Hats off to Clinton Cards……

Strolling around that there London yesterday, just by Bank underground station and not a Pearly King’s jig away from the grand old lady of Fred Needle Street, we happened upon a Clinton Card shop. As is customary with us oop-northerners when passing a shop, we had a right good gawp in – to see if there was anything interesting therein.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a well slimy, jellied eel and no mistake guv’nor.

For there, in all its red ‘n’ whiteyness was the biggest display of St George’s Day cards I’ve ever seen. Well, let me clarify – it’s the only display of St George’s cards
I’ve ever seen.

I just could not believe it. A whole aisle devoted to St Gee. Not only lots of different reasonably priced cards (5 for £2.55p), but also flags, patriotic pens, key-rings and badges.

It was great to see, not only because they were on show – but the mere fact that Clinton Cards reckon there is such a big market out there in England-land in the first place. And thus translating that into such a large commitment to space within the shop.

Earth to Tone, Mike and Chas – get your manifestoed fingers out of your pontificating celtic backsides and recognise the nation – before it comes back to bite you.

Note, if you go onto the Clinton Card web site - http://www.clintoncards.co.uk/ASP/front/default.asp
You will find St Gee’s is the card of the month.

Final Pope comment...

During ITV's magisterial coverage of all things papal last Friday; the anchorman got a tad carried away with the occasion. It might have been because of the presence of His High Highness, Tony Blair, his windy-wafted locks and his wife, the virgin Cherie. It might have been Robert Mugabe's handshake to Charlie Windsor "Yo, Chaz, you and your lovely new wife, Cammy must come over to our house sometime".........

But most probably, it's because the anchor man is a total, non bible-reading wally.

For those of you that missed it, he said "This must surely be the biggest day in Christianity - ever"...

Hmmmmm.... bigger than the virgin birth, bigger than loaves and fishes, bigger than the resurrection?

Obviously.

Why didn’t I think of that?

If I was a really switched on business-type geezer I might have seen the marketing possibilities just a bit sooner.

I might have set up a stall selling stuff.

I would have made a fortune.

And all in a matter of little more than 4 hours.

I wonder who got it though?

The franchise.

The licence to print money.

And sanctioned by the big guy in the sky no less.

He’s one lucky – and very rich entrepreneur.

What am I talking about?

A one day franchise for a black tie sales booth in St Peter’s Square, Rome – of course!

On the warpath yet again…….

Letter to The BIG Lottery Fund concerning their pathetic cave in. Allowing HMG to raid the BLF piggy bank of another 45 million quid to fund their Schools food quango. A pathetic fop to the shame that pukka Jamie Oliver heaped on the Ministry of Education…..

Sir/Madam,
Is it true that us lottery punters are now expected to bankroll yet ANOTHER Big Government initiative?

It appears to be another BIG quango bonanza as more BIG money cash is pumped into areas that should by rights be funded direct from our taxes.

The BIG money figure quoted is £45 million.
This is utterly appalling.
This is NOT why I, and millions of other jaundiced punters play the lottery every week.

When John Major initiated the Lottery, he put safeguards in place to stop Government filching the cash. These appear to have been taken down and discarded - BIG brick by BIG brick.
The Government seem to view the BIG Lottery Fund as a sort of BIG piggy bank - to dip in at will, with no one from the Big Lottery Management Team (or 'flock' for short) saying anything about it.

There seems to be absolutely no time at all between a Government request for BIG cash and the granting of even bigger cash. Can you people only say 'NO' to the little groups and organisations - the very people that the BLF was set up to service.

I am absolutely disgusted. Your granting of this and other BIG money to our mendacious Government is little short of criminal.

Tell me - HAVE YOU EVER SAID 'NO' TO THE GOVERNMENT FOR A REQUEST FOR MONEY?

You should rename yourself - I suggest the BIG POODLE GOVERNMENT FUND.
Sirs, you are an utter joke.

Yours, etc, etc.

Tomorrow, the Big Lottery Flock hit back with half a ton of Alfie hating invective….. (And I’m still trying to work out what the hell they’re talking about)

Pontifications on a Sunday afternoon

My number 3 son, still reeling at the untimely croakedness of JP2, asked me what exactly the Pope did…

"What exactly does the Pope do for his money then Dad?"

"Oh, you know, he sort of wears a dress, does a lot of blessings and can’t have any sex at all"

"How much does a Pope get paid then?"

"You know, I don’t think they actually get paid anything – but they do have free unfettered use of the Popemobile"…

"So, the Pope, doesn’t actually get paid, drives a car that looks like a greenhouse, wears a dress and never has sex – ever?"..

"Apparently so"

"You know, being a Pope sounds like a pretty crap job all round, really"

Footballers' Wives – utter crud…..

Last night, I watched my first ever episode of ‘Footballers' Wives’. It was a monster-long 90 minute episode - an everyday story of lust, more lust, sex, rape, debauchery, drugs, money, bribery, baby swapping, dodgy hair-dos, spray-on tan, big jewellery and really poor fashion sense. I viewed in vain for some good, clean footy action - liniment, jock straps, diving in the box, strained calf muscles and disputed offside decisions….. But all to no avail.

I think the main message emerging from last night’s show was that money doesn’t buy you happiness - or taste - or acting ability …. Or even a plausible story line.

I mean, for a start, the actors playing the actual footballers, quite often managed to string more than 3 words together at any one time.

And as for the ‘Wives’……. They didn’t seem to do much shopping at all. Not one of them expressed a desire to have a pop career…… and the weirdest kids name in last night’s show was ‘Troy’….

No ‘Cruz’, ‘Romeo’, ‘Brooklyn’, ‘Calligula’, ‘Stallion’ or ‘Colin’ was to be found in any of the dysfunctional footy households on show… I mean, where’s the reality in that?

It’s a little known fact that Alfreda could have been a ‘Footballer’s Sister in Law’. She was once engaged to the brother of former Spurs and England defensive stalwart, Graham Roberts. But she met me, love blossomed, she said a ‘sick as a parrot au revoir’ to the potential ‘Footballer’s Sister in Law lifestyle’ and embraced inadequacy and suburbia. She is now a ‘FatarsedBlogger’s Wife’…..

(I don’t think she has any regrets)….

Anyone know where I can find a groin massage nurse?…..

Or maybe where I could buy a pair of those rupture trousers – the ones that used to be advertised next to the x-ray specs and army surplus parachutes in the Saturday Papers of yesteryear…..

I’m suffering. Really, really suffering.

I can hardly sit down – and when I am sat down, I can’t get up. Whilst all you lot were enjoying the Easter break – I was shovelling up 12 ton of stone chippings in my Brother in Law’s drive……. 12 bloody ton!

Shovelling them up, placing them in old plastic builder’s bags – lifting them into the boot of my car, driving to our house and spreading the stone back on our drive.

And isn’t it amazing, when you’re working as hard as God on the very first day, huffin’ and a puffin’, sweating bricks and dribbling from most orifices, isn’t it so bloody amazing just how many people stand there and gawp. Stand there and say "What yer doin’?"….. Stand there and don’t say, "D’ya want any help then mate?"…..

A crowd gathered – jeez don’t they have anything else to do on an Easter Bank Holiday than watch to see if a grumpy old sod will collapse into a blizzard of stone chippings from a massive coronary? Maybe they’re taking bets – a sort of ‘heart attack sweep’ And if I did collapse – not with a packed in ticker, but the far more likely ‘acute groinal failure’, would someone in the crowd shout…. Is there a ‘Rupture Trouser Tailor’ or ‘Groin Massage Nurse’ in the drive?

Easter egg count……
After much ado – and several recounts, Alfie’s total Easter Egg Cornucopia stands at bugger all.

That’s right, absolutely none, nil, zippo, zilcherooney, nuffin….. a totally ‘choccy and interesting board game on the back for hours of fun’ free zone. Looks like I’ll have to beat the kids up for theirs again then….


Oh God….

Down in the smoke tomorrow – at the Lloyds Building to be precise…… I’m already feeling fairly depressed about it.

Bandwagons on the run…..



Labour Central Office, in a mistaken and ultimately futile attempt to retain my loyalty (and my vote) has been bombarding me with emails. The latest arrived yesterday.

Weighty, passionate, analytical? Nah – it’s just another instalment in the ’Howard is a bogey-man’ campaign. It’s just pathetic, who the hell thinks up this drivel? Don’t quote me but I reckon it looks like young snotty Alan Milburn from 2nd year remedial has been sucking on the end of his pencil again.

It’s not quite as bad as Milburn’s original idea though – the catchy jingle, ‘Don’t vote for Michael Howard, coz he’s a spazzy mong’ was run up a few flagpoles before being consigned to the bin (possibly).

It’s no wonder the public think all politicians are tossers is it?
The premise of the latest email is that Michael Howard is an unprincipled politician – always on the lookout for the next opportunistic cause he can nail his right wing colours to, gain a whopping big set of red top headlines – then move on to the next big thing… They call it the ‘Michael Howard Bandwagon Watch’….

Well slap my thighs with a well-oiled kipper. A politician going for cheap headlines and bandwagon causes?….. What a shock, they’ll be admitting they’re all failed lawyers and power mad egomaniacs next.

Anyway, back to the email. Labour Central Office have helpfully given a top ten of Howard’s bandwagon causes. I’ll spare you the whole list, because honestly they’re as funny as a house brick in the nether regions ……. But not quite as funny as Jim Davison getting two house bricks in the nether regions…..

2. Howard to ban hosepipe bans.

4. Howard says Premiership abuse of referees has grown under Labour, and promises a new ‘Graham Poll’ Bill.

9. Howard pledges new bill to force pop stars to sing lyrics clearly.

Informative? Do my a favour.
Witty? Errrrr no.
Juvenile? Pathetically so…..

I reckon Milburn wrote this stuff during a dull Geoggers lesson or maybe he sagged off from Double Maths to tap them out on Uncle Tone’s big computery thing….

I tapped out a reply. I thanked them for their email – but pointed out that the Grand Master of Bandwagonery puts Michael Howard in Reception Class.

