Conspiracy theory from the greyscale man’s recent transport initiative…..
Seems a bit funny, don’t it?
Repressed Transport Secretary and the greyest man in the country, Alistair Darling suddenly goes a bit ‘left field’, a bit expansive, a bit lateral in a dull and wholly ill thought through kind of way …
The Darling of dullness has initiated a brand new system for the road vehicles of blighty. Gone(ish) are the punitive road taxes, gone(ish) are the outrageously expensive petrol taxes….. Instead we’re going to have ‘PTTN-AYG’…which is short for ‘Pay Through The Nose - As You Go’.
The more you go, the more you pay. A bit draconian I think.
I don’t know about you, but it all seems a bit rushed, a bit ‘back o’ the fag packet’ - written in the Noo-Laber tradition against a battered and fed up nation.
In fact, if you ask me, something smells rotten in the state of Nomark.
I reckon Darling’s been to the Moon set in Hollywood to get inspiration for the biggest conspiracy theory this country has ever known. Jiggery pokery is definitely at work on the British public, courtesy of the monotone greyscale man and his acolytes.
The theory: A boffin has invented a car that runs on grass, or pigeon poo, or privet cuttings… something that’s cheap, readily available and more importantly impossible to control by HMG. The boffin reckons he can roll this out to market in about 8 years time……
"Yes dear, I’m just going to fill her up. I’ll get the lawn mower. See! …. HMG control totally buggered. How do you collect revenue duties from a bloke’s flymo?
You can just see the panic emanating from Gordon Brown’s fiscal fissures. Quick, control’s gone, invent summat else – like now!
"I know, what about ‘Pay as You Go?"……
"Oh Darling, that's brilliant".
"Oh Gordon, I didn’t know you cared"……
The parentage of Gordon Brown…..
Talking about Gordon Brown….. I know a man who knew Gordon’s dad. He was a man of Kirkcaldy and a fan of Raith Rovers. Gordon’s dad went to school with my very old mate, Bill Mac’…..
Bill told me all about our esteemed Chancellor about 5 years ago, in a Glasgow wine bar.
"Oh really, what was Gordon Brown’s dad’s name then?"
"Ebeneezer" came the reply……
‘Ebeneezer’ That sort of works I suppose. Is it Gaelic for ‘Tight-fisted sod’?….. Maybe his name could have been ‘Gullible’ or ‘Soft-touch’…
I wondered whether his mum’s name was ‘Prudence’?…….
Overheard on the radio…..
Apparently, dogs have owners, but cats have ‘staff’…
I concur.
Seen on the extremely fine David Dimbleby programme about the English landscape…..
That superb church in Norfolk I was going on about a couple of posts ago…. It was on the box last night - did you see it?
Monday, June 13, 2005
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Shock horror. Alfie is accused of being 3 ‘pees’ short of a pod by Auntie BBC…..
Oh yes, Alfie has been well and truly mullered by some p.c. jobsworth-bod from the complaints department at FiveLive HQ, Ministry of Truth Department. He obviously had his dictionary open at a page of ‘pees’, as he used a devastating triple pammy to put Alfie firmly in his place. And that place is ‘purgatory’
Jonny BBC called me ‘Parochial’ - ‘Petty’ - ‘Prejudiced’
Why?
Well I love footy – even women’s footy, and last Sunday I was listening, courtesy of BBC FiveLive to the European Nations Women’s Football Championship match of England v Finland. I burst with pride as England grabbed the winner with about 15 nanoseconds to go…. Huzzah!! Revel in that national pride!
Well, not really. For a start, the commentary on the radio was courtesy of Conor McNamara a perfectly professional commentator from the Republic of Ireland. The summarising was done by an ex Scotland footballer called Kevin Gallagher… from Scotland.
Now it seemed to me that seeing an English team was playing, there should, oooh I don’t know, possibly be someone from this Country doing the broadcast….. You know, someone from good old Blighty, someone from England. I also thought that I couldn’t imagine say a Scottish match being commentated on by a bloke from Belgium and summarised by a guy from England… Alfie decided to put pen to paper and contact the Beeb.
Well that told me then. I’m a parochial, prejudiced and petty git for even daring to ask a question that must never be asked………
(Small mercies though, at least he didn’t call me a pranny, a prat….or a prick)…..
Oh yes, Alfie has been well and truly mullered by some p.c. jobsworth-bod from the complaints department at FiveLive HQ, Ministry of Truth Department. He obviously had his dictionary open at a page of ‘pees’, as he used a devastating triple pammy to put Alfie firmly in his place. And that place is ‘purgatory’
Jonny BBC called me ‘Parochial’ - ‘Petty’ - ‘Prejudiced’
Why?
Well I love footy – even women’s footy, and last Sunday I was listening, courtesy of BBC FiveLive to the European Nations Women’s Football Championship match of England v Finland. I burst with pride as England grabbed the winner with about 15 nanoseconds to go…. Huzzah!! Revel in that national pride!
Well, not really. For a start, the commentary on the radio was courtesy of Conor McNamara a perfectly professional commentator from the Republic of Ireland. The summarising was done by an ex Scotland footballer called Kevin Gallagher… from Scotland.
Now it seemed to me that seeing an English team was playing, there should, oooh I don’t know, possibly be someone from this Country doing the broadcast….. You know, someone from good old Blighty, someone from England. I also thought that I couldn’t imagine say a Scottish match being commentated on by a bloke from Belgium and summarised by a guy from England… Alfie decided to put pen to paper and contact the Beeb.
Well that told me then. I’m a parochial, prejudiced and petty git for even daring to ask a question that must never be asked………
(Small mercies though, at least he didn’t call me a pranny, a prat….or a prick)…..
Monday, June 06, 2005
Well you’ve got to have faith afaith afaith…….. bay-beeee!
Not often I start a post with a little ditty from former Wham man, George Michael, but it definitely does fit the bill for this one. Two highlights from the week in Norfolk. Both different, but both, in their very different way totally similar. Cynicism aside, I love the Broads. I love the pace of life there, the cleanliness of the pretty little villages and the polite manner of the locals. The immaculate countryside yet to be flooded with New Labour’s view of ‘sustainable’ development and the optimistic way the local councils are building dykes for all they’re worth in an effort to stop the grey and grizzled North Sea from making further inroads into the manicured Countryside.
After we had boarded the boat, it only took 20 minutes to see our first halcyon vision of the azurri – a Kingfisher, resplendent in a brilliant blue zoot suit sitting on a branch, smoking a dead fish. Five minutes later and a Marsh Harrier, a big, beefy Junkers of a bird of prey droned into view looking for unfortunate victims to flop onto…….
But these weren’t the highlights. No, the nature was great but what happened to me, a man with the word ‘cynicism’ tattooed onto my forehead – twice in two days was truly extraordinary….
We pulled into Ranworth Broad on Tuesday morning and moored at the jetty. In the distance, I could see St Helen’s parish church. I knew it was a medieval masterpiece, one of over 1,100 such ancient churches in the county of Norfolk. I’m not religious, I come from the school of thought that this life is no rehearsal. You’re born, you live, you die, you’re worm food – that all.
But I really do love the bravery of medieval architecture. The consummate confidence of building something amazing, something closer to God – and therefore guaranteeing you a first class cloud in the afterlife… Alfreda and I resolved to go over and explore.
We pushed open the 600 year-old great oak door, hard as bell metal with the patina of pilgrimage etched deep into its rough grain and stepped in.
Awesome…. what a space. What a fantastic space.
We’re all alone in this great perpendicular vault. I touched the ancient font, marble with a lining of lead. I wondered how many babies had been christened in its waters. We moved down the aisle towards the undoubted gem of the church. And there it was in all its glory. A rood screen. Not just any old rood screen – but probably the best rood screen in all of England. I was gazing down at a fantastic piece of work, made of oak with exquisite carving and utterly amazing medieval illustrations. On the other side of it were the choristers’ seats. Each one carved out of a huge hunk of oak. Each one, perfectly balanced, flipped down on hinges forged by a master blacksmith’s hand of long ago. They are all, like everything else in this architectural marvel completely original as the day they were put in. They must be 700 years old – the wood is obviously all heartwood. The trees they were hewn from were probably growing when William the Conquerer invaded in 1066 for God’s sake….
We passed the ancient wooden Lectern. Some Monk had scribbled some copperplate on the back of it – a 500 year old graffito. Next to a wall, under a glass screen we found a great book – It’s an illuminated firmament of gold leaf and latin text. This great book used 27 sheepskins to make the vellum pages. It is in such good condition, it looks like it was made last week. We ambled back towards the far end of the church, and saw a sign next to a small door that looked like it had a spiral staircase spinning upwards and away into the gloom….
‘The stairs to the top of the tower, 89 uneven steps, two wobbly ladders, a trap door to the roof and a great view…. (Climbers do so at their own risk)’….
We both looked at each other and decided that today, the spirit of Sherpa Tensing was with us. We climbed. As we went higher and higher, the spiral staircase got tighter, rougher, darker, scarier. Eventually, the stairs ran out. We were in the belfry. Right in front of us, wobbly ladder 1 – an old rickety metal job, wobbled in the wind. We clung and climbed. Another ladder, this time of the wooden variety was negotiated, and at the top of that……. The trap door.
We scrambled out and stood up. It took our breath away. The glory that is the English countryside – at least how I used to remember it rolled out before us to infinity. We could see for miles across the flat Broadlands of Norfolk.
Eventually, we descended and left the church. I was troubled, I sort of felt ‘uplifted’. Kind of ‘happy-clappy’ – and warm all over, like I’d o-deed on Ready-Brek extra strong with lashings of Christianity syrup drizzled on top.
Had it got to me….. Religion?
Had big Gee singled me out that day to receive a Christianity makeover? Was it a miracle?
I walked away from the great church… Did God exist?… Is he an Englishman?……
I needed a drink.
