..

All drinks bought in the Palace are subsidised, by us - as are the bottles of vintage wine, as is the entire restaurant menu. In the case of the food, they pay about 20 to 30% of the true retail worth. Well that is predictable – looks like I’m picking up the tab again.

Where does the word ‘binge’ come from then? My guess is it’s something to do with pigs, troughs and naked greed.

It’s comforting to know that when we stagger out of a club at 2 in the morning we’re at best embarrassing and at worse a bloody disgrace. When an MP is found in some Whitehall gutter with puke dribbling down their best pinstripe, they are described as ‘overworked’ or ‘tired and emotional’

Aint democracy wonderful?

Meanwhile, at a marketing company somewhere in London….

"OK people, gather round.

"Today, we’ve got a mountain to climb – with 2 broken legs, a blinding snowstorm and a 38 stone Sumo wrestler strapped to our back. This really is the Mount Everest of marketing….

"We are right up shit creek – and the paddle shop is on half day closing. This is our rock and our hard place, this is our nadir, this is the almost impossible brief.

"Today, we’ve got to devise the marketing equivalent that’s almost as difficult as selling sand to Arabs and ice to Eskimos."

"Sounds like a pretty tall order, Chief – I mean, Arabs have got loads and loads of sand haven’t they – and it’s a bit cold to be putting ice in an Eskimo’s G&T?"

"I was being ironic. The proposition is that everything is possible – no matter how improbable, if you devise the correct marketing strategy. So, when we are trying to accomplish something very, very difficult we use the analogy that whatever our brief is – it's still not as difficult as selling sand to Arabs or ice to Eskimos - which would obviously be virtually impossible to do".

"Well, what is it, what's all the fuss about then? What’s it all about, this ‘almost impossible’ brief?

"Genetically modified crops – or 'G.M.' for short. Her Majesty’s Government has tasked our Company to handle the marketing for this tricky ‘hot potato’ – and ‘sell’ it to the Great British public as a good and wholesome foodstuff"….

"So let’s unlock the grey matter and do some creative power thinking, and let’s do it now, people".

"Hmmm"

"Hmmmmmmm"

"Hmmmmmmmmmmm"

"Chief"

"What?"

"Can we have a go at the ‘sand to Arabs’ brief instead?"

Margaret, What part of "GM crops? I'd rather eat ground glass, so shove them up your arse!" don’t you understand?.......

The story so far……

The year is 2000(ish) Our far seeing Government decides that it would be a ‘good thing’ to do a bit of GM test growing – in various secret locations throughout England.

After various scare stories, Government are forced to tell the locals where these trials are being held. "They’re just over there" says a DEFRA spokesperson.

The locals already knew though. "Ooooh ahhhh, it be the dayglo haze and the three headed cows that give it away" says Jonny Local.

Strange, chemical – suited protesters start to trash the testing fields. The Government, spooked by the adverse publicity decide on an informal chat with the population – "To allay fears and convey to them the benefits of the GM revolution". The embryonic ‘Big Conversation’ – or ‘Big Con’ for short – or ‘Big porky-lying, conniving ingrates’ for even shorter, is born.

After 2 years of consultation, vox poppery and ‘Big Connery’ with Joe Public, The Government decide they have a mandate to proceed with some real crop planting of GM maize. Environmental Minister (or mental for short), Margaret Beckett justifies her decision.

"The 8% of the population that are in favour of GM foods have given us a clear mandate" declares Mental Margaret. When asked about the 92% that are vehemently opposed to the proposition, she declares them all to be trouble makers, Luddites, townies, misty eyed liberals – or suffering from Mad Cow disease.

The issue is so important, it headlines on this morning’s BBC Breakfast programme. Ace incisive, inspirational and ‘mind of a planet’ interviewer (and possible winner of this year’s Most Stupid Question Award), Natasha Kaplinsky sticks the boot into a lily-livered pinko pot smoking, tree hugger from Greenpeace…. "Well, this GM maize is only intended for animal feed – so what’s the big deal?"

I mean, it’s not as if we’ll be eating the stuff is it?



The law of averages……

I see the Attorney General, the Right Hon Lord Goldsmith is under pressure to release the ‘evidence’ that enabled our ‘legitimate’ invasion of Iraq.

