Steve Strange but true…

Just watching Celebrity Scissorhands last night to see none other than ‘80’s style icon and uber Visager, Steve Strange as one of the competitors.

It was a bit of a shock. ‘80’s cool has given way to noughties shambling, Steve looks completely cooled out. Not only that, he’s just about the worst hairdresser in the world….. He seems to get the shakes when he’s got a pair of scissors in his hands.

I don’t know what he’s been on but he now cuts a sad figure in the Celeb hairdressing salon. He’s still got his eye make up on and his shaped eye brows, but all his face has gone South…… as well as his career it would seem.

A month off… but now I’m back….

October was a bit of a weird month for me. 30 odd days of reflection, resolve and reinvention. Tap, tap tapping has not been a priority, hence the paucity of postings. What caused it? Dunno really, could be my age and a growing sense of my own mortality - or it might be that for the past few years I’ve not so much been stuck in a rut as down a hole. But it was more likely that at the beginning of October Mrs Alfie decided to take a bit of a look at our current financial position – and it’s not good. We owe over 40 grand to banks, finance houses and credit card-sharks…..

So, at 53 years old, is this it? Up to my eyes in debt, doing stuff I hate for a living and living on the hellish A59 uber-bahn, the most dangerous trunk road in the country?

We had to talk. A crisis meeting was hastily convened to discuss ways of getting out of debt and redirecting our lives.

We’ve decided to sell the house and move out of mad commuter belt world and go to live in the middle of nowhere. The more remote the better. I want to live a simpler, more relaxed lifestyle, so I’ve also decided to change career – as long as we can get a broadband connection we’ll be OK.

So for the last month I’ve been playing at Bob the Builder, trying to get the place in some sort of state so we can put it on the market. It’s a five bedroomed house, so we should get a fair whack. The plan is to downsize, pay off the mortgage & the 40 grand and live a simple idyllic life away from New Labour politicians, Tesco superstores and reality TV. We’ve had a look round and found some tumble down cottages with land just right for doing up – and as we’ll have cash in hand, we don’t need Building Society approval for any potential purchase.

We are just 2 of millions in this country who aren’t buying into Blair’s utopian vision of Britain, who feel frustrated and ignored by a control freaked-out government. We can’t go overseas, so we are doing the next best thing – moving to somewhere remote, far, far away from the madness of modern British life. We’re going to pay off the mortgage, grow vegetables, keep poultry, brew home made beer, build my own reed bed filtration unit for our waste and put a big sign at the gate post – ‘Dunlisteningtonulabourlies’……..

That’s the plan. We call it ‘Plan A’ – there is no ‘Plan B’….

The Goodie, the baldy and the babe..

This week sees the start of the Autumn Watch series on BBC1. There is much excitement in our neck of the woods as the show is based at Martin Mere, which is about 2 miles down the road from where I live. With luck, we might get a glimpse of Kate Humble - but we have a superb pie shop in the village -so I guess we're more likely to see Bill Oddie with his chops wrapped around a dribbling meat 'n' tater pie.

I worked at Martin Mere soon after it opened in the '70's. There was a real frontier spirit around then, it was mostly mud, mud - and more mud. The reason it was created in the first place was to protect the wintering marsh land areas of the Pink-footed Goose. This visitor from Greenland & Iceland arrives in West Lancashire - and Martin Mere in particular in great numbers during the winter. It's sobering to think that most of the world's population of these lovely looking birds migrate to the area. Andy, my old friend from the time I worked there has risen through the ranks to become acting Curator of the place, so no doubt he's already met Kate (jammy sod).

Over the past two weeks, I1ve been keeping a close eye on the build up to the show. A little corral has been created in the corner of the car park as every day, more and more 'stuff' arrives - it's wall to wall satellite dishes, motor homes, catering trucks, Landrover hardware and around 15 million makeup artists.

Just how many people does it take to make a wildlife programme?

I hope they never have to change a light bulb.

Calling all pie eaters....

I've found this little site dedicated to the dark art of pork pie eating. I don't think it's based in Wigan...... (but maybe they're ex-pats).

Good news, bad news

The good news? Quiiz uber champ, Pat Gibson failed to turn for last night's quiz. (see previous post).....

The bad news? His replacement was brilliant. We got battered - as battered as a beaten up Blackpool battered Cod......

Clash of the giants…..
Tonight, our quiz league season starts up again.