The rest of the day saw us exploring the landscape of the area. As the hours passed, my theological musings faded, and anyway, I had a European Cup Final to look forward to…
The following day, all we could think about was ‘the match’. Every member of the family had brought a Liverpool shirt in their holiday luggage. At 6.45pm precisely, the whole damn lot of us donned our colours and left the boat. We’d already scouted out a decent pub with a big screen and a big selection of beers a couple of days previously..
Our hostelry of choice was The Kings Head at Luddham, a sleepy pub in a sleepy village, … but not that night. That night was a night for football fans. The place was packed. To get the evening off to a flyer, we started on Hoegarten – an absolute ‘bargain’ at £3.52p per pint. The tension built, the beer flowed. I talked to a few of the other people at the bar. Sprinkled amongst the Reds were Man City, Spurs, Norwich and Villa fans.
The kick off.
A minute later we’re 1 down.
Then 2.
Then 3.
Half time arrives and stops the slaughter. The pub is stunned. We’re stunned. Our gobs are smacked. Our glasses are empty. Our spirits are at rock bottom.
Alfreda mutters something along the lines of "Well, never mind, it’s only a game"…..
Note to brain, Alfreda’s a real sweety, but bloody hell she knows bugger all about football. Must get her interested in lace making or something……
We need a miracle. No we don’t, we need a shed full… make that several sheds….
I pray. A little silent prayer to anyone that’s listening.
Just make it so it isn’t so embarrassing – please.
The second half starts – and the rest is history. The Rossoneri forget the script, forget how to kick a football and for 6 minutes play like wusses in tight skirts and stilettos.
It’s 3-3…. We’re only going to go and bloody win it, that’s all!
I looked across to my eldest Son. He’s in his early 20’s and in total shock. He looks bloody awful – as pale as Michael Jackson after he’s just fallen into a tub of chalk dust….. Like all of us, he just cannot handle the fact we’re back on level terms.
I believe. We all believe. The City fan is going ballistic. Every couple of minutes, he’s downing another pint and screaming at the red men to hold firm.
They do.
Well, they do, until a minute from the end of extra time. A whipped centre comes in from the left. It curls over Hyppia’s head and Shevchenko, the European Footballer of the Year meets it perfectly with his forehead.
Oh bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger. This bullet header has got ‘goal’ written all over it. The ball arrows at the speed of light down to Dudek’s right.
That’s it then. I’m just waiting for the net to bulge.
Miracle – he’s saved it. Somehow the ball had rebounded off Dudek’s outstretched hand.
It bounces away, hopefully to safety.
Not a chance. Ukrainian ace Shev’ is first to react. He’s onto it in a flash and smashes the ball goalbound from all of 2 yards…..
Somehow….. somehow the ball goes straight up in the air from Dudek’s outstretched glove as if powered by a Saturn 5 rocket motor……
The whole pub gasps. Did we just see that, was it possible? We’ve just witnessed the laws of physics being chucked into the bin haven’t we? Had we just witnessed a corruption of the space time continuum? Maybe Dr Who is a Liverpool fan. Looking at Dudek, he can hardly believe it either.
The penalty shootout was a formality. We watched as successive Milan players, devoid of all pretensions of coolness and superiority bottled their spot kicks.
The final save was made, the City fan went into orbit.
We sat, shell-shocked. A banging headache and nausea were my companions as Stevie Gerrard collected the cup in a blizzard of red confetti and a chorus of ‘Champ-ion-eeee, ole, ole, ole’ from the pub.
Eventually, we left. In spite of watching something amazing, I was troubled, I sort of felt just too ‘uplifted’. Kind of ‘happy-clappy’ in a ‘You’ll never walk alone’ sort of way – and warm all over, like I’d o-deed on Hoegarten extra strong…… which I had.
Had it got to me…..
Had big Stevie Gee saved the day to receive a Champions Trophy and the medal he had craved. Was it a miracle?
I walked away from the pub… shattered, exhausted, pissed.
Did God exist?
Obviously. Just look at the miracle of Dudek’s glove…
Was he an Englishman?
Definitely. But not only that, I bet he’s also a Scouser…..
Not often I start a post with a little ditty from former Wham man, George Michael, but it definitely does fit the bill for this one. Two highlights from the week in Norfolk. Both different, but both, in their very different way totally similar. Cynicism aside, I love the Broads. I love the pace of life there, the cleanliness of the pretty little villages and the polite manner of the locals. The immaculate countryside yet to be flooded with New Labour’s view of ‘sustainable’ development and the optimistic way the local councils are building dykes for all they’re worth in an effort to stop the grey and grizzled North Sea from making further inroads into the manicured Countryside.
After we had boarded the boat, it only took 20 minutes to see our first halcyon vision of the azurri – a Kingfisher, resplendent in a brilliant blue zoot suit sitting on a branch, smoking a dead fish. Five minutes later and a Marsh Harrier, a big, beefy Junkers of a bird of prey droned into view looking for unfortunate victims to flop onto…….
But these weren’t the highlights. No, the nature was great but what happened to me, a man with the word ‘cynicism’ tattooed onto my forehead – twice in two days was truly extraordinary….
We pulled into Ranworth Broad on Tuesday morning and moored at the jetty. In the distance, I could see St Helen’s parish church. I knew it was a medieval masterpiece, one of over 1,100 such ancient churches in the county of Norfolk. I’m not religious, I come from the school of thought that this life is no rehearsal. You’re born, you live, you die, you’re worm food – that all.
But I really do love the bravery of medieval architecture. The consummate confidence of building something amazing, something closer to God – and therefore guaranteeing you a first class cloud in the afterlife… Alfreda and I resolved to go over and explore.
We pushed open the 600 year-old great oak door, hard as bell metal with the patina of pilgrimage etched deep into its rough grain and stepped in.
Awesome…. what a space. What a fantastic space.
We’re all alone in this great perpendicular vault. I touched the ancient font, marble with a lining of lead. I wondered how many babies had been christened in its waters. We moved down the aisle towards the undoubted gem of the church. And there it was in all its glory. A rood screen. Not just any old rood screen – but probably the best rood screen in all of England. I was gazing down at a fantastic piece of work, made of oak with exquisite carving and utterly amazing medieval illustrations. On the other side of it were the choristers’ seats. Each one carved out of a huge hunk of oak. Each one, perfectly balanced, flipped down on hinges forged by a master blacksmith’s hand of long ago. They are all, like everything else in this architectural marvel completely original as the day they were put in. They must be 700 years old – the wood is obviously all heartwood. The trees they were hewn from were probably growing when William the Conquerer invaded in 1066 for God’s sake….
We passed the ancient wooden Lectern. Some Monk had scribbled some copperplate on the back of it – a 500 year old graffito. Next to a wall, under a glass screen we found a great book – It’s an illuminated firmament of gold leaf and latin text. This great book used 27 sheepskins to make the vellum pages. It is in such good condition, it looks like it was made last week. We ambled back towards the far end of the church, and saw a sign next to a small door that looked like it had a spiral staircase spinning upwards and away into the gloom….
‘The stairs to the top of the tower, 89 uneven steps, two wobbly ladders, a trap door to the roof and a great view…. (Climbers do so at their own risk)’….
We both looked at each other and decided that today, the spirit of Sherpa Tensing was with us. We climbed. As we went higher and higher, the spiral staircase got tighter, rougher, darker, scarier. Eventually, the stairs ran out. We were in the belfry. Right in front of us, wobbly ladder 1 – an old rickety metal job, wobbled in the wind. We clung and climbed. Another ladder, this time of the wooden variety was negotiated, and at the top of that……. The trap door.
We scrambled out and stood up. It took our breath away. The glory that is the English countryside – at least how I used to remember it rolled out before us to infinity. We could see for miles across the flat Broadlands of Norfolk.
Eventually, we descended and left the church. I was troubled, I sort of felt ‘uplifted’. Kind of ‘happy-clappy’ – and warm all over, like I’d o-deed on Ready-Brek extra strong with lashings of Christianity syrup drizzled on top.
Had it got to me….. Religion?
Had big Gee singled me out that day to receive a Christianity makeover? Was it a miracle?
I walked away from the great church… Did God exist?… Is he an Englishman?……
I needed a drink.
The rest of the day saw us exploring the landscape of the area. As the hours passed, my theological musings faded, and anyway, I had a European Cup Final to look forward to…
The following day, all we could think about was ‘the match’. Every member of the family had brought a Liverpool shirt in their holiday luggage. At 6.45pm precisely, the whole damn lot of us donned our colours and left the boat. We’d already scouted out a decent pub with a big screen and a big selection of beers a couple of days previously..
Our hostelry of choice was The Kings Head at Luddham, a sleepy pub in a sleepy village, … but not that night. That night was a night for football fans. The place was packed. To get the evening off to a flyer, we started on Hoegarten – an absolute ‘bargain’ at £3.52p per pint. The tension built, the beer flowed. I talked to a few of the other people at the bar. Sprinkled amongst the Reds were Man City, Spurs, Norwich and Villa fans.
The kick off.
A minute later we’re 1 down.
Then 2.
Then 3.
Half time arrives and stops the slaughter. The pub is stunned. We’re stunned. Our gobs are smacked. Our glasses are empty. Our spirits are at rock bottom.
Alfreda mutters something along the lines of "Well, never mind, it’s only a game"…..
Note to brain, Alfreda’s a real sweety, but bloody hell she knows bugger all about football. Must get her interested in lace making or something……
We need a miracle. No we don’t, we need a shed full… make that several sheds….
I pray. A little silent prayer to anyone that’s listening.
Just make it so it isn’t so embarrassing – please.
The second half starts – and the rest is history. The Rossoneri forget the script, forget how to kick a football and for 6 minutes play like wusses in tight skirts and stilettos.
It’s 3-3…. We’re only going to go and bloody win it, that’s all!
I looked across to my eldest Son. He’s in his early 20’s and in total shock. He looks bloody awful – as pale as Michael Jackson after he’s just fallen into a tub of chalk dust….. Like all of us, he just cannot handle the fact we’re back on level terms.
I believe. We all believe. The City fan is going ballistic. Every couple of minutes, he’s downing another pint and screaming at the red men to hold firm.
