Stop Press! Menage a trois explained….

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

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

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

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

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

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

Move over Blunkett, Alfie’s pulled!

Anyway, Merry Christmas from me and Kimberly…..

Today’s the day….

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

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

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



Outrageous discrimination…..



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

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

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

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




A joke for Christmas…..

I saw this on a message board today –

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hawkins: They broke the chalice from the palace?

Griselda: And replaced it with a flagon.

Hawkins: A flagon...?

Griselda: With the figure of a dragon.

Hawkins: A flagon with a dragon?

Griselda: Right.

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

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

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

Griselda: Just remember that.

On the first day......

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

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

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


Fame is the spur.....

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

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

A body swerve at the near post…

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

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

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

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

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

Or possibly a pugilist?
Alfie the KO.

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

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

Matadoring might be an option,
Alfie the ole!

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

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

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

Sex, Lies and Videotape……

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

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

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

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

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

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

Women can be very, very cruel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve got IBS – it’s official…..

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

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

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

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

I need to phone someone.

.

The numbers game…..

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

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

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

On 555, vote for 666

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



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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Update.....

Alfie had left the building for a few days.

Stuff, fluff, bluff and dandruff have all conspired to lay the OK low.
I've been completely blog free over the last week, I don't know why - I just didn't have any bloggin urges.

However, blog sap is rising - I can feel it coursing onwards and upwards.

Normal blogging will be resumed on Monday....... (Hopefully).

Thanks,
AtOK.

Living History….
Today, I’m off to Yorkie-world to see my ailing Dad. His name is Albert, but he is known to everyone as ‘Matty’ – which is short for ‘Matelot’ – another word for ‘Able Seaman’

My Dad comes from a seafaring family. His father, George served on the ‘Mauretania’ one of those sexy big Edwardian ocean going jobs that didn’t do a Titanic. When the ship was about to be decommissioned and eventually broken up, my Granddad, faithfully following the tradition of scally scousers robbed one of the nicely carved state room mahogany tables and plonked it in his front room. Apparently, you could hardly move around this carved leviathan – proudly residing in ‘the parlour’ for the favoured invited few to drool over….

Unfortunately, its demise was assured via an axe when hard times, cold weather and no coal conspired to seal its fate…..

My Granddad was a bit of a lad. He ran away from home aged 15, stowed away on a ship and ended up in South America…… Eventually he became a Gaucho on the Pampas….. How cool is that then - My Granddad, the South American Cowboy.
He then went up to the U.S. to work along the Eastern Seaboard and even found time to do a bit of acting on Broadway.

He found Communism, became a Marxist and a sailor and came back to Blighty to do some agitating. He became mates with George Orwell and other bohemian types of a left leaning persuasion. In his spare time he wrote plays under the pseudonym of ‘Matt Lowe’ – mostly about the degradations of the recession hit ‘30’s……

My Dad, joined the senior service before the war started – and saw action on the Atlantic & Russian Convoys – and in the relief of Malta. He was the Royal Navy Heavweight Boxing Champion – a man who was generally reckoned to be as hard as nails. He once beat up George Kelly and one of his henchmen to stop them slapping a couple of girls around in a city centre pub. Kelly was a nasty piece of work – a Liverpool gangster, eventually hung for the murder of two employees at the Cameo Cinema.

So that’s why I’m going over today to Dronfield - a rather drab suburb of Sheffield to see him. I’m taking with me a big pad of paper and a pen. I want him to write all the stuff he can remember about his early exploits and wartime experiences. It seems the appropriate thing to do today.

Election Reprise….

USA Presidential Elections…..
When one floating voter was asked last week just why he’d decided to put his cross next to George W Bush he replied "Well, you don’t change a horseman in the middle of an apocalypse"….

’Pies Prescott’…..
What a result. Prescott along with his rubbish ideas has been banished back to the Ministry of Meddling. to lick his wounds – and do a lot of comfort eating.

Alfie stayed up last Thursday night to witness the historical result. Just to see political heavyweight, Prezza at the press conference with a face like a smacked arse was a vision to behold.

It doesn’t take long does it?….
My kid got home from school yesterday and told me a playground joke currently doing the rounds …
Yasser Arafat has requested that someone buy him a number 8 Newcastle United shirt, shorts and socks…….. He wants to be buried in a Gazza Strip.

And the prize for most nauseating speech of the year goes to…..

Tony Blair. Who else but good ol’ Tone, our fundamentally flawed fundamentalist leader.
He won it last year, he’ll win it next.
He’s completely cornered the market in gutless, no guilt, holier than God, watery puppy-dogged-eyed, verbola.

To watch his watery eyed ‘tribute speech’ to the three fallen Black Watch soldiers was as consummate a piece of acting as I’ve ever seen - or heard.

The word spaces, the hand gestures, the tilted head, the furrowed brow, the anxious manipulation of his wedding ring in a fingered fandango of tortured angst was just the pits. The pits of insensitivity – and an affront to those three young lads, blown to pieces on a desert road in the middle of nowhere.

Blair, you should be bleeding well ashamed of yourself.
I believe you are a psychopath – you are mad, bad and dangerous to know.
You should be sectioned forever.

Pedometers, a walk on the wild side….

In a bid to keep the European fat mountain safely ensconced within his reinforced ’mid life crisis’ Levi’s. Alfie Corp has decided to invest in a few ‘pedometers’ and thus aid his single-minded efforts to be able to see his toes again without bending double. Yes, it's the start of the 'TOE-VIEW-2004' campaign..
(The 'WILLY-VIEW' campaign will have to wait until 2005....... or possibly 2006)

We actually bought them in early Summer – but it’s taken 4 months for us to get them out of the brown paper bag and onto our belts.

The leaflet recommends we walk 10,000 steps a day to ensure a healthy cardio vascular workout. Well, that doesn’t seem to be too difficult does it? I mean, how hard is that then – it’s only walking for God’s sake! And anyway, I reckon I’ll probably do around 15, 000 a day – just to ‘put something back’ into the column marked ‘sedentary bastard’… Yep, it must be said, the bit of Alfie’s body under the most duress has been his bum plateau. 8 hours a day of unrelenting bum-on-chair pressure just cannot be good for you can it?

But that’s all in the past, thanks to my pedometer – and last Monday morning was ‘p-day’.

8:00 am. Strap this little baby of super pedometric dynamics to my belt. Set the controls for the start of my run …. (Walk).

9:00 am. My first check on just how many steps I’ve done in the first hour. What do you reckon? 800…1,500, … 2,000? Unfortunately, I’ve put my pedometer on my belt, right under my relaxed stomach muscles. After much huffing and puffing, I manage to heave the living blob that is Alfie’s one-man tribute to the brewing industry, to one side and view the screen. It registers a bland, almost deceased 87 steps. That’s just under one and a half steps per minute. A slow, almost stationary start, I think.

I resolve to walk to the local Spar to get a paper - and bag a scintillating 240 steps. I know that, because I’ve counted them out – and I’ve counted them in…. Back in the office, warm, slightly sweating from the after glow of honest toil, I recover from my workout. I check with my ‘Pedo-Mate’… It’s only registered 150 steps for God’s sake. Obviously, there is a fault. Obviously, I’m not receiving my true step balance quota.
I road test.
Different types of walking.
‘Bouncy’ is good.
‘Swaggering’ is best. But I’m walking like a Liam Gallagher – without having access to his women, money or swearing vocabulary.
I swagger, virtually every step registers… sorted.

By 12 noon, in spite of my most earnest ‘walkaboutalot’ efforts, and suppressing the desire to smack any passing paparazzi, my tally is only up to 658….. Just 9,342 steps to go.

The rest of the day doesn’t really do it, by the time 6pm comes around, I’m 9,000 steps short.

It’s at times like these, inspiration tends to strike the moribund. I decide to do a ‘power-walk’ to ‘who knows where’ and get that steps total to a more impressive level…

8.30pm: Alfie starts ‘power-walking’

9.30pm: Alfie stops ‘power-walking’

9.31pm: Alfie buys his first, well deserved pint of Pendle Witch.

9.32pm: Alfie starts ‘power-drinking’

11.20pm: Alfie blags a lift home through his gift of ‘power-cadging’…….