I’m a bit worried. We’ve just been promoted to the top division – that makes us the Watford, Reading and Sheffield United of the quiz world.

As is customary with newly promoted whipping boys, our first fixture is a bit of a toughie. Our team, the ‘4 Men in a Tub’ are playing ‘The Old Dog’ at the Old Dog pub in Up Holland, West Lancashire. Unfortunately, they have as one of their team members one Pat’ Gibson, a relaxed Irishman, currently living in Wigan, the pie eating capital of the Universe.

Pat’s bloody brilliant, he’s been on telly a few times. In 2004 he won a million quid on ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’….. in 2005, he became BBC’s ‘Mastermind’ champion.

Let’s hope the questions tonight are all about daytime telly, ‘Love Island' contestants, the history of the Beano comic and the life and times of Stevie Gerrard, otherwise it could be a cricket score…..


Pat Gibson, all round smart arse....

Forks in the road…..

I’m just watching a programme on BBC2 called ‘Turning Back Time’. It’s a weekly one-to-one between Dara O'Briain and celeb guests. They waffle on about how they’ve made sometimes wise and sometimes foolish decisions in their lives – and the impact those decisions have had on their careers.

This week it was aussie, Barry Humphries talking about Edna Everidge, Australia, tinnies, kangaroos and Les Patterson, which was OK, I suppose. But I’m sort of sick of seeing celebs and their egos on the box. For a change, I’d like to see an ordinary bloke on – someone who could have been a legend, but chose not to…..

I wonder if Dara will ever have Mike Bersin on?

So, who’s Mike Bersin then?

Well he could have been as famous as some members of royalty, if only he’d have said "Yes"…….

Mike was a technician at Liverpool Art College during the ‘70’s when I was there. He was a really great bloke, one of the lads who liked a pint and could play the guitar just like ringing a bell (so to speak) – he was good. The college at that time had spawned a few good bands, including ‘Nasty Pop’ and ‘Deaf School’ - headed up by a sculpture student called ‘Steve’, who by night became lead singer ‘Enrico Cadillac III. Down into town, in Mathew Street, just a few yards from the Cavern, a new club had exploded into our consciousness. 'Eric’s' had opened. What a place, pulsating, sweaty, brooding punk before Malcolm McLaren had given it a name. Around by the college, Kirkland’s, O’Connor’s, The Phil and John Lennon’s favourite pub, Ye Cracke pulsated to local bands and singletons with acoustic guitars. The place was alive. Deaf School managed to get a contract from Warner Brothers – but they needed a manager to try and get a better deal. One night, they appeared at a club down the road called The Back of the Moon. We were all there to support Enrico and the band. Unfortunately, we were all pissed on Black Velvets and free cheese vol-au-vents. Then someone espied Mickey Most, the manager of managers in pop Britain at the time. He had hoped to keep his incognito intact as apparently he was going to sign them up. We descended on him, his cognito was outed – and within minutes, the Simon Cowell of the seventies was gone in a cloud of Ferrari exhaust fumes, never to return…..

Anyway, back to Mike Bersin. The various bands in the college used to ask his advice on musical stuff – Mike had been in a few bands since the late sixties, so knew at least some of the ropes. Mike’s bands included ‘Ibex’ which sort of morphed into a band called ‘Wreckage’…..

The final gig that ‘Wreckage’ ever did was on Christmas Eve, 1969 in Widnes at Wade Deacon Grammar School. Incidentally, the entrance of the school is about 30 yards from the railway bench which Simon and Garfunkel composed ‘Homeward Bound’ on while waiting for a non existent train in the early 60’s…..

After that last grammar school gig, they all went their separate ways. The lead singer of ‘Wreckage’ formed another band called ‘Sour Milk Sea’ - they managed just two performances before that too was wound up.

In February of 1970, the lead singer from Mike’s old band wanted to have another go at stardom.

He came up to Liverpool to try to persuade his mate Mike to commit to the new venture. The singer had thought of a name for the band – plus a new name for himself to replace the rather exotic one his parents had christened him with. Mike ummed and ahhed – and finally decided to refuse the offer his close friend had made…. With that, the singer left to pursue a couple of potential members from a band called ‘Smile’…

So who was Mike Bersin’s lead singer mate – the guy who tried to persuade him to join him in the new venture?

His name was Farook Bulsara, better known to his mates as ‘Freddie’ – better known to us all as Freddie Mercury.

