Joneses, Joneses everywhere and not a hope of keeping up…

I am under siege at the moment – from aspirational family syndrome. Myself, Alfreda and the little tribe of Alfalfas are beginning to feel like the poor family that no one wants to live next door to.

We’re surrounded by families of ‘Joneses’ …. And I can’t keep up. To the right of us, the young, go-ahead dynamic couple with a kid that is only 5 but is already signed up to play for Liverpool F.C. have just had their entire front garden block paved. A huge area, that I bet can be seen from space, it’s a burnt umber and sienna mix with an attractive pattern in the centre. It hits just the right note of suburbian upward mobility….. *yawn*. Unfortunately, the company that did the block-paving – one ‘Jesse James and Co’ have made a bit of a pigs ear of it. The golden rule of block paving is to make sure that the gradient goes away from the house. Unfortunately, the cowboys didn’t know their arse from their slope, so when it rains an attractive moat gathers around the house. ‘Mr and Mrs Go-getter’ have mostly been ‘Mr and Mrs flooded out’ as Mother Nature, gravity, H2O and the ignored ‘golden rule’ conspire to bugger up their investment.

To the left is an aged silver duo – with loads of retirement cash and matching dark olive green Volvo estates. We rarely see them. They bought the house about a year ago and every couple of weeks some delivery van arrives with yet another bit of house kit. Double Glazing, double sofas, double garages…… and now a bloody monster big Conservatory that will no doubt include a couple of those twirly ceiling fans, and some posh wickerwork furniture.

In the middle is Alfie Manor. A bit of a ruin and generally not a pretty sight compared to ‘Left’ and ‘Right Fork’. Our garden can best be described as ‘rustic’. The most striking feature is the clump of ‘Great Willow Herb’ in the corner – just behind the pile of old faded block paving bricks that someone gave me a long, long time ago. I love this plant because it is the food for the caterpillar of Britain’s largest moth – The Elephant Hawk Moth – so I’m doing my bit for the environment aren’t I?. Over the years the pile of bricks has sagged and flopped into the long grass. It’s become ‘creepy-crawlie’ central, colonised by spiders and their many legged friends. Unfortunately, my flora and fauna enthusiasm is not shared with the ‘Silver Duo’, possibly because 5 billion Great Willow Herb germinated seeds dump themselves onto their immaculate lawn every autumn. Honestly, some people are so small minded aren't they?

A minor international incident has just been avoided as young Mr and Mrs ‘Go-getter’ have just installed a 6 foot high lapped fence to go with the block paving. It’s a Berlin Wall made of wood – the only things missing are watch-towers and slavering alsasians. Do you think they are trying to tell me something?

The fence had pinched a full 12 inches from our natural oasis. ‘Alfie the Beserker’ showed them the error of their ways - and the border has been redefined back to what it was. They've had the cowboys back to try to fix the 'gradient going the wrong way' problem - and have also built a grand brick wall to the front, with columns and concrete balls to boot. The problem with the border has left a nasty taste at Castle Alfie - and whilst there isn't outright hostility, an uneasy truce has broken out.

(But when their kid kicks over one of his footballs into our garden, I just don’t think he’s going to get it back)….

Olympic notebook…..

Janet and Jonny Junkets…….

Question: How many BBC commentators does it take to present the Olympic Games Programmes direct from Athens?

Answer: Lots and lots and lots and lots of them. So many, in fact that there’s no one left to change the blown light bulb in the Gents bogs at Broadcasting House in London.

And the first prize for the most banal question (so far) goes to…….

Sharon Davies at the Olympic swimming pool to Britain’s Steven Parry after he’d just won a bronze medal in the 100 metres Butterfly…..

"Well Steven, it looks like your tactics on the race worked out then?"

"Well obviously, Sharon, I thought I’d not ‘Go for Gold’…. ‘Going for Bronze’ just seems to have more of a savoir faire ring to it. I mean ‘Gold’ is so vulgar isn’t it? So Bling, Bling, so American don’t you think?