Tally for day one – 6,500 steps and two strained thighs.
Walking is a lot harder than I thought it would be.

Vote, vote, vote!

Unless you’ve been holidaying on Saturn for the past 3 months, you’ll no doubt be aware that an incredibly important peoples vote is imminent.

A vote, that if it goes the wrong way will have far reaching ramifications for this Country – and the way it is perceived by the rest of the world.

Kerry or Bush? No, much more important than them.

I’m talking about the North East Regional Referendum – as concocted by John Prescott and his Ministry of the Absurd. If a vote ‘for’ the proposition is carried then the area from Darlington up to Berwick will become one big ‘Super County’ – and yet another talking shop for Politicians coming in at the ‘talent’ equivalent of the Beazer Homes Footy League, Division 2.

Cue expense accounts, cue gold plated pensions, cue life peerages….. Oh, and cue a brand new spanking Regional Assembly Building with regulation ‘thinking pods’, mermaids in Koi pools and Busby Berkeley Musicals staged every lunch hour for the entertainment of the one Regional Assembly Member that bothers to turn up.

Prescott has helpfully deemed it ‘OK’ that the good folk of the North East should pay for this pumped up Parish Council through their Community Charge. If this proposition is passed, these no power non-entities will only have control for about 3% of the total budget as already allocated to the North East through Central Government.

Celebrities, wheeled in to bolster the flagging and increasingly desperate Government ‘Yes’ Campaign previously known as ‘Geordies’ or ‘Maccams’ are now telling us that they’ve always been proud to call themselves ‘North Easterners’…… Well, ‘always’ since about a week ago….

Don’t get me wrong, I too want political reform in this Country. I see Westminster and its enormous amount of freeloaders as being less and less relevant to me. The only answer is to have an English Parliament – with at least the same levels of power as has the Scottish Parliament… Mind you, if that did happen, what do you think the Westminster crowd would do? Probably fill in even more expense forms…..

I’m fairly confident, the latest attempt to break up England into bite sized Euro bits is doomed to failure. I expect and fervently hope for a ‘NO’ vote – and that Prescott will be defeated and possibly sacked….
Why am I confident? The people of the North East are far too intelligent to be fooled by a Jag’-driving bloater.

Talking about intelligent electorates – did anyone see that depressing programme on Channel 4 last night, about the targeting of American voters by the two Presidential candidates and their clacks.

The watchwords were ‘simple messaging’ and ‘rubbishing’ by each camp. Because they are both after similarly thick and impressionable people the TV ads amount to nothing more that playground insults …. ‘In 1983, John Kerry farted in public – and blamed it on an old blind lady in a wheel chair with a kitten on her lap and a Bible in her hand.. What you have to ask yourself is 'Can you really trust this man to run the Country?"

"George W Bush is a cretinous asshole - period... "

To illustrate how cerebrally challenged these people were, our intrepid man from Blighty whipped out a world map, randomly stopped people on a city street and asked them were different Continents and Countries were…..

Well now I know, ‘Africa’ is now where Asia is. Afghanistan is where Russia used to be, the Middle East is in central Africa, ‘Eyerack’ is over by North Korea……. And Great Britain? Well, Great Britain is a mixture of blank stares and somewhere near Capetown, South Africa apparently…..
Our man didn't bother to ask them where the North East of England was......

Maybe the land of the free, should become the land of reading the geography book - and possibly realise that they are not the only people in this world.

You just couldn’t make it up….

Middle of the road...

God Almighty, first she's trying to get me to go and watch 'Starlight Express' .... and now I've found out Alfreda's been trying to win a competition currently running on a local radio station. If she wins, she wants me to accompany her on the big night.

First prize? 2 tickets to see Will Young in concert plus a couple of back stage passes.
I wonder if second prize is '4 tickets'?.......

'Alfie the lifelong Zep' /Floyd fan' is mortified - and is even now trying on suitable brown paper bags in a bid to keep cred' and anonymity intact if the unthinkable happens and she actually wins. Listening to Will Young singing 'schlop' is not his idea of a good night out - just a very, very bad one. He wants everyone to pray and pray that we do not win this prize and that it goes to someone more deserving. Possibly Cherie Blair or Vanessa Feltz for example....

Oh dear, oh dear, the Musical.

Alfreda has seen an advert for that mechanical stage musical, ‘Starlight Express’ in the local rag. It’s doing a run in Manchester. She wants me to go and see it with her.

Apparently, it’s an everyday story of how a tribe of trains, dressed as extras for a recycling ad’ take over a theatre to practice their roller skating skills - they also sing, plus lots and lots more singing. And then more singing still. Seems fair enough, singing trains. The plot’s a bit thin though – but that’s more than made up for by the singing.

We’ve been married for 24 years – so you’d think she’d know by now I’d rather rub me bare bum with a couple of hedgehogs named ‘Spikey’ and ‘Pointy’ than go and see a musical. I just find it difficult to do the suspension of belief bit…… Oh, and the crappy songs don’t help either.

I’ve only ever been to a few stage musicals in my whole life. ‘Alfie the New York Times Theee-ater Critic’ gives his in-depth verdict on two of the more well known ones he has been dragged along to …

The first musical I ever went to see was ‘Hair’- the musical. The reason I went to see it? Tits and Bum research.

Verdict – Too many songs and not enough tits and bums. And not enough lighting - so a fog of darkness negated any tits and bums that might have been on show. Alfie also fails to see the relevance of the big, wobbly ‘happening’ curtain at the end of the show. This especially obscured the ensemble of tits and bums encompassed therein.

Advice – If it’s ever on again, be sure to take one of those million candle power torches with you.

The last stage musical I’ve seen was ‘Grease’ at the Manchester Opera House and starred Shane Ritchie as fifties greasy-haired, duck’s arse Teddy boy, Danny Zucho.

Shane brilliantly portrays Zucho, the bad boy leader of the T-Birds gang, as a tortured cockney soul who can’t sing, can’t dance and can’t act.

Verdict - That night, Alfie’s theatrical pen and pad used up the entire year’s supply of words from the lexicon marked ‘Banal’, sub-section ‘crap’.

Advice - If Shane Ritchie ever gets another lead in a musical, avoid it like the plague. In fact, go and catch the plague, thus ensuring you are too ill to be tempted to go and see it.

Musicals on film aren’t much better are they? I mean ‘West Side Story’ – a modern New York gangland take on Romeo and Juliet was superb up to the point where the Sharks and Jets start doing combative ‘pas de deux’ down the main street. – About 30 seconds after the film started.

"When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way from your first cigarette to your last dying day"…… (Unless, of course you join ballet school).

You can almost hear the leader of the Sharks saying "Jeeez, dat tough guy from the Jets means business – don’t go near him, he pirouettes"….

Anyway, Alfreda will no doubt be going to see the everyday tale of railway engines at Manchester. I, on the other hand will be doing a night school class on ‘how to watch paint dry’…

Hmmmm, could be an idea there. ‘Watching Paint Dry – the Musical’…….. Hey, Lloyd-Webber, nick my idea, and I’ll nut yer, you ugly twat.

A Galaxy of Ghouls, a colostomy of soiled underwear……

All Souls Eve is rapidly approaching. Duck apple night, Halloween, "Give us a treat, or we’ll burn your house down" night …. call it what you want – it’s supposed to be the night when spirits get mischievous and the dead rise to have a laugh. Anyway, it got me thinking – my Mum and Dad’s old house, an unremarkable bog standard post war semi was stuffed to the brim with poltergeists, bogglin’ men, boggarts, and horrible creepy things lurking in dark corners of long forgotten cupboards.

The worst and most mischievous of all was the bony old hag that used to lie in wait for me on the upstairs landing. She wasn’t just there on Halloween night – she was there every night … Especially on dark, inky black winter ones. There she’d sit – waiting, on her bony haunches for the opportunity to shove her horrible bony wizened, warty old hand through the gaps between the banister spindles and ruffle your hair or grab your nuts as you’re walking upstairs. ‘Haggy Baggy Jabby Hob’ was a real evil bitch all right.