On the 28th April 1970, the new band ‘Queen’ held their very first rehearsal with Brian May, rather than Mike Bersin as the new lead guitarist.

Mike was last heard of working at Middlesbrough Art College.

Further reading - Wikipedia Ibex write up – here

Life, the Solar System and everything…

Our little bit of space on the edge of the Milky Way has got just a bit more
crowded. The space boffins at Boffin HQ, Boffington have decreed there should be a planet upgrade, nine has now become twelve. A few big bouldery boulders, one in between Mars and Jupiter, and the others way out there just to the left of Pluto have now been invited into the planetary club.

They’ve even named two of the three newcomers, Ceres is the one near Mars. Charon and err, UB313 are the two near Pluto.

But there’s a problem. Planet UB313 doesn’t really sound very poetic does it? I mean, Gustav Holst could, I suppose expand his Planet Suite to include Ceres and Charon, but UB313? It sounds more like a form you get from Social Security….

Maybe there should be a competition – ‘Name that Planet’… or could someone sponsor it? Welcome to the planet of Big Mac… or Disney might want to buy it and call it ‘Goofy’ to go with neighbour Pluto…..

But I’ve had an idea. The closest planet to UB313 is ‘Charon’ – and I’ve thought of a great name that would go really well with planet ‘Charon'.....
Planet ‘Wayne’……

CDS (Competitive Dad Syndrome)….

Saturday was a bit of a bummer. "Why so?" I hear you ask, especially as it was such a nice day. This Summer, ‘nice day’ means checking the toms, counting the visiting Butterfly quotient, watering the hanging baskets, trying to finish off my pond – and just pottering about a bit. Generally chilling out in the garden is the order of the day……

But silly me. I’d forgotten that next door’s garden was the venue for this year’s Competitive Dad Olympics.

About 8 Dads took part, along with their rubbishy non-sporting kids, making around 26 competitors in all. The kids took to the arena as ‘Team Crap’ – the Dads as ‘Team Testosterone’.

It was a gala of sport and competitive mayhem. All the old favourites were there, Chipping a golf ball into a basket, first to the apple tree race. garden cricket, the crying kid competition, keepy-uppy using a beach ball, 12 aside footy – generously spread over a 12 x 6 yard playing area…… and my very favourite, the Victor Ludorum of the day, who can scream the loudest while bouncing on the garden trampoline.

As the day wore on, the Dads began to wilt. More wilting meant more trips to the bar for refreshments. More refreshment meant more ‘accidents’ as little kids got crushed under beer bellies, received green stick fractures and became broken victims of professional foulery from an unscrupulous foe.

Arguments broke out – was that leg before?, was the ball over the line?…. Every argument meant a time out to cool down and visit the bar…… When will this row ever end? I thought.

Fortunately, the guy on the other side of their garden was thinking the same thing. Fortunately, he decided to do something about it.

In order to get rid of an annoying group of fully pissed adults and 18 hyper active, whinging, moaning, spoilt brats you will need the following:

A 6 foot high bonfire.
A box of matches.
Some green stuff to chuck on when it is well alight.
Wind going in the right direction.

He lit it, and chucked on a load of grass cuttings. Smoke everywhere. The pissed adults massed at the border to remonstrate with the manic fireman. He didn’t take any notice – he was too busy trying to hold back his 2 fully grown German Shepherds…..

The games were abandoned, the competitive Dads staggered back into the house to get a drink. Me? I sat on the step, revelling in the silence with tears rolling down my cheeks. Smoke is no respecter of borders.

Hot

This global warming malarkey has had quite a few consequences within Alfie towers and its sumptuous grounds.

1) My new best friend is the ceiling mounted fan in the lounge. I’d always thought this bit of furniture was a bit naff – something straight out of Lawrence of Arabia or ‘Death on the Nile’…… Since we got it, we’ve hardly ever had it on - until the hot spell kicked in, and now it is never off.

2) The verdant rolling acres of Alfie towers are long gone. Instead it’s scrubland as far as the eye can see. In order to right the natural temperate balance, the weathermen told us to expect torrential rainfall on Saturday morning. At 11:45am, it arrived – torrentially pouring with rain in a torrentially torrential manner. At 11:46am, the torrential rain stopped – like God had just imposed a torrential rain ban. By 11:50am, the torrential rain had torrentially evaporated back up to the fast disappearing clouds from whence it came.