‘Alfie the scoop’ has had unique access to the minutes of the tense and very secret Cabinet meeting.

"Look Goldsmith, does the law allow us to invade, or not?"

"It’s not that easy Prime Minister. It’s very, very tricky. So to solve this conundrum I have had this little device made up."

"What is it, Attorney General?"

"It’s a disc, on one side is the word ‘WAR’ and on the other side is the word ‘PEACE’. I simply stick it on my thumb and spin it – like a coin ….. Whichever side the disc lands on – that is what we’ll do"

"OK, as your infallible leader I, Anthony Blair give you permission to spin that disc"…….

"And it’s come down on the side of"…….

"Best out of 3?"…

In the words of Victor Meldrew "I don't believe it!"......

Now this is funny. I'm just browsing around and come across this little gem. It's a site dedicated to getting our own boy wonder, Tony Blair in as the next President of the USA. They have a catchy slogan to head the campaign 'Tony Blair for President'

The whole thing is very surreal. They've even thoughtfully morphed a pic' of the great one with the star spangly thing in the background and the presidential emblem on the dias on which he is four squarely leaning. Do I believe it? I just don't know. But you can get bumper stickers, coffee mugs - and even 'beer steins' with Tony for Pres' stuff on it. The patter is slick, the opening paragraph sets the tone "Between the babbling of George W. Bush on the right, the blathering of the anti-war left, and the cluck-clucking of media hens everywhere, stands Tony Blair, articulate and principled"

Just breathtaking.

The best bit on the site is the PETITION and the comments therein. If you've got the time, have a look at the comments - you could even sign the petition yourself if you feel the need for the omnipotent one to somehow go for 'the big one'. If the people that financed the site thought they'd get maple syrupy apple pie eyed sentimental gung-ho drivel - they are somewhat mistaken.

Great marketing ideas ‘on tap’……....
(Well, if Coca Cola can do it, so can I)

'Dansani' - basically tap water, from Coca Cola has given me a bit of an idea. Alfie the entrepreneur has seen a gap in the market where he could clean up big and retire happy.

Air. Air in a bottle. Nothing taken away – and nothing added… really, really nothing added at all. It’s brilliant isn’t it? After all, seeing that the U.S. have blown the ‘Kyoto’ agreement out of the water, air quality world-wide is bound to be getting a bit stale and smelly. What’s needed is a product to remind you of air as it used to be when you were a kid.
Pure(ish), unadulterated(ish) airy stuff – from the farm.

I’ll need a name, obviously. Something that gets that pure, country fresh image across to the discerning air breathing consumer - but without the cow pat waft. A lot of companies, wishing to go for that clean, healthy feel seem to plumb for a geographic name. I’ve got my manufacturing arm set up in Northern Ireland, Londonderry to be precise – so I’ve got the geography sorted out.

Production is a bit rudimentary though – and that’s the beauty of it. To fill the bottles we simply unscrew the tops and let the air flood in. Replace the top and slap a label on – job done!

So that’s all taken care of. Now I’ll need a catchy, jingley type slogan to really push on ……..

Let’s put the elements into the mix and see what comes out.

Hmmmm, the product is processed in Londonderry - ‘Derry’ for short … and the product is ‘Air’ – and I’m the big shot entrepreneur. I’ve just got to get those three elements together into one line.

I’ve got it!

"Alfie says, breath it, smell it in from his DerryAir"…..
Great! Now to expand into Europe. I wonder if my slogan will translate into french?

Clarissa Dickson-Wright and other dumb animals…...

Last week, my MP was on the telly. He was on the windswept plains of Lancashire doing a fair to middle impression of Pontias Pilot in a mac’ and wellies. Hand wringing was the order of the day as "Mr Colin Pickthall, MP for West Lancashire bleated there was nothing he could do about it.

He was standing on the bleak, peaty fields of Altcar. To some people in this Country, Altcar is the Wembley of their ‘sport’ – To them, the competition for which they compete, (The Waterloo Cup) is the equivalent of winning Wimbledon, The Derby, The World Cup and losing your virginity all rolled into one..

Altcar is the spiritual home of ‘hare coursing’. For the uninitiated it’s ripping up dumb little animals by middle sized dumb animals, whilst being slavered at by big dumb animals in Barbours and green wellies.

