Friday, May 07, 2004

Mel’s back….

Mel Gibson, ace actor (not), ace director (not) and friend of this country (definitely not) is apparently planning to make a film about ancient British heroine, Boudicca. Alfie the Barry Norman has managed to get hold of Mel’s provisional movie notes…..

Movie Synopsis – ‘Boudicca, Queen of the Icenae’…..

Boudicca, noble and beautiful Queen of the Icenae, struggles to free her people from the jack booted English hordes.

The English, devious and sly as ever are cunningly disguised as full metalled Roman Soldiers, thus also besmirching the good and peace loving nature of the Roman people. The cruel and evil English, promise our noble Queen, FREEDOM! – but instead slap her about a bit, rape her daughters and do a lot of ‘stiff upper lippy’ sneering to boot.

Cast List (provisional).

The Icenae
Boudicca – Meg Ryan.
Boudicca’s mum – Elizabeth Taylor.
Yanxae (Boudicca’s noble bodyguard) – Brad Pitt.
Bronxae (Noble captain of the Queen’s army) – Ben Affleck.
Tribal Sage – Woody Allen.
Boudicca’s daughters – Gwynyth Paltrow and Liv Tyler.
‘Dubbyae’, the village idiot – Ronald Reagan.
Mysterious mystical man that keeps appearing and shouting ‘FREEDOM’ – Charlton Heston.
Mysterious ethnic man, wise, compassionate and mysterious – Morgan Freeman.

The cruel and unfeeling English disguised as Romans.
Roman Governor, Slyus Bastardia – Alan Rickman.
Sly Roman Spy, Twofacius – Gary Oldman.
Sneering Seer, and general all round old hag – Judi Dench.
Sadistic posh Roman that meets a really sticky end – Jeremy Irons.
Stupid oafish Roman, who wears a different tunic, so you just know that he will be the first one to die – Eddie Large.
Claudius – Roman Emperor (but probably English) – Charles Dance.

I predict an extremely balanced and objective piece of work from Mr Gibson – obviously. Oh and a statue being erected in Norwich of Meg Ryan dressed as Boudicca.

Thus the corruption of our history, by Hollywood continues apace.

Coming soon, the stirring story of how Tom Cruise saves the entire British nation when he decides to drive a Spitfire in WW2.

Thursday, May 06, 2004

Mentoring needs me….

I’ve often thought of myself as a bit of a ‘mentor’ – it’s all the rage now isn’t it? "Yeah, sorry I’m late for this very important meeting lady, but I had to go and do a quick bit of mentoring – stopping young Jimmy from chucking himself under a train"….

"Wow, you’re my hero"

"No hassle Miss, It’s all in a day’s mentoring"

"Hmmm, you’re so sexy - do you fancy a shag, mentor man?"

I’m sure I’ve got all the accoutrements for mentordom.
I’ve got the Experience: (old fart), CHECK

Patience: (sort of). CHECK

Cliched phraseology: "Look, just chill out man". CHECK

Attire: Suit, T-shirt and white sneakers combo –
just like Sonny Crockett used to wear in Miami Vice CHECK

Handle: Sexy mentoring type pseudonym, something cool, something hip, something that my mentorees can immediately get comfy with. Something like ‘Chico Mentorini’ CHECK

Transport: Maybe some kind of old classic car. Maybe an open top?
Mentor-Memo get rid of the Ford Orion asap. CHECK

Shades: Dark and inscrutable. Are ‘Ray-Bans’ still in?

Chico Mentorini, open for mentoring business….

Wednesday, May 05, 2004

Shock News – Noah’s Ark found on Mount Ararat – again….

As sure as lunar eclipses are hidden from view by storm clouds, every few years they find another supposed outline of another supposed Ark plonked on the mountainous slopes of Ararat. Reports at the weekend confirm that scholars are ‘very excited’ about the possibility that "This really is the true Ark"…..

A few years ago, when they’d found a previous massive boat shaped form outlined in stones – a programme was made about it and shown on BBC 2. Learned scholars from around the globe looked at the evidence – and automatically shouted ‘Ark!’ I thought it looked more like a particularly luscious pair of Leslie Ash lips after she’d been to see the plastic surgeon.

The next day in work, I loftily scoffed at such a preposterous proposition as a huge boat, big enough to take every species known to Man. Just then, our secretary walked in.

"Oh yes, that programme on ‘The Ark’ – fantastic. Wasn’t it really, really great? Just think, if it wasn’t for Noah, we wouldn’t have the animals in the world that we have now" she said.