3) Butterfly wars. The Cabbage White is Alfie’s public enemy number 1 at the moment - even more so than the little bitey things currently hatching out of our pond and making a bite-line for Alfie's shapely legs. The Cabbage White is obsessed with laying her cabbage white eggs on Alfie’s fantastic crop of salad Rocket. Alfie is wondering whether the Cabbage White should instead be called the Rocket Eating Bastard?

The Cabbage White has studiously chosen to ignore the special sacrificial crop of Cabbages Alfie has planted nearby during an especially Buddhist weekend last April. "Shoo" just doesn’t seem to work, nor did a gentle wave of my arms….. Maybe I’ll dig out my Slazenger tennis racquet and practise a few overhead smashes?…..

4) Baggy shirts and baggy shorts are the dress code at A.T. at the moment. It may look crap – but it’s comfy – so that’ll do. Fortunately, being the most coolest guy on the planet means I can get away with knobbly knees, odd socks and builder’s bum when I bend over. Other people are not so style lucky as me however. The other day, I actually saw the squarest man in the Universe. He was about 40 years old, walking down the high street wearing dead shiny black leather shoes, grey calf length socks, a tucked-in white shirt with stripey tie – and the tightest, shortest shorts seen since Kevin Keegan was in his England perm-wearing pomp… I don't want to sound like Trinny and Suzanne, but for God's sake, this guy even had a belt holding up his short-shorts and a tie pin holding down his stripey tie......

5) Sex. Errr, none.
Much, much too hot for rumpstering. The ceiling fan is currently my object of desire…

Blanked by the BBC.....

A couple of weeks ago, I had a go at writing a script for the BBC FiveLive listeners competition, World Cup Tapes. The subject was the World Cup - and the listeners experiences of the great competition over the years. The winning entries would get a few hundred quid cash - and their winning entries would be read out on air by my hero, Johnny Vegas. Needless to say, my effort wasn't selected - which was a bit disappointing. Anyway, for what it's worth, it is reproduced here - and concerns a true incident during the 1986 World Cup when I was trying to illustrate to two of my toddler kids just how good Maradona's legal goal against England actually was.....

CONDIMENT UNITED VERSUS MARADONA…..
Under the blazing kitchen ceiling of the Aztec Stadium, the tension is unbearable, the place is a cauldron of noise, sticky handprints, half eaten jam butties and fumes from last night’s curry. OK kids, gather round. This is it. The 1986 quarter final of the World Cup in Mexico City – and England are playing Argentina in the biggest grudge match since Popeye last beat up Bluto for tipping his cap at Olive Oil.

Now pay attention, this bottle of mint sauce is Maradona – he’s captain of Argentina and is the greatest player in the world. Although having more skill than a shed full of brain surgeons, note his untrustworthy profile, his shifty, low cunning demeanour and his tendency to keep handling the ball when no one is looking. Around him stands the cream of honest English yeoman footballing talent. For them, the Corinthian spirit still beats strong within their noble chests. They must surely be more than a match for the man from the pampas - Diego Armando Maradona!

All of a sudden, the ball breaks to the little guy. In an instant, the rolled-up piece of silver paper is under the control of the greatest bottle of mint sauce in the footballing world. Head down, he’s off towards the English half. The control is exquisite, the silver paper ball is glued to his foot as if held there by a force unknown to the average English defender.

His run is relentless, pounding, pacy and unerring - the little genius from the condiments cupboard is on a mission to double his side’s lead – and put an end to Bobby Robson’s boys brave but ultimately futile attempt to progress any further in the competition. He rounds Hoddle the Pepper Poddle with consummate ease. Next, he shimmies past Reidy the novelty squeezy-sauce tomato - and sashays past the near-empty Sanson butter tub, leaving him spread all over the table.

Things are looking serious for England. Where is Roy of the Rovers when you need him, surely Melchester’s finest would put a stop to this dazzling dribble once and for all? On and on, Maradona bears down. The little genius and spring heeled cheat is zeroing in on sporting history…… – But hang on, just let’s wait a mo’ …..let’s not panic, England’s ‘Heart of Oak’ central defence is squaring up. He shall not pass.

There they are, the twin set of four-squared resolution, the English beefed magnificence that is the mustard jar and the vinegar bottle. Unfortunately, whether they’re affected by the dazzling light and relentless heat from the 60 watt kitchen bulb beating down on them, or because they are just a few dollops short of a full measure, they both collapse in synchronistic heaps, their legs knotted, their brains frazzled, their contents unsettled.