No finer example of the dark art of the Bandwagoneer can be better illustrated by Tony Blair jumping aboard Dubbya’s bullet-proofed Cadillac Bandwagon Sedan on the road to Iraq, could it?

The blue and yellow mist descends once again…….

Sort of a clue there, then.

It’s a recipe for a heart attack, or Viking GBH or even Scandinavian Genocide – and goes something like this…

Ingredients –
One phone.
One Broadband connected p.c.
One grumpy old man.
One goosed and dripping mixer tap – made in Sweden.
Eight million Swedish sadists.
A dollop of fast-evaporating patience.
One big lump hammer.

Method –
Dial number of your local IKEA furniture store.
Wait for automated instructions.
Press button 1
Press button 3
Press button 1
Press button 2
Press button 1
Vait for operator.
Explain that your ‘Stockvik’ mixer tap is dribbling –and that you need a new tap washer.
Operator suggests you bring the mixer tap into the store for inspection.
Sprinkle liberal amounts of expletives throughout as you explain it is attached to 15 miles of copper plumbing in your house.
Carefully, ever so carefully take a firm hold of handset and smash it into hundreds and thousands of pieces courtesy of the big lump hammer..

Try p.c.
Log onto www.ikea.co.uk
Select oxymoronic ‘IKEA Help Centre’ tab from menu
Startlingly scary pop-up of scarily animated ‘Anna’ the virtual vonder viking pops up…
Oh God -
She's here to help me.
The first question from Anna zips onto the screen.
"Hello, can I help you?"
Well that is and easy one to start with....
'Of course you can't - you're IKEA'
I type 'Seals' into box
Anna replies "I know people love animals, but I'm here just to talk about IKEA. "
(She really does, honest! - try it yourself)
Type more expansive version of problem into box.
Wait.
Anna the techno-vonderkind from Svaden cannot help.
She advises that IKEA don’t do washers.
"Vee don’t haff any vashers…. Zee mixer unit ‘Stockvik’ cannot be taken apart – you vill haff to zrow it avay…
Maybe you cut try buying und new mixer tap at Bee und Kuuuw?



So there you have it, instead of spending 4 pence on a new rubber washer, Alfie is about to invest around £45 in a new mixer tap. Why? Because my favourite Swedish export insist there is no ‘eff’ in washers – and definitely none in IKEA.

Thanks Anna, thanks very, very much…..

UPDATE, UPDATE: What am I talking about?
Just got back from B'ndQ ..... Slightly underestimated budget for mixer taps..... £45 should in fact read £95 - and rising..... Good bloody grief.

Saturday - A day of whines and poseurs….

Saturday dawned bright, warm and sunny – and it’s only mid March!

Is that normal? Surely not…..

I’m standing in the garden, resplendent in my Hawaiian shirt and shorts ensemble, bathing in the warm reflected glory of the big guy in the sky. Fantastic. One part of me – Mr Cerebral, is worried about the future, tut-tutting at yet more evidence of Global warming and potential environmental catastrophe. The other half of me – Mr Neanderthal with a liking for bacon butties, beer, lads mags, footy and more beer says "Sunny hot days in March? Bring it on baby – and while you’re bringing it on, get us a few ice cool beers…..

The thing is – which ‘Mr’ is out today? I look down to my podgy digits. They’re fastened round my breakfast, is it cerebral and croissants? Nah – it’s a big, thick bacon butty and a dollop of HP sauce. Mr Neanderthal is taking the air.

A suitably manual project for the day is sought out. I’m not thinking today – just doing. Block paving in the front garden fits the bill.

I mix cement, I mop my brow, I lay a course. I notice something. Every other car that roars past the front of Alfie Towers is an open top. Saturday is the first day of the year for chav-croozin’. "Hey, look at me, I’m cool, I’m so sexy, I’m driving a Cabreeeolay baby". Gangsta rap and Hip-hop is blastin’ outta the 120 watt boom boxes, pressure waves bounce off the crumbling ruin that is the Alfie pile. My brain is vibrating outta my ears as Doppler effect and 50 cent combine to give a performance to forget… Until the next opened topped boy racing tosser cruises into view.

I catch the eye of my next door neighbour. He’s in his front garden doing a bit of touch up work to the edifice that is ‘Immaculato Palace’.

We’ve never really indulged in any social intercourse. Mr Perfecto, the guy next door is everything I’m not. He always wears immaculate sporty gear. He always seems to be in his early thirties. He doesn’t walk, he sort of skippy-jigs around – like a boxer, on the balls of his feet. He always seems so damn happy for God’s sake. His eldest son, now aged about 8 has already been signed up by Manchester United. My 2 middle sons sign up every 2 weeks at the dole office…. The front of our house looks like a bag of spanners. His looks like something from Home and Garden… Just bloody perfect.

I ice-break… "Nice day eh"

He looks up. Mr Happy-Skip-Lightly doesn't look too pleased.
"Too bloody hot, if you ask me mate…. It’s too bloody hot – and there’s too many bugs about….. and don’t get me started on the weeds beginning to grow all over the place… bla, bla, bla"……

I couldn’t hear what else he was moaning about – possibly something about the Sun casting a rather sharp shadow on his drive or something…. Fortunately another geezer playing 50 cent cruised into earshot – so I guess I’ll never know…..

The New Venture – Part 1…..

The first part of Operation ‘Make Alfie a Millionaire’ - www.kerching.com is virtually done. We had a bit of a head-honchos power meet today at the Thornton’s cafeteria in the Gateway Shopping Centre, Gretna Green and tied up the remaining loose ends. The mocha flowed, biccies dunked and the serviettes scribbled on.

Just a touch of data basing left to finish off – then all we have to do is upload, sit back and let the cash roll in. The rollout was agreed, we intend to ‘go live’ a week today…

Monday – www.kerching.com goes live.
Tuesday – www.kerching.com crashes due to punter overload.
Wednesday – Site back up – cash mountain forming in AlfieCorp offices.
Thursday - Alfie orders a big Merc’, a big yacht and a big sticky bun with double dollop of double cream to celebrate.
Friday – www.kerching.com floats……….

The meeting over, we drove back from Scotland ……

Speeding down the M6, we entered the county palatine of Lancashire. I knew we had, because one of those brown roadside signs told me so.

Someone with a bit of imagination – (and with last Friday’s events in mind) had done a bit of a makeover on the sign text. What was once an ‘R’ had been replaced with an ‘N’ stuck on top of it………

Welcome to Lancashire – the Red Nose County.

God save me......

Blimey O’Reilly. Is it 30 all, deuce, advantage to them or set point to me? It’s been going on so long, I’ve lost count. I just feel like I’m banging my head against a brick wall. Maybe I should start praying to St Jude - the patron saint for lost causes.

Alfie the little terrier is almost as sick as a parrot as he struggles to get any official answer from the blue blazer brigade at The Football Association. Whenever he tries to get them to talk – he gets blanked. They say sweet FA about anything.

When did the footy vendetta start?

About three years ago actually. A well meaning, but utterly ignorant TV commentator fanned Alfie’s glowing embers of irritation. Yes, Ron Cliché, ace TV anchor and interviewer of all things vegetable, summed up the scene. Becksy, StevieGeezie, Colesy, Scholesee, Riozee and the rest of the England footy team are all lined up on a corner of a far off foreign field. The opposition are belting out their own National Anthem, they are full of pride. Great gobs of glottal, are supersonically expressed to atmosphere as the high notes are hit – and the pride gets passionate.

Ron Cliché, chimes in. "Well, looks like the England boys are really going to show what real passion is all about as they proudly sing ‘God Save the Queen’ – the English National Anthem"…..

The cat got kicked.

The dinner got chucked.

The computer got plugged in.

I bang off an email to ron.cliché@rubbishtv.com…
I’m half way through, and then - I bin it. It’s not really Ron’s fault is it?
As far as he’s concerned, ‘God Save the Queen’ is the English National Anthem, because it’s always played before an English team event of virtually any sport you care to mention.

But why? It’s not England’s national anthem – it’s Great Britain’s. England doesn’t have one - but it should.
I felt a new cause coming on.

Better to target the blue blazers of the FA – to start off with.

My first email to FA HQ was fairly polite. So was the second.
By the time the sixth one was banged off, Alfie was losing his mind/marbles/mental faculties. All ignored. Consigned to the virtual bin labelled ‘Pain in the Bum, Barmpot’…..

Since then, every now and then, I have another go, renew the campaign to get the GStheQ CD chucked in the bin. A few weeks ago I thought, ‘bugger it, time to be a pain in the arse again’. Alfie is no longer playing with a straight bat. Alfie’s going to start diving in the area at the slightest of touches and writhing around like he’s just been shot with a sniper’s rifle. Alfie has declared war on the FA.

I log onto www.thefa.com

Oooooooohhh. The FA has gone all ‘customer luvee’. It’s all down to customer focus, in a customer-is-kingy kind of way. They’ve even got a hotline straight though to the grandly titled Customer Relations Unit on 0845 458 1966. I ring. Customer luvee interactivity hits the rocks. Because I’m not asking about David Beckham’s latest hair style, they cannot help me – but promise to get someone to email me…. No one does.

I trawl through the web site. The slick graphics seduce and mesmerise. David Beckham smiles at me from his virtual footy field, with his virtually footy foot resting on a virtual footy ball …… Is he saying "Look Alfie, don’t rock the boat, get behind the boys, none of them know the words anyway….. God Save the Queen – good. Fat old grumpy sod – bad, innit".

Becks gets deleted, I’ve no time for someone who names his kids Brooklyn, Romeo and Crud…….. I mean, isn’t Colin, Trevor and Cyril good enough then?…….

The current campaign is now a month old. It’s a two pronged attack, an email/phone strategy, every single day.
I’ve (rather helpfully I think) suggested some ready made English National Anthems that could be used. ‘I vow to thee my Country’, Jerusalem, etc, etc …… I’ve even volunteered to nip down to HMV to buy a few new cds as I understand the FA are a bit strapped for cash at the moment.

