Spruce Goose revisited…………

Very exciting times at work at the moment……. Over the last few weeks I’ve been travelling the length and breadth of the Country art directing some photography for the new, yet to fly and size of a Continent Airbus airliner – the A380.

This thing is bloody massive, in a Sprucey-Goosey, Howard Hughesey sort of way. The biggest civil aircraft ever planned - it makes a ‘jumbo’ looks like a weedy adolescent in comparison – it’ll take over 550 passengers, easy and resides in several time zones at any one time (nearly).

When we first arrived at one of the designated factories and saw wing struts being milled out of solid slabs of Aluminium on a milling machine 80 metres long, I was gobsmacked – swarf and shiny metal everywhere. In these days of namby pamby light industry, it was somewhat refreshing to see blood, snot sweat and a bit of the old Victorian ‘can do’ ethos coming through.

It’s also good to see Airbus industries spanking Boeing for market share – Airbus currently have 80% of the global civil aircraft market – outselling the Yanks – whatever next? We sidled over to the carts that held the wing spars, again size matters – they are monsters …… "How the hell are they going to fit on a plane fuselage without flopping down?" – I was just like a 10 year old kid, asking my dad who invented gravity. (He used to tell me that apparently Otto Gravity from Germany invented it)…..

My contact looked a bit surprised and reassured me, telling me not to worry and that it would all work swimmingly - he almost patted me on the head!

I left this hive of industry reassured that when all the bits being made from factories all over Europe are finally put together in Toulouse – the thing will actually fly.

I can’t wait to see it – from a distance obviously, much too scary to actually fly on it.

Have a good weekend.

A northern cheeky chappie legend…..

Wow, if George Formby was still alive, then today would be the first day of his hundred and first year. Well he’s not alive, he’s dead – at least, I hope he’s dead coz they buried him some 40 odd years ago…..

But what a comedy genius, bundle of talent-type geezer old Georgie boy was. There, with his lickle Ukulele in his hand – well, they can’t touch you for it nowadays can they?

Funnee? I’ll bloody say so, George, originator of such memorable catch phrases as "Can you hear me mother, "Turned out nice again" and probably lots and lots more great phrases that I can’t quite remember at the moment…… Every time he walked on stage and uttered those immortal words "Turned out nice again" the adoring audience would wet their knickers with laughter – ‘scuse me, got to go to the toilet…..

Talented? Bloody too right. George could play a host of instruments – as long as the instrument he was playing was called the ‘Ukulele’. Such immortal songs as ‘Leaning on a lamppost’, 'When I'm cleaning windies' and ‘I’m a Lancashire lad - and I’m a reet good shag’…… Maybe not.

Could he make it in today’s vacuous celeb–obsessed world? Could he do a ‘Dale Winton’ on the Lottery show? "Eeeeee baa gum, we’re ‘aving a lot o’ fun today…. Ay up, can we ‘ave t’dropped balls please cock?"…….

He’d have to change his delivery, get all ‘estuary’ maybe – or possibly a bit of mid-Atlantic? ‘Can you hear me Mother’ would have to change to - "Yo Muthaf****r, get those cans offa yo’ head and listen up, bitch"…

The ‘Uke’ would have to go – traded in for an ‘axe’…. A Strat’ would do. A shiny suit maybe, a hair and dental makeover – and not forgetting a new street-cred name… and there you have it.

Georgie Boy Formby – the baddest ass outta the Wigan ghetto-massive……..

Combustion and Tears…….

Last night’s tragic fire at the Tate Modern warehouse has apparently destroyed some of Brit Art's finest pieces. Tate Modern or Tate Crisp as it’s now to be called, is reeling from this disastrous news. Charles Saatchi, legendary benefactor of the modern art movement and avid collector of all things ordinary was inconsolable this morning as he learned that most of his extensive collection went up in this pyre of pretentious pap.

There is absolutely no truth in the rumour that Tracy Emmin has tried to sell the ashes of the building to Chaz – under the title ‘Remade Carbon’…. The word on the streets is however that Charles has bid up the original asking price of £2.5 million to £8 million and declared this "A very significant work, symbolising the elemental struggle of humanity and its elementary and eternal struggle to tame the elements – in this case ‘Fire" …. Ele-mental, obviously.

Unfortunately, in Charles’ hour of triumph – and whilst approving the building of a new Gallery to house his latest piece, ‘Remade Carbon’ became ‘Burnt Bits Chucked in a Skip by Unfeeling and misguided Fire Fighters’…..

Damien Hurst has rushed to the stricken Saatchi’s side and stated that he will redo all of his lost works and donate them to the gullible …… visionary collector. Damien said "Well it’s the least I could do, he’s lost at least 20 of my works – and anyhow, I’ve got a couple of hours free this afternoon".

I’m just having a bit of a Victor Meldrew moment…....

Is it OK for people to sleep on the job? Apparently so if you are a fire fighter. The current dispute between employer and employee is all about the correct form of words with which to describe sleeping and resting time during the night shift. I have a form of words they could use - 'Wake up - and do some work'.

And if it's OK for our noble fire fighters to join our illustrious pack of MPs to zed out on the job, then everyone else should qualify as well - but of course, that's impossible isn't it? Sleeping on the job means the sack – right?

There is a right load of nonsense talked about the fire fighters. They seem to have this romantic aura about them - heroes doing the most dangerous job in the Country (which it has to be said they actively perpetuate). The most dangerous job outside of the armed services (and one of the most poorly paid) is the farm worker. Next comes such scary jobs as Scaffolder, Fisherman, Builder, Sewer worker etc, etc. For pure 'dangerousness', the fire fighters come a rather safe 24th - possibly just in front of estate agents?

I know 3 people that hold down 2 jobs at the same time - guess what, they are all fire fighters. Two of them freely admit that the fire service gives them a great base to pursue their other careers (the other one just smirks a lot - he's a fire fighter at night, then does an 8 hour day in his own antiques business). And the ONLY way they can have those other jobs is because they sleep when doing their fire fighting night shift.

One final point, I have actually been in a fire station, very nice (for a social club) ... Snooker table (full size), excellent canteen/bar, bandits, full spec' easy chairs - and a load of beds! I've done night shifts - and worked ALL night. Our heroes are paid to work - not to sleep - they should wake up and smell the coffee.

I don’t have anything personal against them – it just bugs me that they go on and on about the rough deal dealt to them and the fact that they say the service is in terminal decline. Apparently not, if the current waiting list to be a fire fighter is anything to go by.

Nil points….

Terry Wogan says that the Eurovision song contest is full of cheats, ne’er-do-wells and ‘creeping to their neighbour’ obsessives. Well that is a surprise not!

I must admit to watching it on Saturday – up to start of the voting marathon – well you’ve got to haven’t you? I mean, it’s great comedy, some of the acts look like they’re on Class A drugs – the sort of stimulant that takes away all sense of rhythm, timing and co-ordination. The gyrating men with their mullet haircuts, flared sparkly cat suits and stuck on chest hair seem to be styled courtesy of RETRO ‘70’s.com Then there’s the totty. The crapper the song, the skimpier the outfit – and there were lots of skimpy outfits on show….

Entertainment over, the voting begins – "Come in Berlin, can I have the totally political and biased voting please?"….
Eventually, I gave in and decided to watch Russel Crowe playing Lucius Maximus Jolly Jack Tarrius in the Napoleonic sailing epic, Master and Commander. instead.

I don’t like watching the voting bit for ‘EuroViz’ – too political.
I haven’t watched that part for years …. It sort of dawned on me that the Greeks never seemed to vote for the Turks, the Scandinavians always gave each other heaps of votes and the French adopted an ‘Anyone but the British’ attitude…… It’s not a song contest – more a series of diplomatic political alliances.

However….. I understand Blighty came somewhere just behind Nowheresvania in Saturdays contest, with some bird from the Ukraine dressed in a skimpy ensemble of leather, fur and sticky tape – and a bag full of talent (obviously), winning the top prize. It just aint good enough – we should be creaming the opposition shouldn’t we? Cliff, Sandy, Bucks Fizz, Lulu, Katrina, Gemini where are you when your Country needs you?
Well, maybe not Gemini – they should be playing for Norway-nil-points in the right out of tune position shouldn’t they?

It’s about time we started winning the damn thing again.
With this in mind, I thought Blog world could come to the rescue for next years comp’. We could write a song, a line here, a line there, with a boom-bangy, bangy inserted for good measure….

I’ll start the ball rolling, with the opening couple of lines….

I went tooooooo the park toooooo-day,
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,
I met my babe by the bowling green – I was late, she was mean,
Vented spleen, vented spleen, vented spleen, vented spleeeeeen,

Mike Batt, make way for a surefire winner!

Application of the mind ….….

Last Sunday morning, Head gently throbbing, stomach on the spin cycle, I patiently wait my turn for my drug of choice at Safeway Chemist shop. The woman in front is collecting a prescription. She’s nervous and twitchy. The pharmacist gives her an emergency bag of stuff, to see her through to the Monday – when she can get a really big, bumper big pack.