First, he makes a monkey out of the tin of Butcher mustard – and in an instant, glides past the Fenwick vinegar bottle as if he isn’t there – which he isn’t – we forgot to buy some on last Friday’s shopping run… For God’s sake, How can I be expected to recreate the greatest World Cup goal in history on this kitchen table when you’ve forgotten to buy the bottle of Terry Fenwick vinegar?…… Never mind kids – you’ll just have to use your imagination, he should be there – but he isn’t….. come to think of it, the same thing happened in 1986!…

By now, the little guy is in the area, relentlessly bearing down on Salty Shilton’s goal. The mustard jar makes one last, despairing effort to block the ball…. He fails miserably. Salty dives, but…… too late. Mint Sauce Maradona slots the ball home between the knife and fork. The serviette bulges and the ball is in the back of the net ….. Argentina 2 : England 0….

Over the Mexican waved roar from the capacity crowd of 2 kids, an overgrown schoolboy and a despairing wife, commentator Barry Drainboard could be heard hysterically summing up this astounding piece of skill perfectly… "You have to say - that is quite, quite magnificent"….. And it was.

And so ended our kitchen table drama – my recreation of the 1986 Argentina – England football match and Maradona’s wonder goal in our kitchen, to a couple of snotty nosed kids and a long suffering spouse. The kitchen table looked like a bomb had hit it. Reidy the novelty tomato is on his side rotating slowly in an arc. Every time he rolls, another dollop of tomato sauce is blobbed onto the formica top. Shilts is in a salty spin – he’s still trying to work out how a vertically challenged Argentinean schoolboy has out-jumped him to palm the ball in for the first goal…

Hoddle the pepper poddle is grinding away in the corner, bitter that someone has comprehensively out-skilled him in the shimmy department…….. And Sanson the butter tub? He’s gone – carried off for a rendezvous with a rather delicious ham salad sandwich.

ENDS.

Today is my 53rd birthday.

I share my birthday with Franz Kafka(123), Ken Russell(79), Tom Stoppard(69) and Tom Cruise(44).

Today my diet is on his holidays.

Today, I shall be going down to the Blood Tub and drinking a lot – starting with Adnams ale and ending up on the floor – a complete A to Zzzzzzzzzzzzz of English alery.

I shall be meeting Franz, Ken and the two Toms there – we’ll laugh, tell stories and get pissed on the fruit of Kent. Kafka will be a bit quiet on account of him being completely dead.. (it’ll still be more than we get out of Cruise though)……

Quite literally hot ‘n’ sticky….

Sunday, 2nd July

After working all day in the garden under a blisteringly hot July Sun I decided to get a very long drink of ice cool water. I strode towards the french windows, brow beaded with honest toil, gnarlied hands with the ingrained hue of home made compost, my white cotton shirt, drenched in sweat stuck to my skin like sticky glue. I began to muse. What figure from literature did I currently resemble?…..

Perhaps a brooding D’arcy, after his lake swim in Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice?…..

Or maybe…..

"Do you think I look a bit like Mellors the gamekeeper from Lady Chatterley’s Lover?"

"More like Stig of the Dump"….

Back crack, sack – and feeling sick….

In an uncommonly brave bit of "childbirth can’t be that painful can it?" banter between me and Mrs A – I was sort of well and truly lead up the garden path and done up like a kipper (metaphorically speaking). Inevitably, being a mere man and not really understanding where the conversation was going, I failed to see the 'Testosterone Gambit' being engineered in front of my eyes. The discussion on pain ended with a very rash bet between myself and my better half, I somewhat foolishly committed myself to a bit of body waxing. Well, not really. It’s actually quite a lot of body waxing (I've got a really big arse) – in very sensitive and personal areas. To be precise, for some amazing and totally bizarre reason, I’ve decided to have what is commonly called a ‘back, crack and sack’…..

Well, it can’t be that painful, can it?

Can it?

I comforted myself by believing I would get it done in our local Waxing Emporium (wherever that is) – the delicate procedure being performed by a stunningly good looking young laydee….. Hmmmm, pleasure-painnnnnnnnnn.

Unfortunately, that bubble has been burst – my missus is going to do the backing, cracking and the sacking. She’s never done anything like this before – and has hardly ever done any waxing of her own legs. She’s always used ‘Desperate Dan’s patent Brillo Pads’ in the past.

She’s advised me to find a substantial piece of English Oak to bite on whilst she does the stuff.