The only way to combat her? Stand at the bottom of the stairs, take a deep, deep breath. Focus. Get in the zone. 3-2-1-go, go, go!!!….Just got to get from bottom to top in three gigantic bounds, four steps at a time – and of course, keep your head real low, so even if ’Haggy Baggy Bitch’ did manage to get her arm out in time, she’d miss your tousled locks – and your jangly nuts.

She couldn’t touch you once you’d got to the top of the landing, obviously. She was absolutely helpless – and anyway, I was safely in the bog by then.

The return journey was no less traumatic – except that the downward journey was achieved in only 2 monster bounds…. With the occasional broken ankle at the bottom – courtesy of the unforgiving newel post.

But hey, at least it worked… she never did get me.

But wait, did I say she was by far the most evil? I got that wrong….
By far the most evil entity in our old house was the guy that looked like a cross between an ‘Archie Andrews’ ventriloquist dummy – and a 1950’s shop window mannequin – all slicked down hair, rouged cheeks, red shiny lips and gleaming white teeth. He hid in my built-in bedroom cupboard… in my bedroom ….the room that I slept in … at night …all on my own.

When I was very, very small, I had this God-awful dream. There I was just nodding off to sleep. All of a sudden, the door of the cupboard in the wall burst open and Waxy, Plastic Smiley, Smirking, Brylcream Mannequin Monster-Man stood there in all his moody, brooding malevolence. Slowly, he raised his waxy head and fixed me with his glassy eyes. Slowly, he raised his wooden hands and started to totter towards me. In the nick of time, I woke up, jumped up and slammed the cupboard door shut.

The big mistake….. The big mistake I made was to leave the cupboard door slightly ajar. As long as I made sure every night that the door was shut, Mannequin-Monster-Man couldn’t get out and do his worst….

But hey, at least it worked… he never did get me.

But wait, did I say he was by far the most evil? I got that wrong….

By far the most evil… by far the most evil were the terrifying pair of ‘Harpy-Hagged-Haggy-Hags’ that would occasionally be found chewing on my legs whilst I slumbered away in my bed.

I don’t know where they came from, or where they hid during the day. But now and again, I’d wake up to see 2 little dark shapes with little flappy wings gouging at my legs. Two little imps with their vicious little talons stabbing away for all they’re worth. Now that was scary.

Fortunately, I had a strategy to hand to outsmart those little devils ….. Head under the bed sheets obviously.

So why where there so many evil dudes in our post war semi? Much too much ‘white powder’ hitting the base of my brain generating obscene, hell hound images I reckon.

Sherbet Dabs have a lot to answer for.



Coming soon – my real and really strange meetings with ‘the other side’ (well, the ones I’ve met when I’ve have been sober).

The special relationship takes a battering….

Is it an equal partnership of 50-50 between Blighty and BurgerWorld?
Nah.
More like 98-2 in their favour, I think.
We kid ourselves don’t we that ‘they’ are as aware of ‘us’ as we are aware of ‘them’?…. But they’re most definitely not – I think most of them have never heard of us.

And if they have, don’t we all come from ‘London, England’?….
"Glasgow, London, England"…
"Great Britain, London, England"…
"God knows where, London, England"…..

I once introduced myself to a guy from Chicago, Illinois as coming from "Liverpool, Edinburgh, Lancashire, London, England"… He didn’t get the irony – just the bizarre address.

The special relationship is a somewhat one sided state of affairs, imagined by British politicians in the virtual world of self-delusion and self-importance. Unknown to U.S. Presidents – until they want something from us.

This was brought home to us last Friday night as we tried to order stuff over the virtual super highway. Virtually super impossible. My nephew is engaged to ‘April’ - a Southern Belle from Dallas, Texas. He’s over there teaching kids ‘n’ Moms how to play ‘Saacca’ – I think he actually does his keepy uppy on the grassy knoll…. but that’s another story. They are getting married over there in mid December – then coming over here with ‘Randy and Tammy’ (the in-laws) for a right good pissup just after Christmas.

Their wedding list is with Macy’s, the biggest retail store in the world – and the idea is, you log onto the site, access the wedding list, select the prezzy you want to buy – and pay for it be card. The gift is then wrapped was sparkly stuff and delivered to the apartment near the grassy knoll, Dallas, Texas. ….. Nimps.

Unfortunately, all the cheap prezzies had gone. No fondue sets, no toasters, no towels. We did, however notice that they had a ‘Playstation 2’ plus an assortment of games still up for grabs….. Some chance.

We settled on a mundane (and cheapish) set of pans. Simple and elegant, in a Soviet-Stalinist sort of way, form and function fused to provide the discerning pan user with years of happy panning…….. apparently.

We set about the ‘simple’ procedure to buy them via plastic.
Once, twice, three times we tried. Each time knocked back by the auto refuse message that sprung up every time we pressed ‘send’. Frustrated, we decided to ring Macy’s HQ, Noo Yawk.

I mean, how bloody hard can it be to order ‘The Breznev Range’ of pans - and send them to an apartment just by the grassy knoll in Dallas, Texas?

We rang. Someone called ‘Hubert’ answered the ‘phone.
Hubert in telesales gave us the spiel, how we were today, how he could help us, were we having a nice day, if we should find anything wrong or discourteous ……..

We interrupt the diatribe.

"We just want to buy some bloody panza!"

Hubert has our undivided attention. We have his virtual balls in our rapidly tightening virtual hand – and he knowses it alright.

We order – no problemo. Just the card details then.

Hubert asks which State we are calling from.

"Oh, we’re not calling from America. We’re calling from ‘Britain’…….. B-R-I-T-A-I-N ….. You know, the Country?"

Hubert didn’t know. He’d never heard of us. He’d barely heard of Europe.

Hubert’s entire orbit of consciousness started at Alabama and finished at Wyoming. Everywhere else was No-where’s-ville….
Frustrated and insulted, we, the entire OK nation broke off diplomatic relations with the U.S.A.- there and then.
We told Hubert where to stick his pan-handle. He confirmed it was in Texas.

The OK household are now buying the happy couple a nuptial edition of a Playstation 2 - plus games, bought from Blighty’s own Argos catalogue. Well - it’ll give Randy and Tammy something to do when they visit the apartment near the grassy knoll…..

And as for cooking food via ‘The Breznev Range of pans’? They’ll just have to buy TV meals instead…..

Pigs in muck….

Later today, MPs at Westminster will (reluctantly) publish their ‘expenses’. Filed under ‘Fantasy’ – sub-section ‘Cornucopia’, I reckon they’ll have a right old problem trying to persuade Jonny Voter that they are not screwing the system.

Never let it be said that Alfie the politician-hater is not objective and fair minded in his criticism of the mother of Parliaments and its incumbents. I’m sure, that 50 grand claim for Gold leaf Post-It notes is entirely valid…..

Ever searching for fountain of even handedness, Alfie the nosey sod has had a sneaky dip into the most creative work of fiction this year.

I didn’t have much time – so I obviously went to the top…. Under ‘B’ for ‘B’stard’ and ‘Blair’ (same thing really)..

‘Tony Blair’ – to the purchase of books –
‘You too walk can like a Texan’ £95
‘How to find out if you really are the second-coming’ £30
‘Blagging holidays from the rich, famous & gullible’ £145

To the purchase of Postal correspondence courses –
‘Making the most of your pregnant pauses’ £5,540
‘Sincerity – made easy’ (Advanced Course) £3,500
‘You too can fool all of the people all of the time’ £4,000

Pension contributions – Nil (no need to as job comes with index linked £110k p.a.)

Toupee Allowance – Pending

Smoke and Mirrors Allowance – Overspent by several billion

Plastic Surgery - £35,000 (injury caused by too much self satisfied smirking wore out facial muscles)

Lottery Syndicate expenditure – Nil (already won jackpot twice, in 1997 and 2001)

Bung, sorry 'Donation' – To one, Pope John Paul for the beautification of 'St Tony of Iraqia' – plus 10,000 ‘Hail Marys’- £15,000,000

Clothing Allowance – Tee-shirts with the moniker "Hello, I’m Tony Blair – and you really can trust me" - £3,400

Spouse Allowance – pending, one bed space @ home for the insane.