Chemist queues are great places aren’t they? – I long for the day when the nervous, spotty youth hands over a packet of jonnies along with a bottle of Lucozade and a fiver – only for the very loud assistant to shout to the chemist …"Mr Jones, how much are these Durex Supa-Snug – Extra Sensitives?"

Anyway, back to the furtive drama unfolding in front of me.

Miss nervy twitcher looks into the bag and seems a bit confused.

"There’s no applicator" she whispered.

The pharmacist looked at her in surprise

"They’re suppositories – they don’t come with an applicator."

"I’m sure they used to have to have an applicator."

"No Madam, they’ve never had an applicator."

"Well, what do I use for an applicator then?"

It was a bit like that old joke about the fishmonger and the customer who will not be told that there is no haddock.... He takes his customer onto a spelling lesson, eventually arriving at the last question "Now, take the letter 'F' out of the word HADDOCK".

"But there is no 'F' in Haddock"

"Precisely Madam"...

Back to the Pharmacist - "You know......... you use your own 'applicator'

"I don't think I have one do I?"

"Yes you do - you have 10 of them"
With that, the pharmacist holds up her middle finger right in front of the customer’s face and drives it skyward.

Bit much, I thought… she was only asking. Mental note to me, don’t ask a fed up Pharmacist who would rather be somewhere else on a fine Sunday morning, bloody stupid questions ….

What a great day Saturday was, hot and sunny, all was well with the world…. – but of course, that means the bad news is….. ‘Betty’s’ back……

Global warming, a result of industrial process, farting cows, racing starts at traffic lights and generally burning lots and lots of things has a lot to answer for alright. The Americans failure to ratify Kyoto hasn’t helped either. The planet’s mean temperature is going up, season on season, year on year – and things, nasty things are beginning to happen. Hotter, dryer summers, stiflingly clammy nights follow burning hot days……. Something’s got to give – and for us, usually cool, usually relaxed, well-adjusted guys it really does….. down in the trouser department.

I’m talking hot, I’m talking sweaty, I’m talking male dangly bits.

It’s a lethal combination for us guys - in short (long in my case, obviously), it’s the male curse known as ‘Betty Swallocks’….

Amble down any street in high summer and you’ll see men suffering in silence from Betty’s Bane. Things are getting so clammy in the nether regions lately that us guys are beginning to dread summer. It’s one hot season’s worth of discomfort – 12 whole weeks! Showers relieve the agony for an hour or two, boxers help – and kilts are great…. But the bettyness and swallockins soon starts up again. Gently sautéed sweet meats and infertility follows…..

I was thinking about a fab’ invention I had dreamt up to solve the problem. A small, but powerful fan mounted to the front of the underpants - thereby flooding the affected area with circulated air and cooling waves of fresh, fresh cooliness – Unfortunately, field trials have not gone well – I’d forgotten the ‘bonk-on enigma of the average male. Next time, I’ll have to leave at least a good 10 inch clearance. (I've taken mine as a guide and added an extra inch for good luck - honest!).

Oh, if only it was just a few days at the end of each month, getting past ‘the time of inconvienence' would be a piece of cake….

Do we moan, do we go on and on about our 3 monthly curse?

Of course we do…..

Anyone got any cranberry sauce?…..

Here’s one for the twitchers….. looking out of our work window today we mostly espied the regulation fauna populating this part of ‘small garden’ suburbia in Lancashire…

It’s the ‘same as usual’ stuff - a grey squirrel, maggie-pies, blue tits, a song thrush, spadgers, jackie-daws ……and a bloody monster Peacock.

The Liberace of the bird world with his multicoloured zoot suit and train has just flounced into our garden – we haven’t a clue where he’s come from, but here he is in all his azure splendour…. Bizarre or what?

Do you cook them the same as turkeys?
Not that I would ....... obviously.

It was just a thought.

Pensions, a cautionary tale……

Today, courtesy of good old Royal Mail, I got the last of my forecasts from my 3 incredibly vibrant and profitable pensions. I know they are superb investments because the suits that sold me them said so – and I believed them.

‘Three pensions’ I hear you ask in incredulous unison.
‘Three pensions’ what’s that all about then?
To paraphrase Oscar Wilde – To have one pension is prudent, to have two is smarmy-arsey, but to have three is downright greedy! Actually, two of the pensions have been parked – the results of a Company crash & burn and a personal liquidity problem. Still – with the amount of cash already put into them and the wise, wise investment ability of the pension fund managers, clover fields and my smug retirement smirk seemed assured.

Oh yes, when the big ‘R’ rides into view, I’ll be thinking of you from my private island in the Windies. I’ll be lighting the finest Cuban cigars with £10 notes, sipping a ‘96 Dom Perignon and balancing a dusky babe on each knee…… Well, that’s what the honest John salesman said anyway – and I believed them.

For a lifetime of private contributions my 3 pension funds will afford me the grand sum of …..

Pension A (parked) - £385
Pension B (parked) - £815
Pension C (actively contributing) - £1,145

Sounds pretty impressive eh? – That is until you see the two little letters that follow each figure …. P and A.

The princely sum of just over 2 grand per-kin-annum is what Alfie the skint bastard will be existing on when he gets crinkly. Christ! By then, a bag of crisps will cost 50 quid…..

Let Alfie the far seeing seer give all you young turks a bit of advice. The next time a pension ‘suit’ collars you and paints a future that is cold, lonely and cash strapped, unless you buy into his pension plans – just knee him in the balls and spend your money on partying.

If I had my time again, my 10 point life-plan would go as follows –
1) Leave Uni’
2) Get drunk.
3) Get job in marketing.
4) Run things up flag-poles.
5) Think outside box, push envelope.
6) Knee pensions salesman in balls – hard.
7) Win lottery.
8) Get drunk.
9) Practice my two fingered salute.
10) Retire.

Comments

My comment is - 'if it aint bust, don't fix it.' Apologies for the truly naff comments facility, courtesy of blogger - but I'm having real problems getting haloscan comments box on.

I will hopefully have it sorted by tonight.

Oh God, George is an ex tortoise…..

Ace Blue Peter anchor reptile, ‘George the Tortoise’ is dead. It looks like the lettuce addiction has finally taken its toll as ‘Gee-luvee’ (as he is known to the rest of the cast) failed to make rehearsals this morning.

Time of death has been put at somewhere between last night and last year. Frantic efforts were being made this morning to find a replacement, but for tonight’s show ‘Hans’ - a WW2 German helmet will be drafted in. "I am zo exzited, this ist mein big shance to break into und big time"….

The ‘How to make’ feature has been changed. This evening, Blue Peter will show you how to make a quality brush and comb set. All you need is some sticky backed plastic, a Sqeezy bottle and some tortoise shell……



Eamonn Holmes – utter plonker….

Eamonn Holmes – GMTV anchorman, National Lottery front man and newspaper feature writer (God, doesn’t he ever sleep?) produced a real pearl of wisdom on Sunday. His ‘People’ newspaper article focused on misunderstood uber prat, Leslie Grantham. Eamonn seemed to say that good old Les had just made a bit of an error of judgement.

I quote from Eamonn’s celeb grovelling piece – "His private pursuits may be distasteful, but I don't think he's a bad man. His wife obviously doesn't think he's a bad man and neither do many of the folk who've worked, met and socialised with him".......

Good old Les, a bit of a rogue, a bit of a Jack the Lad, a little bit Wrrrrrrr, coz he's a geezer, but basically, as Eamonn says 'a good man'........

Apart from the fact, he's a cold blooded killer, who shot a taxi driver in the back of the head rather than pay the fare - nice. But that's all right isn't it - because good old Les is a bit misunderstood and probably didn't mean to kill him, just maim him possibly - as any 'geezer' would do.

Yeah, right.

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’…..

Background
.
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.

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….

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.

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.

Result.

Comatose in cyber space….

Time - warps when you are bored out of your tree. And today I have aged a million megabobs. I’ve just got out of a techno babble meeting with 3 techno babblists in person and 2 more via the chronically under-whelming alchemy of the ‘video conferencing’ facility at the end of the table.

"Hello, Jerry, can you hear us? …. Hello, Jerry, Jerry, Jerr-reee, caaan yooou hear usss?"

"Hi, yes,…Je…. y here…. Hope ..yo.. can ..he.r … us – OK?"

It sounds as if Norman Collier is on the other end of the empty baked bean tins and string ensemble, masquerading as cutting edge video conferencing technology.

Well, this is a bit more than I was expecting , I’ve been asked over to look at one of their web products, in a bid to sex it up a bit by bunging in a few graphics, nice menu, friendly and considered typestyling etc. The product has been developed and designed by the guys I’m about to meet – and as they’re all techno bods, it’s as interesting as Steve Davis’ diary on a not very busy Wednesday.

As I’m introduced to boffins 1, 2, and 3, I suddenly have a real feeling of dread. Me, creative bee-esser-in-chief, the broad-brush boy who soothes client worries with nothing more technical than "Look, don’t worry, it’ll be sorted, no problemo" has stumbled into a whole colostomy of real and virtual boffinistas….