I feel sick.

I’ll keep you posted. Hopefully, I will still be able to walk afterwards, even if it's only on all fours – and I’m going to hide the digital camera – to stop her taking compromising photos and posting them on www.fathubbylardyarses.com

Meeting a couple of old friends at Malham Cove…

I met a blast from my schoolboy past last weekend. I literally stumbled upon ‘Clint’ and ‘Gryke’. Not a Yorkshire comedy duo, nor a north country concoction of sheep offal, but something last seen by me in Mr Fraser’s geoggers lesson, circa 1967.

For those who don’t know, Clints and Grykes are the descriptive components of upland limestone pavementing – and some of the very best bits in all of England can be found atop the sheer limestone escarpment that is Malham Cove, North Yorkshire. It’s a fantastic place to go for a walk – and Sunday’s yomp was specifically formulated as part of the ‘Get Alfie Fighting Fit Again’, or GAFFA for short.

After my scare at the doctor’s a few weeks back, I have become a newish man. Drinking alcohol at home is now banned – Adam’s ale is the only exception. I still have a scoop or two when I’m on quiz team duty – and of course, ‘Gin Night’ every Friday is absolutely sacrosanct obviously. But believe it or not, I’ve saved a shed load of cash implementing the GAFFA plan. I used to drink around 3 cans a night at home – that’s at least 20 cans a week, sitting on my arse watching the telly or tapping away on the keyboard.

I hate to think of my weekly unit intake – but counting my ‘quiz beer’ and my ‘gin nippies’ and adding it to my home beer stock, it must have been around 60 per week….. or nearly 3 times the recommended weekly intake for an adult male.

After a hurried, post-doc’ serious chat with myself, I resolved to change my ways. My alcoholic intake is now no higher than 15 units per week – and I feel loads better. The ‘gutometer’ (my jeans belt) has reduced by a full 2 whole holes worth, in only 3 whole weeks – so things are going in the right direction.

I have never had a problem with self-reassessment. I used to smoke like a chimney, between 60 to 80 a day – and gave it up forever on the 1st January, 1983. My first Son was nearly a year old at the time – and I reasoned that if I carried on puffing away, I wouldn’t see his 10th birthday.

Anyway, back to Malham. As well as drastically cutting down on alcohol, I thought I should take more exercise. Walking in beautiful and remote places in England seemed like a good idea. Number 1 was Malham Cove, North Yorkshire. Unfortunately, it’s getting harder to find both beautiful and remote places in England nowadays. As we breasted the little hill that guards the entrance to the Malham valley – my heart sank. Millions of people sporting brightly coloured kagools, billions of tents…. And one enormous, hastily convened car park – hours ago it was a sheep field, now it was hedge to hedge metal. The beaming smile of the farmer at the gate beckoned us toward him – and charged us 3 quid to get in. I reckoned a hernia was being groomed under his tweedy waistcoat, courtesy of the gargantuan weight of pound coin in his ticket bag.

Once we’d parked up, had our butties and started off towards Gordale Scar, things got better, kagool sighting got rarer. The scenery was breathtaking, gorge, waterfall, sparkling river until at last we arrived at Gordale. What a place. Just fantastic. A gothic masterpiece in limestone, towering columns and buttresses, rising sheer and going up hundreds of feet - almost closing above our heads has been carved by nothing but wind, ice and water. After Gordale, we wheeled away up the adjacent hill towards Malham. This part of the walk was really knackering. The hill just went on and on upwards towards the top of the cove. And then we got there. The top of Malham Cove proper – and it’s wonderful Clint and Gryke architecture.

The view was stunning, awesome - and then some. And then some more. We could see for miles. Fortunately, in the near distance we could just make out a hostelry, no doubt selling fine English ales. That settled it, we descended the long and winding steps at the double – and then at the treble. We reached the foot of the giant cliff that was Malham. At the bottom of the sheer limestone wall bubbled the source of the River Aire – as clean as, err, a mountain stream. We reached The Buck and downed a superb pint of Timothy Taylor. It had been a really great day, a day that makes you thank your lucky stars you live in England – even though Blair and his control freaks are doing their utmost to wreck the place.

Domino the dog, Clint and Gryke.

Hell, high water, wind - and lots of kites….

Monday saw me hurtling down the M1 trying to make a meeting in Redhill, Surrey for 12 noon. Traditionally, I’m late for everything – but this meeting is different, this meeting just could mean kerching city for Alfie, his wifey, his kiddykins and his bank balance. So this time I really must not be late.