The trouble is that Jason, Steph, Tina and all the other luvees down at the ‘Customer Relations Unit’ do not want to know……

Just a warning to you, The FA.
Don’t think you can get away with it…..After all, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings (something else)….

A new word for my lexicon…..

And that word is ‘Astrakhan’…
That’s a nice word.
Sounds good.
Interesting – in a mysterious kind of way.
Sort of ‘exotic far eastern’
But what could ‘Astrakhan’ mean?

Well, for all you fashionistas out there,
Astrakhan is a type of highly prized pelt,
It’s very fine, very smooth – like crushed velvet.
It’s worn by slinky 7 foot tall, pencil thin models.

Gurus of the fashion world, with their balding heads,
Tied back greying pony tails, fawning underlings, thick black dark glasses and kissy-kissy greetings, insist that Astrakhan is a must have for their clients.

Victoria Beckham, Madonna, J-Lo, Colleen McCollough and every other new money chav will surely rejoice.
The Silver Fox and Coyote skin-mix body warmers were looking just a bit passé, just a bit ‘last week’, just a bit worn in…..

And anyway, Astrakhan goes a lot better with neon yellow chav jump suits, and Rabbit-skin moon boots.
It sets off designer shopping bags a treat.
And is worn by people who know the price of stuff,
But not the cost.

So just what is this wonder stuff called Astrakhan?
How is it so soft to the touch – so fine, so smooth?
Well Astrakhan is a sort of brand name for ‘Lambs foetus skin’
Astrakhan farmers, cut the throats of pregnant sheep, slit open their wombs and pull out the soon-to-be born living lamb.
And skin it.
Voila – Astrakhan!

Astrakhan – Farmed by butchers, fashioned by cretins, worn by morons, funded by a craven celeb’ culture.

It’s an age thing…..

Well.
I’ve started writing ‘it’

‘The list’…..

Everyone in my age group starts one.
It goes with the mid life territory –
Stop worrying about the testicles – start worrying about the prostate. Stop worrying about the pension – it’s too late now anyway. Realise some equity in the house and get a buy-to-let property. Start ironing your jeans, so you get a really sharp crease down each leg…..

And -

Compile the list of 100 things to do before you die.
(Well, 50 things just ain’t enough is it?)

I was sort of inspired to make one whilst having a pleasant evening meal with a couple of pals recently. They’re married, he’s retired, she’s coming up to it and they’ve already on the second page of their listo-rama.

"Great, you’ve started your list, what’s number one then?"

They look ‘knowingly’ at each other. They’re smug. They know something that I don’t – but I want to find out. And they know it.

They couldn’t possibly tell me.

I go a bit teutonic. "Vot isss ze secret? You vill tell me vot your number von isssss

Gestapo 1 – Pensioner 0. He cracks. He folds. He blabs. He’s singing like Dame Nellie Melba competing on ‘Popstars, The Rivals’….

"Go to an auction"…..

Blimey, living fast and dangerous there then.
Not very Rock and Roll is it? –
More Val Doonican in a nice cardy, on a finely honed rocking chair…

Driving back home, I resolve to start my list – and to be just a little more radical than ‘going to an auction’.

I muse.
OK, my number 1 would have to be pretty damn memorable. Something amazing. Something I’ve always wanted to do. Something so damn good that everyone I tell will think "God, I wish I’d thought of that"….

I look for some inspiration. If he were still alive, what would Sid Vicious have on his list? Regrets-a, he’d have a fer-yew, but then againa, too fer-yew ta mention-er…..

Hmmmmm.

I’ve got to be practical.

The list – will be my very own Magna Carta.
My declaration of independence to greater fulfilment.
My very own rights of passage to a more action packed life - before I pop me clogs.

I’ll need to display it in a really conspicuous place, so all my friends can read it and drool. The kitchen, I think, will be a good place to display my huge list – maybe on the fridge?

Got it! My number 1 resolution on the list ….. Buy a really strong fridge magnet and some radically stout paper.

‘N’ is for ……..

‘Nottinghamshire’ apparently.
Except when you’ve got a cold – and then it’s
‘D’ for Dottinghamshire.

The hip, go-getting County Council of Nottinghamshire have revamped, made over and rebranded their homeland. Robin Hood has been outlawed – he’s old hat. Apparently, they reckon they’re going to rival Barcelona and Dublin in the weekend break market. Cool café culture comes to the murky banks of the River Trent.

They’ve joined the current vogue for shortening everything, txt style. They’ve followed in the steps of NY, FCUK, GSOH and FSH - and gone all minimal. ‘Nottinghamshire’ was passé, old fashioned and boring. But not any more. The ‘Ottinghamshire’ part of Nottinghamshire has been slung out, chucked into the bin labelled ‘chinz’ – leaving just the cool trendy moniker of ‘N’

‘N’spiring eh?



What a coup by the marketeers. They say ‘N’ stands for sexy, young, vital and sophisticated. Well they would, wouldn’t they. They’ve just trousered a fee of 125 grand for the use of their creative juices. Northumbria, Northamptonshire and Norfolk are reported to be livid. They just wish they’d have thought of it first.

What do I think? Utter rubbish. It’s old fashioned and crude. It’s dated - in a Seventies Kojak, flared trousers sort of way. It’s bound to fail. Cynical council tax payers are already pillorying beleaguered jobsworths for wasting their cash.

Alfie has been doing a bit of creative thinking – in an attempt to calm tempers – and offer the good people of Nottinghamshire an alternative brand to the big ‘N’…..

Got it!

Nottinghamshire – Nott too dull there then.

The people versus Alan Milburn…..

Most politicians get right up my thrupenny bits.
A select few qualify for a blindfold, a cigarette and nice white wall. And then there are the ones that defy the imagination – despots all, morally bankrupt to a man – and woman. It’s not too hard to find them - Blair, Dubbya, Thatcher, Mandelson and Prescott come to mind. There are however, quite a few knocking on the door of this ‘Club Noir Politick’ - and fifties quiff boy, Alan Milburn, geordie bosom buddy to the Rev’ Blair and no-talent ‘organiser’ of all things ‘Governmental’ is first in the queue.

I really do not like this guy. A man who jacked in his Cabinet post not 18 months ago supposedly because he wanted to spend more time with his young family is back in the political maelstrom – presumably because his kids have all sufficiently grown up now they’ve reached their nearly nines.

More likely Milburn has been lured back to the corridors of connivance by promises of a shed full of power and a mountain of cash by the right Royal Rev’ himself. Milburn has been awarded the ‘Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster’ and a salary-package of one hundred and thirty grand a year plus a ton of perks. Well I come from Lancashire – and I haven’t seen much of Milburn’s handiwork to justify the wad.

I rang his office to find exactly what being a Chancellor of a County actually entails. The creep on the other end of the line rather condescendingly told me that Chancellors of Lancaster don’t actually do any ‘chancelling’ in Lancashire – or anywhere else for that matter. Apparently, it’s just a way of getting no-talent, brown nosed toady mates back into positions of power.

Milburn’s raison d’être seems to be to get Labour returned to Governance – at the cost of a 130 grand salary courtesy of our taxes. We, the people are funding this guy for one job for the Country (whatever that is) – whilst he is doing another one for the Labour Party – full time!

’Alfie, the man in the white suit’ has decided to make this man’s life an utter misery. ‘Alfie the vengeful, make my day – I know what you’re thinking you punk’ has written a caustic letter to Sir Philip Mawer, The Commissioner for Standards at the Palace of Westminster, demanding that Milburn be forced to repay the salary drawn under a bogus job description.

Sir Phil’ wrote back to me. Words to the effect ……
"Dear Alfie, all aquiver with righteous indignation, I’m afraid there’s bugger all I can do for you sonny. It’s a right old stitch-up and no mistake, matey boy. You needs to take it up with his Boss – His Imperial Praetorian, Emperor Tonius Blairium-Caesar, Lord of all he invades"……..

So that’s it then.
Alfie’s got to go straight ‘to the top’ and do battle with ‘the dark one’.

Straight to the main man, the big banana, the head-honcho, the top ‘tater, the only 'honest-john' in town….. the great Blairzebub.

I just need to get some holy water, garlic and a very sharp wooden stake….

I’ve got a great idea….

What do you think?
I reckon it’s a winner – sure-fire.
It hit me, just like that.
A real eureka moment.
Now I know how Edison, Whittle, Logie-Baird and Geoff Hurst must all have felt….
Or-bloody-gasmico…..

I’m confident I can trust every single one of you – and anyway, I know where you all live. So I’m willing to share this little gem. And remember, ‘envy’ is a terrible and destructive emotion..

How did I think of it?
I dunno, genius is a weird attribute to have I suppose.
And I didn’t even know I was a genius until last night at 7:45pm….
There I was, watching the adverts on the telly. "You too can build a beautiful working model of a Spitfire in 46 weekly parts"… It was one of those bloody annoying ‘build something crap, week by week' adverts. There are loads of them being advertised on the box at the moment – all useless, all naff.

You get a little bit of plastic taped to a very thin mag - Build your own HMS Victory, build your own Radio-controlled car, build your own this, that and the other. By the time you’ve finished, the model has cost 10 times what it would have cost if you’d just gone to a shop and bought a finished one……… and that’s when the bolt of light hit me. I was touched, blessed by the Hallelujah man with a quiver full of idea arrows aimed straight at the creative void in my brain.

"Build your own house in 560,000,000 weekly parts. Part 1 at newsagents now with Brick 1 plus special bonus Brick 2 at the introductory price of £2.75p."….

Brilliant eh?

Like I said, envy – a terribly destructive emotion.

STOP PRESS – Another brillo idea from Alfie’s think tank factory.
"Build your own St James’ Bible in 2,510 weekly parts. Part 1 at newsagents now with ‘Page 1 – Genesis, in the beginning’ plus special piece of sellotape to attach it to page 2 – which you’ll get next week at the special introductory price of £2.50p……

That’s the trouble with us geniuses ….. once you start……

Time lines……

I got a book for Christmas, I’ve just started to read it - ‘Trafalgar - Anatomy of an epic battle’.