They do.
Well, they do, until a minute from the end of extra time. A whipped centre comes in from the left. It curls over Hyppia’s head and Shevchenko, the European Footballer of the Year meets it perfectly with his forehead.
Oh bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger. This bullet header has got ‘goal’ written all over it. The ball arrows at the speed of light down to Dudek’s right.
That’s it then. I’m just waiting for the net to bulge.
Miracle – he’s saved it. Somehow the ball had rebounded off Dudek’s outstretched hand.
It bounces away, hopefully to safety.
Not a chance. Ukrainian ace Shev’ is first to react. He’s onto it in a flash and smashes the ball goalbound from all of 2 yards…..
Somehow….. somehow the ball goes straight up in the air from Dudek’s outstretched glove as if powered by a Saturn 5 rocket motor……
The whole pub gasps. Did we just see that, was it possible? We’ve just witnessed the laws of physics being chucked into the bin haven’t we? Had we just witnessed a corruption of the space time continuum? Maybe Dr Who is a Liverpool fan. Looking at Dudek, he can hardly believe it either.
The penalty shootout was a formality. We watched as successive Milan players, devoid of all pretensions of coolness and superiority bottled their spot kicks.
The final save was made, the City fan went into orbit.
We sat, shell-shocked. A banging headache and nausea were my companions as Stevie Gerrard collected the cup in a blizzard of red confetti and a chorus of ‘Champ-ion-eeee, ole, ole, ole’ from the pub.
Eventually, we left. In spite of watching something amazing, I was troubled, I sort of felt just too ‘uplifted’. Kind of ‘happy-clappy’ in a ‘You’ll never walk alone’ sort of way – and warm all over, like I’d o-deed on Hoegarten extra strong…… which I had.
Had it got to me…..
Had big Stevie Gee saved the day to receive a Champions Trophy and the medal he had craved. Was it a miracle?
I walked away from the pub… shattered, exhausted, pissed.
Did God exist?
Obviously. Just look at the miracle of Dudek’s glove…
Was he an Englishman?
Definitely. But not only that, I bet he’s also a Scouser…..
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Back from the booze-crooze….
Well, I’m back from darkest, dankest Norfolkshire – and what a week that was. A life on the broadland wave for the OK crew along with a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of gin, a case of medium-rough red wine and a brewery load of beer.
10 adults, one hyperactively bouncy-bouncy dog, two chemical residual karzis and a 1970’s retro-crap cruiser that wouldn’t look out of place in an early Cliff Richard movie. I can almost hear the song as Cliff, still in denial, still in the closet, serenades a young British starlet…. "We’re all a goin’ on a Summer boatin’ holiday"…..
Our boat, improbably called the ‘Majestic Gem 2’ was a Tardis in reverse. Big on the outside, mini-me with a liberal sprinkling of umpa-lumperage on the inside.
It was certainly cosy, especially in the corridor – lemon squeezy without the easy peasey – I don’t know, but everyone but me seemed to have piled on the pounds. Cupboards and drawers had creatively been renamed ‘Bedrooms’ - and the bijou kitchen or ‘galley’ as us nautical jonnies like to call it was a cast off from Barbie and Ken’s divorce settlement.
Our contingent of five plus the dog were inevitably the last to arrive at the boat yard - so all the best rooms had been taken. Worse than that, someone was wearing a Captain’s hat.
Well that’s it then. I’m completely outranked….
First and Second Mate had already been baggsied as well for God’s sake. Rope Coiler-in-Chief was history, as was Crow’s Nest Lad, Cook and Bin-Bag Wanger. Bugger! That just left Bilge Rat, Chemical Toilet Aspirator and Powder Monkey…. Not much of a choice for a man whose Dad was nicknamed ‘Matt Low’…..
I surveyed the jolly jack tarring of it all – everyone was really getting into the lifestyle on the ocean wave. Stripey jumpers, grog, ahoying their very own mateys, and everything….
The Cap’n held sway, well it was pretty damn choppy. With the wearing of that hat, he could marry us, he could bury us at sea, he could hang us from the yard arm, he could even get first use of the chemical karzi every morning….. In short, the Cap’n was God…. He could do anything he liked.
Obviously the Cap’n shouted "Avast behind", "Get back you scurvy dogs" and "Cast off aft, cast off forrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrad" alot….
Obviously, the Cap’n did all the driving.
Obviously, the Cap’n shouted a lot and was never wrong, even when he was.
It couldn’t go on.
Alfie resolved to buy an even bigger and even more gold braidier Captain’s hat than the encumbent Skip. I’ll outrank him with purest plastic bling.
Alfie resolved a name change. ‘Fletcher Christian’ seemed to fit the bill.
Alfie plotted….. Mutiny!
The first souvenir shop we hit in Wroxham had a fine stock of naval, power hats. I put one on my head. Immediately, I felt anointed. I felt Horatio Nelson himself coursing through my frame. A mirror, I must find a mirror.
And there I am, in all my salty glory.
Boy, I’m looking mighty sharp – jaunty almost. My hand sort of began to creep up to the peak of the hat – I felt a salute coming on…
"Yaaaaaa it’s Cap’n Birdseye"…..
Some gobby kid had just ruined the mood…. Twat! Crestfallen, I replaced the hat on the shelf, all shiny black peak, gleaming white cap and goldy-bling-bling badge of it. I shuffled away, wondering where the Bilge Rat calipers were kept……
Well, I’m back from darkest, dankest Norfolkshire – and what a week that was. A life on the broadland wave for the OK crew along with a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of gin, a case of medium-rough red wine and a brewery load of beer.
10 adults, one hyperactively bouncy-bouncy dog, two chemical residual karzis and a 1970’s retro-crap cruiser that wouldn’t look out of place in an early Cliff Richard movie. I can almost hear the song as Cliff, still in denial, still in the closet, serenades a young British starlet…. "We’re all a goin’ on a Summer boatin’ holiday"…..
Our boat, improbably called the ‘Majestic Gem 2’ was a Tardis in reverse. Big on the outside, mini-me with a liberal sprinkling of umpa-lumperage on the inside.
It was certainly cosy, especially in the corridor – lemon squeezy without the easy peasey – I don’t know, but everyone but me seemed to have piled on the pounds. Cupboards and drawers had creatively been renamed ‘Bedrooms’ - and the bijou kitchen or ‘galley’ as us nautical jonnies like to call it was a cast off from Barbie and Ken’s divorce settlement.
Our contingent of five plus the dog were inevitably the last to arrive at the boat yard - so all the best rooms had been taken. Worse than that, someone was wearing a Captain’s hat.
Well that’s it then. I’m completely outranked….
First and Second Mate had already been baggsied as well for God’s sake. Rope Coiler-in-Chief was history, as was Crow’s Nest Lad, Cook and Bin-Bag Wanger. Bugger! That just left Bilge Rat, Chemical Toilet Aspirator and Powder Monkey…. Not much of a choice for a man whose Dad was nicknamed ‘Matt Low’…..
I surveyed the jolly jack tarring of it all – everyone was really getting into the lifestyle on the ocean wave. Stripey jumpers, grog, ahoying their very own mateys, and everything….
The Cap’n held sway, well it was pretty damn choppy. With the wearing of that hat, he could marry us, he could bury us at sea, he could hang us from the yard arm, he could even get first use of the chemical karzi every morning….. In short, the Cap’n was God…. He could do anything he liked.
Obviously the Cap’n shouted "Avast behind", "Get back you scurvy dogs" and "Cast off aft, cast off forrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrad" alot….
Obviously, the Cap’n did all the driving.
Obviously, the Cap’n shouted a lot and was never wrong, even when he was.
It couldn’t go on.
Alfie resolved to buy an even bigger and even more gold braidier Captain’s hat than the encumbent Skip. I’ll outrank him with purest plastic bling.
Alfie resolved a name change. ‘Fletcher Christian’ seemed to fit the bill.
Alfie plotted….. Mutiny!
The first souvenir shop we hit in Wroxham had a fine stock of naval, power hats. I put one on my head. Immediately, I felt anointed. I felt Horatio Nelson himself coursing through my frame. A mirror, I must find a mirror.
And there I am, in all my salty glory.
Boy, I’m looking mighty sharp – jaunty almost. My hand sort of began to creep up to the peak of the hat – I felt a salute coming on…
"Yaaaaaa it’s Cap’n Birdseye"…..
Some gobby kid had just ruined the mood…. Twat! Crestfallen, I replaced the hat on the shelf, all shiny black peak, gleaming white cap and goldy-bling-bling badge of it. I shuffled away, wondering where the Bilge Rat calipers were kept……
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
A new contraceptive…
I’ve just discovered a new one.
More effective than ‘the pill’….
More reliable than the ‘rhythm method’…
Not as messy as a condom…..
This is a scientific breakthrough – 100% reliable and a real passion killer…
Since Alfreda started doing field trials with this new device, I’ve hardly had a chance at doing anything remotely resembling rumpy pumpy…..
She didn’t get it in a Chemist’s shop or a Family Planning clinic. She didn’t need to, she’s found an inexhaustible supply in our local Newspaper shop.
And the name of this, the ultimate killer of passion?
‘Sudoku’ apparently.
I’ve just discovered a new one.
More effective than ‘the pill’….
More reliable than the ‘rhythm method’…
Not as messy as a condom…..
This is a scientific breakthrough – 100% reliable and a real passion killer…
Since Alfreda started doing field trials with this new device, I’ve hardly had a chance at doing anything remotely resembling rumpy pumpy…..
She didn’t get it in a Chemist’s shop or a Family Planning clinic. She didn’t need to, she’s found an inexhaustible supply in our local Newspaper shop.
And the name of this, the ultimate killer of passion?
‘Sudoku’ apparently.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Fashion Statements…..
Alfie decided to do a bit of power shopping on Saturday. Well, Summer is on the way – and that can only mean polo shirts and baggy shorts draped around a cool dude countenance.