"Don’t you think Bronze’ is so this season?"….

Most ‘cheatingest’ Nation…..

Well, lots of nations to choose from here, but on balance I reckon it’s got to go to China.

Quite apart from the outrageous gamesmanship during the final of the Badminton Mixed Doubles. Moaning, carping and winning…… Have you seen the Chinese woman in the ‘Ladees’ Weight Lifting…. Good God Almighty, as sexy as a bag of nutty slack that’s let itself go a bit….

The Germans run them a close second though. I was made up when Alfreda told me they’d been kicked out of the Gold Medal position in the 3-day Equestrian.

"We’ve got the Silver, coz Germany have been disqualified"

"What for - invading Poland?…..

Most amateurish Nation….

Well that’s easy – it’s us, isn’t it? We take the Corinthian ideal to whole new depths of crapness. Big team, big National Lottery backing – and a measly couple of bronzes in the bag to show for it…. And the BBC going on and on, repeat after repeat ad nausiem – filling wall to wall Olympic Specials.

The Greeks show us how to……

Make a decent ‘Diana Fountain’ and find a proper use for it. Yes, have you seen their ‘circle of water’ bloody awesome – and no kids paddling in it either! No, no, the Greeks have stuck a load of butch canoeists to paddle up and down on it.

Oh yes! - It’s the Slob Olympics again…..

Superb! Another 4 years gone and another 2 weeks of total horizontality in front of the box coming up.

I’ve been doing a lot of training – building up gradually, starting off on just a few cans per night, building to my maximum capacity. I’ve got to be responsible – it’s a marathon not a sprint after all.

Yeah, 2 weeks of cheating, crying, whinging, tantrums …….. and ‘sport’ (obviously). 2 weeks of peanuts, pizza, beer, raw cabbage …. And more beer (obviously). And all from the comfort of my own arm chair. Brillo.

Even though I’m just watching, I’m living it. Every jump, every dip, every last gasp effort from our plucky British team of losers is played as if by ‘synchronisation’ in the great hall of OK Towers. For instance, in Sydney during the 2000 Olympics, I was watching Jonathan Edwards, ace triple-jumper to some - ‘hop, skip and jumpy guy’ to most, preparing for his first effort.

There he is, at the end of the runway, preparing, psyching, wobbling thighs, flexing fingers, loosening up, imagining his jump, imaging he’s going to jump right out of the stadium.

There I am, at the end of the couch, preparing, psynking beer, wobbling gut, flexing fat fingers around another piece of pizza, imagining I’m going to have to go to the toilet if he doesn’t hurry up an get a move on!!

EDWARDS – HURRY UP AND BLEEDING JUMP, YOU GEORDIE DRAMA QUEEN!!!!

As if mentally prodded by a million overfull bladders, Jonathan starts, he gathers pace, pumping sinews, eyes bulging, he’s really motoring now. He hits the board….. HOP, SKIP a n d JUMP. Jonathan lands in an explosion of silica. His very short, very baggy shorts bite into the sand. Grains enter every lower body orifice of the Edwards torso. I bet it really chaffs.

Bloody hell, never mind the state of Jonathan’s undies – I’ve got my own problems to sort out. For as he was pounding, I was twitching, as he was ‘hopping’ so was I. Unfortunately, one of us was hopping with a beer and pizza in hand – and it wasn’t Jonathan. By the time Edwards splashed down, I’m covered in runny pizza and beer. I look like some drunk’s puke up on me….

During the 2000 Olympics, I decided to do a bit of TV surfing to find out about other sports. "Sailing looks interesting…. And hey, guess what? Team GB are pretty bloody good at it as well!"

Ben Ainsley, apparently a nailed on favourite for the Gold in the ‘Park Lake Little Boaty Class’ is having a real tussle with his arch rival and nemesis from Brazil - Robert Scheidt. (How is that pronounced?)