Oh yes, the great, the double-barrelled and the weak chinned were all there in their green tweedy finery. Failed chef meister and the ‘not yet dead’ half of ‘Two Fat Laydees’, Clarissa ‘frightfully posh’ Dickson-Wright was there, lording it and larding it as only she can.

Vinnie ‘I know gangsters and I can have you killed’ Jones was supposed to be there, but pressure of work meant he was in absentia. Yes, apparently Mr Jones is making a movie in which he plays an East End gangster called Barry Hard-Bastard. His only lines in the movie are "Ere, wot’s your game? Leave it awwt, I’m Barry Hard-Bastard, and I could have you killed"….

Vinny, you should watch out, you’ll start to get typecast ….. although I understand his next movie is a change of scene. It’s a total fantasy. The role is going to stretch his acting capability to the limit. He’s been booked to play a ‘professional football player’.

Back to Altcar. My MP says that it could become very, very tricky trying to get hare coursing banned. Great cunning is required. Mr Pickthall is "Very wary of prophesising the end of hare coursing"

Ohhh really.... The Government have a majority of over 150 and a Tony-crony poodle clack masquerading as a second chamber in the House of Lords. Shoving something through – something pledged in the1997 election manifesto should have been a doddle to do.

Hare coursing is a complete anathema in a civilised society. It’s a lust for blood too far – against an endangered native animal.

Pontias Pickthall, Tony Blair and all you other members of the ‘Things can only get better brigade’ stop whistling ‘dixie’ get your fingers out of your backsides and get it banned – or I’ll come and live next door to you….

Hats off……

Hats off to Peter Jackson at the Oscars. Not for the 11 successful nominations for Lord of the Rings, nor for his humble speech – and his genuine pleasure at winning everything in sight at the Kodak Theatre in L.A..

No, it’s for his fashion sense. For whilst everyone else was a virtual mobile fashion statement, dressed up to the nines by some of the coolest designers on the planet, Peter was dressed by Oxfam’s bargain basement bin. Which is just as it should have been.

All the beautiful people with their ‘Botox’ injections, nips and tucks. Sculptured eyebrows, silicone enhancements and plastic smiles….. and Peter Jackson, his hair a comb free zone, beer gut, shirt collar size several inches too small, horrible tie – he looked like a bag o’ washing, draped in gold. Excellent!

Crabs - the facts.......

Apparently, 10 million monster super-crabs are on their way to our shores from northern Russia. They're the bovver boys of the crustacean crew eating everything in their path and leaving absolutely nothing behind. They have a claw span of 3 feet and can easily snip off a man's finger.

A Government spokesman has applauded their imminent arrival as a welcome addition to our dinner plate. "These Crustaceans will add to our multi culinary experience" he said. The Opposition have called for controls to be imposed stating that these foreigners will take dinner plate space from our own, home grown crabs. Certain right wing 'red tops' are stirring the issue with such inflammatory headlines as 'Crabs - they'll swamp us and snip off our men's fingers' ........ 'Foreign crabs - so tough they are not even taking the £2 air ticket from EasyJet - they're walking here!' and 'Crabs - over here, in our underwear and on the dole?'

Me? I'm off to check my undie - crackers, very, very carefully….

Buildings going up, costs going upperer ….

Well there you go. Just when I was feeling wearisome, and then weary, some more, along comes an old and faithful friend to restore my faith in the never ending arrogance and self centred interest of our trough squabbling politicians.

Yes, it’s that old monetary black hole – the Scottish Parliament Building. Originally estimated at £40 million quid, yesterday they lobbed another £30 mill’ onto the equation to run up a revised estimate of £430 million. That’s nearly 11 times the original finger in the air.

Of course, all your Scottish MPs are shouting "Foul."
Unfortunately, none of them are shouting "Use cheaper materials" or "Haggle them down" or "Sod this, let’s meet in the local pub, mine’s a pint o’ heavy"

Alfie the lateral thinker has helpfully come up with a few suggestions where costs may be trimmed.

1) Dump the handmade silk toilet vellum and use quartered pieces of The Sun newspaper instead. That way, a useful recycling policy would be initiated and a salient political comment to Rupert Murdoch would also be made.