They start, it’s all about java script, palava scroat and crypto flypto stuff. I’m going glassy. Floating away on a warm waft of white techno noise – a mixture of babble and air-conditioned hum-drum. I’m thinking about what I’ll have for tea, what telly I’ll watch, how many beers I’ll have tonight and is Kelly Brook really as fit as she looks on camera?…

Mental note – must make sure I get a pair of eyes tattooed onto my eye lids….. It wasn’t so much boring, more totally over my head…. I’m brought down from the blankosphere and an interesting conversation with Kelly, with a bang as I'm aware that someone is talking directly at me (and it aint Ms Brook)…

"What do you think?"

What?…What do I think? What was the question? Where am I?

"Err, sorry, just writing my notes, didn’t quite catch that"…

Boffin 2 repeats the question. The other boff - bros in the room are looking at me. The virtual boffins are giving me their collective on-screen once over as well….

Even the humdrum drone of the air-con has subsided as everyone and everything awaits my verdict.

Think, bastard well think! Come on you bloody genius, this is a tricky situation – but I’ve always got out of tricky-sits before. I need to get back to boff 2, with a response so damn cunning and destructive, it’ll mask the fact that I haven’t a bloody clue what anybody is talking about. Quick as a flash and with the rapier skill of a cunning fox with a sword - on an advanced fencing course, I retort to my feeble minded audience - "Look, don’t worry, it’ll be sorted, no problemo"

Well that was easy. Am I the daddy or what?

Did I really do that?…..

Did I really send a very important letter introducing our state of the art, cutting edge, can do, fly-by-wire services to a vitally important new client, who I had been wooing for months and who was going to give us lots and lots of new high end, high value business?

Yes I did...

And did I really pay extra special care to the content of my letter, paying particular attention to syntax, nuance, gravitas – with just the merest hint of friendliness – just to let her know that she’s dealing with a fully focused and professional operation and not with a complete and utter load of no-hope divvies?

Yes I did...

And did I really miss one vital and gut wrenchingly embarrassing spelling mistake in her very important job title, even though ‘spell-check’ failed to spot the error, mainly because the word with the spelling mistake still made a recognisable, if not entirely appropriate word?

Oh yes I did...

It should have read ‘Public Affairs Manager’
Unfortunately, I forgot to put the ‘L’ in.

Did she notice? Did she care? Was she shocked? Did she take offence? Was she a church going Christian, brought up in a Convent school? Did she give us any work?

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and no. .

Blessed is the Brian that impersonates Pavarotti……

Before I start, I’ll just make it quite clear that I am not a fan of ITV’s ‘Stars in your Eyes’. But when there is a celeb’ edition I do occasionally have a quick butchers – just to watch for the ‘cringe point’ – there always is one isn’t there?.... That’s the time when someone is on the box and they’re so embarrassing that you just have to put a cushion in front of you face and chant "Can’t hear, can’t hear" as loud as you can.

At least, on the Joe Public edition, there is a modicum of talent on show. "Young Billy Turner, a gas fitter from Bolton, who are you going to be?
"Tonight Mathew, I’m going to be Dame Nellie Melba"….

The ‘celeb’ edition is different – a lot different. The cringe point is much lower, much more achievable as someone from ‘Corry’ blows his or her credibility forever.

"And here is your host, Cat Deeley"… The intro’ credits have barely finished and I’m already reaching for the cushions. Yes, ego gets the better of talent as some zed list nobody is persuaded that they really can hit the same notes as Frank Sinatra. Or with a judicious bit of makee-uppy and the odd stick-on sideboard, you really will believe that Engelbert Humperdinck has just walked into the studio…

Saturdays edition, however, achieved a whole new standard of cringyness….. Brian Blessed was on.

"And tonight Cat, I’m going to be Luciano Pavarotti"…

Well that’s sounds easy then. All of a sudden, there isn’t a cushion to be had in our house - as the whole nation says "No, Brian, don’t do it.. just put the mike down and move slowly away"

I mean, suspension of belief is one thing. I just about believed that Brian, as leader of the ‘Winged People’ in ‘Flash Gordon’ had wings that could actually get his corpulent frame off the ground. Well, he had to didn’t he – otherwise he would never had uttered the films most memorable line "Gordon’s alive!"

But Pavarotti – that’s different gravy. Brian wobbles on - and now he's about to warble on. Well, he looks like the great tenor doesn’t he? I mean, he got a big floppy white hanky in his hand, he’s dressed head to toe in a penguin suit and he’s had some ‘stick-on’ comedy eyebrows stapled to his head.

And then he starts…..
The inhabitants of Alfie Towers chant in unison "La, la, la, can’t hear, can’t hear, can’t hear"….
Our collective heads are buried so low in our cushions that we are all in danger of committing some weird religious sect - type suicide pact. Well, if he doesn't stop 'singing', I'm going to kill myself!...

A new world record for ‘Cringyness’ has just been achieved.

Flying the flag, wearing the flower, drinking the beer…



Today, I will mostly be getting blathered, courtesy of

Bombardier Fine English Ale.

Eventually, I will be crying "For God, Harry and St George!"

Have a nice day, everyone.

"Faster, further, higher…. (and drunker) …"

Norris McWhirter, the ultimate facts and figures man died yesterday.

The original author of The Guinness Book of Records, Norris and his brother Ross took a vague enquiry from one of the Guinness family and developed it into the top selling, non religious publication in the world. It was a great concept, a book of trivia to help lift the drab, austere grey days of the mid fifties…..

I got one as a Christmas present in 1967 – and proceeded to read it from cover to cover. By Boxing Day I was boring everyone rigid … "Hey Dad, did you know that the biggest cheese ever made was"….

"No I bloody didn’t – and I don’t want to. Just sod off and eat your turkey butties"….

"Turkey? Did you know that the biggest turkey ever, produced 625 butties"…..

"Sod offfffffffff!"

Ever since then, I’ve always had an interest in the book. During my more vacant, looking down the end of a black velvet glass student times - we would often try to think of some so obscure activity to achieve a record. The more obscure, the easier to do, the easier to do, the more likely we are to get a record into the Book.

"How about ‘beer mat flipping’? Can’t be too difficult can it?"

Well, we had the pitch (the table), we had the ‘floppers’ (the beer mats) and we had the ‘flippers’ on the end of our arms.

In no time at all, the World Beer Mat Flipping Games were inaugurated. We had a ceremony to open them, this involved some more black velvets and a packet of crisps. We lit the sacred ‘flipping flame’ – this will remain lit as long as the games last – or as long as the upturned fag stays alight.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

We start with 1 and build…..

We flipped and drank.
Drank and flipped.
Drunk and flopped…..

Pretty soon, the ‘10 mat’ barrier was smashed. Incredible!

A lap of honour is run – well more properly described as ‘staggered’….. stopping off at the bar for a refuel. This sporting life is certainly thirsty work. The tension was tense as the new World record was achieved at about 10 o’clock that night. Just how many was our new and ‘never to be beaten’ World record? Seventeen. Only Seven-bloody-teen, that’s all!

After that high water mark, lactic acid, diminishing hand eye co-ordination and ever increasing bog trips took its toll. Those heady heights were never again repeated. I went home.

The next day, I eagerly dug out my Guinness Book, so I could contact Norris and tell him of our incredible feat of incredibleness.

Just to make certain – and to bury the nagging doubt nagging away in the back of my mind, I decided to look in the great book to see if there was already a category for ‘beer mat flipping’ Not very likely, I know – but best make sure eh? I scan the index, hmmm -

‘banana’ – biggest, bendiest, most like a penis…
‘beard’ – longest, shortest, flanging - the art of, twirliest..
‘beer’ barfing, most pissed, mat flipping…..

"Mat flipping - blast!" See page 546… I find the page ‘Klaus Webber, a German student successfully defended his beer mat flipping title and set a new world record of 92 beer mats’….

NINETY TWO! – He must have hands like spades. How the hell do you get 92 beer mats in your hand for God’s sake? Dejected, the letter to Norris is consigned to the ‘bin of failure’.

We reconvene at Games HQ for a summit meeting. OK we need to find activities so obscure that not even know all Norris McWhirter has ever heard of them. We draw up a short list…

1) Furthest Gob.
2) Furthest Gob.(Into a gale force wind).
3) Highest wee up the bog wall.
4) Loudest Fart.
5) Quickest wee into a pint glass.
6) Furthest distance you can propel the contents of a packet of crisps by stamping on one end of it.
7) Most people in a pub bog cubicle………

Most of the night was filled with making the list, having a laugh and getting pissed.

Years later, I’m recounting this episode of my student days to a client of mine. "Did you ever do any of them?" he said

"No, of course not! After all, you’d have to be seriously mentally moronic to have a go at a Guinness record wouldn’t you?"

It was one of those seminal ‘foot in mouth’ moments. As soon as I’d said the words – I knew, I just knew he had attempted one. Did I say ‘one’ – well I was wrong, he had been in the book three times. Bloody hell, what a stud-muffin!

"Three times? Wow, what for?"