Ben won – and Robert didn’t. Ben was about to be awarded his Gold medal and the BBC was there to record the ceremony in all its patriotic glory…..

The Olympic diatribe crackled out of the loud speaker system with as much gravitas as could be mustered. First in French (obviously) then into English….. "And in first place and winner of the Gold medal, from Great Britain - Ben Ainsley. In second place, from Brazil, Robert Shite…"

The kids laughed and revelled in this legitimate excuse to say "Shite, Shite, Shite" a lot.

"Well", observed Alfreda, "I know he didn’t win but I wouldn’t call him ‘Shite’ – ‘Crap’ would have been descriptive enough"….

If that’s who I think it is, I’m not in….

I’m expecting a phone call any day now.

A grovelling, snivelling conniving phone call from a suitably low-life, slime-ball jobsworth.

He won’t be selling double glazing.
He won’t be asking me to participate in a survey "that’ll only take 35 minutes of my time".
He won’t be asking me to invest in the U.S stock market, or to change my electricity supplier.

No, this phone call, this phone call will be an awful lot worse than that.

And when Mr Snivelling-Conniverer does ring me, the answer will be the same as last year.

"No, the Blairs’ cannot – repeat cannot stay at our house for a few days at the end of August. They are a bunch of freeloading cretins dedicated to bumming around the villas of Europe and the Caribbean, pushing themselves onto unsuspecting hosts, eating them out of house and home, using up all their bog paper, then moving on.

"Just because Tony ’the weasel’ is Prime Minister and ‘mad as a mad March mare’ Cherie is scary, doesn’t give them carte blanche to squat wherever they feel like.

"Sorry, ‘worm-tongue’ – chez Alfie is absolutely out of bounds to the Glorious Leader……. Not for any price, not even if they offer me The Lord Chancellorship, with a £2.5 million pension and free access to posh wallpaper. Not even if they offer me The Commissioner of Europe (Gravy Train Ministry) and give me Peter Mandelson as my ‘goffer’……

"Alfie cannot be bought – and anyway, I’ve already got Michael Howard in the attic, Charles Kennedy in the airing cupboard, John Major is doubling as a water feature and Robin Cook’s fraternising with the gnomes by the pond"……

The day after tomorrow – today……

Weird weather or what?

Thursday saw one hell of a storm and the entire contents of the Northern Atlantic being dumped on our little area of Lancashire. Alfie had not dressed for the occasion. Seeing that it was the second day of our Summer, (the first day was in early June), Alfie forgot to prepare for the inevitable thunder storm that marks the beginning of Autumn.

Alfie, looking rather sharp in his baggy shorts, summer shirt, open toed Jesus boots and shades a go-go, cuts a fine figure in a rotundly roundabout sort of way, as he sachets and saunters down the high street.

Unfortunately, Alfie was doing his sauntering with his back to the impending Tempest fast advancing from the west.

Hot ‘n sunny became wet ‘n wetter as ‘Hurricane WTFDTCF’ did its worst. Pretty soon, the street became the Amazon. Hot hatches became stationary, steaming, hulking wrecks – as suicidal boy racers flooded their engines as they cut pretty arcs of H2O to give soggy pedestrians a sewer shower.

I’m so wet, my man tits are showing through my sodden shirt. I’m so wet, hermit crabs are setting up home in between my toes and I’m growing gills. Water cascades up through the overwhelmed grids. Some saddo starts plonking sandbags outside his front door – where did he get them from? He’s probably got a nuclear bunker in his back garden – just behind the rockery, just in case. I hate those ‘prepared guys’ don’t you?

Was the world coming to an end or what?

Fortunately not – for Friday dawned hot, humid & humid some more with added humidity just for good measure – and guess what, I’ve got to visit a chocolate factory.

Alfie, ably assisted by his work pal Phil, arrives at the chocolate factory for an important job. It’s as hot as hell in there.