Personally, I’m wondering just how much Boris Johnson paid on e-Bay for the gross of grovelling apologies he’s been using like there’s no tomorrow…..

John Prescott – a suitable case for treatment….

The rather grandly named ‘East of England Regional Assembly’ has ever so diligently, rubber stamped the latest bid to festoon England in breeze block, tarmac and concrete.

This unelected, self basting, non representative QANGO; led by the nose, told what, when and how to do it by chunky-boy John Prescott and his footpads are poised to play the role of willing turkeys voting for Christmas. They’ve gone from ‘NIMBYs’ – to ‘FALLGUYs’ – and sold the present incumbents of the area right down the swanee in the process. Following Prescott’s lead and powers of persuasion, ("ere matey boy, get those 'ouses built or I'll chin yer") they’ve voted for 500,000 houses to be shoved up in and around the M11 corridor from Cambridge southwards.
Huge swathes of East Anglia are at risk.
Huge salaries for public servants are guaranteed.
Huge pensions funds for said public servants are as good as matured.
The huge ego of chunky-boy Prescott is mindlessly massaged.

The QANGO’s gormless leader, complete with '70's comb over, (and with Prescott’s hand up his jacksy) when interviewed last Friday morning waffled on about the usual suspects, "Key workers, Nurses, Teachers, cost effective housing, good for development……."

Then came the buzzword ‘coup de grace’, "Sustainable development this, sustainable development that, sustainable development the other"… Obviously, the rest of the Country is wallowing in unsustainable development, because they are not intent on changing the landscape from green and pleasant to grey and repellent.

Hertfordshire and Essex County Councils are not happy - you can hardly blame them can you? Hertfordshire, is currently the most overcrowded County in England – and despite their protestations about being able to take any more people have been told that they must take another 72,000 houses. Essex has been told they must take another 131,000 houses.

Hertfordshire council said in a statement that a shadow had fallen over the county.

A County spokesman said: "Decisions about the future of Hertfordshire are being made by an unelected body that does not properly represent the people of Hertfordshire." He said powers for strategic planning had been taken away from the county councils and given to a regional body which was pushing them through at the behest of the government."

This seems to me the perfect illustration of how a 'Regional Government' fashioned from the nightmare imagination of John Prescott would work. Manipulated by Central Government to do their bidding - they'll give 'muppetry' a whole new meaning. They'll also ride roughshod over any local considerations - look at Hertfordshire! It is also worth noting that this mendacious Government has set up all over England, secret little Regional Assemblies in waiting. Full of busy bodies, full of expense accounts, full of Kermits with hands up their collective backsides.... North East of England take note - and vote 'No' in your forthcoming referendum.

We at Alfie HQ give the people of East Anglia our unstinting support in their fight against this latest short-sighted project. Surely, the planting of the chunky-boy Prescott’s Gulag extravaganza in one of the most scenic and productive areas of the Country is not right. All it will do is pour more petrol onto an already white-hot South Eastern economy – whilst housing stock in the rest of the Country crumbles to dust.

We at Alfie HQ believe this Government is the most centralist ever. Our hearts bleed as myopia becomes the mantra of chunky-boy and his footpads – and my Country gets trashed again, on the pyre of Prescott and the Ministry of the absurd.

Note to the Project Manager: You cannot just build 500,000 new houses without building new everything else. That’ll include schools, hospitals, prisons, factories, business parks, roads, railways, sewerage farms, reservoirs, etc. That’ll then mean in 20 years time, there’ll be another acute housing shortage in the area ….. Time to get the trowel out again then?

Depressed, we all surely should be.

Coming soon to a bookshop near you……

I was listening to the radio the other day. The interviewer was talking to a bloke who was about to publish 'The Book of Sporting Put-Downs’…. Basically, it's the art of insult - out in the sporting arena. The usual suspects are all there - masters of the putdown quoted within the book include Ali, Brian Clough and Roy Keene.

The interviewer read out a few memorable examples - and then his favourite from the book –
Ferocious Aussie fast bowler, Glenn McGrath had just clean bowled a hapless Zimbabwean batsman. His rather rotund, non athletic replacement ambled out to the wicket.

McGrath anxious to unsettle the new batsman, glowered at him and hissed "Hey tubby, why are you so f***ing fat?"

The chubby Zimbabwean batsman thought a bit, then replied "Because every time I shag your wife, she gives me a biscuit"…

Well, it made me laugh…..

Harvest Festival …….

Hands up all those people that took a tin of beans with them to their school harvest festival….
Hands up all those people that took the beans wrapper off and replaced it with another wrapper from a posh tin of salmon….

I didn’t like Harvest Festival much. My Mum never gave me anything nice to give – preferring to say that we needed food more than ‘them’. More than who, I wondered?

One day, I asked her.

"Mum, where does all the food that we give at Harvest Festival go to?"

"It goes to the poor people in the slums, the old people in hospitals and the tramps who don’t have anything to live in other than a cardboard box……
"That’s why we give them ‘beans’ – good, wholesome food in a handy tin ….. as long as those poor people have a tin opener, that is"….

I don’t think my Mum very much liked giving food away to complete strangers at all really.

My most feeble Harvest Festival gift was a few apples harvested from our manky back garden tree and a nearly unopened jar of raspberry jam. My Mum assured me they’d be ‘fine’….. All the other rich kids brought hampers as almost supplied by Fortnum and Mason’s. I felt like a right 'chav' taking my flimsy, bulimic effort up to ‘Skip’ and his troop of senior Scouters. Well I would have – if I’d known what a chav was then….

But I do now. I was fortunate to be listening to Simon Mayo on FiveLive when the 2 founders of a cult web site I’ve never heard of were being interviewed. These bods were so concerned about their safety they were using assumed names – due to the numerous death threats their contentious web site had provoked.

Intrigued, I had a quick look at the totally non contentiously titled www.chavscum.co.uk and take in some ‘cultism’…. Wall to wall Burberry, ‘Chav’ of the month and lots of other chav types, such as Neds, Townies, Kevs, Charvers, Steeks, Spides, Bazzas, Yarcos, Ratboys and Kappa Slappers. It’s clearly ‘chavery’ at its worst.

All things bright and beautiful…..not.



Blog Shares

I’ve had a quick look on the Blog Share Index to see just how incredibly vibrant, bullish and gilt edged ‘Alfie Corp’ blog stock is performing. Let’s just say I’m quietly confident, in a smug bastard, red braces, pink business newspaper kind of way.

Bloody hell – and bollocks in a Wall Street crash sort of way. It’s a cliff, it’s a vertical drop, it’s an abyss – stopped only by the bottom horizontal axis of the graph. It’s like Barings after Leeson and Ratners after Gerald, rolled into one almighty void.

It’s clear to see, Alfie Corp is in the departure lounge.

If I were you, I’d keep your pensions and endowment mortgages well away……



Pension Dodge - idea number 2

Alfie has been thinking ever so laterally lately - and has come up with a cast iron cure for the British pension crisis. All you do is make everyone in the Country a Westminster MP - all 60 million of us. That way, as soon as we shoe horn ourselves through the door, we'll all automatically qualify for an index linked,non contributionary pension.... plus to die for travel allowances and exclusive membership of the Commons overseas travel club. You know the sort of thing I mean? Trips undertaken by MPs to investigate injustice around the world. Some of the biggest problem areas have, in the past included such appallingly awful locations as Barbados, The Seychelles, Acapulco and Las Vegas.......

Back to Westminster. Admittedly, it'll be a bit of a crush getting into the lobby to vote - but I reckon that's a small price to pay - and maybe, just maybe I'll be able to rub shoulders with his Royal Blairyness......

Democracy rocks, ok…..

That guardian of democracy, the freedom loving Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is having its first-ever nationwide elections next year. Admittedly, they are not elections to vote in a Prime Minister or a President – they’re just municipal type council jobs …. But hey, it’s a start, isn’t it?

Whooppee do! Democracy is sort of alive and well in the world’s biggest penninsula then?

Well, it is if you are a man.
If you are a man in Saudi, you are wise, informed, well balanced…. and entitled to vote.