This man of men, this tenacious terrier then recounted his finest hours to me…

"Yes, the first time I was in was for ‘Endurance Monopoly Playing’ …. 105 hours none stop……

The second time was for ‘Endurance Squash Playing’ ….. 79 hours non stop"

I am truly humbled. I’m clutching at any straws I can grab. Is playing squash more demanding than beer mat flipping? Probably not….

"And the third time you were in?"..

"Well, 2 months after we set the Squash Endurance record, some git went and broke it – by putting another 6 hours on…

"So me and my mate decided to go for the record again, which we did – we put it up to 92 hours…. We tried to make the 100 hours, but we were just too knackered, you know how it is"…

Yes, I know how it is alright, he had his 100 hour non stop squash playing barrier, I had my 20 beer mat flipping barrier, both targets unattainable to 2 finely honed athletes……. Ah well, never mind, we gave it our best shots but it was just not meant to be. Cue the 'Chariots of Fire' music.....

Damn Blast!…..

The Sunday Times Rich List was published yesterday and guess what – I’m not in it again..... It serves me right really, I should never have invested in ‘Chocolate Fireguards Corp’ in a bid to corner the chocolate craving, chilly woman market.

A trilogy in three parts. Part 3 – Peters overload……

By God, it’s cold. It’s a late November New York morning and it’s our second day of shooting our little filmlet on ‘The hunt for Spiderman’…. Over the next few days, we are off to the ‘Coca-Cola’ shop, Rockerfeller Centre, Empire State Building, Ellis Island, Central Park, The Staten Island Ferry and ‘The Battery’. As in "The Bronx is up and the Battery’s down, the people go through a hole in a ground, New York, New York, it’s a wonderful etc, etc. Phew, it’s a double chocked, choca block with crispy bits, schedule alright.

To get the day off to a warming good start, we head for a bit of brain storming at a real Big Apple Deli’ and some hashy browny, easy on the squeezy, sunny side uppy stuff to oil the creative wheels…..

I order. God knows what, but as I’m reeling it off to the little Greek guy behind the counter, I become acutely aware that I’m sprouting a bit of a Kojak inclination to the syntax……. The order finishes with …. "Thanks cup cake and all like that – and everything. Keep da change ya bum. Yaderra, yaderra"…

It arrives. Christ, it’s no wonder the USA is the lardiest, lard-arsed capital of the world is it? Desperate Dan in his cow pie-eating heyday would struggle with this cornucopia of fat encrusted embolism on a bin lid. How the hell am I going to eat this?

What would Kojak do in this situation?
Probably get one of the guys from the Bronx division to call him up and tell him a heist was going down, somewhere uptown. "Sorry, Tony da Greek, can’t finish the pastrami ensemble jas now, gotta go, send me da bill cupcake, ciao".

I don’t have a lollipop, or a pair of ‘70’s dark glasses, or a jaunty trilby, or a white mac’ or someone from the 39th precinct to ring me up and get me out of this fat fest - fast…..

Instead, I struggle. Forcing stuff down, oozing schmoozing hot gloozin’ stuff, processed to death, courtesy of Clogged-Arteries Just Like Mamma Had Inc. All I want is a nice slice of toast and a cup of tea for God’s sake. Eventually I wobble out of the Deli. With every New Yorker eating like there’s no tomorrow how does their sewage system cope? Just what makes all that steaming smoky stuff coming up through New York’s sidewalk vents and immortalised in so many Hollywood films?

I dread to think. The penny - and the breakfast has just dropped. I look for the John.

Post-dump. We make for The Battery and the ferry…..

‘Spidey’ dons his cozzy. The skin-tight Spandex is under severe strain. The big brekky has obviously taken its toll. Spiderman’s got ‘Deli-belly’. He looks like ‘Little Plum’ in a lycra suit.

The camera crew suddenly decides to go all artistic and obscure like….. Spidey’s ‘GutsterGate’ will be covered up. We get on the ferry. Not before some guy had seen portly Spidey walking towards the gangway. "OK, Spiderman, let’s see you jump onto the side of da ferry ya schmuck" …..

It’s Spidey’s biggest problem. Every time he dons the suit, Joe Public expects him to actually be the guy that can walk on ceilings and bound from building to building using nothing more than a length of spun silk ……. The man in the suit told me he has broken bones because enthusiastic New Yorkers keep on pushing him off high places, expecting arachnid skills to kick in. They don’t. Gary Gravity has the last laugh.

Whilst stuff is being shot, Andi starts to tell me how much he earned during the last fiscal year. Well, that really does cheer me up. He also tells me the fantastic branded ‘Nanook of the North’ anorak he is wearing is all sponsored – to the tune of about 20 grand a year – plus free anoraks. I’m depressed. I look at my coat. Bought from the Army and Navy Surplus Bargain Basement Bin, it doesn’t compare well with the anointed one’s ruggedly immaculate attire.

I’m green. Is it envy – or am I turning into the ‘Incredible Hulk’? And if I am beginning to split my pants with anger, is Andi safe? We’ll never know, because Mr TV is called away for a bit of filming…..

I start to doubt my worth. What does my Son think? An old, cold bag of spanners dressed in inadequate Army Surplus against a loaded 2 dimensional billboard-sponsored, shallow celeb’-obsessed has been? ….No contest.

Our days seemed to revolve around filming, eating and drinking. I can handle that, I even bought a few rounds – well, you’ve got to haven’t you? For Mr Peters however, this was an alien concept. He clearly comes from the ‘I’ve got money, and I’m keeping it’ school of self-centredness. No one seemed to mind – except me. Where I come from, you go to a bar, you pay your way….. or you get beaten up. That wasn’t the worse part of having a beer with Andi though. No, ‘namedropping’ is much, much worse.

"Yeah, Jamie and Louise Redknapp, good friends of mine….. Philip Schofield, great bloke …. Spice Girls - really, really talented girls"…..

Andi’s getting close. Closer than he ever knows to finding out first hand just what lies on the bottom of the cold, cold East River. My spirits are briefly raised when Andi bemoans the fact that he has bought a pile of videos from some shop on 5th Avenue and he forgot to check if they were PAL format suitable for viewing in Britain – which of course, they aren’t, they’re all U.S. format. Oh yes! Thank you God.

Then he tells me it doesn’t really matter as he has both types of video players at home……. I’m crushed.

He seemed to get on with my son though – and to be fair, John is an absolute natch in front of the camera. He’s even outshining the great Andi Peters. At the end of one of the really good days filming, Andi asks my son whether he would like a job in television. Please, please, just say "Yes" I silently plead. …. If you say "Yes" and work on Andi’s already colossal ego, he’ll get you a job on a kids show – and untold riches will follow…..

I wait, hanging on John’s carefully worded and fully considered reply.

"No thanks, I’d rather work with dinosaurs"

Shit! He still wants to be a Palaeontologist….

We decide to all have a day off from the epic-filled, crazy, hazy filming days of make believe. I must admit, I need it. I’m suffering from celeb-fatigue. If I hear one more story about how really interesting, sincere and talented, Ginger Spice is, I’m going to kill someone.

I put ‘Plan B’ into action. (‘Plan A’ is to win the lottery and retire).

I’ve been pumping Jeremy during the last few days about who exactly employed him in his role as Spiderman. His reply is music to my ears. Marvel comics, New York HQ.

It only took a day of constant nagging to swing the deal. Jez sets up the visit for our day off. "Are you coming with us?" I ask.
Jeremy declines. Andi’s not coming either – so that’s a win-win situation then! I get to visit the home of my childhood heroes – and it’s an Andi-free zone to boot.

We arrive in a big yellow taxi outside marvellous Marvel’s offices…... Marvellous. I switch to hunter gathering mode. I’m on a cadging mission and those Yanks have got no chance. My pockets are full to the brim of empty Macy’s plastic bags – just in case.

We enter. I’m a bit shocked at first though. We are met by another Spiderman – an impostor no less! I discover they, rather like Father Christmas – job share. Stand-in-Spidey shows me around. "Is Stan Lee in the office today? He is! Soooperb – can I meet him?

Kid in candy store (and I’m not talking about my son) reaches the inner sanctum – the archive room….. Aren’t Yanks polite? They just never seem to be able to say "No". And even if they say "Well, I’ll have ask someone" – I take that as a ‘Yes’ anyway - and start stuffing posters and artwork into my Macy’s bags. Badges, nick-nacks, T-shirts follow. I feel like I’ve cleaned them out……. Oh dear, I have.

The week rolls along. Andi’s day is made when, while we were filming on 5th Avenue, some British people actually recognise him…. Eventually…. The autographs flow.

The last day. The film is ’in the can’ as us film folk say and we are having a last few beers before we all go our separate ways. Me? Back to humdrumsville. Andi? On to L.A. and an interview with Michael Jackson, no less. I took this relaxed window in our busy schedules to ask Andi for 3 autographs to give to my Blighty-bound sons.

Andi says "Oooohhh, sorry, I’m far too busy at the moment"….. Too right – too busy drinking my beer from my round. He tells me he’ll do it later. I tell him to ‘shove it’.

And it was shoved – sideways.

I didn’t speak to him again……. Peace at last.

The kids did get their autographs though – I forged them. Well, I couldn’t disillusion them could I?