We are inducted into ‘choccy world’ – this means donning an overall made for someone a bit short in the arms department and a crotch about a foot from the floor. A rather voluminously natty hairnet is plonked on the OK barnet - plus a ‘beard net’ – It’s like a little dolly hammock and fits around your ears – it’s an elegance bypass. The look is complete – if I wanted to look a complete and utter arse. Phil has a digital camera with him. He takes note of the threat to his sphincteral cavity and the final resting place of the camera if he takes a picture of me. We limp round, crotch-crippled and crusty, with the smell of chocolate oozing out of our pores.

Saturday – fan-bloody-tastic day.
Sun, light, brilliance… just brilliant.
The sort of day that’s so bloody good you just wish you’d actually built that Eazzy-build Bar-B-Q kit that’s been kicking around the shed for God knows how long….

"Awwww Dad, can we have a Bar-B-Q today?"

"No"

"Why not – after all, you’ve got that ‘Eazzy-build Bar-B-Q kit?"

"Coz it’s not that easy"…..

Sunday – Windy.
As windy (but not as smelly) as the aftermath of a baked bean eating contest. But it’s still hot. That wind feels like its come straight out of an oven. Seeing that Alfred Towers has just invested in a rather stylish outdoor table and chairs set, Alfie thought it would be a chic and cosmopolitan idea to partake his toast and tea in the garden. He also took out The Sunday Times to complete the picture of urbane sophistication.

The Sunday Times, being a broadsheet does in fact catch the wind as well as any kite. I’m sure it was a very interesting read, I wonder where it is now?

A mistake, obviously…..

This morning, beloved Alfreda gathered my post, then thoughtfully opened it, then started to giggle like a schoolgirl.

I fall for it hook line and sinker.

"What you laughing at?"

"It’s better you don’t see it"
She proceeds to theatrically stuff the letter inside her pocket.

Cue playful royster – doystering of the let me have that bloody letter or I’ll break your legs in several places variety.

I win. I’ve got the crumpled letter in my hand.
She’s won. She’s let me get the letter.

I read.
She laughs.

The day I’ve been dreading has finally arrived.

Alfie the young turk, the dude, the ‘cool hand Luke’ is crestfallen.
Alfie – he of the six pack that’s only slightly buried under a 25 year old beer gut is suddenly feeling his age.
Alfie – still full of hair that only occasionally requires a bit of touching up with Grecian 2000 has just suddenly gone a whiter shade of pale……..

I’ve reached that certain age – and they know it. That certain age were they think I’ve suddenly flopped into sensible shoes, tweedy jackets, M&S jockey jobs and grey holidays…..

It’s a SAGA promo offering me "Peace of mind car insurance for just 75p a week"

"Peace of mind?"

‘Alfie the still mad, bad and dangerous to know’ is not a happy bunny. Alfie is still a guy that likes to walk on the wild side. Is still a guy that gives a middle finger to The Establishment and is not afraid to do a bit of cock snooking to anyone that fancies a bit.

I feel a snotty email coming on – delivered straight into the vacillating heart of SAGA CORP….

I’ll just get comfy in my finest easy-comf armchair , a nice cup of tea, a favourite old cardy and my best pair of slippers to ease my aching feet. ‘Alfie the vengeful’ is tooled up and ready to write!

Teenage Mutant Heroes…….

Boffins have just isolated and identified the detested acne gene. A bit late really. A bit late for all those self-conscious 16 year olds of the past with their pizza flan faces.

I always felt dead, dead sorry for the one kid in every class that suffered with the dreaded acne virus.

We were especially blessed with 2 such individuals. ‘Gobbo’ Jones was one – he had a face like a flock of angry volcanoes. (What is the collective noun for volcanoes?)

A relief map of the world’s vulcanicity was there for all to see on his boat. Stromboli, Etna, Vesuvius – and always, always an especially big growler on the end of his nose. We called that one ‘Krakatoa’ Every few weeks, great tectonic plates started to grind away below the surface of Gobbo’s ample, fleshy snozzer.