To make doubly sure of a timely arrival, I did half the journey from the North West on Sunday night, staying at my sister’s - a pleasant house just a couple of miles to the left of Rutland Water.

To make trebly sure of a timely arrival, I tapped in my destination on the sat-nav before turning in. It reckoned a two and a half-hour journey would do it. Sorted. I’ll get up at 7, out by 8, arrive at my destination by 10:30……. 11, tops.

Dream on.

Everything went swimmingly (it was raining hard) until I hit Luton. Suddenly I’m in the biggest, longest, thinnest, most static car park in the entire world. The sexy sat-nav lady informs me there is a traffic jam. I ‘kin know there’s a ‘kin traffic jam, I’m ‘kin in it.

And I was, right up to my neck.

Never mind, I reasoned, I’ve factored in the ‘why does it always happen to me’ gambit – and allowed loads of time for just this eventuality. Well done to me for being so bloody organised. Just then, the traffic reporter on Radio FiveLive informed me there was a big, very big traffic jam on the M1 southbound. Worse still, there was a huge accident on the M1 northbound – and it is completely closed. They’ve also just closed the southbound motorway so that a couple of Air ambulance helicopters can land.

It put everything in perspective. I hoped the victims were OK. With that, I get philosophical - I ring the office in Redhill, tell them I’ll get there when I can and just sat back and relaxed a bit.

Two hours later, I’m sort of still relaxed, definitely still stationary and still being told I’m in a traffic jam by Ms Sat-nav… 45 minutes after that – and we are moving… moving I tell you! Mind you, by now the heavens have opened – had Hurricane Katrina finally hit our shores?

I’m flooring it on a skid-pan. Every truck in the world is in front of me, churning up gallons of water and chucking it at my windscreen at the speed of a water cannon…… And then I hit the M25. Oh God, the M25, the ring of hell in a tsunami of wind and water. Somehow, I manage to negotiate it. Somehow I arrive wet, late, bedraggled - but alive.

After the road to hell came the art of prevarication from the client. The deal of deals never quite got put on the table. We went through the motions then went for lunch, cardboard salmon steak with reheated carbon chips and a side salad of stale grass. They agreed to commit their offer to paper, in black and white, clear as crystal – so the journey wasn’t entirely wasted..

With that, I drove home, but this time I decided to give the M1 a miss. This time I thought I might try the M40 – a road that carves through some of the finest countryside in the south of England. The road was clear, surprising really for rush hour – and a hell of a contrast from the morning. Some thin ribbons of blue sky even managed to make an appearance through a slate grey, battleship grey, grindingly dull, grey sky.

My spirits rose.

Suddenly, just as I was reaching the Oxfordshire border a bloody huge bird of prey, swooped across the motorway, about 20 foot above the car. Even though I’d never seen one before, I recognised it immediately, this bird is just unique. It had a really long forked tail, so it could only be one bird….. just one.

It was a Red Kite…. No doubt about it. The forked tail and the huge wing-span – around 6 foot across were the giveaways. The Red Kite is one of the rarest birds in Britain – there are a few in remote areas of Wales…. And that’s it.

I was so excited, I rang Mrs Alfie…. "I’ve just seen a Red Kite" I stammered…………."Bloody hell, there’s another one, and another"….. Mrs Alfie indulged in a bit of mega scoffing and put the phone down.

Altogether I counted about 15 Red Kites fluttering above a mile long stretch of motorway Fifteen!

When I got home it was like I was the fisherman who let a whopper go, no one believed me. I consulted the bird books…. They all said that the Red Kite was incredibly rare, how their stronghold was in very remote areas of Wales – and how they were very seldom if ever seen. So how could I have seen a whole herd of them – over a motorway in England?

I decided to ring the RSPB to find out. The conversation went something like this.

"Hello, I was driving on the M40 last night, just coming into Oxfordshire and saw"…..

"Red Kites!!!!" he exclaimed.
I was gobsmacked. This guy told me that sometimes there are as many as 50 Red Kites all flying over the motorway in this little hot spot…. Apparently, this area has the largest population of Red Kites in the country. I asked him if the site was a secret – he said it couldn’t be as they spend all their days swooping over the motorway.

So there you go, if you want to see a truly awesomely amazing bird of prey, and one of the rarest animals in Britain, head for the M40.