A trilogy - in three parts Part 2 Up, up and away….



My son with Andi Peters and Spiderman outside FAO Schwarz in N.Y.
(Spiderman is the one in the red Spiderman mask)

The great day arrives and we meet up with a BBC bodkin at Manchester airport. She has all the tickets and stuff. We meet, greet - and fleet of foot, we just manage to catch the shuttle down to Heathrow….

"Will we meet Andi there?"

"No – He’ll be getting a later flight"

"What flight are we getting then?"

"The ‘Air India’ jumbo to JFK. It takes off at 2.00pm"……

Hmmm, Air India…… I thumb through my recently bought leaflet ‘The World’s Top Airlines’ – to see just how Air India measures up. According to my leaflet, it doesn’t.

Apparently, for reliability and comfort, Air India ranks just in between ‘Air-Afghanistan’ and ‘Bedrock International Airways’ as used by Fred Flintstone.

"So what airline is Andi Peters getting then?"

"Virgin Club Class"

Do I really need to check in my little booklet just where ‘Virgin Club Class’ ranks in the Top Airlines list?

The booklet is consigned to the bin.

We get to the Air India check in desk at Heathrow. My heart sinks. It’s a scrum – it looks like first day of the Winter sale at Harrods Calcutta branch. There’s a guy with a walkie talkie in his hand and an Air India turban on his head screaming something to the heaving, pushing crowd.

Eventually, we get through check in and are welcomed aboard by a drop dead gorgeous stewardess in an Air India sari. She ushers us to our seats. Maybe Air India isn’t all that bad after all?

The engines roar, the g-force kicks in and we’re on our way. I settle back to explore the in-flight entertainment. Films. Any film you want to look at – as long as they are Bollywood ones. I’m not kidding, by the time we got to JFK I’ve seen an entire year’s output – and not a car chase, drugs bust, cyborg from the future or psychotic English villain in any of them……

Soon it’s time for dinner. The dream in the sari asks me what I would like to eat.

"What’s on the menu?"

I’ll have the Chicken Curry please"

The Curry was as hot as my pants in a sauna on the surface of the Sun. Even the guys from Madras were begging for water. The power of speech went first, as my tongue swelled to the size of a bouncey castle. Pretty soon, I’m in a coma and all my vital organs have shut down...

The dream sari girl gently wakes me with a tender kiss on each eye lid ... sorry, curry induced delirium.... she shoves a green card in my hand. Some of the questions are bloody awful. Does my stowed pack of 'Solpadeine' qualify as a class A drug? Fortunately, we sail through customs and move toward a waiting throng of people all holding up little bits of card with names scribbled on. And we are on one of them! This guy has got a peak cap on and everything, he tells us he’s off to get the limo’. We wait outside.

The limo’ pulls up. This thing’s so long, by the time it’s stopped, it stretches across 3 States and 2 different time zones ….

I feel like a million dollars as we cruise towards Manhattan. We check in at the Waldorf Astoria. The room, classy. The mini bar, emptying rapidly. The branded Waldorf nick-nacks, sewing kit, soaplet bar etc, gravitating towards my suitcase.
Well, you just never know when a sewing kit might come in handy do you?
We freshen up and get a call to meet in the bar.

I leave my son crashed out and flicking through 8 million TV channels and head for celebrityville… The director, an incredibly talented girl – all of 23 years old was really nice. She introduced me to Andi Peters. He was OK I suppose. A bit up himself, a bit Dale Winton, a bit of a sporty sweater wearer, a bit of a big head and a bit pissed off that no one else in the bar knew who the hell ‘Andi Peters’ was…..

The nice Director lady introduces me to ‘Jeremy’….

"Hello, I’m Jeremy Stooooooooart – I play ‘Spiderman’. At the moment, I’m out of uniform, obviously"….

"What, you’re here as Peter Parker then?"

He smiles, like he’s never heard of that line before…..

What a nice guy Mr Stooooooooart was. Unassuming, he told me that straight after he’d finished making the film with Andi and my son, he was off for the ‘Thanksgiving’ weekend up into Amish Country. Inspired, I tell that great joke "What goes ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ bang ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’…?"

Jeremy didn’t know.

"An Amish drive by shooting!"

Jeremy didn’t laugh. Maybe he could tell his Amish mates the joke when he goes up country?

Anyway, because I didn’t want to know just what Andi had to say about the Spice Girls, I speak at length with Jeremy.

"You come fram Liverpool? – I been there. I was on a daytime programme…. Richard and Dooody? I think it was called"…

Superb! I spend the next 15 minutes debunking the legend that is ‘Richard and Judy’. Andi looks nervous – he obviously counts them as friends….

The next day we rise early and dress, my son and I in matching ‘away’ Liverpool tops – well, we are in New York… We meet the others in the restaurant. Andi is in a flap. "Ooohhh Steve, they won’t let you eat your breakfast wearing that! … I mean, look at me. This top cost £200 – and I’ve had to put a jacket on over it".

I didn’t realise it, but Astorian etiquette has been seriously compromised. They don’t appear to appreciate my non svelte figure, closely wrapped in my team’s colours. The Maitre D slimes over with a dinner jacket and plonks it across my shoulders. I am now wearing a footy shirt with a tux jacket, Levi jeans and trainers. I look a right berk.

After breakfast, we all gather in the lobby – Jeremy joins us as well. I notice that he has changed a bit. Something is not quite right though, somehow he just doesn’t seem the same guy I met last night …. "Jeremy, is there something different about you, from last night?…"

"I’ve got my full ‘Spiderman’ costume on"

Of course he has. We meet the cameraman and sound dude – and then we’re off. First stop, the biggest toy shop in the world, FAO Schwarz – then on to Trump Tower……. And they call this work?……..

In the final thrilling instalment I narrowly avoid chucking Andi into the East River wearing concrete boots, as he really does begin to get right up my tits…. Tight arse Peters manages to do the whole trip without buying a round …. King Cadge strikes again! I manage to blag a visit to Marvel Comics’ New York H.Q. Their poster and artwork archive is well plundered as a turbo boosted scouser on a mission says "Oh ay, go on, gizz it" 514 times in just 1 hour…. Gasp at the way Andi Peters tells me that he is "Just too busy" to sign 3 post it notes for my other 3 sons… Sob As Andi asks my son if he would like to be a TV presenter. My son turns him down flat…… Bugger!



A trilogy – in three parts. Part 1 An Englishman in New York…..

So, there I am sitting in a swanky bar in one of the poshest hotels, in one of the most happening cities on the planet and I’m talking to a guy opposite who had actually appeared on our own Kings and Queens of daytime TV, ‘Richard ‘n’ Jooody’…….. which was nice.

Oh yes. I know about sophisticated small talk chit-chat all right.

Well, I had to try didn’t I? After all, can you bloody well believe it, I’m sitting in the cocktail bar of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel on Park Avenue in New York City.

How jammy is that then?

Bloody jammy actually. It was all to do with my eldest son entering a competition – and actually winning. He was always sending tatty little sealed down envelopes with some rhyming ditty off to a cereal or sweet manufacturer in the hope that it would win him a choccy bar, T-shirt or a years supply of creosote or whatever…..

I vaguely remembered him asking me to post yet another stuck down envelope with his usual scrawl all over it. This request obviously meant I had to pay for the stamp …. I almost chucked it in the bin for God’s sake.

Two weeks later, it’s a chilly October night, I’m on my Jack Jones and the ‘phone rings. It’s a BBC producer on the other end of the line. I stifled my first inclination to wittily tell my caller "Oh yeah, well I’m the Pope – and if you’re looking for Jesus, he’s just nipped out to get some chips to go with our 6 pack of Tennents Super Strong Lager" ….. Thankfully, I didn’t. Whether it was the poshness of her voice, the crispness of her syntax or whatever, I decided to listen……. "Blah, blah, blah, your son has won a competition"

I was barely listening …"What competition?" – (I expected a free cuddly toy)…

"It’s the BBC’s ‘Live and Kicking Spiderman’ competition – and your son has won first prize!"

Hmmm, the BBC. Their prizes are usually a bit stingy aren’t they? I mean, I grew up with ‘Blankety Blank cheque book and pen sets’ – and they cost about 15 bob per dozen didn’t they for God’s sake…..

Anyway, back to the telecon’…

"So, just what has he won?"

"A week in New York. He will fly over to JFK with Andi Peters. Once there, they will make a fi……

"Sorry, sorry, misheard you there, I think. Where did you say he was going?"…

"New York, in the USA"…..

"Oh"

"Yes, as I was saying, once there, they will make a little film for the show, where Andi and your son will look for ‘Spiderman’..

I’m gobsmacked.

"The problem is, he’ll need a chaperone. Could you or your wife accompany him to New York?

"Hmmmm. Let me think. Better still, I’ll have a look at my diary. I carefully place the handset down. Do I look for my diary? Nah. Instead, I thought I should do something a bit more constructive…. A silent goal scoring footy celebration with my shirt looped over my head mouthing ‘Oh yes baby!’ seemed to fit the bill.