‘Krakatoa’ was brewing up again.
And then the great day came.
Eruption.
Spewing forth great gobs of Gobbo, swathes of bloody turmoil down the slopes of his angry, swollen proboscis.
Not a pretty sight.

The other guy in our class to suffer was a very quiet, studious middle class kid. His surname was ‘Hunt’ – so he was unfortunate twice over really. His acne was almost exclusively confined to his back. – A veritable oilfield.

McQueen, the school bully, invented a whole new sport. He would wait for Hunt to wear a newly laundered white shirt (which was every day - I told you, he was a posh kid!)

McQueen would creep up and slap Hunt as hard as he could on his white cotton shirted back.

Hunt went down, as if poleaxed. We watched with morbid fascination. As he’s struggling to his feet, a blood red & creamy hand print stigmata gradually seeps through his shirt.

It really did put me off strawberry and cream - forever….

Maybe it had a bit of an effect on this quiet lad – I met him years later, with plastic bag in hand. "Hi Dave, what you doing now then?" He reached into his plazzy bag and pulled out a load of revolutionary stuff …. "Trotskyist agitator" he replied.

A bit of a conversation killer, really.

SuperGlue from Siam

We had a very intellectual little discussion with our extended family last weekend. The gin flowed. The subject was 'Pets in the Home' - and the responsibilities of the pet owner. The dangers of keeping exotics, those sad people that keep 15 million little dogs in their end terrace house and other cruelty issues......

The intellectual mood was somewhat blown out of the water when our 19 year old year old niece who had said nothing, suddenly blurted out how disgusting she thought it was that some people, "Some people breed Siamese Cats"......

Everyone looked a bit puzzled.

"You know, they breed Siamese Cats ......... Ones that are joined together".....

I just couldn't make it up.

Make over…..

Yesterday, I visited a client who is putting on a Gay Festival this Autumn. He wants me to produce appropriate logo, poster and programme designs – he wants the colour ‘pink’, feather boas and more pink – with pink highlights to figure prominently in anything we do. 'Alfie the broadminded and at ease with his feminine side' is confident that he can pull it off. (However, 'Alfie the double-entendre' cannot believe he just said that).

It sort of all went swimmingly during the meeting, I had produced some striking initial ideas for discussion. Unforrtunately, my idea of 'striking' didn't tally with the client's perspective and they were consigned to the file called 'waste paper' – Goodbye to style and celebration, hello to nipple chains, black leather sequined jockstraps and pink boas – he wants it as camp as a jamboree…….

I got the brief and made a move to leave – just as I got to the door, the client called me back. He thought I could do with some background reference material – and thrust several copies of ‘Bent’ - ‘a specialist magazine for the gay man’ into my hand. I casually thumbed through – guys with bright neon trunks, guys with washboard stomachs, guys with fetishes and guys with other guys adorned the glossy pages. "Hmmmmmn, great" I said, "Very helpful"…..

Alfie the ‘these aren’t my magazines, I’ve got them purely for research purposes only' drove back to the office very, very carefully.



Leg over

In view of the latest sex revelations regarding that Scandinavian stud muffin, Shagging Sven Goran Eriksson, I thought it prudent to check with Alfreda that the England Manager with the roving briefs hadn’t practised his wizard dribbling all over her. She had after all, visited IKEA last week.

Phew, that’s a relief, she doesn’t like men with heads as shiny as an eight ball – but I bet Dave Beckham’s a worried man……




Lego over

Monster losses have just been announced by Lego, the Danish Toy Conglomerate – they’re blaming the more sexy computer and video games producers for the massive loss of market share. Apparently, little Tommy just isn’t interested in the mind-expanding toy any more – he’d rather waste aliens or whatever on his computer.

Lego bosses are worried, wringing their plazzy brick-laden hands as sales plummet.