And what about the laydees in Saudi?
They’re much too busy with cooking, looking after the kids, looking after their man and doing even more cooking to have time to vote……

So the Saudi Government have thoughtfully excluded them from their role in the electoral roll. Every single one of them.

Where’s Emily Pankhurst when you need her?





Alzheimer’s rules, ko…..

‘Alfie, the brain of a planet’ gave all the good folk down at the ‘Blood Tub’ Public House on Monday a right good laugh.

Our all stars quiz team, going under the tribute moniker of ‘Ken Dodd’s Dad’s Dog’s Dead’ truly spanked the opposition to a bloody pulp. We’d have got every single question right …. Except for the inspirational answer from yours truly.

Question: Which British cyclist won Olympic gold, silver and bronze medals at Athens?

Answer: "Bradley Walsh"

Reaction: Uproarious laughter…

"Aye up, I didn’t know the cockney Jack the Lad comedy entertainer and recent Coronation Street rag trade import was a bi-cycool-ist"…..

You know, I’m bloody sure I thought ‘Bradley Wiggins’ – it just came out ‘Bradley Walsh’….




Pension Plans…..

Alfie’s pension portfolio is currently looking thinner than Tony Blair’s little booklet of Iraqi weapons of mass destruction….. and faced with the March of time and the November of crusty old age, Alfie has decided to do something about it.

1) Stand for Parliament.
2) Become biggest Party.
3) Become Leader – and therefore Prime Minister.
4) Move into number 10 on the Thursday.
5) Resign on the Friday - telling my shocked Party that I'm just too weary to carry on.
6) Collect free, index linked Prime Minister’s perk £100k per year pension on Saturday.
7) Book ticket to Tahiti on Sunday.

Fog on the mind…..

Former brilliant footballer and friend of ‘five bellies’, Paul Gascoine wants to be taken more seriously.

He’s left fat ‘n’ jovial pal Danny Baker and sad ‘n’ ginger pal Chris Evans standing at the bar of life, waiting for last orders.

Paul’s gone. He wants to do more cerebral things with his post-footy career. Elocution lessons are being taken, with a view to break into Planet Punditry on the telly - and he is half way through his football coaching badges. There is even talk of him starting the odd ghosted footy column in a national newspaper.

There’s a problem though. Paul’s got baggage. Fifteen years of boozing, birding, wife beating, and playing crap practical jokes means Paul reckons no one will take him seriously in his new career move.

Paul’s answer is to change his first name via deed poll for the princely sum of just a tad under thirty quid. He reckons something like ‘Brad’, 'Shane' or ‘Jonny Gascoine’ will give him a really seriously mature profile. But he wants much more than that. When some adoring member of the public utters his new name, he wants them to think "God, this guy really knows his stuff – he’s a brain of a planet bloody genius"…..

Paul’s bound to be disappointed though. Someone else has already got ‘Bamber’……

Quaint Customs…....

The Alfie crew are thinking of invading France in December. The alignment of Christmas, New Year and a big, big wedding means that severe strain is going to be put on the stitching of Gordon Brown’s pockets (with all the extra metal he’ll be collecting) – unless I can find an alternative source.

We are the most ripped off Country in the E.U. – And especially in the hazy world of alcohol. In France, the duty on a typical bottle of wine is one and half pence. In this Country it’s £1.55 – around 100 times more.

So, a day trip to a Calais hyper-market seems to be the order of the day – and thereby take advantage of the much trumpeted free market economy that stretches from Western Ireland to the Polish/Russian border.

There’s just one, slight problem. It’s the ‘declaration boys’..

The peaked capped, rubber gloved, KY jelly-toting Uber-Nazis residing in little huts at Dover. HM Customs are on a mission.

On a mission to stop the ‘smuggling’ of fags and booze into Blighty – and everyone is suspected. Just the other day, they nicked an 82 year old man, confiscated his car and poured the booze down the grid.

You can just imagine the conversation between the two.

Old geezer "What’s the problem, officer?"

Nazi "I don’t believe these 6 bottles of Ruby Wine are for your own use Sir – you’ll be dead before you can drink them all. So I have no alternative but to conclude that you are a dangerous booze-crooze smuggla. So spread 'em, matey boy - you're nicked "

When we were little, we used to play a game called ‘Smugglers’. Basically, one of you had the ‘contraband’ hidden about your person – the idea was you and your mates had to saunter past another group of kids who were trying, by skills of deduction (and bullying) to find ‘the guilty one’… It was here, on the fields of burnt out cars and cast aside mattresses that I honed my ‘little boy lost as Michael Owen’ look.

I’m as innocent as the driven snow, obviously. But for my inaugural Booze Cruise sortie, I’ll need some essential tools of the trade.

White Van with dodgy back tyre - check
Lilac shell suit with gathered, elasticated cuffs - check
Bling-Bling bog-chain goldish necklace - check
Staffordshire Bull Terrier called ‘Tyson’ - check
Sovereign Gold Rings – assorted - check

Right, that’s it – I’m good and ready to welcome the world of innocence, free trade ….. and meeting several thousand bottles of Asti Spumanti…..

Question: Just how do you get ‘prostate’ and ‘prostrate’ to make sense in the same sentence?

Hmmmm, a bit of a tough one that. But after watching John Pilger’s hour long report last night on ITV, I reckon I can concoct a sentence with the two words in and make sense of it.

I haven’t really felt very proud of being British lately. The naïve values I was raised on – and passed down to my kids, seem less and less relevant in a world of connivance, double dealings, double crossings and double entendres.

Last nights show however, plumbed the depths - I was absolutely ashamed of being British. Pilger is, I know traditionally anti British in his reportage, but as last nights programme unfolded, I sat, dumbfounded as successive HM Governments connived to keep the loyal British Subjects of The Chagos Archipelago in the slums they have been condemned to.

Up to last night, I’d never heard of ‘The Chagos Archipelago’ – a beautiful, British owned pearl string of tropical islands, cloaked in the azure blue Indian Ocean. I had, however heard of its principle island, Diego Garcia. I knew it was now a static U.S. aircraft carrier, handy for kicking ‘aayrab ass in the mid east’ via B-52s, the carpet-bombing weapon of choice. I also remember watching a black and white newsreel in the ‘60’s. That old Government mouthpiece and part time gong holder in the original ‘Take Your Pick’ – Bob Danvers Walker was waxing lyrical.

The reel showed lots of smiling people boarding boats for "a new life in the island paradise of Mauritius". Cue wobbly patriotic music, fade out to the Union Flag fluttering away……. By God, it’s great to be British, people round the world really do love us, don’t they?

So I knew these people had been displaced, evicted from the Archipelago. But in my naivety, I thought they had willingly gone for the greater good – and been properly recompensed. That was then – and over the years, it dawned on me that they had basically been kicked out – and that it was a real injustice.

Just how much of an injustice was made plain last night. The good people of The Chagos Archipelago are residing in slumsville – in downtown Mauritius (well, at least those that are still alive are). They’ve been there for 40 years in squalor, in sewerage, in perpetuity if HM Government has anything to do with it.

In the year 2000, in the high court, the Islanders finally got a verdict that Harold Wilson’s Government – and all subsequent Governments have acted illegally in keeping them off their own property. The Islanders and their lawyers expected the then Foreign Secretary Robin Cooke and his much trumpeted ‘Ethical Foreign Policy’ to kick in – and kick out the U.S. Navy and Airforce, the KFC franchise and all the other accoutrements of Uncle Sam’s war machine. The Islanders started to pack their bags, they were going home!

Well no, not really. Not at all – ever. Because the USA are our mates. Because the USA are a staunch ally in the fight against whatever they tell us. Because they’ve signed a bit of paper called a ‘lease’ for the islands, Robin and his ethics decided the islanders could not go back. The reason they are now being refused access is because the islands are just too dangerous, Global warming is making the sea rise, there is lots and lots of sand on the beaches – and it could get in their sandwiches. The Islands also have loads of coconut trees, full to the brim with deadly coconuts – mix that with gravity, and it’s a recipe for disaster.

Far better, concluded our ethical Government to let the Yanks (all 5,000 of them) live a life of Riley on a piece of coral they call ‘Paradise Island’.