I look for – and eventually find some decorum…

"Yes, I think I can fit that in"

"Or your wife, possibly?"

"We - ell maybe, but I know for a fact that she has a very important appointment soon. When is the trip?"

"It’s the end of November"

I rustle some sheets of newspaper for effect… "I’m just having a look at her diary to see ….. Oh dear, I’m afraid she has her very important meeting right smack in the middle of that week. It looks like I’m going to have to do the trip then, ho hum"…

The BBC producer briefly tells me the itinerary. "OK, that’s great, I’ll keep everything under wraps. OK, that’s great, Andi is going to ring my son live on air next week, OK, great, got it. Byeee"

I cringe – just how many times did I just say ‘OK great’? I could feel myself already becoming shallow, vacuous and vain – yes, delusions of celebrity were setting in….

I carefully replace the handset. "Back of the net!"
My real problem is trying to convince Alfreda what a really boring place New York is…. without actually losing my manly bits to a sharp upward knee thrust.

In tomorrow’sexciting instalment, we are off to the Big Apple. I team up with quite possibly the most talented BBC person ever. Oh, and Andi Peters tags along as well.

PLUS, we check in at the Waldorf Astoria….. GASP at the swankiness of it all..…… REVEALED – The strange stranger who has appeared on our own ‘Richard ‘n’ Jooody’…. READ how my first breakfast there is marred by the Maitre D insisting that I cover up my Liverpool away shirt… I deduce, he must have been a Man U fan…..

The Janet and Shane show

I’ve been 'Panicky Pete' this week. Absolutely everything I’ve tried to do has either gone tits up or down a plug hole….. Last night was the first time in days I could sit on me bum and watch the telly……

A few scoops helped – and a few home made lamb burgers – and a big packet of crisps….. and some more beers to wash it down. I was feeling a bit whoosey, it was a joint celebration - sort of getting rid of some work, by cunningly burying it in a clip file marked ‘Amnesia’ and chucking it in a cabinet called ‘black bin bag’….. The other reason was watching one of my favourite sports on the telly – the abject humiliation of a politician in her act of resignation … for all to see, marvellous.

With this in mind, I thought I’d watch ‘This Week’ (in politics) on BBC 1 last night and catch up on the latest goss’ on the resignation … Former ‘Sigue-Sigue Sputnick groupie, Janet Street Porter was hosting, standing in for Andrew Neill, who was ‘away’

I open another can……

Then, after media MPs’ Michael Portillo and Dianne Abbott have done their chicken entrails stuff on the Hughes resignation, Janet introduced the next item.

"And nouow, fresh from the starge at The Awlbert Hawll, let me intradarce Shane MacGowan to tell ars just what he thinks of the bar and restawrant smarking ban in Awrerland…

Comfy stupor becomes gobby smacked incredulity. Shane MacGowan!

Is this the same Shane MacGowan who was last sober when God was a lad and when we still had an Empire?

Am I that pissed? The Pogues bad boy is actually appearing to be on a political magazine programme – being interviewed by JSP. Yep, it's definitely the pointy toothed one all right.

The camera zooms in on a sweaty, glazed Shane. He replies to Janet’s first searching question ….. eventually. "WhatIzinkof ….. debannnizzzznotveymushhhhh"

Michael Portillo and Dianne Abbott, watch attentively.

Shane drones on "Oithinkitzzznawtroightzzzzzz ….. weallluvvasmoke…….."

You can tell it’s going pear shaped. Mike and Di’ are trying to finish off his sentences – well, they would if they could understand a word he was saying.

Janet’s a bit flustered. Fortunately, Shane comes to the rescue with a well timed pregnant pause – or is he asleep? The interview stumbles along, 5 minutes seems like 20, Abbott finds her shoes more interesting to look at. Portillo assumes a fixed stare. The sort of stare that says "Don’t talk to me and I won’t crack up into great fits of laughter"….

You can just imagine Beverley Hughes, sat at home thanking God for Shane and his diversionary words of wisdom…..

Tuesday short…….

Our venerable leader, Tony Blair announced a whole new initiative today. (Yes, another one).

Latest communique from planet BlairWorld – big Tone has set the full resources of Plod against the super criminal. He’s announced more resources, more protection for super grasses and more pressure put on the "People that are making each citizen’s life an absolute misery" as Tony so rightly screams from his pulpit….

‘Alfie the grass’ has been compiling a list of heavies that he knows has done terrible, terrible things to Joe public. Extortion, drug peddling, protection rackets …. You name it, these Mr Bigs have got their nasty, fat little digits well dug in – right up to the knuckles!

"Hello, is that MrBigStoppas?

"I’ve got some names for you in your campaign to rid us of the criminal super thugs that blight our land……

"The names? Yes, I’ve got them here – a right nasty bunch, have you got a pencil?

"Right, here goes….

Tony ‘the commissar’ Blair – the boss of bosses.

‘Gonads’ Gordon Brown – that’s his speciality, going for your balls as well as everything else.

John ‘don’t mess with me or I’ll eat your dinner’ Prescott – he’s ‘the enforcer’.

Geoff ‘no ammo, no brains’ Hoon – or ‘Buff’ for short – the quartemaster.

Plus loads of deluded gang members commonly known as ‘Yes men’….. I believe the gang is known as the ‘Nothing to do with me guv, Gov’

The Monday Obit’......

Peter Ustinov died today.
He was OK I suppose, wasn’t he?
I didn’t really get him. But he was a genius apparently, because everyone said so. I couldn’t understand why Michael Parkinson was always wetting himself every time Pete did one of those stories in one of his trademark European accents.

"……. Zo, ze vaiter zaid von loomp or two"…..

Parky wets pants….. "Ay up, Ustee, I've wet t'bloody kecks agin"....

He always seemed to be on ‘Parky’ – telling variations of the same old stories, in his fallback European accent (yawn)….. Him and the late Robert Morley, the two of them ALWAYS on that bloody talk show, boring me to death. The last time Robert Morley was on, was a bit awkward though.

‘Parky’ introduces his final guest "And my final guest is an actor, a raconteur and intellectual. Noel Coward said of him ‘He is a rrrright smart arse and general all round archetypal Englishman’ …. Please welcome Robert Morley"….

The Floor Manager started to mime to the audience that it was time to clap for all they were worth - which they duly did, sort of.
But above the clapperty frapperty came a voice from the audience, a shout of frustration, loud and ever so clear. Something along the lines of…..

"Geezuz H. Keeerista! Not boring old fat arsed Robert Morley AGAIN!!!!"

Tottering, moresome Morley. Awash with pinstripe and rolls of good living, ground to a halt. He looked shocked, moribund, suffering from an embarrassment embolism half way down the stairway to Parky lounge and his brown nosed adorer.

Parky came over all stern – like an angry ship. He stood up "Right. Who said that?"

No one owned up.

"No one is going home until the culprit owns up"

Parky strutted, like a public school House Master. The audience remained implacable - and mute. Parky purpled.

As far as I know, they may still be there, under the gaze of ‘Parky’s Yorkshire grit and Morley’s long departed spirit waiting for someone to own up…..

Back to Ustinov…

I was going to say "I’ll miss him", but I don’t really think I will – after all, we’ve still got Bernard Manning – and he tells stories in a funny accent – and they’re not funny either. He does look a bit like Peter Ustinov – but he’s not as dead as him. Although, Manning has been looking a bit ‘corpseulent’ lately….

Friday time warp……...

I’m 8 years old and I’m just about to invent a whole new game.
I’m in our back garden, with my best pal, Alan. We are mooching around in the borders – they are awash with bugs, creepies and crawlies. We start to turn over some old bricks scattered about. Under one of them, resided the biggest, blackest slug we had ever seen.

We pick him up, put him on the patio and wait for Sluggy’ to do something.

He does nothing.

We chant "Do something, do something, do something, Sluggy"

We invite sluggy to join our game – as if he had a choice. Alan gets the bumper pack of ‘Saxa Salt’ from the kitchen. Sluggy looks petrified. It's like he's frozen with fear, rooted to the spot as we start to draw lines of salt all around him.

The lines join up to form a brilliant maze, with Sluggy right in the middle of it. We invite our little quiet pal to try and find his way out. He seems reluctant to try, so we get some ‘slug prodding’ utensils from the kitchen, to help him on his way and give him a bit of 'incentive'. (Forks from the cutlery drawer, if I remember it right).

We prod. Doink, doink, doink.

Maybe we’ve underestimated his intelligence. Maybe we’ve underestimated his problem solving capacity. Maybe he couldn’t move very fast because he didn’t have any legs …. Or maybe the reason he wasn't doing much, was to increase the dramatic effect. Who knows? Sluggy seems transfixed with something or other. It seems he just cannot grasp the gist of the game. It’s like he doesn’t get it.

Hardly surprising really. Our maze wasn’t that good. Traditional mazes have a way of getting in and out – they have lots of blind alleys, but the basic premise is that eventually a way out can be found. That’s where our maze differed. It had no way in - and definitely no way out. Just concentric squares of salt, the smallest being just big enough to make Sluggy immobile.