I’m into Horatio Nelson at the moment. To be honest, I always have been – a great English hero who kept on getting body parts blown off – but carried on waving two of his five remaining digits to the French…. "come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough". Just like the Black Knight in Monty Python’s ‘Holy Grail’.

His finest moment – and his last, was at Trafalgar in 1805 and the consummate defeat of Napoleon’s naval forces. The bicentennial anniversary of the battle is coming up later this year, be sure to take a measure of grog and toast Horatio Nelson on the day of the battle – October 21st. But for him, we'd all be talking French today - rather than the current vogue for chav-estuary English.

I used to do some work for a guy called Malcolm during the early 80’s – and one day we sort of got chatting about Nelson. He then told me something really weird. Malcolm was coming up to retirement – and he started to tell me about his family. His Dad was born in 1857 – which I was a bit surprised about, to say the least. He married in his sixties to a young girl – and Malcolm came along in 1924 when his Dad was 72 years old.

His Granddad married fairly late in life also – again to a much younger woman – some 20 years his junior. His Granddad was 52 years old when Malcolm’s Dad was born. This of course meant that his Granddad was born in 1805 – the year of the Battle of Trafalgar.

I was amazed, three generations of family stretching back not far off two hundred years. His Granddad was born when George III was on the throne and William Pitt the Younger was in his second stint as Prime Minister, shortly before becoming ‘William Pitt the dead’ the following year.

The USA was barely 30 years independent and the dark continent was still a romantic mystery. Railways had 25 years to go before making an appearance and the first fatality, courtesy of an automobile was 100 years away. I sort of got to thinking that if there was any way that Malcolm could have met his Granddad – just how the two would have got on – and how they might have viewed each others world.

Sudan 1 – FSA Academicals 0
(after a lot of extra time)

Looks like another cock up on the jobsworth front – courtesy of the Food Standards Agency. ‘Toxic food shock – Sudan 1 - a vile and evil cancer-causing additive found in virtually everything you shove in your gob, shock....... Every day, the list gets ever longer as more and more products hit the Sudan fan.

‘Toxic food shock – Sudan 1 found in furniture polish. Whatever you do, don’t eat your dining table – because you’ll die and get a splinter, shock’

The story broke to the public last Friday. The FSA had known about it since the previous Monday. Unfortunately, Alfie was in a pub in Port Sunlight on Thursday filling his not inconsiderable hamster cheek pouches with a ton of ‘farmhouse’ chilli…..

A ton of chilli with lashings of Sudan 1 on top - a side salad of chemical residual masquerading as chips, off a very old block and a pint of frothy, foaming ale to wash it all down…. I remember, ruminating while I was ruminating, ‘you know what, I reckon that this chilli has a hint of furniture polish essence, with a whiff of engine oil additive and a hefty dollop of a known carcinogen subtly infused into this purest offering of top grade slop-de-chilli’…….. Or was it all in my imagination?

‘Toxic food shock – Pot Noodle actually found on food shelves – rather than with the disinfectant stock, shock’

The point is, if I’d have known about ‘the scare’ – I might have given the chilli a miss. I might have gone for the ‘farmhouse’ ploughman’s with polystyrene cheese, luminous green salad and genetically mortified tomatoes – the whole ensemble liberally drizzled with agent orange dressing…..

‘Toxic food shock – Beef stock knock in block, shock. No Sudan 1 and no beef ingredients found in the beef stock, shock

Anyway, as ‘the list’ gets longer and longer, it suddenly struck me it might be quicker and easier to publish a ‘short list’ – a very short list of stuff that doesn’t have as an essential ingredient, Sudan 1. To save the Food Crap-Standards Agency any further angst, Alfie the Whistleblower publishes the list of foodstuff stuff which does not contain the evil antichrist that is Sudan 1.

Stuff declared absolutely free of Sudan 1 (probably)
Raspberry Jam,
Arsenic,
Tripe,
Babycham,
Bazooka Joe Bubble-gum,
Tapioca,
Brillo Pads.

Oy! - Jamie Oliver – you call yourself a chef, get off your bum and rustle up something creative from that lot…..

And just in ….‘Toxic food shock – Sudan 1 found in Iceland (the shop) – but not in Sudan (the Country) shock’

Hmmmmmm, decisions,decisions, decisions.....

Not been posting lately - too busy thinking about my future.
I've been asked to do something that's going to weigh very heavily on my time for the next few months.
if I accept, the work will start slowly and build and build until possibly around the 5th of May - when it will stop abruptly - probably (almost definitely).

I have to decide by Friday at high noon............
What to do, what to do, what to do.

Gold-digging? It’s a Trumped up charge……

Strolling passed the newsagents the other day, I noticed on the front of ‘Hello’ magazine a pic of their ‘event of the week’. That well-known big head, control freak and comb-over king, Donald Trump beamed out with all the light reflective value of the finest porcelain caps money can buy. There he is, looking slightly baggy with his latest gold digging drapeage, Melania Knauss on his arm, just after successfully negotiating their wedding day nuptials.

She looked young, vital, pert, drop-dead-gorgeous and as happy as a lottery winner. Well she would, wouldn’t she… she’s just hit the jackpot - and looking at her baggy, flabby, hold the gut in hubby Donald, she doesn’t have too much time to collect on the really big payout. If I were he, I wouldn’t make too many long-term investments. Judging by the photo – he’s a busted flush – even accounting for what looks like the colossal amount of nip and tuck stuff done on his boat. The photos also look like they’ve had a lot of stuff done to them before publication – and judicious PhotoShop eradication of lines, blemishes, imperfections, double chins and zits are evident for all to see.

He looks like a member of an eighties Soviet politburo – all shiny, like alabaster, all stretched out like a freshly inflated balloon. And then there’s the legendary coiffure hair job. It starts somewhere near his right ear, drops down a bit then flops up and over and over, like a breaking wave… right over the top of his head to finish up somewhere near his other ear.

Somehow, it defies gravity. Somehow, it defies breezes and sneezes. Somehow, for all Trump’s billions of dollars, he still looks an utter arse with a really bad comb-over. I wonder how many times he’s been to Chicago – the ‘windy’ city? Does he get a weather report on the strength of the wind before stepping out of Trump Towers in New York? What does his hair look like in the morning – does it just hang down one side of his head all the way down to his knees?

It really must by some sight to see – I hope the newly crowned Mrs Trump has got a strong stomach ….. but it can’t last, can it?

I reckon, sooner rather than later, she will echo the spirit of Trump’s recent TV success in ‘The Apprentice’ by saying "Donald – you’re fired!"

Arthur Miller – a dead man……..

Arthur Miller died last Friday. America’s greatest 20th Century playwright has parked his pen forever, in the little slot at the top of his desk.

Arthur was a bit of a genius apparently. Why? Because uber theatre critic Sheridan Morley says so, as well as virtually every other theatre tribute in Saturday’s papers.

Miller was ‘great’ because he wrote ‘The Crucible’ and ‘Death of a Salesman’ and ……………. not much else really. I’ve combed every other obit’ I could find – including the one in The Times, trying to find other plays in the Miller portfolio – all to very little avail. If Art’ had any nouse at all – he’d have done some follow up stuff, ‘Death of a Salesman – the Resurrection’ – ‘Death of a Salesman – but the Afterlife is a Whole New Selling Opportunity’ and ‘The Crucible Snooker Final’ comes to mind …..

I just don’t think he achieved his full potential. If you’re a genius – stuff comes easy. If you’re Mozart, you bang off The Marriage of Figaro before a lunchtime pint in a Saltzberg tavern. If you’re Shakespeare, Hamlet is knocked out on the back of a fag packet while Christopher Marlowe is at the bar ordering another foaming round of foaming ale and picking a fight with a local….

If you’re Arthur Miller however, you’re too busy shagging Marilyn Munroe to bother….

Maybe the obit headline should have read Arthur Miller – ‘Death of Failed (but Jammy) Man’

There just aint enough sick bags around when you need several thousand……

His Imperial Omnipotence, the leader of all things ‘bleary’, Tony don’t mess with me or I’ll get Prezza to send some gypsies to live next door to you Blair was on Channel 4’s Richard and Judy show tonight.

Ooooooh, Missus, I don’t half feel queasy…

Our loveable Tone, playing the role of ‘a kinda straight kinda guy'… (kind of) – soon had the King and Queen of Banality eating out of his kinda slightly greasy hands.

The toughest question of the night came from Richard - "Can we swap phone numbers Tone?" Judy contented herself with a silent adoring drool as she wondered whether she could back-heel Richard and rename the programme 'The Tony and Judy Show’ in the not to distant future…..

Muummpphh, I’m retching my guts up…

The mutual backslapping continued apace as Tone revealed his caring, sharing side "Yes, Judy, I really do feel the pain of our fallen soldiers in Iraq and of their grieving families"…

Oh God, here comes – and there goes yesterday’s breakfast….

Suddenly, Tony had to don a whole new persona – and quick, as Richard collapses in agony, with a little help from Judy’s right boot into his left testicle - and volunteers his place in the exciting game ‘You Say, We Pay’……

Tone suddenly becomes a kinda straight, kinda thick as piggy-plop, sort of game-host guy….

You Say, We Pay is the exciting game where a member of the public describes a series of pictures of objects behind R & J’s backs – and they have to guess what they are. Every correct answer is worth a thousand pounds… The contestants usually accrue about 7 grand over the one-minute the game lasts.

Tone sat on his kinda straight, kinda Perry Como stool and smiled with a ‘trust me - I’m an ordinary kinda guy’ countenance.

Gagggghhh, I’m down to bile…….

Judy answered five questions correctly -Tone answered just the one. Appropriately enough, the answer was ‘Guinea Pig’…

By the end of the show, you can hardly hear what Richard and Judy are saying - they are too busy licking the great man’s shoes….they finally expire, courtesy of Kiwi Black poisoning...

Like the consummate pro he is, Tone closes the show with the words "Thanks for tuning into the first edition of ‘BlairWorld – a Kinda Straight Kinda Show’ – and don’t forget to tune in on Friday when Cherie will be introducing her very own show - ‘Quick Look Away, it's Scary-Blairie"…..

