There just aint enough sick bags around when you need several thousand……
His Imperial Omnipotence, the leader of all things ‘bleary’, Tony don’t mess with me or I’ll get Prezza to send some gypsies to live next door to you Blair was on Channel 4’s Richard and Judy show tonight.
Ooooooh, Missus, I don’t half feel queasy…
Our loveable Tone, playing the role of ‘a kinda straight kinda guy'… (kind of) – soon had the King and Queen of Banality eating out of his kinda slightly greasy hands.
The toughest question of the night came from Richard - "Can we swap phone numbers Tone?" Judy contented herself with a silent adoring drool as she wondered whether she could back-heel Richard and rename the programme 'The Tony and Judy Show’ in the not to distant future…..
Muummpphh, I’m retching my guts up…
The mutual backslapping continued apace as Tone revealed his caring, sharing side "Yes, Judy, I really do feel the pain of our fallen soldiers in Iraq and of their grieving families"…
Oh God, here comes – and there goes yesterday’s breakfast….
Suddenly, Tony had to don a whole new persona – and quick, as Richard collapses in agony, with a little help from Judy’s right boot into his left testicle - and volunteers his place in the exciting game ‘You Say, We Pay’……
Tone suddenly becomes a kinda straight, kinda thick as piggy-plop, sort of game-host guy….
You Say, We Pay is the exciting game where a member of the public describes a series of pictures of objects behind R & J’s backs – and they have to guess what they are. Every correct answer is worth a thousand pounds… The contestants usually accrue about 7 grand over the one-minute the game lasts.
Tone sat on his kinda straight, kinda Perry Como stool and smiled with a ‘trust me - I’m an ordinary kinda guy’ countenance.
Gagggghhh, I’m down to bile…….
Judy answered five questions correctly -Tone answered just the one. Appropriately enough, the answer was ‘Guinea Pig’…
By the end of the show, you can hardly hear what Richard and Judy are saying - they are too busy licking the great man’s shoes….they finally expire, courtesy of Kiwi Black poisoning...
Like the consummate pro he is, Tone closes the show with the words "Thanks for tuning into the first edition of ‘BlairWorld – a Kinda Straight Kinda Show’ – and don’t forget to tune in on Friday when Cherie will be introducing her very own show - ‘Quick Look Away, it's Scary-Blairie"…..
The final credit rolls up ‘This programme is produced by ‘BlairCorp’ – a subsidiary of ‘BushCrusade Inc’ – both wholly owned by ‘News International’……..
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Now, now, Rhodri……
Nobody likes a smug, gloating winner.
I like them even less, when someone who should know better starts leaping about – pogo fashion, in the poshest of posh seats at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.
I refer to the Leader of the Welsh Assembly, Rhodri Morgan going off on one as his beloved rugby boys deservedly beat a below par England side last Saturday.
As the final whistle blew, a roving BBC camera picked him out. He jigged about, punched the air, clenched his fists to every true-blooded Welshman that cared to look. Hardly the behaviour of a statesman, I thought. To be honest, I thought it looked….. well, a bit racist really.
Whilst watching this quite awful exhibition of gratuitous grandstanding – I started thinking. I started thinking about the stink there would have been if it had been an English victory – and the cameras had zoomed into the face of an English Parliamentary Leader leaping about in similar fashion to Mr Morgan.
But then reality hit me in the face like a big sack of welsh nutty-slack. Why? Because it couldn’t happen could it? No danger of an English Leader gloating at Cardiff or anywhere else for that matter, because we don’t have an English Parliamentary Leader do we – after all, to get one of those, you’ve got to have an English Parliament. And that – as we all know is pure fantasy.
A note of thanks…….
Just a note of thanks to all you blog-blokes and blog-babes for the messages of support regarding my Dad’s death – it is greatly appreciated. The funeral is on Friday and we’ve sort of arranged everything – I hope.
Things got a bit fraught and testy towards the end of last week as family politics started to cloud the main issue – and at one stage we tried to get Condoleezza Rice in to do some mediation.
All is settled now – and everyone is calm.
Nobody likes a smug, gloating winner.
I like them even less, when someone who should know better starts leaping about – pogo fashion, in the poshest of posh seats at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.