Far better, concluded our ethical Government to let the displaced Islanders rot in the corrugated shacks in the backside of Mauritius…..

Back to the challenge of the sentence that started this post….
"I reckon, that when the United States of America come calling, we immediately fall prostrate to the ground and try to brown nose so much, we often get way beyond the prostate".

Decisions, decisions……

Someone has just given me a DVD.

It’s a plain disc – in a plain plastic jewel case and it looks dead, dead dodgy. When he gave it me, he nudged me in the ribs, winked at me and whispered "Ere, have a look at this. Ceeeelebs being naughty"…...

"What?"

"Ceeeelebs, you know, doing things"

Penny drops, blinkers off, lights are on, uptake goes from ‘slow’ to ‘fast’….
"Ohhhh, things"

He then rattled through the performers he reckoned are on the disc…..a former star of ‘Baywatch’ and her former hubby, a hugely inflated ‘modull’, some Americans he didn’t have a clue who they were "But boy, they were fit" ….. and a former presenter of a colourful children’s TV show, his ambitious laydee and her sexy female friend.

"And you wanna see what those three get up to – deesgustin’!
I mean, don’t they have any deecorum at all?"

I confessed to not knowing about their decorum quota.

"I mean, that bloke from the kids programme, he’s got the camera, you can’t really see him, and anyway, his direction’s crap and the camera’s wobbling all over the place – hardly surprising really, judging by what the two women are doing"…..

Without waiting, he shoved it on the desk and went.

Well I would normally take a look – coz I am a big, big fan of ‘celebrity’……. But ‘Bargain Hunt’ was on the telly – and I really do need a new coaster for my cup of tea…. Honest.



I never knew it was contagious….

Alfreda’s Godmother is a real blue rinse pillar of the community. She’s slightly to the right of Attilla the Hun and Ghengis Khan in her politics.

In her ‘70’s, she’s a retired Head teacher of a large Grammar School and a former Magistrate/Justice of the Peace. Unfortunately, she lost her husband a couple of years ago and is now quite lonely.

About four months ago, she struck up a friendship with a couple in their mid forties. Two months later, the wife rang her up. She was in floods of tears. Her husband Gerald has left her to live with another man. My wife’s Godmother went round to offer support to Gerald’s distressed wife.

A couple of weeks later, whilst visiting, she relayed the episode with Gerald and his new man friend to my wife….

"Honestly, it’s such a shame, Gerald was such a normal man – and then he caught it"

"Caught what?"

"Gayness"

"You can’t catch ‘Gayness’ – it’s something that’s there all the time, or it isn’t. You don’t just catch the ‘gay’ germ - there's no such thing as a gay germ"

"Oh yes there is – and Gerald’s definitely caught it – maybe from toilet seats, because he was fine only a few weeks ago"….

Tony, I didn’t know you cared…..

I got a touchy-feely email communiqué from the Rev’s disciples – ‘dark arts division’ at Labour Party HQ the other day. It asked me to help them make a better life for hard working families…. Looking at the Conference this week, it was easy to see that the Government front bench have had the new strap battered into them. They were shoving it in at every opportunity…

Hmmm. ‘Help us make a better life for hardworking families’ – that’ll be next year’s election mantra, then. Obviously, the New Labour spinneratti reckon this is a real winner – it’s cuddly, it’s two point four and it’s all-inclusive – (as long as you belong to a family?)…

You can just picture the scene in Labour HQ ‘think-tank corp’. Lots of middle aged men with balding pates, pony tails and open toed sandals: sucking pencils, mints and stomachs (in)….

Barry, the team leader outlines the requirement "Listen up people – let’s don the collective cerebral cap and think!. We need a strap for next year’s Gen’ Elec’…

"Tony wants something to take the Electorate’s mind off"….

"The War?" blurted Simon

"Don’t mention the bloody War! NewLab Directive 23769/d clearly states that ‘The War’ should never be mentioned unless accompanied by a clearly resolute, four-square attitude, a steely resolve, a change of underwear and a double set of crossed fingers"

"Anyway, back to the brief
It’s got to be snappy,
It’s got to push the right buttons,
It’s got to be aspirational,
It’s got to mean something to John & Joan Average - and their family,
It’s got to get them back on side – let them know we care
In short, It’s got to be a sure fire winnerooney!"

"So let’s think!"

"Hmmmm"

"Uhhhhhhh"

"I’ve got it" screams Jeremy.

"Back to basics!"….

Where's the sick bag when you need one?

Just finished watching the Very Rev' St Tony of Blairyness giving his speech at Brighton - and now I've got my head down the toilet. Can someone please pull the chain. P.S. Tone - you are not allowed to invade another Country on the excuse of regime change - it's against the law, even for saints.


Flier, flier, Pendolino’s on fire……

"Attention, attention, the Virgin Galactic flight to space, the Universe and everywhere is about to depart from gate number 6. Please make sure your tribble pets are all safely stowed. Your Captain is Dan Tiberius Slog ….. have a good trip"…..

So how brill is that then? Yesterday, Sir Richard Branston announced plans to start a new service for the discerning traveller. Sir Dick’s going ‘Galactic’ – straight into space (and back again, hopefully!) – and all for the princely sum of 115 grand per head.

Form a queue?…Hmmm, I don’t know really – seems a bit steep. But it’s still cheaper than a cup of steaming hot Virgin Rail tea…..

As it happened, on the same day, Branston’s brand new supa dupa sexy train service started. The sexy new tilting ‘Pendolino Train’, with sexy new go faster whizz lines down the side is intended to make the journey down the west coast more comfier, more sexier, more quickly-er for the hard pressed, pissed off, British commuter….. I don’t know whether Branston has thought of a sexy new word for the sexy new train service…. ‘Reliable’ would be a good one.

Unfortunately it isn’t. Whilst Richard Branston was playing with scale models of his Virgin spaceship in front of the worlds press. – and with the timing that comedy writers can only dream of. The first train out of Glasgow – bound for London and intending to make the journey in the blink of an eye lasted until Carlisle – some 300 miles short of the intended target. "Sticky brake causing a bit of friction and ‘wheel flattening" – another couple of feeble excuses pulled from the ‘lexicon of utter bollocks’ by the most overworked employee in the entire Virgin organisation, The Director, Bullshit Division.

That’s Pendolinos for you, designed by Italians, built by Italians, bought by Plutocrats, driven by British Train Drivers, until they break down, sold to the Chinese as scrap….

So there’s the choice, the 09:15 from Glasgow to London (eventually) or the 07:30 to space ….. (and oblivion?)…

I bet, even now The Virgin Director – Bullshit Department is concocting some brand new excuses for Virgin Galactic failures of service…..
"We are sorry but the 07:10 Virgin Galactic to space exploded on the runway. This was due to a virulent plague of killer Tribbles eating through the wiring and vapourising the dillithium crystals"…

By way of recompense please accept a free can of Virgin GalactiCola with our compliments"…..

It’s one thing to be dumped on a wet and windy platform in Carlisle – it’s quite another to be stranded just left of Alpha Centauri due to an unforeseen gust from the wrong kind of cosmic wind…

You'll obviously miss that very important appointment by several hundred light years, but its no use swearing your head off, effing and blinding won’t make the relief spaceship arrive any quicker……..

After all, in space no one can hear you blaspheme….

Dan, Dan the p.c. man……


Manly Dan, before the final make over made him into a big girl’s blouse.

Desperate Dan, the rootenest, tootenest, hombre this side of the Mason-Dixon line has had a makeover.

Dan, the chunky cowboy from the comic pages of The Dandy is no longer what he once was. The comic has updated him - so he now fits the P.C. matrix, as defined by the Ministry of Political Correctiveness. Gone is the monster barrel chest – Dan’s body is now a temple. Gone is his pair of fine, ‘fancy Dan’ ‘spurs – Dan doesn’t ride horses anymore, he cycles. Gone is his pearl handled six shooter pistol – it’s been replaced by a little belt bag. That way his handy multi-tool, a bit of string and his tree identification booklet are all safely stowed.