Unfortunately, ‘cool dude countenancery’ does not come cheap. Not even in my local branch of 70’s banality that is known locally as ‘Gone for A’…..I didn’t get any change from a hundred quid. The guy behind the counter asked me if I wanted the hangers.
"Are they freemans?"
He nodded.
"Then I’ll have ‘em"
He packed them away in the big plazzy bags and smiled and nodded an imaginary football to me. I nodded it back. I’ve known this guy for years. Whenever I bump into him we sort of nod to each other, like we’re in a nodding dog competition. I don’t know his name – but I’m 54 – 28 up in the imaginary game of imaginary footy we’ve been having over the years. He nods it to me, I feign to go right, but at the last moment I give him the old Stanley Matthews body swerve and bullet it to the left.He falls for it every time.
I noticed that he has begun to grow his hair. Suddenly, he’s got long flowing locks cascading over his collar and onto his shoulders. It’s sad, very sad to see. He’s trying to over compensate for the stuff he’s losing on top of his bonce…. I bet next time I go into that shop, he’ll have it in a middle aged pom-pom pony tail.
I digress.
We got the bag of style back home and reviewed. Yes, it’s fashion week down at Alfie Towers as yours truly slinked up and down the cat walk in baggy shorts and XXXXXXL shirts.
Pink appears to be ‘in’ this year, draped around a no style hulk with dodgy knees. Just as well then that I tick all those boxes! Trinny and Suze would be proud.
All went well until I tried on the last polo shirt. This little number is pink and light blue stripes. It looks cool and Summery, but something is wrong. Very, very wrong. At intervals of around 2 inches there is fraying all along the edges of the collar and sleeves. It looks like there has been a fault in the manufacture, or else some div has been stabbing it with a knife.
We march back to remonstrate with man-in-denial man at Gone for A…
He flicks his curly locks around his shiny, seen better days collar and tie – As if tired of constantly, constantly repeating himself.
"Sir, that’s the style. It’s distressed, it’s meant to be like that……. Look, they’re all the same"
With that, he wafts his wafty hand, with sovereign ring accompaniment towards a veritable infestation of racked pink and blue striped polo shirts. Every single one of them is ‘distressed’
His triumph is complete. Game set and polo match. We make a feeble excuse – and leave. I passed my frustration onto Alfreda.
"We’re so in a rut, we don’t know style and hipness, even when it comes up and slaps us right in the jallops – We're stuck here in Squaresville, in the heart of Nowhereshire…… a little tiny spot on the bum that is Blairland"…
"Yeah" she confirmed. "It’s all Tony Blair’s fault"….
On location…..
Alfie will be off on a bit of a jolly for the next few days. I shall be on a boat, never too far from a pub, a pint and a pie.
Norfolk and its Broads are the object of my desire…. Although I’ve heard they are a bit rough in the more seedier parts of the County…
I will attempt to get the odd report from the boat - watch this space.....
Alfie decided to do a bit of power shopping on Saturday. Well, Summer is on the way – and that can only mean polo shirts and baggy shorts draped around a cool dude countenance.
Unfortunately, ‘cool dude countenancery’ does not come cheap. Not even in my local branch of 70’s banality that is known locally as ‘Gone for A’…..I didn’t get any change from a hundred quid. The guy behind the counter asked me if I wanted the hangers.
"Are they freemans?"
He nodded.
"Then I’ll have ‘em"
He packed them away in the big plazzy bags and smiled and nodded an imaginary football to me. I nodded it back. I’ve known this guy for years. Whenever I bump into him we sort of nod to each other, like we’re in a nodding dog competition. I don’t know his name – but I’m 54 – 28 up in the imaginary game of imaginary footy we’ve been having over the years. He nods it to me, I feign to go right, but at the last moment I give him the old Stanley Matthews body swerve and bullet it to the left.He falls for it every time.
I noticed that he has begun to grow his hair. Suddenly, he’s got long flowing locks cascading over his collar and onto his shoulders. It’s sad, very sad to see. He’s trying to over compensate for the stuff he’s losing on top of his bonce…. I bet next time I go into that shop, he’ll have it in a middle aged pom-pom pony tail.
I digress.
We got the bag of style back home and reviewed. Yes, it’s fashion week down at Alfie Towers as yours truly slinked up and down the cat walk in baggy shorts and XXXXXXL shirts.
Pink appears to be ‘in’ this year, draped around a no style hulk with dodgy knees. Just as well then that I tick all those boxes! Trinny and Suze would be proud.
All went well until I tried on the last polo shirt. This little number is pink and light blue stripes. It looks cool and Summery, but something is wrong. Very, very wrong. At intervals of around 2 inches there is fraying all along the edges of the collar and sleeves. It looks like there has been a fault in the manufacture, or else some div has been stabbing it with a knife.
We march back to remonstrate with man-in-denial man at Gone for A…
He flicks his curly locks around his shiny, seen better days collar and tie – As if tired of constantly, constantly repeating himself.
"Sir, that’s the style. It’s distressed, it’s meant to be like that……. Look, they’re all the same"
With that, he wafts his wafty hand, with sovereign ring accompaniment towards a veritable infestation of racked pink and blue striped polo shirts. Every single one of them is ‘distressed’
His triumph is complete. Game set and polo match. We make a feeble excuse – and leave. I passed my frustration onto Alfreda.
"We’re so in a rut, we don’t know style and hipness, even when it comes up and slaps us right in the jallops – We're stuck here in Squaresville, in the heart of Nowhereshire…… a little tiny spot on the bum that is Blairland"…
"Yeah" she confirmed. "It’s all Tony Blair’s fault"….
On location…..
Alfie will be off on a bit of a jolly for the next few days. I shall be on a boat, never too far from a pub, a pint and a pie.
Norfolk and its Broads are the object of my desire…. Although I’ve heard they are a bit rough in the more seedier parts of the County…
I will attempt to get the odd report from the boat - watch this space.....
Monday, May 16, 2005
I’ve been thinking……. Again.
I’ve been thinking about how I could waste 4 million quid. Blow it, in one gloriously pointless exercise of pointless excess. Shouldn’t be too difficult to do should it? It’s sort a recipe of madcap disposal. I’ll get the ingredients together – I’ll need a pad - check, a pencil – check …. And four million quid – cheque.
I could buy Emile Heskey – mind you, I’d still have nearly 3.75 million left.
I could buy a seat in the House of Lords – but the going rate is apparently only around 100 grand - deposited into Labour Party coffers of course…
Hmmmmm.
Phew, getting rid of 4 million is certainly harder than I thought. I really must try and think a bit more expansively…… I know, I could buy some Man Utd shares, or invest in Rover Cars?……
Maybe not.
Hmmmmm. I’m obviously an amateur in the genre of excessive fiscal blow-outery – I haven’t really had that much practice. Not too many 4 million pound wads have fallen into my lap lately. The nearest I’ve got to holding that much money in my mitt is courtesy of the Bank of Toytown….
I need to consult an expert, someone with the appropriate amount of largesse – the right mix of style and panache to do it almost without thinking….
Step forward, Philip Green – plutocrat, retailocrat and now, a right old pratocrat…
Phil has just spent an estimated 4 million sobs on his son’s bar mitzvah party. He flew out over 300 guests to stay at the Grand Hotel du Cap-Ferrat in the South of France. They were entertained by the blind Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli and Destiny’s Child featuring Beyonce.
OTT or what?
You can just imagine the chit-chat as the guests hand over their prezzies to little Brandon, the 13 year old bar mitzvah boy.
"Wow – a 15 quid book token, thanks Auntie"…
"Excellent, a PlayStation game"
"Glad you like it, I’ve got the receipt in case you want to change it"…
"Great! A Destiny’s Child cd"…..
I don’t know. What do you get the kid who doesn’t have Balloon Artist, Zippo the Clown, but does have Beyonce and pals at his birthday bash?
Answer: A sense of perspective, all wrapped up in a sheet of humility….
Suggestions for presents for Brandon Green, aged 13 years.
1) Fund a tiger survival project.
2) Sponsor an African village/district/country.
3) Purchase vast swathes of Amazonia and sell the lot to the indigenous peoples of the area for the grand total of 27 glass beads (well, it’s been done before, hasn’t it?).
4) Replant and restore the ancient and fast disappearing woodland environments of England.
5) Start a charity, dedicated to stopping works of art from being lost to the nation….
Brandon, tell your billionaire Dad to get his gold-fingered digits out of his very deep pockets. Don’t blow obscene amounts of cash on facile acts of wastefulness that would put even Elton John, Marie Antoinette and Posh Spice to shame.
Do something constructive with it!
I’ve been thinking about how I could waste 4 million quid. Blow it, in one gloriously pointless exercise of pointless excess. Shouldn’t be too difficult to do should it? It’s sort a recipe of madcap disposal. I’ll get the ingredients together – I’ll need a pad - check, a pencil – check …. And four million quid – cheque.
I could buy Emile Heskey – mind you, I’d still have nearly 3.75 million left.
I could buy a seat in the House of Lords – but the going rate is apparently only around 100 grand - deposited into Labour Party coffers of course…
Hmmmmm.
Phew, getting rid of 4 million is certainly harder than I thought. I really must try and think a bit more expansively…… I know, I could buy some Man Utd shares, or invest in Rover Cars?……
Maybe not.
Hmmmmm. I’m obviously an amateur in the genre of excessive fiscal blow-outery – I haven’t really had that much practice. Not too many 4 million pound wads have fallen into my lap lately. The nearest I’ve got to holding that much money in my mitt is courtesy of the Bank of Toytown….
I need to consult an expert, someone with the appropriate amount of largesse – the right mix of style and panache to do it almost without thinking….
Step forward, Philip Green – plutocrat, retailocrat and now, a right old pratocrat…
Phil has just spent an estimated 4 million sobs on his son’s bar mitzvah party. He flew out over 300 guests to stay at the Grand Hotel du Cap-Ferrat in the South of France. They were entertained by the blind Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli and Destiny’s Child featuring Beyonce.
OTT or what?
You can just imagine the chit-chat as the guests hand over their prezzies to little Brandon, the 13 year old bar mitzvah boy.