Bloggers United - v - NuLabour Sleaze....
After drinking fine English ales, my second most enjoyable activity is slagging off the NuLabour project and the arch diva himself, Tony Blair. God how I hate him and his clack of criminal, no-scrupled foot soldiers.

Sleaze and NuLabour go together like peaches and cream - Prescott, Vaz, Hodge, Mandelson, Byers, Jowell, Cherie....... the list is almost endless. And to commemorate their appalling track record, Iain Dale and Guido Fawkes have compiled a hundred of the best examples. They've asked the blogging community to contribute - and the whole thing was written printed and bound within 3 weeks.......

I've contributed with a few pieces - and I must say there is something extremely gratifying about doing a bit of Blair bashing using the written word....

The books are due to hit the bookshops this week, or you could get it from Amazon by clicking the link on the left....

Grumpy old men – with subtitles….
Fancy a laugh? Then be sure to watch the BBC telly programme ‘Grumpy Old Men’….. not the regular series, no, watch it when it’s repeated in the wee small hours – that's the edition with the added sign language facility - performed by a digitally added person translating every word said.

A little lady is pasted into the bottom right hand of the screen and as the grumpies moan about this and that, bemoaning the annoying detritus of everyday life the lady does her best to keep up with the moan overload. The trouble is with grumpy old men is that they tend to do a lot of swearing….an awful lot of swearing……

It’s good to see that the sign language movements for 'Wanker', 'Dickhead' and 'Tosser' are exactly as you would think they would be….. except that this lady was doing the movements with unbelievable gusto. When a grumpy said how some Traffic Warden was such a wanker – this lady’s hand became a blur of repetitive action. A bit startling maybe – but 10 out of 10 for comedy value…..

Stevie Gee, legend…..
I’m a scouser – and a lifelong Liverpool fan. The very first game I ever saw was in the Spring of 1963 when Liverpool played Spurs on a fantastically brilliant bright sunny day. Nine years old, walking through the dark damp bowels of old Anfield footy stadium, I breasted the top of the stairway to be met by a dazzling green square, I was gobsmacked. I’d never seen such a verdant sward. By half time, we were 2-0 down, the boy Greavsie doing his brilliant best. The second half saw us scoring 5 goals to run out winners 5-2. I was so excited I threw up – and since that day, I’ve been hooked.

So I looked forward to Saturday’s Cup Final with relish. I thought we’d murder West Ham. I’d even prepared a posting based on the famous rant by a Norwegian radio commentator upon his team defeating a mullet headed England team……

‘Sir Trevor Brooking, Billy Bragg, Ray Winston, Alf Garnett, we gave your boys a hell of a beating today’…….

But we didn’t. We scored 3 fantastic goals and made presents of 3 others. The difference was Stevie Gerrard - what a player – I wouldn’t swap him for anyone else. If he was playing for Real Madrid or Juventus he’d have been world player of the year by now. Forget Rooney’s metatarsal, Beckham’s ego and Sven’s barmy tactics, the key to victory in Germany is Gerrard – and playing him in his best position. (Taking Defoe would help as well!) The trouble is, does Sven realise it?

Come on England!

Pass me the warm milk…..

OK, pretty devastating news from Alfie’s rock n roll HQ. I don’t look as bad as Keith Richards, I don’t have his money or his bizarre taste in hair ornaments – but maybe I share a couple of his health problems. A routine visit to the Health Centre for a chesty cough complaint provoked an enquiry from the Doc’

"While you’re here, why don’t we check your blood pressure?"

She did. She frowned. She said "Hmmmmm"

Picture one of those cartoons were the liquid rises at the speed of light up the dial, hits the bulb at the top, bulges, shakes and explodes…..

High blood pressure. Bloody high - as high as an elephant’s eye on top of a high blood pressure chart on the wall of the penthouse suite of the Empire State Building, as it happens…..

It’s the end of the rock and roll lifestyle for yours truly. My Doctor told me the man that is the angry old basket case has got to go – so have the rounds of bread with every meal, so has the beer.

I’m on the wagon. Old Alfie has gone – along with the bacon butties…. and the Turkish Delight…. and did I mention the beer?

New healthy, more caring, more feminine Alfie is in the building, having got here by bicycle…….

But tell me, does giving up the rock and roll lifestyle, the beer, the bacon butties, the beer, the Turkish Delight, the beer and a ton of bread make me live longer – or will it just seem longer?