The final credit rolls up ‘This programme is produced by ‘BlairCorp’ – a subsidiary of ‘BushCrusade Inc’ – both wholly owned by ‘News International’……..

Now, now, Rhodri……

Nobody likes a smug, gloating winner.
I like them even less, when someone who should know better starts leaping about – pogo fashion, in the poshest of posh seats at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.

I refer to the Leader of the Welsh Assembly, Rhodri Morgan going off on one as his beloved rugby boys deservedly beat a below par England side last Saturday.

As the final whistle blew, a roving BBC camera picked him out. He jigged about, punched the air, clenched his fists to every true-blooded Welshman that cared to look. Hardly the behaviour of a statesman, I thought. To be honest, I thought it looked….. well, a bit racist really.

Whilst watching this quite awful exhibition of gratuitous grandstanding – I started thinking. I started thinking about the stink there would have been if it had been an English victory – and the cameras had zoomed into the face of an English Parliamentary Leader leaping about in similar fashion to Mr Morgan.

But then reality hit me in the face like a big sack of welsh nutty-slack. Why? Because it couldn’t happen could it? No danger of an English Leader gloating at Cardiff or anywhere else for that matter, because we don’t have an English Parliamentary Leader do we – after all, to get one of those, you’ve got to have an English Parliament. And that – as we all know is pure fantasy.



A note of thanks…….

Just a note of thanks to all you blog-blokes and blog-babes for the messages of support regarding my Dad’s death – it is greatly appreciated. The funeral is on Friday and we’ve sort of arranged everything – I hope.

Things got a bit fraught and testy towards the end of last week as family politics started to cloud the main issue – and at one stage we tried to get Condoleezza Rice in to do some mediation.

All is settled now – and everyone is calm.

Ex, ex, ex, eye, ex……..

Yes, it’s that time of year again, and Superbowl XXXIX, American football’s greatest day of the season ‘evented’ in Jacksonville, Florida on Sunday night….
What a game?…… I don’t know, I didn’t see it – I went to bed. I tried to give it a go, I really did – but an hour in and I’d had enough. Not even the razzle, the dazzle the double burger and frazzle, the ra-ra girls with their pom-poms, high kick-kicks and great jiggling jugga-jugs could keep me up….

Was it sport or utter rubbish?
Was it ‘Theatre of Suspense’ or ‘Carry on up The Touchdown’?
I couldn’t possibly say.

But I thought I should give it a go - and try and watch it. My mind is open - ready to welcome some unique culture from across the pond. I swig from my bottle of Bud, I'm so into it that I almost stand for the star spangled banner...... It starts, the event of events gets going... Hubba, hubba, hubba..........

The crescendo builds – like a soufflé fashioned from purest hype with a double dollop of hyperbole thrown in for good measure. On come the gladiators – as slow as can be – so they can bung a few extra adverts in between. The Noo England Patriots and The Philadelphia Gonads troop out – packed full of brooding malevolent testosterone and clad in the tightest Spandex known to man.

Yeowweee! High octane, high fives and high voices – the Spandex is taking its toll. We’re half an hour into the ‘game’ – and still not a ‘football’ kicked in anger. More ra-ra, more bla-bla and loads more adverts follow.

It’s advert infinitum – and then some moretium.

In order to pad out the time – especially as the U.S. are taking in the latest set of adverts, Sky cuts to the London studio. Three big blokes talking utter bollox. Tactics, craptics, waffle and even more bollox – then it’s back to the action in Jacksonville.

Anchormen Dan and Larry gravel in with an introduction "Hi I’m Dan – and this is Larry – welcome to Sooopabowel 39! Are we in for some action tooonite! We’ll be back right after these messages fram our spansars"….

Back from the ads – and then it happens. Well a whooppy do and a hey nonny nonny, the game is about to start ……………. And stop.

Time to shove in some more adverts.

In no time at all, we’re back again. Action a go-go all over the place. It’s as tense as a tense nervous headache with a side salad of sciatica thrown in for good measure. We cut to the touchline and a big fat jaffa with a big fat retro-headset earpiece ensemble clamped to the side of his head. This is ‘The Coach’ – and he is as big as a double decker. He’s like the Dook of Wellington at Waterloo. There he is, a General committing his troops to even more selfless sacrifice. Has he got his offf-fence out there or is he making do with his deee-fence? He starts jabbering – and pointing – and swearing in a Goddam mutha sort of way down his retro mouthpiece.

Just then, one of the 800 stripey shirted referees on the pitch blows up. The gridiron action grinds – to a halt. The stripey refs 'huddle'. It looks like a load of Newcastle supporters at a zebra convention...... Chief ref' utters something totally mundane. The crowd gasps - more double burgers are ordered to offset the shock.....

Actions speak louder than words. Unfortunately there is no action – just a ton of words courtesy of even more advertising.

The first quarter finishes – and the score is two religious ladies …. Nun – Nun.

The second quarter starts – at this point I’m suffering to advertising overload…. Touchdown! At bloody last – someone has done something and scored. Even more experts, plans, campaign examples and chicken entrails are all rolled out to explain the ‘play’….

That takes up another 10 minutes.

Suddenly. I’ve had eeeee-bloody-nuff. I went to bed.

Who won – well, it’s obvious isn’t it? The ad men from Madison Avenue of course!

RIP Albert.....

At 3:10pm, yesterday, after three days into a drug induced coma, my Dad Albert slipped away.
The hospice staff were very nice.
They worked as hard as anyone could to make the final 2 weeks of his life more comfortable.
They restored his dignity - and our faith in a little bit of the NHS.
When he went, we were all there - with our hankies and our regrets.
When he went, it was a release - the horrible gurgling of diseased lungs stopped, the man was at peace.
We were in pieces.

Meanwhile, over at some swish British American tobacco office, concerned marketing executives reacted with horror. Turnover would take a knock, profits would suffer, new growth areas would urgently have to be sought out.

Meanwhile, over at 11 Downing Street, Prudence rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Tobacco tax revenue would take a bit of a dip this year ........... well, until another no brainer buys his first pack and decides how manly he looks with a cocktail of lethal chemicals sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

Britain doesn’t need this Merchant Banker…….

Yesterday morning, on Breakfast Tee Vee, a guy from the NHS made an impassioned nation-wide plea.

Alfie, always anxious to rally to the flag – as long as it doesn’t involve killing anyone or invading a third world, oil-rich country; pricked up his ears.

Alfreda noticed something was up. "What you doing?" she asked.

"I’m doing a bit of ear pricking"……

All of a sudden, Lord Kitchener's beady gaze, joke moustache and big pointy leather clad digit hove into my minds eye. Britain needs me. Looks like it’s time to do my ‘bit’ for the good of good old Blighty. The guy on the telly is going on about the national shortage of ‘sperm’….. "Britain needs more sperm" said the man.

Wow – a national sperm shortage … who’d have thought it? I always reckoned we'd cornered the global market. After all, this Country is choc full of Merchant Bankers isn't it? - Mostly working in the Palace of Westminster I reckon!....
The man on the telly – an expert in all things spermological, waxed lyrical about the possible causes….. I haven’t a clue what he was going on about, but I’m sure tight undies, too much Super Strength Lager, live Premier League footy on the telly - and too many ugly birds in pubs and clubs are at least partly responsible for the falling fertility of yer average British male….. – And hence the shortfall of sperm deliveries to fertility clinics.

They need help. They need my help – and lots of it, preferably in little specimen jars.

Well!…… At last, a solo activity I can do pretty damn well – in fact, I’m a bloody expert at it – and now there’s a demand for it…… Serendipity or what!
I resolve to help, well it’s my dooooty isn’t it? Beside which, they are giving out £15 quid for every shot … if you know what I mean. - and in the process (and a lot of stamina) I’ll populate half the Country with little Okayers – what a legacy, what a gift!

I hope everyone appreciates just how much Alfie is about to sacrifice for the good of the Country – I mean, it’s a rotten job – but someone’s got to do it. I’m risking real health problems - repetitive strain injury, blindness and wobbly writing syndrome...….

The Professor of everything spermy reads out an emergency phone number……

I ring.
They don’t want me.
"But I’ve got experience – and a proven track record"
They still don’t want me.
"But I’ve got an entire mountain of ‘product’ – entirely at your disposal"
They really, really don’t want me.
"But I’ve got 4 strapping lads – added together we could make a bloody good five-a-side footy team"
They laugh – and ask if any of my sons are over 25 – because if they are – they’ll take them instead.
"Well they’re not – so you’ll have to make do with me"
They don’t want me and they won’t make do with me – because I’m too bloody old. They want guys between 25 and 40…..

I didn’t realise Merchant Bankering was such an exclusive activity…….. they’ll be taxing it next.

And they didn’t even say "McThanks"….

I don’t know, you try to help a global multinational – and what happens? You just get McBlanked.

About 25 years ago, ‘Alfie, the eyes of a myopic hawk’ drove into a McDonald’s fast ‘food’ outlet and noticed a real spelling McHowler. Well it wasn’t strictly speaking a ‘howler’, more a bloody irritation as ‘Alfie the defender of the O.E.D.’ – became so choc full of self righteous indignation that he almost choked on his McSlurry with sesame seed bun, gherkins, side salad of grass and cup of fizzy soot.

The problem? I’d driven through a ‘Drive Thru’…..
What the hell does ‘Thru’ mean? What’s happened to ‘o’, ‘g’, and ‘h’? Although Alfie felt powerless to do anything at the time, years of exposure to more McCrap products than you can shake a soggy gherkin at, has left him with a deep resentment of anything McSpelt.

Ire finally got the best of me – so I banged off a helpful letter to McDonald’s McH-McQ – somewhere in McLondon pointing out the error of their ways. The letter had more irony in it than a six-month load of Alfreda’s least favourite creased-clothed Sunday chore.


To: Mr McDonald,
Director of McCustomer McCommunication -

"Blah, blah, blah, I just thought I should point out something to you - I have noticed an error outside a few of your Restaurants.