"Wow – a 15 quid book token, thanks Auntie"…
"Excellent, a PlayStation game"
"Glad you like it, I’ve got the receipt in case you want to change it"…
"Great! A Destiny’s Child cd"…..
I don’t know. What do you get the kid who doesn’t have Balloon Artist, Zippo the Clown, but does have Beyonce and pals at his birthday bash?
Answer: A sense of perspective, all wrapped up in a sheet of humility….
Suggestions for presents for Brandon Green, aged 13 years.
1) Fund a tiger survival project.
2) Sponsor an African village/district/country.
3) Purchase vast swathes of Amazonia and sell the lot to the indigenous peoples of the area for the grand total of 27 glass beads (well, it’s been done before, hasn’t it?).
4) Replant and restore the ancient and fast disappearing woodland environments of England.
5) Start a charity, dedicated to stopping works of art from being lost to the nation….
Brandon, tell your billionaire Dad to get his gold-fingered digits out of his very deep pockets. Don’t blow obscene amounts of cash on facile acts of wastefulness that would put even Elton John, Marie Antoinette and Posh Spice to shame.
Do something constructive with it!
Thursday, May 12, 2005
A night to remember……
The big night came. Thursday the fifth of May. Me and the Missus get all togged up in our best election winning gear, slap on the old red and white rosettes, do a double clench fist pose in front of the mirror whilst shouting "Come and get my seat if you think you’re hard enough"….. and we’re off. We have a date with destiny.
And then we’re not.
Because I thought this might be a night to remember – I reckon I’ll need my camera to record the great event, the very moment I’m declared a Member of Parliament.
Fantasy over. I’ll be made up to get 50 votes.
We arrive at the Civic Hall in Ormskirk. The main players are already in. The Labour crew look like mafia hoods and molls – all grey hair, badly fitting dark suits and chin stubble. The men looked pretty rough as well.
The Tory cadre are typically posh. Tweed, tatty hair-cuts, lots of comb-overs, ruddy cheeks, red fleshy ears and the most enormous blue velour rosettes abound. Amongst the old fogies and blue rinses are a couple of well fit posh totties. I fantasise, riding crops, rounded vowels and shapely, well filled blouses, tiffin, Ferraris’……
Suddenly, a big neon, yellow-coated plod ushers us towards the interior of the hall, proper. The Lib Dems flounce around in their Hush Puppies, aged slacks and round, penny-collar lemon shirts. They’ve all got clip-boards and LibDem-yellow pens – and are trying to outdo each other in officious speed-walking around the hall. They all appear to be called Jeremy, Barry and Isabel….
We stroll in. It’s just like the Ringo kid and Mrs Ringo Kid gallooting their way into Dodge City’s most notorious Saloon…
We ain’t looking for trouble, we’ve just come in off the trail. We mosie on in.
The entire Hall goes quiet.
The Hum stops. The Drum is silenced. Two hundred pairs of politically biased eyes look us over. Think, think think!!!
What would Blair or Howard do in a situation like this?
I check my flies and give a weak as water wavette.
We seek sanctuary in the form of the nearest pair of seats. The spell is broken and counters, tellers, Mafia bosses, Barry, Jeremy and posh totty get back to the business of checking votes.
We survey the activity – and it’s frantic. Voting slips are being dumped onto desks and sorted into bundles - It’s 11 o’clock at night. It’s pretty clear that we are the Electoral Virgins here because we’ve rather over judged the dress code - and appear to be the only ones to have bothered to get togged up at all. It looks like tat-central in that place – almost as if a jumble sale is about to start, and the customers are wearing the stuff on sale.
In the middle of the Hall, rising like a big, black risey thing with white lettering on the sides, are the ballot boxes. They are stacked higher than a stack of corrupt politicians – and that’s high. Now and again, a student is sent over to get another box and tips the contents all over the desks. The counters count. After an absolute age, I check with Alfreda. "What’s the time then?"
"5 past 11".
It’s going to be a very, very long night.
The UKIP Candidate saunters over to us. "What a bloody crap night we’re having" he says. "D’you know what, I should have voted for you lot, our only policy is to get out of Europe….. we’re bloody crap".
His agent nodded in agreement "Yeah, UKIP’s finished - I reckon you’ll be pushing us pretty close tonight, mate. It’s a bit of a bummer – we’ve had a full time crew out canvassing, full time in this constituency for a month now".
I inwardly smirk, smug in the knowledge that these guys are actually worried about little old me and not admitting that since the great ego that is RKS left them, they’ve been withering away.
The Labour Don, the boss of bosses cruises past with his little flotilla of fags. They are handing out real red roses to their team. Righteous indignation takes hold of me. I wanted to say – "Hey Don-Bollocks, what the bloody hell are you guys hijacking my country’s emblem for – got a bloody cheek haven’t you?"
Instead, I seethe and decide to twiddle with my rosette flanges. It helps to calm me down.
I think it’s about time I strolled around the tables to check that fair play and democracy is being served. I stroll like a Statesman, stiff-legged and hands behind my back I really do look the bizz – Lord of all I survey.
In spite of my very best efforts I can’t find one, not one voting slip that has a cross next to my name. It’s very depressing. And then – I see it. Result, hat trick, loss of virginity and passing driving test all in one gloriously orgasmic moment. And I know it’s not the one that I filled in, this one’s got a ‘tick’ next to my name. A tick for God’s sake – will they say it’s legal? Of course they do! My pile is off and growing! I am a Statesman after all. I glide over to Alfreda.
"Why are you walking like a twat?"
"Sorry, I thought I was walking like Prince Charles"
"Exactly!"
It’s now 2 am in the bloody morning. With 200 people in one airless room it’s getting hot and stale and manky. Still the counting goes on. I compare piles of votes. The Labour woman has millions, an entire forest worth of paper has been shovelled into the corner called ‘winner’. Next is the Tory – he’s a decent guy really – and almost local to boot. The Lib Dem is clearly disappointed – he was pretty arrogant throughout this keenly fought contest and this looks like the final straw. His pile wouldn’t even start a boy scout’s fire. Suddenly, the entire Lib Dem contingent flounce out. Suddenly, there’s a lot less yellow around the room. Suddenly, Hush Puppies are silent….. Ladies and Gentlemen - Barry, Jeremy and Isabel have left the building.
I catch the eye of the Returning Officer. "When do you reckon then – the declaration?"
"Oh we should have everything ready for 4ish"…..
Well they weren’t ready for 4 ‘ish’ - more like gone 5’ish’ actually. We are called over – the Labour manikin wins by miles. Tory second, Lib Dem third, UKIP fourth just – bugger!…
And me with 525 voteroonies. I didn’t even come last – some indy brought up the rear a good 300 votes behind me.
By the time the Labour manikin finishes her speech of thanks, the audience have obviously had enough – it’s light outside and the birds are tweeting. I nervously finger my well-crafted, 4 page speech in my pocket. Everyone else is giving short ‘n’ sharp speechettes. The UKIP guy can’t be bothered to say anything he’s so pissed off, so it’s my turn. I pull out the wad of A4, the crowd sigh.
What would Mel Gibson say at a time like this? Easy, He’d chuck the speech away, thank the Returning Officer, Jane and Anne Marie, his assistants, the counters and his agent. Then he’d shout "Freedom" at the top of his voice….. Ohhh, and "We demand an English Parliament Tony - or else"…
Everyone claps. I don’t know whether it was the message in my speech or the relief at its brevity. I punch the air, hoping against hope that just at that moment, Tony Blair had somehow fallen through the ceiling above to meet my well clenched fist.
The winning Labour candidate, or ‘cardboard box’ as she is known in this area looked at the floor. Bloody hell, I’m no Reg Keys but she looked just a little embarrassed there I think. I walk over to her to shake her hand….
"Hi Rosie, congratulations….. Oh, and you’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the future"…
She looked worried. She obviously didn’t know that I am a fully paid up member of the awkward squad….. But she does now!
Triumphant. I link arms with my agent, my soul mate, my wife Alfreda. We deftly avoid all the no-mark local hacks trying to interview anyone wearing a rosette and saunter past the guard of plod at the door. We stroll out into the weak, watery wet morning light and go home.
The deposit was lost – but it just didn’t matter. By standing I had given people in the constituency an opportunity to express their dissatisfaction at the current political system – all 525 of them.
What was it Bill Shankly once said? "First is first and second is nowhere"…..
Well you were wrong Billy boy. Great footy manager you might have been, but you knew bugger all about elections.
First is first is a cardboard box, but 525 is a bloody miracle mate…..
The big night came. Thursday the fifth of May. Me and the Missus get all togged up in our best election winning gear, slap on the old red and white rosettes, do a double clench fist pose in front of the mirror whilst shouting "Come and get my seat if you think you’re hard enough"….. and we’re off. We have a date with destiny.
And then we’re not.
Because I thought this might be a night to remember – I reckon I’ll need my camera to record the great event, the very moment I’m declared a Member of Parliament.
Fantasy over. I’ll be made up to get 50 votes.
We arrive at the Civic Hall in Ormskirk. The main players are already in. The Labour crew look like mafia hoods and molls – all grey hair, badly fitting dark suits and chin stubble. The men looked pretty rough as well.
The Tory cadre are typically posh. Tweed, tatty hair-cuts, lots of comb-overs, ruddy cheeks, red fleshy ears and the most enormous blue velour rosettes abound. Amongst the old fogies and blue rinses are a couple of well fit posh totties. I fantasise, riding crops, rounded vowels and shapely, well filled blouses, tiffin, Ferraris’……
Suddenly, a big neon, yellow-coated plod ushers us towards the interior of the hall, proper. The Lib Dems flounce around in their Hush Puppies, aged slacks and round, penny-collar lemon shirts. They’ve all got clip-boards and LibDem-yellow pens – and are trying to outdo each other in officious speed-walking around the hall. They all appear to be called Jeremy, Barry and Isabel….
We stroll in. It’s just like the Ringo kid and Mrs Ringo Kid gallooting their way into Dodge City’s most notorious Saloon…
We ain’t looking for trouble, we’ve just come in off the trail. We mosie on in.