2) Sack the 3 star Michelin Chef – eat neeps and tatties, porridge and scotch pies instead. Wash the whole lot down with a can of Tennents Special Brew.

3) When important decisions need to be taken, instead of having the rigmarole of members voting, simply toss a coin – or even a caber to decide the outcome.

4) Instead of continuing to build this demonic democratic monster – simply remodel it, into the shape of our biggest Pachyderm. Paint it white and label it ‘The Jumbo Parliament’ (and they say satire is dead!)


’Bath time’ is an elastic concept…..

I bet Inspector Clouseau would have rumbled it. But apparently the contractors tasked to paint the brand spanking new Millennium Bath Spa in the ancient spa town of Bath didn’t.

The thoughtfully named ‘Millennium Bath Spa’ is running a bit late for its opening night. Or maybe it’s running ahead of schedule? After all, it doesn’t say in the title exactly which millennium it refers to. It could be 4 years late or 996 years early

No, the Contractors didn’t realise that the sort of paint you need to coat the inside of a bath spa was the sort that needs to repel water – and not welcome it through with open arms.

I don’t know, maybe they thought that they were painting the inside of a shop – the ‘New Spar Supermarket in Bath’…. Whistling "So near so Spar" as they painted away…..

Meanwhile, the good burghers of Bath are getting fed up with the delay incurred by the alleged incompetence of the painting contractors. But there has been no word yet on whether the hammer beamed thatched roof, mud floors and wattle & daub walls are up to spec…..

I couldn't possibly comment.....

Someone emailed me this little ditty - it's not p.c. - but it made me smile a bit.

Subject: FIVE SECRETS OF A PERFECT RELATIONSHIP

1. It's important to have a woman who helps at home, who cooks from time to time, cleans up, and has a job.

2. It's important to have a woman who can make you laugh.

3. It's important to have a woman who you can trust and who doesn't lie to you.

4. It's important to have a woman who is good in bed and who likes to be with you.

5. It's very, very important that these four women don't know each other.

A glass half full.......

Bloody hell, it’s getting harder and harder to moan about anything lately. I’ve been sucking on my HB, looking at a blank piece of paper thinking vitriol for days and days – but all to no avail. Everything in the UK garden is just bloody fine thanks very much. Tony’s looking immaculate. His comb over strategy seems to be working (except on windy days, obviously). John Prescott appears to have had a jowl makeover and is looking very sylph like nowadays (except when he’s storing some meat and potato pies in them, obviously). I don’t even have much of a problem with that young pup Prince Edward. He’s having a well deserved skiing holiday after his exhaustive fact finding trips to the USA and the golden beaches of the West Indies (well someone’s got to do it, obviously).

The Inland Revenue owe me money - and have admitted to doing so. Trains are running on time and staffed by happy smiley people. All motorway work has been completed and traffic jams are now a thing of the past.

I even saw Cherie Blair on the telly, God, she’s looking a foxily, sexy laydee alright.

I think I really do need help.


MI5.......

Seeing that hush, hush organisation MI5 are looking for another 1,000 people – I’ve decided to chuck my C.V. into the dossier named ‘Secret Agent’ and apply.

I rang them up for an application form.

"Hello, is that Em fifteen?"

"MI5, sir"

"Whatever. Can I have an Application Form then please?"

"I’ll just take a few details, full name please."

"Certainly, Alfred B. Theok"

"And the ‘B’ – what does the ‘B’ stand for?

"Blabbermouth…….
Hello, hello are you still there?"

Flagging spirits and pretentious has beens ...
(and a crap flag design)



Anthony H Wilson, bon vivant, enfant mediocre of the ‘Madchester’ movement, founder of Factory Records and The Hacienda Club has found a new bandwagon to jump onto.

Style guru, Anthony has teamed up with Peter Saville, the guy that used to design album covers for New Order, Stone Roses and the Joy Division to name but three and has designed a flag for the North West, because as Tony grandly says It’s necessary

Busy-body and general all round fusspot Mr Wilson has decided, along with other beautiful people from the area that us North Westerners have an identity crisis. It’s not enough to be Lancastrian, Marcher men, Cumberlander, Scouser or Mancunian – Tone reckons we need to rally to the banner of the North West…. My homeland, tear in my eye, hand on my heart….