It concerns the service where a car driver can order a McDonald's meal without getting out of his car. The service in question is the McDonald's 'Drive Thru' ..... Surely, there is a spelling mistake here isn't there?

Shouldn't it be 'Drive Through' ........?"

I’m sure this has been an oversight – and probably happened long ago when a dullard student working in the McSignage department during his Summer McHolidays made a colossal spelling mistake. Perfect and thoughtful employers that McDonald’s are – and anxious to give him some sort of empowerment he was probably tasked with ordering 500 ‘Drive Through’ signs – "to go".

I blame the liberal, LSD fuelled corduroy jacketed goody two shoed education system of the mid seventies – and the disastrous experimentation with ‘phonetic spelling'….Blah, blah, blah"

I’m still waiting for an explanation – and I’m not holding my McBreath. What a bunch of McTossers……



The coming of the lard…….

The most depressing day of the year has just taken a surprising turn. January the 25th, is the day designated by experts in depression as being the most depressing in the whole year!

I can believe it. No money, cold, miserable and devoid of my well-intended intentions to loose a bit of weight – the only thing in an expansive mood today is my much under pressure trouser belt.

Alfie is feeling sadder, fatter and skinter than a big sad, fat, skint man ……. Or at least I was up till I got a spammo email from someone called ‘Verda Martinez’ at 2:15pm this afternoon.

I opened it and read away…..

Become a legally ordained minister within 48 hours

As a minister, you will be authorized to perform the rites and ceremonies of the church!

Perform Weddings, Funerals, Perform Baptisms, Forgiveness of Sins

Visit Correctional Facilities

Want to start your own church?

Hmmmmmm……

Do I want to start my own church?

Do I really want to forgive sinners?

Would I have to wear a long dress?

Would I have to suspend my wild sex life for a life of contemplation and the development of a well-muscled right arm?

On balance, I think I’ll give this too good to be true offer the boot. I just don’t think that the church of Latter Day Lardy Arsed Alfie Atheists will catch on…..

Times tirade….

I bunged off my first ever letter to ‘The Times’, today. The reason? An article in Saturday’s ‘paper discussing the seats at risk from minority parties at the next election.

Little symbols spread across a map of the UK, illustrated just which seats were at risk from local pressure groups. Scottish Nationals had a little thistle, students were represented by a mortar-board and the hunting lobby had a red coated toff jumping over a fence. I also noticed three or four little fluttering St George’s flags planted around different parts of England.

I looked at the key to the graphic. Next to the fluttery flag was the somewhat derogatory title ‘Little England’……Underneath was a little explanation about where ‘UKIP’ and the ‘BNP’ could win marginal seats.

I went mad. In one fell swoop, I became Mrs Pissed-Off from Tunbridge Wells in all her tweedy finery. I get real sick of so-called intelligent media people constantly linking the flag of my Country to extremist and reactionary views. But especially to extremist and reactionary political parties with extremist and reactionary views. I wouldn’t mind but UKIP and the BNP are both parties with strong Union Jack branding – so why choose the flag of England?

I bet, even now the Editor is falling on his sword – and who knows, my letter might actually get printed – I’ll keep you posted………





24 hour party people…….

I of course refer to the impending relaxed licensing laws for England and Wales. I am definitely in favour of it….. Some of Westminster’s finest are a bit unsure however. Our noble MPs reckon that we may not be able to handle a drink at midnight, or 2 in the morning or whatever.

Some of them reckon that there are health and binge drinking issues to be considered – some are advocating a hike in the cost of buying a drink….

The Government have reacted to the growing hysteria by saying that it won’t actually mean 24 hour licenses – just flexibility. Richard Caborne, Minister for Sport and licensing says that "nowhere in the UK will you be able to have a licence that lasts 24 hours"……

Hmmmm, that statement is, to say the least a bit economical with the truth isn’t it Richard? I think I can find one place that has had a 24 hour license for years and years and years and years ….. and sells its alcohol at heavily subsidised rates.

The answer is obvious isn’t it? – Oh yes, it’s the best club in town, the Palace of Westminster – truly a place for 24-hour Party people….

A foot in mouth moment…….

The scene: A family celebration at my Mother in Law’s house….

The action: I’m trying to open a big bottle of bubbly, with a stubborn….very stubborn cork. It’s stuck in the neck tighter than the one in a duck’s bum – the one that stops it sinking…

The inertia: It aint bloody moving. No matter how much I huff, puff and chuff.

The embarrassment: Some 7 stone woman offers to do it for me, stating that "It’s all a matter of timing and gentle pressure."
"Grrrrrrrr."

The triumph: Saxon brute force and ignorance triumphs again over another French conspiracy. The cork is actually moving. The gathered crowd of middle aged friends and family begin to cheer ……. Possibly ironically.

The ‘champagne’ moment: The cork flew out, so did the bubbly. I’m knackered, breathless and sweaty due to the exertions of going 10 rounds with a big bottle of fizz. The champers gushes all over the place I scream, right in the face of my 75 year old Mother in Law – "Oh yeah, baby…. It’s a coming!"

I need to ring Sigmund Freud. I think I just had a ‘70’s porn moment…….

Dragons Den…..

Has anyone seen ‘Dragons Den’ yet on BBC 2, 8.00pm, Tuesday…. Best comedy show since Fawlty Towers – absolutely no doubt.
For sheer embarrassment and for all those "Oh no, where is that cushion" moment – it just cannot be beaten!

The premise of the show is innocent enough – it’s all about ‘enterprise’ .... helping those little guys in garden sheds realise their dreams to invent something fantastic– offering them funding to get their inventions and novel ideas off the ground, and into the shops. The inventors will then be rewarded with millions. Well, why not? James Dyson did it didn’t he?

The show started last week – I tuned in to find out what was the ‘next big thing’……

The Location: An old warehouse, tatty, faded fifties Soviet-chic environment. Painted bricks and wobbly steel staircases. To complete the minimalist tat look – big metal castings for demonic machines of long ago – flanges akimbo, pistons ringing, stainless steeling are liberally sprinkled about – as a monument to the faded grandeur of British manufacturing …..

The ‘Team’: They’re sexy, they’re gobby, they’re pithy, they tell it like it is. These are ‘the dragons’ – entrepreneurs all, five people who together are worth over half a billion quid. They sit, brooding in their sea of smug self-importance. They lounge on IKEA retro-fascist chairs, in front of them are 5 little round tables with a total of 300 grand in cash stacked neatly in £50 pound notes. These geezers mean business!



Unfortunately, that is where the reality finishes. The delusional flotsam that wash up the metal staircase and into the dragon’s den carrying their ‘must invest in’ inventions take the show off into realms of fantasy and fairy story that JRR himself would have been proud of.

Last week’s prize for the most useless invention had to go to the guy whose sales pitch went as follows…

"Good day, Dragons. How many times have you been in a restaurant, enjoying a lovely meal, then all of a sudden, you notice that the table wobbles. This is annoying – and will put anyone off their meal……… Well not anymore!

"Let me introduce you to ‘Stable-Table’ the fix all device for the wobbly table!"

The man whips out a little plastic swatch book of plastic strips in different thicknesses.

The Dragons, in their Den quietly vibrated – they looked like they were trying out some silent, hidden sex toys.

The guy with the swatch wanted 80 grand to ‘develop’ his wonder tool. He was as optimistic as anyone could ever be – even when one of the dragons said that whenever he came across wobbly table syndrome, he bunged a folded beer mat underneath the offending leg…..

He didn’t get the cash.......... and I've bought a new cushion for tonight's episode........

Trivia Corner……. Well I never!

I just thought you should know this. In the 6th Century, a big beardy, Anglo Saxon man founded a little village on the River Trent. The little village thrived and grew – so much so that this speck on the river is now one of the biggest Cities in the Midlands.

The beardy founder was a warrior called ‘Snotta’- (or ‘Snot’ for short?) and his little hamlet he christened ‘Snotta – ing – ham’ – which is a bit better I suppose than ‘Bogeyville’ or ‘Candles City’ (but not much?). Over the years, the good burghers of that fine city have shortened the name to ‘Nottingham’ …. I wonder why?




AlfieCorp Inc

‘AlfieCorp Incorporated’ is up and running. 2005 being the year of the couch potato - it’s now or never to realise my dream and trouser a few bob in the process. My aim is to become a plutocrat within 12 months – and join the bejewelled ranks of the Duke of Westminster, Sir Richard Branson, Rupert Murdoch … and Noel Edmunds.

There are a lot of irons in a lot of fires at the moment – it’s a bit of a ‘full on carpet-bombing’ strategy, in the hope that at least one fantastic idea will do the bizz, and fund my crazy, zany, Keith Moony driving-cars-into-swimming-pools lifestyle……. That I intend to have.

We’ve got around 6 different business ideas to go at this year – and none of them involve selling stuff on ebay, or writing a book, buying cheap properties, doing them up and selling them on …….or winning the lottery. Talking about winning the lottery, it is not all it’s cracked up to be – believe me, I know, I’ve won it ……… and ten quid goes nowhere nowadays.

It’s a really exciting time though, these ideas are all low cost start up options – and all aimed at niche, obsessional markets. My enthusiasm has been rekindled as the prospect of leaving the crappy, penny-pinching world of graphic design way behind. None of them would be possible to contemplate without the diamond geezer that is Tim Berners Lee and his great WWW invention – given to the world for nothing …… what a guy!.

Why hasn’t this Great Briton been given a knighthood or a Life Peerage yet?




Controversy at the Blood Tub quiz…..

Well, we wuz robbed last night….. Beaten by one measly point. Of course, it was the QM’s fault wasn’t it? He’s marked one of our answers wrong – but surely he’s the one that has got it wrong hasn’t he?

The question – in question was "What is the plural of Roof?"
We put ‘Rooves’ – a cinch for one point….. Our relentless march for total quiz domination of the West Lancashire region was assured.

But no! No, no no …. The answer the QM gave was ‘roofs’…. And we lost by one point. Machinations, slagging off and threats to sue followed – the QM’s a berk, right?