The entire Hall goes quiet.
The Hum stops. The Drum is silenced. Two hundred pairs of politically biased eyes look us over. Think, think think!!!
What would Blair or Howard do in a situation like this?
I check my flies and give a weak as water wavette.
We seek sanctuary in the form of the nearest pair of seats. The spell is broken and counters, tellers, Mafia bosses, Barry, Jeremy and posh totty get back to the business of checking votes.
We survey the activity – and it’s frantic. Voting slips are being dumped onto desks and sorted into bundles - It’s 11 o’clock at night. It’s pretty clear that we are the Electoral Virgins here because we’ve rather over judged the dress code - and appear to be the only ones to have bothered to get togged up at all. It looks like tat-central in that place – almost as if a jumble sale is about to start, and the customers are wearing the stuff on sale.
In the middle of the Hall, rising like a big, black risey thing with white lettering on the sides, are the ballot boxes. They are stacked higher than a stack of corrupt politicians – and that’s high. Now and again, a student is sent over to get another box and tips the contents all over the desks. The counters count. After an absolute age, I check with Alfreda. "What’s the time then?"
"5 past 11".
It’s going to be a very, very long night.
The UKIP Candidate saunters over to us. "What a bloody crap night we’re having" he says. "D’you know what, I should have voted for you lot, our only policy is to get out of Europe….. we’re bloody crap".
His agent nodded in agreement "Yeah, UKIP’s finished - I reckon you’ll be pushing us pretty close tonight, mate. It’s a bit of a bummer – we’ve had a full time crew out canvassing, full time in this constituency for a month now".
I inwardly smirk, smug in the knowledge that these guys are actually worried about little old me and not admitting that since the great ego that is RKS left them, they’ve been withering away.
The Labour Don, the boss of bosses cruises past with his little flotilla of fags. They are handing out real red roses to their team. Righteous indignation takes hold of me. I wanted to say – "Hey Don-Bollocks, what the bloody hell are you guys hijacking my country’s emblem for – got a bloody cheek haven’t you?"
Instead, I seethe and decide to twiddle with my rosette flanges. It helps to calm me down.
I think it’s about time I strolled around the tables to check that fair play and democracy is being served. I stroll like a Statesman, stiff-legged and hands behind my back I really do look the bizz – Lord of all I survey.
In spite of my very best efforts I can’t find one, not one voting slip that has a cross next to my name. It’s very depressing. And then – I see it. Result, hat trick, loss of virginity and passing driving test all in one gloriously orgasmic moment. And I know it’s not the one that I filled in, this one’s got a ‘tick’ next to my name. A tick for God’s sake – will they say it’s legal? Of course they do! My pile is off and growing! I am a Statesman after all. I glide over to Alfreda.
"Why are you walking like a twat?"
"Sorry, I thought I was walking like Prince Charles"
"Exactly!"
It’s now 2 am in the bloody morning. With 200 people in one airless room it’s getting hot and stale and manky. Still the counting goes on. I compare piles of votes. The Labour woman has millions, an entire forest worth of paper has been shovelled into the corner called ‘winner’. Next is the Tory – he’s a decent guy really – and almost local to boot. The Lib Dem is clearly disappointed – he was pretty arrogant throughout this keenly fought contest and this looks like the final straw. His pile wouldn’t even start a boy scout’s fire. Suddenly, the entire Lib Dem contingent flounce out. Suddenly, there’s a lot less yellow around the room. Suddenly, Hush Puppies are silent….. Ladies and Gentlemen - Barry, Jeremy and Isabel have left the building.
I catch the eye of the Returning Officer. "When do you reckon then – the declaration?"
"Oh we should have everything ready for 4ish"…..
Well they weren’t ready for 4 ‘ish’ - more like gone 5’ish’ actually. We are called over – the Labour manikin wins by miles. Tory second, Lib Dem third, UKIP fourth just – bugger!…
And me with 525 voteroonies. I didn’t even come last – some indy brought up the rear a good 300 votes behind me.
By the time the Labour manikin finishes her speech of thanks, the audience have obviously had enough – it’s light outside and the birds are tweeting. I nervously finger my well-crafted, 4 page speech in my pocket. Everyone else is giving short ‘n’ sharp speechettes. The UKIP guy can’t be bothered to say anything he’s so pissed off, so it’s my turn. I pull out the wad of A4, the crowd sigh.
What would Mel Gibson say at a time like this? Easy, He’d chuck the speech away, thank the Returning Officer, Jane and Anne Marie, his assistants, the counters and his agent. Then he’d shout "Freedom" at the top of his voice….. Ohhh, and "We demand an English Parliament Tony - or else"…
Everyone claps. I don’t know whether it was the message in my speech or the relief at its brevity. I punch the air, hoping against hope that just at that moment, Tony Blair had somehow fallen through the ceiling above to meet my well clenched fist.
The winning Labour candidate, or ‘cardboard box’ as she is known in this area looked at the floor. Bloody hell, I’m no Reg Keys but she looked just a little embarrassed there I think. I walk over to her to shake her hand….
"Hi Rosie, congratulations….. Oh, and you’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the future"…
She looked worried. She obviously didn’t know that I am a fully paid up member of the awkward squad….. But she does now!
Triumphant. I link arms with my agent, my soul mate, my wife Alfreda. We deftly avoid all the no-mark local hacks trying to interview anyone wearing a rosette and saunter past the guard of plod at the door. We stroll out into the weak, watery wet morning light and go home.
The deposit was lost – but it just didn’t matter. By standing I had given people in the constituency an opportunity to express their dissatisfaction at the current political system – all 525 of them.
What was it Bill Shankly once said? "First is first and second is nowhere"…..
Well you were wrong Billy boy. Great footy manager you might have been, but you knew bugger all about elections.
First is first is a cardboard box, but 525 is a bloody miracle mate…..
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
A question
Question: Just what does anyone have to do to be permanently excluded from Emperor Blair’s Praetorian Clack?
Answer: Nobody knows yet!
Judging by David Blunkett (pensions) and Beverley Hughes’ (children) reinstatement into power, it’s not lying, duplicity, skulduggery, lust, debauchery or incompetence….
Maybe it’s selective memory loss? Nah, that’s not right – Mandelson, the Queen of tarts in the pack of New Labour arses made a Lazarus-like return after forgetting about the 370 grand ‘loan’ from his mate Geoffrey Robinson (the knave of money lenders).
I know, what about doing a deal for a couple of passports? Sorry, there’s that man Mandelson again….
It’s no good, there must be something someone has done in this cabinet to warrant permanent exile…. I’ve got to plumb the depths of depravity…….. got it!
Invasion and genocide – you can’t get worse than that can you? Invasion and Genocide should certainly disqualify anyone from public office shouldn’t it? Unless of course you are Joe Stalin, or Calligula, or Ghengis Khan ……….
Bugger me, that’s no good either. Tony Blair (the ace of a smirking grin that you just want to smack with a well seasoned cricket bat) is still there……
Question: Just what does anyone have to do to be permanently excluded from Emperor Blair’s Praetorian Clack?
Answer: Nobody knows yet!
Judging by David Blunkett (pensions) and Beverley Hughes’ (children) reinstatement into power, it’s not lying, duplicity, skulduggery, lust, debauchery or incompetence….
Maybe it’s selective memory loss? Nah, that’s not right – Mandelson, the Queen of tarts in the pack of New Labour arses made a Lazarus-like return after forgetting about the 370 grand ‘loan’ from his mate Geoffrey Robinson (the knave of money lenders).
I know, what about doing a deal for a couple of passports? Sorry, there’s that man Mandelson again….
It’s no good, there must be something someone has done in this cabinet to warrant permanent exile…. I’ve got to plumb the depths of depravity…….. got it!
Invasion and genocide – you can’t get worse than that can you? Invasion and Genocide should certainly disqualify anyone from public office shouldn’t it? Unless of course you are Joe Stalin, or Calligula, or Ghengis Khan ……….
Bugger me, that’s no good either. Tony Blair (the ace of a smirking grin that you just want to smack with a well seasoned cricket bat) is still there……
Monday, May 09, 2005
Sustainability on the planet Prescott and other fairy stories…..
It’s another shocker. John Prescott, the Jack of Pies in the pack of New Labour Lying Arseholes is at it again. His grass police have found a previously overlooked piece of Southern England to dump another load of concrete on – and all in the name of ‘sustainability’.
You know how the Prescott sustainability equation goes don’t you?.
Green grass = no Labour voters.
Therefore get building – there’s a Knighthood in it for you.
So another few hundred thousand houses on a fast disappearing piece of verdant Blighty is all set to go ahead. It’s a place I know well – the coastal area between Portsmouth and Southampton.
Prescott has had a report done by some sustainability moron. It recommends that those two great south coast cities be joined up. A sexy name has been thought up – ‘The Solent Gateway’....... Nice.
Even now, I can already see the tailor sizing up the ermine cloak as another New Labour ‘Lordship’ flunky is about to be conferred. Lord Sustainability of Urbania.
As per usual, the local busy bodies with building-supply vested interests declare just how vital this sustainable growth is. As per usual, the opponents to the scheme are the vast majority of the local population. As per usual their ‘very real concerns’ will be fully taken into account, before being consigned to the bin labelled ‘local losers’ ….. as per usual.
Along with the houses for the Solent Gateway will come the schools, hospitals, roads, prisons and all the other sustainable detritus of city living. Where’s the power and the water coming from? The growth isn’t organic – it’s completely manic. The South East is glowing white hot on an altar of self obsessed egomania on the part of Prescott – and simpering brown nosed sycophantasy, courtesy of the army of civil servants currently trying their very best to get a knighthood via Prescott’s back passage.
Prescott is the Adolf Hitler of the English countryside. It’s nothing less than a concrete blitzkrieg on our green belt. And all in the name of ‘sustainability’..