Bored with the inactivity, we meander to our supper – and in the days before video games, a bit of telly then bed.

The next day, we come across what’s left of our forgotten playmate. What was once a slug is now a withered dried up shmuck of wrinkled black skin. During the night Sluggy obviously tried to make a break for it. He nobly tried to break free of those saline bonds. He must have taken a bit of a running jump at it though, because he travelled about half an inch before capitulating in a salty heap.

Sluggy, we salute you. We gave our little salt encrusted pal a full state funeral by chucking him over into next door’s garden.

Note: No slugs were actually harmed in this story. A very talented ‘stunt slug’ was employed. He wore a complete, all in one, salt proof body suit at all times….. (obviously).

Thursday’s helpful suggestion ……

In order that the Olympic Stadium in Athens be finished in time – (well, at least in time for the closing ceremony), may I suggest some extra athletic events. This way, the competitors can actually do the topping off, thus avoiding cringing embarrassment for the Greek Government.

1) Speed Bricklaying.
2) Time and Motion Marathon.
3) Bureaucratic Hurdles.
4) Scaffold-pole Vaulting.
5) Builders Bum Jump.
6) Hod Hump.
7) Pray like you’ve never prayed before sprint.
8) Get it finished or you’re for the high jump.

Or maybe they should postpone it for another year.
Cue ‘Chariot’s of Fire’ music….
Cue Anneka Rice and her ‘challenge’ to get it finished…..
Cue Jimmy Saville and will Jim fix it?….
Cue someone to invent a ‘slowing down time’, time machine….
Cue ‘Bob the Builder’ and a million of his mates…
Cue the 'Auf Wiedersehen, Pet’ crew….
Cue a bleeding miracle from the boy Zeus…..

Failing that, they could always transfer it to our local school playing fields…..

The Wednesday Conundrum……

Question: When does an International leader of State sponsored terrorism, suddenly become a really decent chap?

Answer: When Dubbya tells his European puppet, sorry ‘partner’ to "Get over to Libeeya and offer the hand of friendship to nice guy Colonel Muammar Gaddafi and seecure those oilfields for deemocrasee"

So that’s all right then.



The Wednesday Confessional……

OK, I’m not a Brain Surgeon, but I did, once have double helpings of soup with added croutons in a hospital. I fell for the old, "Do you want another dollop of soup love?" routine from the soup doling nurse…… Thick or what?

Perhaps my greatest food crime, whilst in hospital was to fill in the next day menu selection for breakfast, lunch and dinner…. Just as I was about to leave the ward having recovered from my illness.

The guy occupying my bed the next day would have:

BREAKFAST: Porridge (large portion). Dry toast.

LUNCH: Liver and Onions. Pink blancmange.

DINNER: Potatoes, butter beans, cauliflower cheese and streaky pork belly. Spotted dick.

Possibly - there's a lot of it about, but I don't know what was wrong with him.

May I rot in Hell’s kitchen….

Tuesday is 'trousering cash' day....

Inspired by the runaway success of the ‘Belle de Jour’ book deal (yawn), Alfie the plagiarist has decided to cash in on the ‘sex memoirs’ market.

Soon to be launched, ‘Alfie le rent boy’ will be a gritty, no holds barred account of a good looking, clear complexioned, slim hipped, slightly effeminate chap, making house to house calls in order to make a few quid.

I’m musing on a few gambits to open up with. It’ll need to be controversial - and I'll especially have to show how utterly contemptuous I am of all my clients. I’ll have to ‘paint the scene' through super duper descripto’ stuff, you know, like what those proper novella writers do …….

First posting (draft) …..
‘Allo, I am Alfie le rent boy’ and I’m about to see my first client of the day…. I am cruising down a notorious rent boy haunt in central London. A middle-aged businessman in blushing pinstripe approaches me. His vice like grip on his brief case is as tight as a vice in a vice like grip. Before he can say a word, I scream at him "You cannot afford me, oaf".

Crestfallen, the businessman stumbles away muttering "I only wanted to know the time".

I scorn him. "Consider yourself scorned" … And he was.

Soon 73b Notorious Road comes into view. The brightly painted front door from an age gone by gleams in the morning Sun. The big lion headed knocker, brassed off from being rubbed too much, catches my eye.

I knock.

And knock again.

The door creaks open like a wreaking creaking thing.

There, standing in the hallway is a seedy looking man of Mediterranean appearance and indeterminate age. Grime welcomes him like an old friend. Grease is the word and the time ... and the place is his hair. It’s Mazzola central in those follicles. He wears a vest, a cotton/synthetic mix that has seen 56 too many TV and curry suppers. His name is ‘Victor’.

Victor eyes me thoughtfully, he notices my God given Grecian good looks, chiselled chin and 6 pack stomach rippling through my skin tight shirt. My blonde, curly locks toss, tossily like a well tossed salad, caressed by a wafty wind originating from the scorched sand clad plains of Mauritania. Tiny beads of sweat form on my upper lip. My pecks are as taught as a Buckingham Palace Guardsman on special taught duty. Tension crackles through the air like a crackly tensioned torsioned piece of air. He doesn’t look pleased to see me.

"I’m Alfie le rent boy"

Victor says "I don’t have any money – so shove your rent book up your jacksy"

"You’ll have to pay double next week… And if you don’t pay, the landlord will chuck you out."

"Whatever"

With that, Victor slams the door – shut.

On second thoughts, best not give up my day job then…….

Monday shorts...

Diff’rent Strokes…..
Blackburn bathing pool have banned the backstroke at busy times because "It’s too dangerous"…… Thank goodness, they haven’t outlawed my favourite swimming style – ‘The arse-in-the-air-thrash-the-water-into-submission-and-move-with-the-grace-of-a-fat-drowning-jaffa, stroke’.

Well, at least not yet


Windy days …..

On Tuesday, the Sun was shining, the birds tweeting and sap was rising – all around. My thoughts turned to gardening … "It’s about time I visited the Garden Centre"…

On Wednesday, as a special treat, Alfreda bought me a neat little mobile seed propagator for the garden. It’s a tower of about 6 feet tall by 3 feet square, it’s got wire mesh shelving, sturdy tubular frame and a clear plastic, zip up skin. It’s just ideal for ‘bringing on’ delicate seedlings where garden space is too tight to allow a proper green house to be built.

On Thursday, I planted all my Summer seeds in my seed trays and carefully placed them into my brand new propagator.

On Friday, with the wind freshening I check that all is well with my new propagator and its precious cargo of germinating seeds – and yes, all is well. Solid as a rock.

On Saturday, sometime in the early morning, my propagator grew wings and split my garden scene. ‘Solid as a rock’ became ‘Flaccid as a lemon meringue’. All that was left was the base, smashed and twisted, a couple of non sturdy struts from the tubular frame and the carefully placed compost/seed mixture from 10 seed trays now dumped unceremoniously on the deck in a maniacally random way.

That’s put an end to the gardening fad then.


Marketing opportunity….

Idea: Front view mirrors for Blackburn’s backstroke swimmers.

Method: Simply rip off a car wing mirror and super-glue it to your face. Tilt it to an angle of 45 degrees. Thereby, you will be able to navigate your way ahead, carefully picking your route around bloated wobbly people, inconsiderate ‘wallowers’ and arsey posers as they try to impress the girls.

Extras: To effortlessly clear a path in the pool, whilst backstroking and really enhance your water presence why not purchase a two tone Maseratti horn and get it fitted to your trunks. Tune available: the ‘Jaws’ theme.

Are you sitting comfortably children?
Then I’ll begin………

So started Shadow Chancellor, Oliver Letwin’s Party Political last night on the telly. Well, OK, I’m exaggerating a bit - but not that much. Honestly, I thought condescending politicians were supposed to be a thing of the past – or the exclusive preserve of the Party in power. Isn’t ‘humility’ supposed to be the new black for Conservative MPs? Especially seeing how the sleaze disease took its toll on them in the ‘90’s.

I’m just tucking into my salmon steak and chips (with added gee-emery for extra flavour) when wide-eyed Olly shoves his moniker into my face. Well….. it’s better than Emmerdale I suppose?

Oliver starts his heavyweight fiscal fandango "Do you know kids, that when you borrow from the bank, you have to pay it back – that’s what Gordon Brown has done kiddie-winks. He’s spent your pocket money. He's raided your piggy banks and filched all your birthday money. He’s taken it to the tuck shop and wasted it on cream cakes and lashings of jelly, but you will have to pay for it"

"Naughty, Mr Brown, go straight to bed, there’ll be no jammy dodgers and milk for you tonight"

‘Simplistic’ was not the word for Mr Letwin’s performance. Well, it wasn't the word I was thinking of. ‘Herbert’ …. ‘Berk’ ….. and ‘Pinstripe-Prat’ are probably more apt.

After Oliver’s mindless meanderings he almost finished off with "Night, night children, sleep tight and don’t let the nasty Taxman bite"….

So much for incisive political debate.

Porn in my garden……

I’ve got shedloads of it. It’s ‘porn central’ in our garden at the moment. Gooey, sticky body fluids, writhing contorted bodies and non stop hedge to hedge jumpy-rumpy-pumpy-humpy action. Yes, frogs’ porn is back and it’s left a tapioca slick of Torrey Canyon proportions in my pond.