Tony, I know this is a bit of a shock to the old ego, but I and most of the people in this Country of England don't want any more layers of parochial government. Just an English one will do, thanks very much.

Who knows, maybe Mr Wilson has press ganged Peter Hook and his New Order crew to knock up a Regional Anthem…. Royalties Tony, just think about the Royalties.

My whippet’s beginning to look distinctly nervous though, style conscious Tony is bound to want us to go upmarket with our pets – possibly getting an Afghan Hound instead. The flat cap and black pudding recipes have already been consigned to the bin…

A bit of advice to you Mr Wilson – from one North Westerner to another. Stick to reminiscing about your golden ‘Madchester’ days – and leave our sense of belonging to wherever we feel most comfy.

OR – take a course in ‘better flag designing’

Dental as anything…...

Today, 3,000 people in Scarborough have been queuing to register with a new NHS dentist. She seems a nice lady, just been head-hunted from Holland, presumably leaving a lot of clog wearing, tooth aching Dutch bods behind. Her English is perfect – I just wonder how many of her new clients will be able to speak Hollish to her…..

She clearly seems overwhelmed by our quaint queue culture – "No, ve haff noffink like ziss in Hollant. But, I zink everyone’s teeth in Scarborough vill need just a leetle attention."

Someone should tell her, they really, really should. By the second month, she’ll have biceps like Schwarzenegger and an ivory mountain to rival that of the most ardent of elephant poachers. Just looking at those people in the queue – and particularly their gobs, she is going to be a very busy practitioner indeed. As I was watching the telly, all I could think of was ‘Tombstones’…

So, where have all our NHS Dentists gone?

I think they may all have got ‘Marketforce-itis’… possibly.

Was this one of Tony Blair's 'pledges'?
"I pledge to completely bugger up the dental profession - because I can"

The Northern Tsar is in my eyes (and up my nose)……

Two arses, John Prescott, enfant terrible of ‘Medacious Gov’ Inc’ is proposing a brand new supa dupa city for us Northerners. Well whoopy do, I was only saying t’wife t’other day.. "Ay up lass, what we need is a bloody great new city t’live in. Something that is about wun ‘undred miles wide will do. It’ll give us limitless lamp posts for our ample pack of whippets to wee agin and open up our black puddin’ franchise to the entire Northern Region"…..

So serious is Prezza taking his new ‘back of the envelope’ idea that he has appointed even more Tsars to overlook this magnificent new directive.

The Romanov’s are alive and well and living in Central London, busying themselves Tsarring away, hither and thither making sure that all potential banana skins are avoided. A specially commissioned ‘Banana Tsar has been head hunted from Fyffes to make sure ‘Medacious Gov’ Inc’ gets this one right.

Apparently, it’ll stretch all the way from Liverpool in the West, straight along the M62 corridor to Hull on the East coast. Then South to take in Sheffield - and North via a rather strange arm, all the way up to Newcastle and Sunderland. From the air, its outline looks like a flattened animal roadkill… sums it up really. By my reckoning, the city centre will be somewhere on top of the Pennines - just near where the M62 splits into two to go round that bolshy farmer’s house. He will be pleased. "Ayy up, yer can take yon Civic Centre, and stick it up your arse, that cow shed in’t going nowhere"….

Prezza has obviously never seen organic growth, (apart from his voluminous gut). It’s yet another idea from the planet ‘crap’ "I know Tone, you’ll love this, a mega city stretching from sea to shiny sea. It’ll take in Hull, Leeds, Manchester, Newcastle, Sunderland, Middlesbrough, Liverpool and Sheffield. I’ve code-worded it ‘Prescotland"

The race is on for a suitably sexy name for the new mega city – although, Peter Mandelson’s request to have it christened ‘Blairville’ has been eloquently refused by Prezza. "I’m buggered if I’ll have my city named after our leader"…

Anyway, Alfie the ever helpful has come up with some suggestions for the new Metropolis’ moniker….

Prezztatyn.

Tonyo.

Norvurnchester.

Whippeton

New Valhalla

Concretia

Thebiggestcityintheworld-ever.