I get home – the OED is dug out …. And wouldn’t you just know it – my copy is wrong as well. Just under ‘rood screen I find the definition - ‘roof (n), pl roofs’…..

Looks like humble pie with a pint at next weeks quiz then?

Rock on, Emma Block…..

I knew it would happen – and it’s about bloody time.
I knew, sooner or later, the blinkers would be ripped from tunnel vision eyeballs. I knew that some day a Uni’ student would stir, wake up, smell the coffee and cry "Racism"….

Today is that day….. Halle-bloody-lujah

For Glasgow University student, Emma Block is suing the Scottish Executive for discrimination – because she is English.

Because she is English she has to shell out a pile more cash in fees than her Scottish student counterpart – or for that matter, any other E.U. student studying at a Scottish University.

She’s got a big shot lawyer – and he’s packing a big shot Magnum 45 – lots of awkward questions are about to be asked…… His first stop is the Commission for Racial Equality.

I have to say, I’ve already been there – but I didn’t have a big shot lawyer to back me up. Just me, my computer, my lexicon of vicious invective….. and a bloody great dollop of self righteous indignation for good measure.

Pernicious fee charges for my Son’s Uni’ course was the subject of my email. If you go to a Uni’ in England, it costs more than anywhere else in the UK. If you are English (unless your parents fall below an income threshold) you support yourself. If, for example you are a Scottish student attending an English University – then the Scottish Executive pays the fees – and may even give ‘Grants’ to their students to boot.

I cried ‘foul’

Tax rates are the same all over the UK. Tax is collected and counted at the Treasury in London – ergo, everyone should have the same treatment in Health, Public Services and Education…..

Of course, the CRE ‘couldn’t help me’ – basically because "they could not interfere with the education matters within the UK"…… Whatever that meant….. They seemed to admit that ‘it was wrong’ – but because the discrimination was being exercised within the UK, then it was ‘permissible’…….

Maybe, just maybe, with a big shot lawyer holding a big shot Magnum 45 to their collective big backsides, they will take Emma Block’s email a little more seriously.

Maybe, just maybe, this will be ‘the start’ – the start of something big, when the big Country in the Union stops getting kicked around by the little ones – and an equal and mature, mutually beneficial relationship will break out instead….

Jerree, Jerree, Jerree, Jerree, Jerree, Jerree…….

The BBC is showing – ‘Jerry Springer, the opera’ tomorrow night. It’s going out on BBC 2 - so that’s alright, because it’s intellectual.

I understand that swear words, mostly of the ‘EFFs’, ‘SEEs’ and ‘MudderEFFers’ are the expressions of choice – apparently about 3,500 times during the show.

Predictably, the good residents of Tunbridge Wells have risen in their thousands to protest at this "appalling use of licence payers cash". I understand the plot centres around some geezer on the show, dressed only in a nappy who is convinced he is J.C. himself – so the inevitable accusations of what used to be called ‘blasphemy’ are also being made.

Predictably, the BBC has retorted that it is an important contemporary work, adult, witty and deeply satirical. They say that to take it off air would be a disaster for a democratic and liberal society, a blow against free speech and a victory for censorship.

With this new-found spirit of bravery, I look forward to future BBC schedules showing the following,

‘The Satanic Verses – the Musical’

‘Oh Cnut! - King of England and Dyslexic Dane – the Ballet’

‘Barry Khrishner - Punjab's Private Detective’

‘Buddha, fat, frumpy and in need of a makeover!’

‘Bollox – the funtime quiz show!’

‘Is God Gay? – Or does he just keep Mrs God out of the limelight because he’s a bit of a glory hunter?’

‘St Francis of Assisi – and his unhealthy interest in animals.’

Anyone got any jump leads?………

Having a bit of trouble getting motivated today.
Haven’t quite put my toe into the business firmament, circa 2005 yet.
Doing a lot of thinking.
A lot of chin rubbing.
A bit of doodling, on old Christmas cards – a Groucho type moustache & glasses on the Archangel Gabriel seems appropriate… It gives him a more brooding countenance. Or is Gabe a ‘she’? In which case she now needs a truck load of ‘Immac’ like right away.

I’ve come back to work completely jaded – a result of my long break being cruelly interrupted by a client insisting we complete a project during his factory downtime. So, my relaxing few days was spent in a dark satanic food processing factory erecting ‘employee communication material’ with vim, vigour and sticky tape…..

We finished in the pitch black at 11:00pm on New Years Eve - totally knackered, devoid of alcohol and in no mood to go out partying. I wasn’t really up for it anyway – the Tsunami seems to have washed optimism and hope to hell….

Other stuff at Christmas…

The day before Christmas Eve, my nephew Adam came over from Texas with April, his wife and her parents, Randy and Tammy. He coaches footy to American kids in Dallas.

We had a few scoops to celebrate the visit of our partners in the ‘special relationship’.

Boxing Day saw Adam’s belated Stag Do and a walking pub-crawl through crunchy frozen snow. We started at The Blood Tub and finished via The Ring ‘o’ Bells and Briars Hall at the Railway in Parbold.

The next day they had a blessing at the local church, then off to Wrightington Country Club for a gargantuan alcohol fuelled knees up.

A major altercation was narrowly avoided as 250 thirsty guests swamped the overpriced bar, demanding a drink from one of two hopelessly overworked bar staff. Swift negotiation and the application of a Chinese burn to the Manager’s wrist persuaded him to increase the bar staff quota by 100%.

I mean, its not as if it’s Christmas is it? The Yanks were appalled – we were embarrassed to say the least as another example of cheapo, no service Britain was on show for all to see.

The do was bloody excellent once the beer supply was sorted - problems arose the next day however. I don’t know what it was really, I must have caught some kind of virus from kissing so many people or something because I woke up with one hell of a headache…..

The yanks were really nice people. Up for anything and everything – which mostly involved drinking in pubs. The only things they struggled to get used to were the dark nights … and the cold….. and the rain.

Stop Press! Menage a trois explained….

Cast of 'Menage'
Kimberly Quinn - Rich, young American bint - quite fit.
Simon Hoggard - Witty columnist and author - pear shaped body, moon shaped boat.
David Blunkett - Former Secretary from Sheffield, choc full of self importance - bolshy.

Brace yourself…. one of these three people is completely blind.

Judging by the state of the two men, my money is on the bird.

What is wrong with wealthy young American, Kimberly Quinn?
Why have affairs with Blunkett and Hoggard?
Doesn’t she have any taste?
Maybe she just likes a bit of rough…..
But let’s be honest, there’s ‘a bit of rough’ – then there’s ‘dog rough, then ‘yikes’ then ‘scraping the barrel’…..

I reckon these 2 ‘ugly sisters’ live somewhere under the barrel…..

I wonder if she’d be interested in a sort of ‘OK’ guy, with GSOH, non smoker. Almost blind, with glasses resembling milk bottle bottoms, can sometimes be mistaken for ‘Plug’ from the Bash Street Kids. Loves power, was seen only this morning bullying an old lady in the M&S food counter…….

Move over Blunkett, Alfie’s pulled!

Anyway, Merry Christmas from me and Kimberly…..

Today’s the day….

Go and have a beer to celebrate, because today’s the day!
Seasonally Acquired Disorder (S.A.D.) gives way to ‘H.A.P.P.Y.’ as the big guy in the sky starts to work up a sweat and lightens up a bit.

From now on he’s getting higher up in the firmament and it’s downhill all the way, all the way to those long warm summery days of June, fluttery butterflies and chilled gee and tee’s.

For today is the Winter Solstice. Tomorrow, the daylight will last just a bit longer……… I’m feeling better already.



Outrageous discrimination…..



I thought overt discrimination was a thing of the past - but early evening telly has shaken me right down to my smug, pseudo liberal tree hugging, pc pandering Hush Puppies…..

An advert for the ‘OveGlove’ caught my eye. Coated in ‘Kevlar’ and purest ‘Nomex’ (whatever that is) you could plunge your OveGloved hand straight into the Sun itself and hardly break into a sweat…. Apparently, it’s great for the oven, BBQ and other hot surfaces. So far so good. The problem is, they come in packs of ‘one’ – which is just fine for all you one armed people. But what about all us bi-handers, we’re blessed with a full set of hands. One OveGlove just doesn’t cut the mustard. It only fulfils 50% of my total requirement……..

Solutions for this conundrum? Well, cut one hand off – or buy 2 separate ‘OveGloves’……..

I don’t know about you – but I reckon the manufacturers should have been a bit more even-handed……….




A joke for Christmas…..

I saw this on a message board today –

Two dyslexic blokes outside a cake shop. One says to the other – "Can you smell mince pies?"….

"Smell mince pies? I can’t even smell my own name"….

‘The Court Jester’
- that old fifties film starring Danny Kaye is on Sky Movies on Christmas Day.

A medieval tale given the typical Hollywood treatment, I saw it when I was a kid – and remember laughing my socks off when Kaye was trying to remember advice given to him on which cup had the poison in it – and which was safe to drink…..

Hawkins: I've got it! I've got it!
The pellet with the poison's in the vessel with the pestle;
the chalice from the palace has the brew that is true! Right?

Griselda: Right. But there's been a change:
they broke the chalice from the palace!

Hawkins: They broke the chalice from the palace?

Griselda: And replaced it with a flagon.

Hawkins: A flagon...?

Griselda: With the figure of a dragon.

Hawkins: A flagon with a dragon?

Griselda: Right.

Hawkins: But did you put the pellet with the poison in the vessel with the pestle?

Griselda: No!!! The pellet with the poison's in the flagon with the dragon!
The vessel with the pestle has the brew that is true!

Hawkins: The pellet with the poison's in the flagon with the dragon;
the vessel with the pestle has the brew that is true.

Griselda: Just remember that.

On the first day......

Alfie is on his Christmas shop for the next day or two.
I've been to Argos - but they're fresh out partridges in pear trees.....
So I'll just have to make do with getting Alfreda an alternative prezzy.

The problem is, I can't decide whether it should be the deep fat fryer, ironing board/iron combo, or Dyson vacuum cleaner.