Frogs – millions of them, billions more probably, but I don’t want to get accused of hyperbole. They are bloody everywhere – and all desperate for a shag. Strolling through the daffs’ today, I was acutely aware of the all pervasive scent of froggy testosterone and the all too obvious ‘in tandem’ bouncing of amphibians on the grass and in the pond …. They’re all sex mad. I’ve come to the conclusion that frogs, when they are in the mood, will have a go at anything….

Several years ago, I found a half-dead carp flapping around on the surface of the pond. The fish didn’t look very well, not surprising really, on top of it with his little hands stuffed into each of the fish’s gills and hanging on for dear life was a randy rogering little frog. I mean, it's just not right is it? What future would their offspring have? Would they be called frish, figgs or foggs?

Good God almighty, I tried and tried to get that frog off the fish, but his little hands were shoved right into the gills, the more I pulled, the worse the fish looked.

Alfreda, helpfully suggested that a good dose of cold water sploshed over the couple would shock Freddie sufficiently to bring about coitus interruptus. I’m so desperate, I don’t even consider the insanity of the suggestion. Eventually, Alfeda’s ‘under the influence of drugs’ idea is refined. I grab my son’s ‘SuperSoaker’ water bazooka, take aim and fire.

Incalculable p.s.i. of pressure later and no effect whatsoever. The frog is still riding for all he’s worth. By now, the fish is well and truly buggered. Drastic situations require drastic actions. I land the two lovers in a net and put into action ‘PLAN B’.

It’s amazing how versatile a tool a cocktail stick can be. Sure, it skewers glace cherries and slices of lemon….. But it also makes a superb frog prodder. It’s my tip of the day. If you are ever in a position where you need to get a frog’s complete and undivided attention, then a 3-inch bit of wood will do it. A few well directed digs into his soft and wobbly nether regions soon does the trick – the frog rolls off, happy as you like and my carp is free, if a little weary.

Of course, frogs haven’t always had it so easy in our garden. Our late cat, Tizzy Wizzy Woo, especially valued this time of the year as a useful protein supplement. She would catch them, bite the legs and arms off the unfortunate amphibian, eat them - then calmly walk away, licking her lips.... Nice.

Sounds a bit brutal I know, but it was just a food thing with her – nothing personal. I tried to stop her as much as possible obviously, but ultimately I had to take a view. With the help of my pond, we raised thousands and thousands of froglets every year, a few got eaten, but most got away – it’s the law of my jungle.

Whenever I did find a Frog with an appendage deficiency of three or more as a result of Tizzy Wizzy Woo’s tyranny, I would get out my ‘despatching mallet’ and do the decent thing. If they only had one or two limbs missing then they coped pretty well, our pond is a wildlife haven – a frog doesn’t have to move very far to get a meal. Occasionally, she would bite off the limbs from one side only. Predictably, they swam in ever decreasing circles…….

Binge drinking……

I agree, far too much binge drinking around. I blame the cheap cost and the easy accessibility of booze.

I mean, it’s not as if they just have ‘Happy Hour’. What with all the subsidies, Happy Hour lasts for as long as the bars are open…….. Which is all the time. So, happy hour becomes happy days, weeks, months……

I’m on one of my favourite subjects again – the ‘don’t do as we do, but do as we say’ crowd from Westminster.

So when you’re sat there, in your local, nursing a taxed to the hilt pint that’s just cost you £2.25 whilst looking at a £6.85 lump of stale bread and cob of polystyrene laughingly masquerading as a nice bit o’ Cheddar combo, consider this…..

The Palace of Westminster has over 20 bars and pubs within its boundaries. Well that’s nice – and thoughtful, that makes for an average of around 31 MPs per bar, thus avoiding unseemly and plebeian behaviour such as pushing and shoving to get served first. (I haven’t included any of your Lordships, I couldn’t locate any during my in depth survey).

Notice, I didn’t say ‘pushing and shoving to get served for last orders’ - this being Westminster means that there are no last orders. Licensing hours within can only be described as ‘non-existent’ The bars have a 24-hour license; whenever the 2 Houses are sitting, the bars are open 24/7. Well that’s comforting – no ’10 to 11’ panic induced scrum for them, then..

All drinks bought in the Palace are subsidised, by us - as are the bottles of vintage wine, as is the entire restaurant menu. In the case of the food, they pay about 20 to 30% of the true retail worth. Well that is predictable – looks like I’m picking up the tab again.

Where does the word ‘binge’ come from then? My guess is it’s something to do with pigs, troughs and naked greed.

It’s comforting to know that when we stagger out of a club at 2 in the morning we’re at best embarrassing and at worse a bloody disgrace. When an MP is found in some Whitehall gutter with puke dribbling down their best pinstripe, they are described as ‘overworked’ or ‘tired and emotional’

Aint democracy wonderful?

Meanwhile, at a marketing company somewhere in London….

"OK people, gather round.

"Today, we’ve got a mountain to climb – with 2 broken legs, a blinding snowstorm and a 38 stone Sumo wrestler strapped to our back. This really is the Mount Everest of marketing….

"We are right up shit creek – and the paddle shop is on half day closing. This is our rock and our hard place, this is our nadir, this is the almost impossible brief.

"Today, we’ve got to devise the marketing equivalent that’s almost as difficult as selling sand to Arabs and ice to Eskimos."

"Sounds like a pretty tall order, Chief – I mean, Arabs have got loads and loads of sand haven’t they – and it’s a bit cold to be putting ice in an Eskimo’s G&T?"

"I was being ironic. The proposition is that everything is possible – no matter how improbable, if you devise the correct marketing strategy. So, when we are trying to accomplish something very, very difficult we use the analogy that whatever our brief is – it's still not as difficult as selling sand to Arabs or ice to Eskimos - which would obviously be virtually impossible to do".

"Well, what is it, what's all the fuss about then? What’s it all about, this ‘almost impossible’ brief?

"Genetically modified crops – or 'G.M.' for short. Her Majesty’s Government has tasked our Company to handle the marketing for this tricky ‘hot potato’ – and ‘sell’ it to the Great British public as a good and wholesome foodstuff"….

"So let’s unlock the grey matter and do some creative power thinking, and let’s do it now, people".

"Hmmm"

"Hmmmmmmm"

"Hmmmmmmmmmmm"

"Chief"

"What?"

"Can we have a go at the ‘sand to Arabs’ brief instead?"

Margaret, What part of "GM crops? I'd rather eat ground glass, so shove them up your arse!" don’t you understand?.......

The story so far……

The year is 2000(ish) Our far seeing Government decides that it would be a ‘good thing’ to do a bit of GM test growing – in various secret locations throughout England.

After various scare stories, Government are forced to tell the locals where these trials are being held. "They’re just over there" says a DEFRA spokesperson.

The locals already knew though. "Ooooh ahhhh, it be the dayglo haze and the three headed cows that give it away" says Jonny Local.

Strange, chemical – suited protesters start to trash the testing fields. The Government, spooked by the adverse publicity decide on an informal chat with the population – "To allay fears and convey to them the benefits of the GM revolution". The embryonic ‘Big Conversation’ – or ‘Big Con’ for short – or ‘Big porky-lying, conniving ingrates’ for even shorter, is born.

After 2 years of consultation, vox poppery and ‘Big Connery’ with Joe Public, The Government decide they have a mandate to proceed with some real crop planting of GM maize. Environmental Minister (or mental for short), Margaret Beckett justifies her decision.

"The 8% of the population that are in favour of GM foods have given us a clear mandate" declares Mental Margaret. When asked about the 92% that are vehemently opposed to the proposition, she declares them all to be trouble makers, Luddites, townies, misty eyed liberals – or suffering from Mad Cow disease.

The issue is so important, it headlines on this morning’s BBC Breakfast programme. Ace incisive, inspirational and ‘mind of a planet’ interviewer (and possible winner of this year’s Most Stupid Question Award), Natasha Kaplinsky sticks the boot into a lily-livered pinko pot smoking, tree hugger from Greenpeace…. "Well, this GM maize is only intended for animal feed – so what’s the big deal?"

I mean, it’s not as if we’ll be eating the stuff is it?



The law of averages……

I see the Attorney General, the Right Hon Lord Goldsmith is under pressure to release the ‘evidence’ that enabled our ‘legitimate’ invasion of Iraq.

‘Alfie the scoop’ has had unique access to the minutes of the tense and very secret Cabinet meeting.

"Look Goldsmith, does the law allow us to invade, or not?"

"It’s not that easy Prime Minister. It’s very, very tricky. So to solve this conundrum I have had this little device made up."

"What is it, Attorney General?"

"It’s a disc, on one side is the word ‘WAR’ and on the other side is the word ‘PEACE’. I simply stick it on my thumb and spin it – like a coin ….. Whichever side the disc lands on – that is what we’ll do"

"OK, as your infallible leader I, Anthony Blair give you permission to spin that disc"…….

"And it’s come down on the side of"…….

"Best out of 3?"…