God, I really hate that man and his meddling ways. Just answer me this Prezza or is it now Milliband? – if all the land gets built on, what happens to the sustainability plan then? What about the land to the north? What about your ‘plan’ to knock down 400,000 perfectly sound (mainly stone built) houses in the North of England? What about Scotland? It’s currently depopulating at a McScary rate in the head long rush to get down to the South East……
After Thursday, in spite of pious Tony’s declaration that he will listen in future, nothing’s going to change, nothing’s going to alter – just the same old Stalinist dictats from Blairyworld and his brain dead flunkies. Just the same old dogma, the same old invective from people with as much imagination as can be written on the back of a packet of Woodbines….
I wish I could leave this once fantastic country. It has become such a God awful place, governed by toadies and penpushers and led by a preening, self obsessed flawed fantasist. (Five times a night? Pass me the sick bag, Alistair)......
Note - I really am trying to finish off the election night thing - it should be posted tomorrow.....
It’s another shocker. John Prescott, the Jack of Pies in the pack of New Labour Lying Arseholes is at it again. His grass police have found a previously overlooked piece of Southern England to dump another load of concrete on – and all in the name of ‘sustainability’.
You know how the Prescott sustainability equation goes don’t you?.
Green grass = no Labour voters.
Therefore get building – there’s a Knighthood in it for you.
So another few hundred thousand houses on a fast disappearing piece of verdant Blighty is all set to go ahead. It’s a place I know well – the coastal area between Portsmouth and Southampton.
Prescott has had a report done by some sustainability moron. It recommends that those two great south coast cities be joined up. A sexy name has been thought up – ‘The Solent Gateway’....... Nice.
Even now, I can already see the tailor sizing up the ermine cloak as another New Labour ‘Lordship’ flunky is about to be conferred. Lord Sustainability of Urbania.
As per usual, the local busy bodies with building-supply vested interests declare just how vital this sustainable growth is. As per usual, the opponents to the scheme are the vast majority of the local population. As per usual their ‘very real concerns’ will be fully taken into account, before being consigned to the bin labelled ‘local losers’ ….. as per usual.
Along with the houses for the Solent Gateway will come the schools, hospitals, roads, prisons and all the other sustainable detritus of city living. Where’s the power and the water coming from? The growth isn’t organic – it’s completely manic. The South East is glowing white hot on an altar of self obsessed egomania on the part of Prescott – and simpering brown nosed sycophantasy, courtesy of the army of civil servants currently trying their very best to get a knighthood via Prescott’s back passage.
Prescott is the Adolf Hitler of the English countryside. It’s nothing less than a concrete blitzkrieg on our green belt. And all in the name of ‘sustainability’..
God, I really hate that man and his meddling ways. Just answer me this Prezza or is it now Milliband? – if all the land gets built on, what happens to the sustainability plan then? What about the land to the north? What about your ‘plan’ to knock down 400,000 perfectly sound (mainly stone built) houses in the North of England? What about Scotland? It’s currently depopulating at a McScary rate in the head long rush to get down to the South East……
After Thursday, in spite of pious Tony’s declaration that he will listen in future, nothing’s going to change, nothing’s going to alter – just the same old Stalinist dictats from Blairyworld and his brain dead flunkies. Just the same old dogma, the same old invective from people with as much imagination as can be written on the back of a packet of Woodbines….
I wish I could leave this once fantastic country. It has become such a God awful place, governed by toadies and penpushers and led by a preening, self obsessed flawed fantasist. (Five times a night? Pass me the sick bag, Alistair)......
Note - I really am trying to finish off the election night thing - it should be posted tomorrow.....
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Hello from the stump!…..
My God, little no mark Alfie reporting here from the coal face of democracy – no, not in Basra, Southern Iraq… but Ormskirk, West Lancashire.
Life’s certainly a bit tough when you’re up against the big Party machines…. And you’ve got to hold down a job…… And you’ve had no media training….. And you feel a bit of a pranny swanning round in your big fluffy rosette…… And as you catch the eye of a potential voter – how their face crumples into resignation as another glad handing guy with a message does a bit of quarry cornering.
That wasn’t the worse part of it though. The very worse thing was getting the leaflet out. The leaflet that will define the message to the electorate…..
Should I have a slogan?
‘Vote for me, or I’ll come round and nut yer’
‘Vote for me, coz I’m bloody fab - no I really am’
‘Vote for me – you know you want to' …..
I need a photo. Unfortunately, the only photographer in town is Alfreda (or Box Brownie Brenda as we like to call her). We dig out the ultra cheap, ultra plastic ‘digicol’ camera.
I pose. I explore the environs of the office…. It’s pretty damn uninspiring though. Do I want to be shot against an urban chic background? Or possibly metropolitan tat? Maybe a football manager’s pose – courtesy of a sheepskin coat, a telephone to my ear and a big fat cigar in my hand?
We experiment.
Against some venetian blinds – light and dark stripey.
Fly on the wall, reportage style – pretentious grainy.
Informal and all friendly like – Colin Montgomerie cloney.
We eventually decide a brick wall background will look best – Inspirational or what? The bricks depict stability and order, the mortar - the glue of society binding the whole structure together. Thus creating one strong regular object from many disparate pieces…… (Yawn)
Alfreda lines me up.
She zooms.
I posture.
I’m trying for serious with a bit of humanity, a dollop of gravitas with just a hint of humour.
I’m thinking Brad Pitt and Jonny Depp, with a liberal sprinkling of Orlando Bloom. All cunningly wrapped around a Bill Clinton countenance.
Can I pull it off? (as Bill Clinton once said)….
Alfreda’s on motorised overdrive as she furiously clicks away…
"Oh baby, give me ‘humility"….. "great"….. now four square determination. Love it, just love it"…..
The pics are in the can.
Alfreda assures me she’ll pick out the best one and send it to the printers…..
Fast forward to delivery day.
I get a couple of courtesy copies – the rest, 35,000 have been sent to the Royal Mail for distribution.
I open my leaflet.
Geezzzzzzzzzzus.
H.
Kerrrrrrist.
What happened to Brad, Jonny, Orlando and Bill?
They’ve been replaced by Harold Shipman, David Bellamy, Rolf Harris and Santa Claus that’s what…
I’ve become jowl-boy meets Jabba the Hutt with a beard and glasses.
Somehow, somehow the picture has put about 4 stone on my boat. My beard looks like something Moses would have been proud of and my eyes have disappeared into 2 slits on my moon shaped smirking face……… Not to worry then – there’s only 35, 000 of the damn things….
Great, great news. Alfie’s ‘plus’ column is off and running. My eldest son has committed his precious vote to his old man. It makes you proud don’t it?
Anyway, I must keep my part of the bargain and return all his back issues of FHM and other ‘art’ mags…..
Tomorrow – I do a ‘Question Time’ style event and one of the candidates gets caught ‘resting his eyes’ Then I do a few radio interviews – and manage to string 4 words together without saying "you know"……… Also – The big, big day is looming, it’s all so exciting! (ish)……..
My God, little no mark Alfie reporting here from the coal face of democracy – no, not in Basra, Southern Iraq… but Ormskirk, West Lancashire.
Life’s certainly a bit tough when you’re up against the big Party machines…. And you’ve got to hold down a job…… And you’ve had no media training….. And you feel a bit of a pranny swanning round in your big fluffy rosette…… And as you catch the eye of a potential voter – how their face crumples into resignation as another glad handing guy with a message does a bit of quarry cornering.
That wasn’t the worse part of it though. The very worse thing was getting the leaflet out. The leaflet that will define the message to the electorate…..
Should I have a slogan?
‘Vote for me, or I’ll come round and nut yer’
‘Vote for me, coz I’m bloody fab - no I really am’
‘Vote for me – you know you want to' …..
I need a photo. Unfortunately, the only photographer in town is Alfreda (or Box Brownie Brenda as we like to call her). We dig out the ultra cheap, ultra plastic ‘digicol’ camera.
I pose. I explore the environs of the office…. It’s pretty damn uninspiring though. Do I want to be shot against an urban chic background? Or possibly metropolitan tat? Maybe a football manager’s pose – courtesy of a sheepskin coat, a telephone to my ear and a big fat cigar in my hand?
We experiment.
Against some venetian blinds – light and dark stripey.
Fly on the wall, reportage style – pretentious grainy.
Informal and all friendly like – Colin Montgomerie cloney.
We eventually decide a brick wall background will look best – Inspirational or what? The bricks depict stability and order, the mortar - the glue of society binding the whole structure together. Thus creating one strong regular object from many disparate pieces…… (Yawn)
Alfreda lines me up.
She zooms.
I posture.
I’m trying for serious with a bit of humanity, a dollop of gravitas with just a hint of humour.
I’m thinking Brad Pitt and Jonny Depp, with a liberal sprinkling of Orlando Bloom. All cunningly wrapped around a Bill Clinton countenance.
Can I pull it off? (as Bill Clinton once said)….
Alfreda’s on motorised overdrive as she furiously clicks away…
"Oh baby, give me ‘humility"….. "great"….. now four square determination. Love it, just love it"…..
The pics are in the can.
Alfreda assures me she’ll pick out the best one and send it to the printers…..
Fast forward to delivery day.
I get a couple of courtesy copies – the rest, 35,000 have been sent to the Royal Mail for distribution.
I open my leaflet.
Geezzzzzzzzzzus.
H.
Kerrrrrrist.
What happened to Brad, Jonny, Orlando and Bill?
They’ve been replaced by Harold Shipman, David Bellamy, Rolf Harris and Santa Claus that’s what…
I’ve become jowl-boy meets Jabba the Hutt with a beard and glasses.
Somehow, somehow the picture has put about 4 stone on my boat. My beard looks like something Moses would have been proud of and my eyes have disappeared into 2 slits on my moon shaped smirking face……… Not to worry then – there’s only 35, 000 of the damn things….
Great, great news. Alfie’s ‘plus’ column is off and running. My eldest son has committed his precious vote to his old man. It makes you proud don’t it?
Anyway, I must keep my part of the bargain and return all his back issues of FHM and other ‘art’ mags…..