I bet he also doesn’t shave with his trusty blow torch anymore. Probably opted for something girly like a Gillette disposable – as advertised by David Beckam?…. Dan still lives in Cactusville – but I bet it’s now twinned with ‘Newmansville’ - P.C. State. I don’t think Dan eats the mighty coronary-inducing ‘Cow Pie’ anymore. Aunt Aggie probably does him a light Rocket salad with garnish…

Dan’s found his feminine side all right. He’s gone all caring and considerate. Indians are no longer ‘varmints’ – but are displaced Native Americans. Criminals are no longer ‘desperados’ – but are misunderstood men, the product of broken homes who have never been given a chance…

Let’s face it, Dan’s just not ‘desperate’ any more. Alfie the ‘Dandy’ reader has made a few suggestions for a new strip title to reflect his new lifestyle..
Devoted Dan,
Decaff’ Dan,
Duncausinghavoc Dan,
Dan, Dan the considerate man,
Dan, Dan the really big, girly man….

Another Alfie hero goes West…..

How very brave….

Last week, some toffs on a mission blagged their way into the mother of Parliaments. Smartly dressed in their colour co-ordinated, key message, correctly syntaxed tee shirts, casual country slacks by Armani and stout estate boots, they certainly looked the part of a pressure group that meant business – in a very amateurish sort of way.

The blue-blood bunch launched into a veritable tirade of posh verbal abuse at the sparsely populated Government benches. "Gadzooks, bagger orf, you Bolshevik bounder oiks"….
Cue outrage, cue hysteria, cue foaming machinations from the great Leader of the House – Peter (pass me the sun tan oil) Hain.

"We cannot have our safety in the House compromised – MPs must be protected by a modern, professional cadre of hand picked security experts – and not by the ‘men in tights’. After all, these people could have been suicide terrorists with bombs" Ranted Peter.

Well they weren’t terrorists, just a bit of posh flotsam from the gentry. Rank amateurs from the right side of the tracks – armed with nothing more than double-barrelled names and a full set of silver spoons.

Hain and his quivering band of baying henchmen were an absolute cowardly disgrace. Hysterical in the extreme, they showed their true colours – mostly yellow, yellow and..... yellow….

Contrast that with the cool, forthright statement emanating from the Foreign Office yesterday. Basically, it concerned the kidnap of British civilian, Mr Kenneth Bigley in Iraq – and the subsequent threat to murder him in cold blood – and in an unspeakably barbaric way.

Briefly, the statement read that the Foreign Office were very sorry that Mr Bigley was under threat of death in Iraq. They were doing everything they could, through intermediaries, but HM Government will not negotiate with terrorists – and will never accede to blackmail.

Not strictly true there then?
The 20th Century is littered with discreet meetings and agreements between HMG and outlawed organisations in various Countries all over the World. This culminated in the negotiations with terrorist groups of all persuasion in Northern Ireland – and the subsequent ‘Good Friday Agreement’.

I just wonder how four square the Government machine would be if the Toff Brigade that invaded the Commons had have been terrorists. Just how brave would St Tony be if it was Peter Hain and other Cabinet colleagues with knives held to their throats.

Somehow, I think that forthright, ‘no dealing with terrorist’ attitudes would be chucked straight out of the window faster than you could say ‘We do deal with terrorists – but only in special cases that involve Peter Hain’…..

Belle de Jour….. brown de bread….

Belle's le jacked it in - in a 'Belle-end' kind of way.
Belle de Jour is now Belle no more.

Belle, awarded best blog last year

- by some clique de Guardian, is finally closing her blog pages - and her legs, to embark on all manner of marketing enterprises. Her first book is due out in January - and there's talk of a T.V. prog, no doubt followed by a range of lingerie, sex toys, 'how to' videos and a couple of syndicated guest problem page features in some national mags….

Dear Belle,
I'm a bit worried, I've fallen in love with my 48 year old, PVC leather clad mistress. Her name is Gladys - and she's gorgeous, in a rough and ready, bag o' spanners kind of way.

Can you please give me some advice - coz it really, really hurts. Because I am a famous footy player I've got to be careful about my identity. I've changed my name - so my fiancée doesn't suss out it's me.

Thanking you in anticipation,
Regards,
Dwain Mooney.

But is Belle a 20 something babe or a 40 something baldy?
Was 'she' lying on her back - or just lying through 'his' teeth?

I guess we'll never know…..

Yatesy's not happy....

Despite living miles away in 'The Artist previously known as Prince's home town of Minneapolis, Andy's dander is up. The reason? The staggering comment this week from brewery boot boys, Interbrew (or more accurately, 'brewery brand asset strippers') that they are about to 'rationalise' their UK brewing operation.....

Interbrew(or 'Bastards' for short) want to close the Boddingtons Strangeways Brewery in Manchester. Andy wants to get a boycott going of all Interbrew's products - check his post out.

Boycott Interbrew

Even now,I'm chucking the Stella down the bog....

Windy Fillers …..

Bloody typical innit?
You wait ages for a hurricane….
Then 4 turn up one after the other.


Hurricane Names….

Boy, Girl, Boy, Girl.
‘Ivan’ has hit the coast and ‘Jean’ is brewing up nicely in the special Hurricane growing greenhouse off South America.

I reckon that calling hurricanes fluffy, cuddly names – sort of gives them a bit of a benign cloak of breeziness. What you need are names that will truly convey the terrible power of nature at its most terribly powerful.

Alfie the Weathergirl has thought up a few more realistic names that may offer yer actual Floridian a truer perspective of the impending tempest …..

If they still want to stick with peoples names….
Hurricane Hitler.
Hurricane Barbara Cartland.
Hurricane Thatcher.
Hurricane Beelzebub…
And the scariest…..
Hurricane Higgins.

General themes …..
Hurricane Apocalypse – soon.
Hurricane don’t bother planning for the weekend – there isn’t one.
Hurricane big blow job.

Sponsored storms…
Hurricane Beanz Meanz Bloody Windy.
Hurricane B & Q (you’ll need us after it’s been through).
Hurricane Stormy Weather (by Ella Fitzgerald – a compilation of 24 classic tracks on this stunning C.D.)….


Battening down the hatches….

Every time a hurricane is about to hit some unfortunate community, an enterprising local carpenter breaks out the 1 inch screws & quarter inch marine ply to cover the windows of clapperboard built wooden houses. Thus protecting them from 150 mile an hour winds carrying all manner of heavy metal detritus and the odd flying cow …..

That’ll do it then.

Toffs shock – they’re all oiks!

I don’t reckon that the Burberry clad renta-toff crowd in Parliament Square yesterday were posh bods at all. Much more likely to be trouble makers, vagabonds and ne’r do wells from city council estates….

And here’s the proof!



Note: If they were Toffs – then they would be bleeding blue blood, obviously. All I saw was common as muck red stuff, which is very, very vulgar.

To quote Oscar Wilde(ish) "Red is a common colour, used by Bolsheviks, Bounders, Knaves - and Manchester United fans"

Plastic Surgery ……. LIVE!

I did something last night I’ve very rarely done in my life. Something, I’m quite, quite ashamed of.
It was just a bit of weakness, - after all, I’m just a weak willed, easily led, man.
I haven’t been well you see…..it was a fit of madness, or something?

Yes, I must confess, I tuned into Channel 5. Not for long, obviously. Too much exposure could addle the brain. No, I just took a quick look to sample the cerebral delight of the night.

‘Plastic Surgery – LIVE’ was on, hosted by heavyweight Diva, Vanessa Feltz and some smartly dressed, gobby Yank – the expert in all things ‘plastic’.

They were talking about ‘penis enhancement’ and ‘penis normalisation’….. Roll V.T. sequence – Instantly, a picture flashed up behind them. Some blokes nob – with a 90 degree, right angle bend in it. I put my half-eaten scone back on the plate.

"Next we are going to meet ‘Darren", Vanessa bubbled.

Darren’s – a sad, skinny, paler shade of white ‘mid twentyish something’ who had just had some ‘Buttock Implants’ levered into his previously boney arse. Darren smiled, weakly…… Roll V.T. sequence – of Darren’s bum getting the up close and personal buttock leverage treatment. Some Doctor, recently recruited from ‘Kwik-Fit’ is forcing the finely honed implants into Darren’s arse using a set of chromium plated tyre levers (‘Arse-flangers’ – per set, a price of $5,500)

"How do you feel, Darren?"