I refer to the Leader of the Welsh Assembly, Rhodri Morgan going off on one as his beloved rugby boys deservedly beat a below par England side last Saturday.
As the final whistle blew, a roving BBC camera picked him out. He jigged about, punched the air, clenched his fists to every true-blooded Welshman that cared to look. Hardly the behaviour of a statesman, I thought. To be honest, I thought it looked….. well, a bit racist really.
Whilst watching this quite awful exhibition of gratuitous grandstanding – I started thinking. I started thinking about the stink there would have been if it had been an English victory – and the cameras had zoomed into the face of an English Parliamentary Leader leaping about in similar fashion to Mr Morgan.
But then reality hit me in the face like a big sack of welsh nutty-slack. Why? Because it couldn’t happen could it? No danger of an English Leader gloating at Cardiff or anywhere else for that matter, because we don’t have an English Parliamentary Leader do we – after all, to get one of those, you’ve got to have an English Parliament. And that – as we all know is pure fantasy.
A note of thanks…….
Just a note of thanks to all you blog-blokes and blog-babes for the messages of support regarding my Dad’s death – it is greatly appreciated. The funeral is on Friday and we’ve sort of arranged everything – I hope.
Things got a bit fraught and testy towards the end of last week as family politics started to cloud the main issue – and at one stage we tried to get Condoleezza Rice in to do some mediation.
All is settled now – and everyone is calm.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Ex, ex, ex, eye, ex……..
Yes, it’s that time of year again, and Superbowl XXXIX, American football’s greatest day of the season ‘evented’ in Jacksonville, Florida on Sunday night….
What a game?…… I don’t know, I didn’t see it – I went to bed. I tried to give it a go, I really did – but an hour in and I’d had enough. Not even the razzle, the dazzle the double burger and frazzle, the ra-ra girls with their pom-poms, high kick-kicks and great jiggling jugga-jugs could keep me up….
Was it sport or utter rubbish?
Was it ‘Theatre of Suspense’ or ‘Carry on up The Touchdown’?
I couldn’t possibly say.
But I thought I should give it a go - and try and watch it. My mind is open - ready to welcome some unique culture from across the pond. I swig from my bottle of Bud, I'm so into it that I almost stand for the star spangled banner...... It starts, the event of events gets going... Hubba, hubba, hubba..........
The crescendo builds – like a soufflé fashioned from purest hype with a double dollop of hyperbole thrown in for good measure. On come the gladiators – as slow as can be – so they can bung a few extra adverts in between. The Noo England Patriots and The Philadelphia Gonads troop out – packed full of brooding malevolent testosterone and clad in the tightest Spandex known to man.
Yeowweee! High octane, high fives and high voices – the Spandex is taking its toll. We’re half an hour into the ‘game’ – and still not a ‘football’ kicked in anger. More ra-ra, more bla-bla and loads more adverts follow.
It’s advert infinitum – and then some moretium.
In order to pad out the time – especially as the U.S. are taking in the latest set of adverts, Sky cuts to the London studio. Three big blokes talking utter bollox. Tactics, craptics, waffle and even more bollox – then it’s back to the action in Jacksonville.
Anchormen Dan and Larry gravel in with an introduction "Hi I’m Dan – and this is Larry – welcome to Sooopabowel 39! Are we in for some action tooonite! We’ll be back right after these messages fram our spansars"….
Back from the ads – and then it happens. Well a whooppy do and a hey nonny nonny, the game is about to start ……………. And stop.
Time to shove in some more adverts.
In no time at all, we’re back again. Action a go-go all over the place. It’s as tense as a tense nervous headache with a side salad of sciatica thrown in for good measure. We cut to the touchline and a big fat jaffa with a big fat retro-headset earpiece ensemble clamped to the side of his head. This is ‘The Coach’ – and he is as big as a double decker. He’s like the Dook of Wellington at Waterloo. There he is, a General committing his troops to even more selfless sacrifice. Has he got his offf-fence out there or is he making do with his deee-fence? He starts jabbering – and pointing – and swearing in a Goddam mutha sort of way down his retro mouthpiece.
Just then, one of the 800 stripey shirted referees on the pitch blows up. The gridiron action grinds – to a halt. The stripey refs 'huddle'. It looks like a load of Newcastle supporters at a zebra convention...... Chief ref' utters something totally mundane. The crowd gasps - more double burgers are ordered to offset the shock.....