I've asked her for a reinforced cricket box protector - I think I'll need it.


Fame is the spur.....

Bloody hell, I've just been listening to Simon Mayo on BBC FiveLive - and he's just read out my email about what a git Tony Blair is - and what a waste of time PMQs are. Guest political analyst, John Peenar in conversation with Mayo even nicked some of my email in his general commentary. He said "MPs were acting in a jokesy, matesy, end of termsy way because it was close to the Christmas recess".....

Look John, jokesy, matesy and end of termsy is all mine, OK?
My advice is to make up your own political invective, or employ me to do it for you....

A body swerve at the near post…

Over the last few weeks, Alfie has most definitely been feeling it’s time for a change of direction in his life journey. A bit late probably. I mean, the crest of the hill is a faint shadow in the rear view mirror and the old careers officer has found a new occupation inspecting daisy roots from six feet under. Basically, Alfie’s well fed up with having to grind out a living in the whacky world of visual communications.

Amidst an atmosphere of ever shrinking budgets and ever more Scrooge like behaviour from God like clients always expecting something for nothing, Alfie reckons the design game is up sh1t creek without a paddle….. or a lifejacket….. or a jackpot winning lottery ticket.

Thanks to Bill Gates and Steve why don’t you take all our jobs, Jobs, the mystical art of design and creativity has been reduced to nothing more than buying a crappola art package for £49.99 from PC World and banging off your ‘bespoke’ brochure via a £90 quid printer…..

There have been no single straws – more a gross of wire bound bales weighing down and breaking asunder a once optimistic and enthusiastic camel’s back.

So, a new career beckons,
Maybe something on the internet?
Alfie the.co.ok

Or possibly a pugilist?
Alfie the KO.

I can do a pretty good Ned Flanders impression –
Alfie the Oakally Doakally

I’ve always fancied a bit of tree surgery,
Alfie the oak lay…

Matadoring might be an option,
Alfie the ole!

I could do a biography on camp Carry On star, Charles Hawtrey,
Alfie the Ohhh I say.

Although I could become a bit of an expert mentoring type…
Alfie the au fait…

I can but dream……..
Alfie the old’n’grey.

Sex, Lies and Videotape……

Sex….
Alfreda and I watched ‘The Sex Inspectors’ on Channel 4 last night. It was all about a couple from Brighton – they were having trouble ‘between the sheets’….

Basically the hubby was a bit of a ‘wham bam man’ ….. in a straight in, furious activity and fast asleep kind of way. His wife was to say the least, a bit frustrated.

The lady Sex Inspector interrogated the hubby. He confessed to the entire nation that he didn’t do foreplay. He wasn’t that bothered about sex at all really.

The lady Sex Inspector chastised him for being so selfish. "You simply must do foreplay" she shrilled.

Alfie the Sexpert suddenly felt all superior.
Alfie the Sexpert with his magic touch and his encyclopaedic knowledge of womanly erogenous zones. His instinctive awareness of the wants, needs and carnal desires of a woman gained through a lifetime of experience. That and taking surreptitious dips into 'The Joy of Sex' from the top shelf of W.H.Smith's adult book section during the 1980's...... is feeling well confident.
Alfie the Sexpert with smug countenance on his boat, turns to Alfreda and says "Goodness me, you’ve got to have foreplay haven’t you…. Fancy not bothering with foreplay, it’s no wonder she’s frustrated!"

Alfreda agrees "Yes, absolutely. I mean without the foreplay, sex would only last a few seconds"……

Women can be very, very cruel.

Lies…..
So, Obergruppenfuhrer Blair has come to rescue of one of his beleaguered Ministers.

The Very Rev’ has declared that David Blunkett was "an honest man of impeccable integrity"…….

Nah, I don’t think that’s right at all really.

A man who conducts an illicit affair and gets his lover twice up the duff in the process. A man that leaks the affair and the question of paternity to that rag of rags ‘The News of the World’ in order to put pressure on his former lover is not an honest man of impeccable integrity.

Blunkett, you are thoughtless, selfish, vacuous, arrogant, self obsessed, power mad and not in control of your trousers....

and Videotape……
So VHS is dead.
As dead as a Dodo.
As dead as David Blunkett’s political career.
As dead as Dubbya’s brain cells.
As dead as BetaMax……..

My bountiful collection of tapes include the entire series episodes of ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, the ‘Winter Olympics of 1992’ - some dodgy 'adult' vids of the '70's with curly-permed female babes and male mullet-haired Germans saying "Hmmm dat isss gut, ja?"... ‘Heartbeat, the early years’ with Nick Berry and Ian McShane’s ‘Lovejoy’… every single episode of it - plus the last ever broadcast that TV-AM made …. What the hell was I thinking of?

Suggestions please on what to do with 536 video cassettes..

I’ve got IBS – it’s official…..

It’s official - I’ve got it.
Perhaps I’ve always had it.
It could be terminal.
If I have to sit through another night of 'entertainment' like I just have, it definitely will be.
Final confirmation came when ITV’s mega ‘Cadgathon’ of a Saturday evening schedule finally registered ‘red’ on my irritometer.
Four programmes – one after another all asking for the viewers to ‘phone in and vote for their favourites.
6:55 The ‘X-Factor’ – phone in and vote for your favourite egomaniacal pub singer.
8:00 Millionaire – phone in and fund Chris Tarrant’s lavish lifestyle.
9:00 The ‘X-Factor’ again – phone in, forget the pub singers, they’re crap. – Simon Cowell needs a new Ferrari Spyder though.
9:45 to 11:15 I’m a celebrity, get me out of here – phone in and reinvent some Z-list nobody that you’ve never heard of – and couldn’t give a toss if they get rampant widgety willie or not.

That’s over 4 hours solid of people on ITV imploring the viewing public to phone in - at costs of up to £1.50 a call.

By 9:00 I’d had enough and turned it off – before I shoved my size fourteens through the cathode. The bile had risen, the ire had metamorphosed to steam and was venting to atmosphere via my earholes.

Thanks ITV. Thanks very much for my IBS.
But I don’t think I’m alone.
Thanks to ITV, I reckon Irritable Bastard Syndrome has reached epidemic proportions.

I need to phone someone.

.

The numbers game…..

This morning, that earhole of power and Murdoch’s udderly rubbish cash cow – The supa-dupa-soaraway Sun had a rather interesting headline. They seem to think that the next General Election is going to be on the 5th of May, 2005.

Interesting numbers I think …. The fifth day of the fifth month in the fifth year of the century. Numerically speaking, that’s 5 – 5 – 5.

Alfie, the wizard of the copy line, has come up with a suitably cogent strapline to go with a Labour campaign, Something to sum up St Tony, our gloriously supreme leader. His personality, purity of thought and whiter than white objectivity …..

On 555, vote for 666

There you go Tone, the invoice is in the post….



Chips off the old block…
Last night, one of my sons was doing a bit of homework. A design for a book jacket about the life story of one of the world’s greatest ever civil rights leaders.

He carefully penned out ‘The Life and Times of Martian Luther King’……..

I’m not really sure which world my son imagines ‘Martian’ came from…


And then…..
One of the others trotted over to me to ask if I could get him one of those trendy yellow plastic Nike charidee bracelets, currently being worn by all the beautiful footy and athletic stars.

"Can you get me one? You know, the guy who got Cancer, beat it, then won the Tour de France 6 times for good measure has brought them out……. Louis Armstrong, that’s the guy. The bike racer, Louis Armstrong"….

I’d like to see the bike that could carry old Satchmo to 6 Tour de France bike race victories….

And the award for the crappiest film of the century so far goes to …..

‘The Core’ A hideous drama about some hippie scientists, a megalomaniac American General and a mad, arrogant power obsessed fruit-cake. The improbable plot concerns our band of dysfunctional heroes building a ship capable of travelling straight through solid rock to ‘the core’ of the planet. Once there, the crew light the blue touch paper to several thermo-nooclear devices, thereby starting up the Earth’s stalled Electro-magnetic field….. and thus save mankind.

Well that was the plan. The only fun in the film was working out who was going to die – and in which order. The fruit-cake gets it obviously - but discovers a bit of nobility on the way out. Predictably, the young, chisel-jawed hero survives – along with the sexy babe navigator. The best character in the film is the geeky computer nerd, parked at a desk in Mission Control. His role is ….. look suitably nerdy, whilst eating lots of ‘Pop-Tarts.’ And because he is a geek, they made him up to look just like Alfred E. Neuman, star of ‘Mad’ Comics.

Alfie the Barry Norman’s in depth critique has pulled out this gem from a dire script.

Scene synopsis: The ship is breaking up under the huge pressure of Earth’s core. The ever-diminishing crew suddenly discover that the nukes on board just will not do the job. The hero decides he can build a separate H-bomb with a bit of sticky tape, some matches and a can of petrol. He checks his bomb making ingredients list – just to make sure he’s got everything he needs.
Hero to heroine "Christ it’s no good! We need 8 pounds of weapons grade plooooootonium to make the bomb"

Well there you go, you should’ve nipped into Spar to stock up before you left, shouldn’t you? They’ve got a wide range of plutonium enriched goods for the discerning savers of mankind to buy. You’ll find them on aisle B, just underneath the bags of botulism cultures, cunningly disguised as packs of faggots in gravy.

Talking about Electro-magnetic fields…..
Last week, whilst watching a programme about a supposed tour of the Planets by a crew of virtual space people, I was amazed to learn that Jupiter’s EMF is the biggest thing in the Solar System by miles. It far outstrips the size of the Sun, This fact has now been stored on the back burner of my brain, to be brought out at a suitably appropriate time in the future. The Christmas day trip to the pub seems favourite.

Talking about thick Divas…..
Rod Liddle’s column in yesterday’s Sunday Times, quotes Mariah Carey’s bleeding heart outburst about all the poor children starving to death in Africa…..
"Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the World, I can’t help but cry. I mean, I’d love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff"….

I really do need to send Mariah something through the post – I’ve got some sticky tape, matches and some petrol – I’m just nipping down to Spar to buy some faggots and a couple of pounds of weapons grade……