Tomorrow – I do a ‘Question Time’ style event and one of the candidates gets caught ‘resting his eyes’ Then I do a few radio interviews – and manage to string 4 words together without saying "you know"……… Also – The big, big day is looming, it’s all so exciting! (ish)……..
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Keir Hardie’s flat cap and John Henry’s cut throat razors……
So there I was, counting out 500 quid in twenty pound notes to Jane, a once sexy, now middle aged Returning Officer. They don’t accept cheques, or credit cards – just cold hard cash. Jane stuffed the wad into a brown envelope. I handed over my bit of paper with 10 signatories – all people of sound mind from the said constituency. Jane cross checks the names with the electoral roll and confirms they are all ‘OK’. – She declares that I have been accepted to kiss babies, knock on doors and generally annoy people for the next 4 weeks.
I’m a candidate for the General Election.
It’s been a bumpy old road though. Alfreda almost scuppered the great adventure by declaring I didn’t qualify. "Oh really, why is that then?" I asked.
Alfreda has a weighty tome from the Electoral Commission in her mitt… "Well, it says here ‘People who are ‘idiots’ are disqualified from standing"…..
"Vereee funeeee"… I wittily reposte – well it’s good training for when I get into the House isn’t it? "And does the Speaker agree with me that the Right Honourable Member for Sedgefield is a complete and utter twat"….
"Hear hear"….
But she’s got a point though. It’s a sort of Catch 22 deal isn’t it? You’d have to be an idiot or a narcissistic arse to stand for Parliament in the first place wouldn’t you?
Well I’m not a narcissistic arse am I? A big arse maybe, definitely a big arse, but not a narssy-arse. I don’t even like my big arse – it’s too big and arsey…. So that must make me an idiot – ergo I am disqualified from standing….. I need some lateral thinking. Someone to clear the whole conundrum up for me. Where’s Edward De Bono when you need him?….
Yes, ordinary bloke Alfie has decided to get it on and mix it up with the giants of oratory and spin, fight toe to toe with the slipperiest of characters known to man… the British politician. It’s not exactly ‘Mr Smith goes to Washington’ – more Mr Grumpy crosses number 23 off his list of 50 things to do before he snuffs it…. I’m following in a family tradition though, – my old Granddad – George Albert stood twice as an independent in between the two wars.
I decided to have a bit of a root into the Alfie archive. Eventually, I found this picture taken in the mid 1920’s – at first glance it appears to be a Keir Hardie flat cap convention, but it was in fact, the Liverpool section of the mass hunger march to London. My Granddad is the big geezer with the really big and really floppy flat cap just to the left of the banner and next to the little kid. Please note his square jawed countenance.
George was a seaman, a writer and a Communist, active in the docklands of Liverpool. His first electoral slogan above a picture of him as if chiselled out of purest foursquarium was ‘Vote for George Albert – the man that cannot be bought’…… His second, aimed at the jaunty nautical vote was ‘Put it there, sailor’…. The graphic showed a big hand holding a pencil about to draw a big cross on the ballot paper.
He didn’t get very far. He lost both times, but I can’t help thinking that if he’d stood in Brighton he might have been a bit more successful…..
Campaigning then was a bit tougher than it is now, so tough in fact that George Albert employed a bodyguard. His name was John Henry, a mountain of a man, granite jawed, sporting a flat cap made of the ear lobes of his victims - and as tough as a three-week old flame grilled ‘whopper’ beef burger (and that’s really tough). – He was so hard - he had two little pockets sewn into the end of his coat sleeves…. And in those little pockets he hid two razor sharp, cut-throat razors. When danger threatened, as quick as a flash, John Henry would whip them out, wave them about a bit like a demon Sweeney Todd - Whirling Dervish ensemble and ask who’s up for it then….
I don’t have a ‘John Henry’ to protect me, I don’t need him, I’ve got somebody much, much scarier. Alfreda is my newly appointed agent and hired muscle. She’s five and a half foot tall in her very pointy-sharp pointy boots. She’s 100% of feline wildcat savagery…… I just hope we don’t run into John Prescott on the campaign trail, I don’t think having his head shoved up his backside will look very nice – for a start, it’ll stop him speaking the usual drivel and make him look silly to boot. Hmmmm,a win-win situation if ever there was one.
Next instalment – On the stump, on the high horse, on the doorstep, on the ale….
So there I was, counting out 500 quid in twenty pound notes to Jane, a once sexy, now middle aged Returning Officer. They don’t accept cheques, or credit cards – just cold hard cash. Jane stuffed the wad into a brown envelope. I handed over my bit of paper with 10 signatories – all people of sound mind from the said constituency. Jane cross checks the names with the electoral roll and confirms they are all ‘OK’. – She declares that I have been accepted to kiss babies, knock on doors and generally annoy people for the next 4 weeks.
I’m a candidate for the General Election.
It’s been a bumpy old road though. Alfreda almost scuppered the great adventure by declaring I didn’t qualify. "Oh really, why is that then?" I asked.
Alfreda has a weighty tome from the Electoral Commission in her mitt… "Well, it says here ‘People who are ‘idiots’ are disqualified from standing"…..
"Vereee funeeee"… I wittily reposte – well it’s good training for when I get into the House isn’t it? "And does the Speaker agree with me that the Right Honourable Member for Sedgefield is a complete and utter twat"….
"Hear hear"….
But she’s got a point though. It’s a sort of Catch 22 deal isn’t it? You’d have to be an idiot or a narcissistic arse to stand for Parliament in the first place wouldn’t you?
Well I’m not a narcissistic arse am I? A big arse maybe, definitely a big arse, but not a narssy-arse. I don’t even like my big arse – it’s too big and arsey…. So that must make me an idiot – ergo I am disqualified from standing….. I need some lateral thinking. Someone to clear the whole conundrum up for me. Where’s Edward De Bono when you need him?….
Yes, ordinary bloke Alfie has decided to get it on and mix it up with the giants of oratory and spin, fight toe to toe with the slipperiest of characters known to man… the British politician. It’s not exactly ‘Mr Smith goes to Washington’ – more Mr Grumpy crosses number 23 off his list of 50 things to do before he snuffs it…. I’m following in a family tradition though, – my old Granddad – George Albert stood twice as an independent in between the two wars.
I decided to have a bit of a root into the Alfie archive. Eventually, I found this picture taken in the mid 1920’s – at first glance it appears to be a Keir Hardie flat cap convention, but it was in fact, the Liverpool section of the mass hunger march to London. My Granddad is the big geezer with the really big and really floppy flat cap just to the left of the banner and next to the little kid. Please note his square jawed countenance.
George was a seaman, a writer and a Communist, active in the docklands of Liverpool. His first electoral slogan above a picture of him as if chiselled out of purest foursquarium was ‘Vote for George Albert – the man that cannot be bought’…… His second, aimed at the jaunty nautical vote was ‘Put it there, sailor’…. The graphic showed a big hand holding a pencil about to draw a big cross on the ballot paper.
He didn’t get very far. He lost both times, but I can’t help thinking that if he’d stood in Brighton he might have been a bit more successful…..
Campaigning then was a bit tougher than it is now, so tough in fact that George Albert employed a bodyguard. His name was John Henry, a mountain of a man, granite jawed, sporting a flat cap made of the ear lobes of his victims - and as tough as a three-week old flame grilled ‘whopper’ beef burger (and that’s really tough). – He was so hard - he had two little pockets sewn into the end of his coat sleeves…. And in those little pockets he hid two razor sharp, cut-throat razors. When danger threatened, as quick as a flash, John Henry would whip them out, wave them about a bit like a demon Sweeney Todd - Whirling Dervish ensemble and ask who’s up for it then….
I don’t have a ‘John Henry’ to protect me, I don’t need him, I’ve got somebody much, much scarier. Alfreda is my newly appointed agent and hired muscle. She’s five and a half foot tall in her very pointy-sharp pointy boots. She’s 100% of feline wildcat savagery…… I just hope we don’t run into John Prescott on the campaign trail, I don’t think having his head shoved up his backside will look very nice – for a start, it’ll stop him speaking the usual drivel and make him look silly to boot. Hmmmm,a win-win situation if ever there was one.
Next instalment – On the stump, on the high horse, on the doorstep, on the ale….
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Hi everybody....
Apologies all round for neglecting the blogging bizz.
I've been dead busy.
A million things whizzing round my head.
It's just too much to cope with.
However, all will be revealed tomorrow as to what I've been up to......
But for now, I'll just say that I think everyone should have a go at it.
Like jury service.
Or scuba diving.
Or eating a whole Victoria sponge all by yourself.
Or losing your virginity.
Or going to Glasto......
Apologies all round for neglecting the blogging bizz.
I've been dead busy.
A million things whizzing round my head.
It's just too much to cope with.
However, all will be revealed tomorrow as to what I've been up to......
But for now, I'll just say that I think everyone should have a go at it.
Like jury service.
Or scuba diving.
Or eating a whole Victoria sponge all by yourself.
Or losing your virginity.
Or going to Glasto......
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, April 08, 2005
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
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)
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)
Monday, April 04, 2005
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"
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"
Friday, April 01, 2005
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)….
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)….
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
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?
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?
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
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…..
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…..
Monday, March 14, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, March 11, 2005
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)….
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)….
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, March 04, 2005
‘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.
‘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.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
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….
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….
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
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……
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……
Monday, February 28, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
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’
(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’
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
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!"
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!"
Monday, February 14, 2005
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’
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’
Thursday, February 10, 2005
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’……..
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’……..
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
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 Рlike a souffl̩ fashioned from purest hype with a double dollop of hyperbole thrown in for good measure. On come the gladiators Рas slow as can be Рso they can bung a few extra adverts in between. The Noo England Patriots and The Philadelphia Gonads troop out Рpacked 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!
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 Рlike a souffl̩ fashioned from purest hype with a double dollop of hyperbole thrown in for good measure. On come the gladiators Рas slow as can be Рso they can bung a few extra adverts in between. The Noo England Patriots and The Philadelphia Gonads troop out Рpacked 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!