Actions speak louder than words. Unfortunately there is no action – just a ton of words courtesy of even more advertising.
The first quarter finishes – and the score is two religious ladies …. Nun – Nun.
The second quarter starts – at this point I’m suffering to advertising overload…. Touchdown! At bloody last – someone has done something and scored. Even more experts, plans, campaign examples and chicken entrails are all rolled out to explain the ‘play’….
That takes up another 10 minutes.
Suddenly. I’ve had eeeee-bloody-nuff. I went to bed.
Who won – well, it’s obvious isn’t it? The ad men from Madison Avenue of course!
Yes, it’s that time of year again, and Superbowl XXXIX, American football’s greatest day of the season ‘evented’ in Jacksonville, Florida on Sunday night….
What a game?…… I don’t know, I didn’t see it – I went to bed. I tried to give it a go, I really did – but an hour in and I’d had enough. Not even the razzle, the dazzle the double burger and frazzle, the ra-ra girls with their pom-poms, high kick-kicks and great jiggling jugga-jugs could keep me up….
Was it sport or utter rubbish?
Was it ‘Theatre of Suspense’ or ‘Carry on up The Touchdown’?
I couldn’t possibly say.
But I thought I should give it a go - and try and watch it. My mind is open - ready to welcome some unique culture from across the pond. I swig from my bottle of Bud, I'm so into it that I almost stand for the star spangled banner...... It starts, the event of events gets going... Hubba, hubba, hubba..........
The crescendo builds – like a soufflé fashioned from purest hype with a double dollop of hyperbole thrown in for good measure. On come the gladiators – as slow as can be – so they can bung a few extra adverts in between. The Noo England Patriots and The Philadelphia Gonads troop out – packed full of brooding malevolent testosterone and clad in the tightest Spandex known to man.
Yeowweee! High octane, high fives and high voices – the Spandex is taking its toll. We’re half an hour into the ‘game’ – and still not a ‘football’ kicked in anger. More ra-ra, more bla-bla and loads more adverts follow.
It’s advert infinitum – and then some moretium.
In order to pad out the time – especially as the U.S. are taking in the latest set of adverts, Sky cuts to the London studio. Three big blokes talking utter bollox. Tactics, craptics, waffle and even more bollox – then it’s back to the action in Jacksonville.
Anchormen Dan and Larry gravel in with an introduction "Hi I’m Dan – and this is Larry – welcome to Sooopabowel 39! Are we in for some action tooonite! We’ll be back right after these messages fram our spansars"….
Back from the ads – and then it happens. Well a whooppy do and a hey nonny nonny, the game is about to start ……………. And stop.
Time to shove in some more adverts.
In no time at all, we’re back again. Action a go-go all over the place. It’s as tense as a tense nervous headache with a side salad of sciatica thrown in for good measure. We cut to the touchline and a big fat jaffa with a big fat retro-headset earpiece ensemble clamped to the side of his head. This is ‘The Coach’ – and he is as big as a double decker. He’s like the Dook of Wellington at Waterloo. There he is, a General committing his troops to even more selfless sacrifice. Has he got his offf-fence out there or is he making do with his deee-fence? He starts jabbering – and pointing – and swearing in a Goddam mutha sort of way down his retro mouthpiece.
Just then, one of the 800 stripey shirted referees on the pitch blows up. The gridiron action grinds – to a halt. The stripey refs 'huddle'. It looks like a load of Newcastle supporters at a zebra convention...... Chief ref' utters something totally mundane. The crowd gasps - more double burgers are ordered to offset the shock.....
Actions speak louder than words. Unfortunately there is no action – just a ton of words courtesy of even more advertising.
The first quarter finishes – and the score is two religious ladies …. Nun – Nun.
The second quarter starts – at this point I’m suffering to advertising overload…. Touchdown! At bloody last – someone has done something and scored. Even more experts, plans, campaign examples and chicken entrails are all rolled out to explain the ‘play’….
That takes up another 10 minutes.
Suddenly. I’ve had eeeee-bloody-nuff. I went to bed.
Who won – well, it’s obvious isn’t it? The ad men from Madison Avenue of course!