Alfie the think tank guru to the rescue here I think….. Lego should bring out a whole new kit ‘Build your own Lego Computer’

Can’t you just picture it – a keyboard and screen with knobbly bits all over it? Colours? Optional as long as they are yellow or red.

Suggested Lego computer game titles include:

Make my day punk, build a digital building.

Grand thrift, Lego.

One million uses for one million digital bricks.

Alien attack – and you’ve only got time to knock up a brightly coloured digital defensive brick wall….

Tony Blair’s Smirk Watch

Well, during yesterday’s futile Commons debate on the Butler Report – and Tone’s wizard of the dribble performance, Alfie the Saddo counted 35 self satisfied, self congratulatory "Aren’t I fucking brilliant in a Harry Houdini sort of way" smirks from the Great Leader.

That’s 1.71 smirks per disembowelled, blown apart and hacked to death British Soldier – victim of the Iraqi War.

Or, 1 smirk per 400 innocent Iraqi victims.

The price of smirking has just gone up – official.




Laptop Corn Fly Watch
One corn fly has disappeared from my screen, the other is dead – immortalised forever in the top right of my screen. I started the computer this morning – and there it was – il morte.

Corn fly, I salute you – but not your sense of direction.




It’s a Twilight Zone moment……

So there I am on Monday, strolling about on Blackpool Prom (diddly om, pom, pom) shortly after stumbling out of the very grand Winter Gardens Ballroom. I had just seen my Son awarded his degree in 3-D computer illustration. I was as proud as punch. And when he went to collect his honour - rigged up in his mortar board, gown and colours, he didn’t fall over, he didn’t drop his scroll, he didn’t say "Gizz me scroll, you crusty old bastard" to the Vice Chancellor – that was the upside….. the downside was that he was 8th in line to go up and get his scroll – out of a roll-call of 800. It was about 150 degrees Centigrade in there – and rising. There was nowhere to sit – so a Winter Gardens Pillar was my lean-to buddy….. for about 4 hours.

I was wearing a suitably inappropriate wool mix suit, perfect for basting in my own body fluids and of course I sported, for the very first time my brand new black shiny, non bendy chaff-a-plenty, cripplo-shoes….. throb, throb,throb.

It’s funny – but I always thought at degree presentation ceremonies, they only presented degree certificates. Well, not so in the one I was at on Monday. Oh no. The first 250 people collected degrees, then came HNDs’, followed by HNCs’ then I began to lose the will to live. Were they going to award cycling proficiency certificates? Would I be dead when they did?

Because I was standing, I couldn’t have a doze. I just had to stand there, sweating bricks and cultivating varicose veinage by the mile up my legs.

Eventually, we staggered out. Thinner - a lot thinner, dripping with mucous and mushroom growths - and with feet on throb regulo 10. In spite of my plates of meat agony – I just had to have a bit of a walk. To cool down, however limpily to get a bit of fresh Blackpool air.

Which brings me back to where I came in. There, walking toward me is non other than former world snooker champ, Joe Johnson. I told everyone in our party that was willing to listen, in my best very loud whisper. Most people said "Who?"

I mean, Joe has done nothing since winning the Embassy World Championship, beating Steve Davis in the final in 1986. Most people now have never heard of him, much less what he looks like.

He walked away into the distance. I limped back to the car.

Anyway I got home, had a bath to get rid of the aches and strains and decided to head out to ‘The Ship’ in Lathom for their excellent Monday Night Quiz.

And here is the Twilight Zone bit coming up – first question, "Who beat Steve Davis in the 1986 Embassy World Snooker Final?"

I mean, how scary is that?
(not very scary, really)……….

Something's watching me – and so is his mate.....

My machine of choice is the PowerMac G3 laptop. It's fast and fruity (in an appley kind of way). And of course, it’s free from the viruses and bugs that affect its P.C. cousins as a matter of routine. (Cue smug Tony Blair type smirk).