We all drew a collective gasp…"Gasp, gasp, gasp and gasp" .

"Do you really believe in the story? Do you really think that Noah could have gathered two of every species from the entire World – in all its entirety. The time taken to gather them, stopping them fighting, stopping them eating each other, stopping them sitting on and squashing each other and marching them into the Ark – and then keeping them fed? Not to mention the manure – tons and tons of it, by the hour. Have you seen the mess that an elephant makes? I mean, did he save the Woodworm and Deathwatch beetles? – And if he did, wouldn’t they have eaten his boat? And talking about the boat, the size of it – it would have to be absolutely bloody huge Did they have a Judean version of Harland & Wolfe to build it then?"

I can feel myself going purple as this rant has taken so much oxygen out of my system, I’m in danger of collapsing…..

She looked at me, with puzzlement and pity written all over her face – like I was some sort of div or something.

"Well obviously – silly! The Ark would have to be big – as big as an oil tanker because that’s the only way Noah could house two of every animal….

"And Noah obviously didn’t manage to get every animal – that would have been impossible – he only got the ones that are still alive today".

Well that told me then.

Tuesday, May 04, 2004

Post waste…….

Our esteemed Royal Mail has been in the ‘dog house’ again lately – the letters should, of course have been delivered to ‘Fifi’ at ‘The Cathouse’ – but as usual, they were misdirected…

I believe the rot first set in when yours truly, Alfie the Postman Pat was employed to deliver surplus Christmas post to a gullible public. I was a student, responding to an urgent S.O.S. from my local sorting office. "First things first" said the Postmaster, "Just sign this form"….

"What is it?"

"The Official Secrets Act"

I’m gobsmacked….. "A bit OTT, (not to mention 007) or what? I mean, it’s not as if I’m a ‘Spy’ or anything is it - ‘M’?"

The Postmaster tried to raise a feeble smile, the sort of smile that says ‘What a witty comment’ – but actually means ‘You boring shit – I’ve heard that a million times before’….

I sign. Well, what harm could it do? Apparently all posties had to sign it – mainly because the post belongs to the Queen – until the second it is delivered through the letterbox …..

"So if you muck around with the post then it’s"…..

"Treason" He whispered. His finishing off of my sentence somehow added a whole pile of gravitas to the discussion. I wandered away to get my bag and my red bike - all the while thinking about Traitor’s Gate, Her Majesty’s Pleasure and The fat guy with a white fluffy cat on his lap…

"I expect you want me to talk?"…..

"No Mr Bond, I expect you to dieeeee"…..

The work was deadly dull boring, I got given all the crappiest rounds to do – mainly on housing estates and mainly the ones with roaming wolf-packs and roaming packs of yobs. It was then that I hit upon a superb dodge. In order to get more cash and top up my dwindling Christmas cash cache, why don’t I just go home for a few hours and have a kip? – That way I can claim for some well deserved overtime.

The first time I did it, was just for half an hour – and I bunked off after I had done my round…… Over the next couple of weeks the time devoted to sagging off became more of an elastic concept. By ‘elastic’, I mean time expanded to fill my overtime requirements – well, it does, doesn’t it? And instead of bunking after my round, I started to do it before I’d delivered any.

Big mistake.

Some neighbour spotted me wheeling the fully laden bike into our house and grassed me up to HQ. When I got back to the depot, the place was deserted. Maybe I’d overdone the overtime? The Postmaster called me over and told me to report to an office at the end of the corridor. I knocked. "Enter."

I entered.

A man in a grey suit – obviously ‘boss of posties’ was sitting in a big, high-backed office executive chair gently swivelling back and forth. Squeeeeek, squeeeeek. Is that a white cat I see on the main man’s lap? No such luck – it’s my Official Secrets Act form.

Long and short of it? I was to be drummed out of the Post Office. My bike clips would be unceremoniously ripped from my ankles, broken in two and cast on the floor. My pair of fingerless mittens would be donated to Oxfam and my file may even land on the desk of someone in MI5, because I’d contravened ‘The Act".

So that means I've joined the same rogues gallery as George Blake, Kim Philby (the third man), Sir Anthony Blunt (the fourth man) and Alfie (the post man).

They’d decided not to prosecute me, but I would never, ever, ever be able to work for the Royal Mail ever, ever again, ever. Shit! There goes my career in the Royal Mail.