Upnorthia

Northvana

Labour Gulag

Tomorrow: Continuing with our Northern theme we debate the merits of failed record (Factory) impresario and failed club (hacienda) owner Anthony H Wilson’s latest attempt to shove his face into our lives. Tone has helped to design a new North West flag for us North Westerners, how thoughtful, but it looks like Mr Wilson is going to make it 3 failures in a row………

The Orange BAFTA Awards…….

I’d like to thank God, Tony Blair, my Mum, my Dad, my Wife, my kids, my 4 pet cats, my dog (sniff) ….. Oh, but most of all I’d like to thank (sob) the empty room in my brain labelled ‘Memory’ for giving me a ‘luvee – free’ evening.

I forgot it was on last night and watched the other side….

Lies, damn lies and "I’ve got 10 Valentine cards this morning"…...

OK, who’s going to admit it then? How many of you have done this? (not that Alfie the 'ever so popular with the birds and his schoolmates' has done it obviously)

You’re at school, it’s the 12th of February and you’re doing a more than passable impression of a Billy No-Mates just after eating double helpings of a garlic infused meal with a triple dose of B.O (per armpit!). and a face about to assume the dynamic of several Krakatoa’s….

In the distance, Todger - the school cock is knocking seven shades out of ‘Creepy Wilkins’ the school swot. I can hear his cringing moans from here.

Nearby, Dalton, the school romeo is mouthing off on just how many Valentine’s cards he is going to get "Probably have to send a Royal Mail van round to my house….. several times".

Cue group guffaws from his adoring audience.

Slimeball Simkins, the school twat, glides around Dalton, the original goldenballs and mutters manly encouragement. Just then, he looks up and sees you… "Ahhh, it’s Billy No-Mates. And just how many Valentine's cards do you think you’ll be getting?"

You vaguely wave your arms around expansively, doing a passable impression of Magnus Pyke having a spaz attack……

The collective goldenballs clack piss themselves…

The great day comes – it’s the 14th of February. You wake up, do some shadow karate stuff in front of the full-length mirror, change your undies and liberally paint on the Lynx underarm roll-on. Today is going to be just a superb day! Humming, 'Sex bomb' by Tom Jones, you trot downstairs and gaze at the front door mat. The ‘Welcome’ moniker is totally obscured by the vanilla envelopes peppering the floor. "Are these for me?’ You waftily muse…..

Striding to school is easy today. In your satch’ is a veritable bevy of lewdly suggestive calligraphy from who knows where?
Parker, the school nosy bastard trots over "What you looking so pleased about then?"

You smirk. You know why don’t you?

You know where all those sexy, minxy type cards have come from…. You know who wrote the suggestive prose from Sharon, Sexy Sheila, and Nympho Nigella? You know because you wrote them – to yourself! You couldn’t even just throw them underneath the letterbox, you had to post them the day before.

You’ve just joined ranks with Winton, the school self-delusionist, Archer, the school fraud, Tourett, the school blabbermouth and ‘Posh’ Adams, the most talentless person in the whole school (and that includes the dinner ladies and semi invalid ancient caretaker)……. .

A pub bet…....

So you’re in the pub, having a chat about usual lads stuff - Kelly Brooke’s great figure, the offside rule and the socio-economic impact of the introduction to Brazil of the coffee plant during the 19th century, possibly…...

No, I’m lying, we didn’t talk about all those subjects.

Kelly Brooke was never mentioned …. It was Jordan……. And their prospects for the forthcoming F1 season, obviously. (Well, what did you think I meant?)

Then the argument started. We were talking about kids programmes of yesteryear… "I remember, right. I remember, on Blue Peter, years ago, right? They had Captain Cook’s very own tortoise on the show. Alive!"

"What do you mean, Captain Cook’s very own tortoise?"

"When he nipped into some island in the Pacific to claim it for Blighty, the natives gave him a little tortoise – as …"

"A pet? … Lunch? …. Hat? What?

"A gift. They gave it to him over 200 years ago as a token of their grovelling gratefulness for being conquered by a far off Super Power. The Cap’n said "It’s just what I always wanted" and took it home with him".

"Bollocks. I don’t believe it. I had a tortoise when I was a kid and it only lasted 3 weeks before it croaked."

"Well, Cap’n Cook obviously knew what he was doing ….. painting the little chap’s name on the shell using unleaded paint, tucking him up for the winter, fresh lettuce"…….