"Really, really great" he said, between the tears….

The gobby Yank started to plax lyrical. He trumpeted away, about the hottest things going on in the field of creative plastic in L.A.

"Yoweee yup and a hot diggerdy, ‘Anal Bleaching’ and ‘Vaginal Tightening’ are the ‘must have done’ procedures for the foxiest laydees, on the other side of the pond"

I gave the scone to the dog.

"What’s ‘Anal Bleaching?" I asked Alfreda.

As if by magic – and to spare Alfreda’s blushes - because I bet she didn't know, Gobby Yank Junior and Van’ the Man filled in the cracks of my knowledge.

They started talking about ‘Anal Bleaching’…. Roll V.T. sequence – a view of some young woman’s backside and crackside being liberally douched in bleach in a frothy, bleachy sort of way, with a paint brush (anal bleach applicator, price $800) and what looked like a bottle of ‘Domestos’ (special anal bleaching mixture, price $2,500 per litre).

Vanessa, a good enough reason for not having plastic surgery, looked gobsmacked.

The gobby Yank started on ‘Vaginal Tightening’…. Roll V.T. sequence. Another young woman, legs akimbo was having a little bit of tightening done to her front bottom.

The dog left the scone and wandered off.

I turned over. Suddenly, ‘Most Haunted – the bits we couldn’t include in the first showing coz they were too boring’ looked really, really interesting……..

Pretty vacant…..

Been a little bit bland, a little bit grey…..a little bit neutral all last week. Creative juicery has been running on empty in Alfie’s vacant cranium as he struggled to land another client to the ever growing(ish) OK portfolio.

I’ve been staring at a blank screen for most of that time, trying to write a stunning report on how to make the workforce of a leading food manufacturer more…… ‘enthusiastic’.

Enthusiastic about working harder, working smarter, being more considerate…… I’ve got to try and persuade yer average cynical, British worker to bin the habits of a lifetime and start to think ‘Japanese’.

Not much of a problem brief there then?

I reckon turning base metal into Gold, Emile Heskey into a skilful professional footballer and persuading Tony Blair that he is not God Almighty after all, would be a hell of a lot easier…. But maybe not.

The work’s worth a hell of a lot of cash – and we’re basically being promised a 2 year contract. It could be ‘clover fields united', 'kerrrching city' and ‘I’ll have that Merc’ – but in black, nirvana’, if we get it right……. (some hope).

And then there’s the blog……

‘Vacancy’ has spread. I couldn’t think of anything to write about all last week. I was only at home to Mr Void.
All I could think about was slogans and ideas for my ‘Considerate Worker’ campaign.

‘Hey workers, be more considerate – or we’ll squash your bollocks between 2 house bricks’

That might work, maybe…..

‘Hey workers, how about working a bit smarter, you thick twats’…..

Pithy became pitiful. ‘Words’ and ‘thoughts’ became ‘non’ and ‘existent’. I’d got rampant ‘Blog-block’ to go with ‘I can’t think of any idea whatsoever to land all that lovely money’ block.

I’m sure inspiration will creep up behind me and slap me right in the face with a wet, freshly gutted haddock, real soon….

Hey workers, start producing more – or we’ll get the Blowtorch, Pliers and the Nipple Clamps out.…..


Talking about Nipple Clamps…..

Some git owes 'AlfieCorp' 20 grand – and we can’t get it. Cash flow is becoming a bit of an elastic concept - in a taut ‘n’ twangy kind of way. The Anti-Christ – in the form of Vincent Arthur Trumpton, (or Mr VAT, for short) is circling with menaces and destraint orders. Do I dig out the baseball bats, become ’Alfie the Enforcer’ and confront the git? – Do I stick a blue striped tea towel on my head and become ’Alfie the Mother Teresa’ for the VAT man?

Hey workers, don’t behave like gits – stick a blue striped tea towel on your head instead…..

Sure fire winner….

"Hello, my name is Chalky Blair – and I claim my free 5 star holiday in your luxury villa in Tuscany"……

Tone’s back from his 5 week holibob cadgathon …… Phew, thank bloody God for that. We can all uncross our fingers and stop praying quite so hard now that the Father of the Nation and his mad wife are back at the tiller of Steamship ‘Busted Flush’ How on earth did we survive on our own with the ‘Great Smiley One’ in abstentia? ( Abstentia is an exclusive private estate in Tuscany)

Their holiday snaps were a bit of a laugh. We had Cap’n Tone with a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum on board somebody else’s dreamily expensive yacht in the Caribbean.

Four square and square jawed Tony peering peerlessly out on the vast emptiness of the ocean – whilst behind him servile, not so jolly Jack Tars scurry around actually sailing it. The trouble with being on a boat though is that just occasionally, a bit of a wind can whip up from nowhere. A few pictures escaped ‘Blair-censor-corp’ and revealed the Blair Barnet to not be in such a healthily hirsute state as it should be…. Tone’s getting a bit thin on top….

Then there was ‘Bandanna Gate’ The pictures of Tone and ‘MadCherie’ strolling around with a bandanned Berlusconi was real weird. I mean, it was like a capped teeth convention for 3 self-delusional psychos.

You could almost see Blair’s angst through sparklingly clenched gnashers… "Listen Cherie, just smile, let him and his bandanna go a few steps in front - and people will think he’s not with us.

Meanwhile, inside the head of ‘Bandanna world’ …. "Mama mia, if I canna just walka a bitta quicka – I thinka I canna loosa King and Queen Cadge in da crowda"……

Of course, the reason why Berlusconi was sporting a bandanna at all is open to a bit of conjecture. Apparently, the Italian Prem’ has just had a hair transplant to try to disguise his 8 inch wide centre parting. God knows exactly where on his body the donor follicles were taken – I mean, he didn’t have much left on the sides of his head did he? I fully expect that when Silvio dispenses with the bandanna, he will sport a fine thatch of tight curly hair – almost pubescent in appearance.

Maybe, the reason Tony cadged his way into Silvio’s Summerhouse was to ask him exactly where he should get his hair apparent from?


Cherie indulges in the ancient Italian sport of 'Wasp Gobbling’

Did I really hear that?…..

On Friday, we took Stuey, our 3rd alfalfa to the excellent 'Fox' pub in Roby Mill for a celebratory meal. He had done very well in his GSCE exams - so we decided to indulge in a bit of family 'very well done-ery'.

When we got there - you could hardly move for proud parents treating their brilliant offspring to a pub meal as reward for doing very well in their exams. Looks like everyone's brilliant and everyone's done really well …… Hoorah!

We elbowed our way to a table and a 'waiter on-erer' came over to take our order. Alfreda was having 'beef'.

Did the waiter on-erer then say "What about the Yorkshire Pudding?"

Did Alfreda reply "I don't know what he wants - and anyway, he's not from Yorkshire, he comes from Liverpool"

I just don't know - but there was a hell of a lot of giggling going on amongst the littleuns…..

Now this made me laugh.....

Q.How many Labour MPs does it take to change a light bulb?

A.None. But it takes 15 of them to produce a Report - 'Coping with Darkness'...

(Courtesy of the Peterborough Column in the Daily Mail).


The Scream......



Oh my God,
'The Scream' by Edvard Munch
Is still missing.
Good.
It's crap.....
I mean, what's the matter with the guy on the bridge?
He needs to lighten up a bit - it can't be that bad, surely?
Unless of course....
His ears have dropped off?

Or maybe,
The picture was originally called,
'A stroll along the bridge'
Maybe Edvard Munch couldn't draw 'ears'?
Maybe, 'A stroll along the bridge' became
'A stroll along the bridge with two crumpets stapled to the side of my head'
Maybe Edvard Munch thought, "Bugger - I can just about draw 'hands covering ears"
Maybe it was originally called 'Ear-ache' - who knows?

I don't know about you though,
I wouldn't give it house room.
I reckon the geezer what nicked it,
Was either an utter nutter,
Or spotted a bit of card in the Gallery that exactly matched,
The hole in his smashed window back home.
Possibly.