"Yeah, right"

"No, honest. I really did happen!"

"Didn’t"

"Did"

"Didn’t"

"Did"

"n’t!!"

Did this sound a tad juvenile to the casual passer by? Well, possibly - but there’s something about a pub, a few pints and a liberal dose of testosterone to ferment a mindless Daily Sport type debate that brings out the worst in me…..

Does anyone remember this momentous event with Chris, Val John or Pete….. or did I dream it? There’s a whole pint of Well’s ‘Bombardier’ nervously resting on the outcome….

Business going South, as business goes East…

As I mentioned I’m busy – but are we trousering any cash? We’re getting squeezed from all angles, all the time. Last week, we got a very unwelcome email from the Indian sub continent. One I have been dreading.

We design and build web sites amongst other general design stuff. We’re not cheap, or expensive – but we are creative. The spam from India is telling me that they can produce web sites for a fraction of what they cost in ‘the West’ – That’ll be us then. How can we compete? Answer, we can’t.

Sure, our stuff is much more creative, we can do anything, ‘flash’, ASP, PHP, database management….. But do companies want that any more? They all seem to be ruled by the Accountant’s pen and the bottom line nowadays. Cheap is good, Cheaper - better, Cheapest is best. This Global market place is relentless. Everything is being downgraded to a different cost infrastructure and a desperate workforce.

You can here the strain in their voices as some guy from Mumbai rings you just when you are about to start your tea.

"Hello, this is ‘Rob’ from ‘DataStuff’ in London, I just want to…"

"Really? Well Rob, what’s the weather like in London at the moment? What do you think about Chelsea’s latest big money signing? Did you see ‘Corry’ last night?"

"Silence"

"So what’s your real name? And what country are you calling from?

"Sanjay, and I’m calling from India"…….

After that, we get on famously – he’s no longer using his ‘alias’ name, or de facto, lying to me. I listen, he feels more confident because he isn’t trying to live in ‘Rob’s’ alter ego. I obviously don’t buy – but at least Sanjay feels better about it.

To use the modern vernacular, these people are run by Gang Masters in India, who in turn are run by Beemer driving Gang Masters in the West.

They appear to be paid on a results driven commission basis. I sort of get the impression that big bubbles are being inflated on booming Global economies. I’m just wondering where exactly in the World the flaccid skin of recession will start to kick in – and when.


A sad day

I’ve been a bit quiet since Friday. My friend, Joan died that night after a long battle against cancer. I’d known her for over 25 years, had a laugh and some great times at The Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust at Martin Mere where we both used to work.

I will miss her terribly.

iago…....

Met my sister, Princess Matilda, the ‘not too bad in small doses’ on Saturday. She told me that the new BBC Director General (acting) Mark Byford is an old Uni’ class mate of hers. They both went to Leeds, she knew him very well. He was quiet, thoughtful, sensitive, studious – but a bit of an apologist.

"He still is" I said. He must have taken a ‘Masters’ in apologising along with a ‘grovelling’ O.U. course. Ever since he got the job via the untimely resignation of Greg Dyke, Mr Byford’s sweaty hand prints have been on reams and reams of apologies to just about everyone he can think of from his newly created ‘BBC Apologies Unit’.

"Sorry Dick Dastardly, for portraying you in the most negative light during the transmission of ‘Wacky Races’…. I’m sure you are a very sensitive psychotic boy racer"….

"Sorry ‘Wicked Witch of the West’, I’m sure you are a really interesting old crone…. I’ve never had eye of newt and liver of toad, but I’m sure it’s a delightful fusion of flavours for the palette…. I’ll get young Jamie Oliver to rustle some up for the BBC canteen"…..

Anyway, if you want any extra apologies, Mark – here’s some I made up earlier….

"Sorry" (a general ‘fits all sorts’ apology – can be issued when panicked and need to think of something quick)

"Very, very sorry" " (must be said with a sincere countenance – a tear in the eye will help).

"We at the BBC are complete nummers, we don’t deserve to breath the same air as the great omnipotent, the Royal Blairiness" (should only be used whilst on your knees, it is advisable to disengage your mouth from boot leather to make this apology – otherwise his Royal Godliness won’t be able to understand you).