The screen is big – but has a bit of a tendency to attract a lot of dust and is generally a bit of a detritus magnet. Yesterday I was tapping away, tap, tap, tap, tap…….. when I noticed a couple of those very little corn flies meandering across the screen. I watched them for a bit, then decided that I didn’t want them there. Being a sort of big softy Buddhist, I carefully tried to persuade them to hop onto a corner of some paper, but somehow they didn’t seem to hook up – they seemed to walk underneath it – but how so? It began to get irritating.

Forgetting the Buddhist mantra for a mo’ I turned into Alfie the corn fly killer. My hand wafted across the screen, striking them both a fatal blow…….. or did I? I didn’t seem to have any effect on them at all. They continued their meandering as if I wasn't there.

Either I needed to go up to 3 Weetabix a day and onto a quick body-building course - or I had come across Super Corn Fly Man – and his mate, The Corn Fly Boy Wonder.

Then it struck me, my 2 little mates were under the screen. Somehow, they had found their way into the computer. It’s pretty disconcerting when you are tapping away, to suddenly see a comma get up and relocate on the letter, on screen.

They're still there now, laughing at me, safe beneath the screen, causing God knows what damage to the innards - and playing havoc with my punctuation.

So much for being bug free……. (cue a Tony Blair 'look of real concern') .... maybe not.

Chickens coming home to roost…….

The other day I was having a bit of a do at my old blogging files. I started out at the beginning – to see my very first entry. I remember being real angry. Michael Carroll a yob from the County of Norfolk, with an offenders tag to boot and ‘form’ to the Moon & back had bought his very first lottery ticket – and won.

Not a tenner, not a hundred quid …… no, much, much more - he won £9.5 million.

It was strange though, no sooner had I picked thrrough old blog files and looked at my first ever entry… and there he was, there was Mr Carroll himself on the telly. Already serving porridge for white powder offences, he is reported to be the target of ruthless gangsters that he's managed to upset… Not a smart move.

Mr Carroll appears to have frittered most of his fortune away on white powder, gold sovereign rings and takaway pizza deliveries. He made the lives of his neighbours utterly miserable as his mates went tearing up the back garden with 4x4 races and torching battered old caravans at regular intervals – and now he’s getting some just desserts to go with the porridge.

Now he’s inside – and terrified – and skint (comparatively speaking) – and his house has been trashed - and all his mates have left behind the 4 by 4 by now.

But if it hadn’t been for him, I’d never have started blogging, thanks Mike.

First entry of AtOK, 3rd November, 2002.

So it goes …….

So, what’s it all about then? You work hard, you keep your nose clean – you have kids, raise them, struggle through debt. And then what?

You hit middle age, slowly like – it’s not like hitting a wall, rather a big soft fluffy pillow zzzzzzzzzzz and you keep dropping off. And then what?

Stuff starts to drop out and go south. Hair, sweat from upper lips and beer bellies. Chins have a breeding programme all of their own. And then what?

Challenges become threats, pop heroes become corpses and present tense becomes past participle. And then what?

Some 19 year old kid, with a criminal record volumes long buys his first ever lottery ticket – and wins 9.5 million quid. That’s what!

The buck stops where Lord Butler says it doesn't.......

I was going to write something witty and pithy today - or at least try to. But after yesterday's episode of 'What the Butler saw' - (which was bugger all really) I just didn't feel like.


Obergruppenfuhrer Blair,
hail to the Chief,
land of the free,
Stig of the dump

My faith in our leader has quite simply hit rock bottom. I want to gob Tony Blair, to get up close and serious with his set of flashy capped 'sincerity' incisors - and demolish them, I really, really do. - I just cannot stand the man. The religious zeal, the skewed view of his importance in the world, his simpering brown nosing to Bush, the failure to offer any sort of apology, for anything, ever.

The contempt with which he treats the electorate. The mates rates freebee holidays he manages to blag for his family, every year. The fantastically salaried mates jobs he gives to his failed lawyer buddies. The gongs and Knighthood’s given out like cheap sweeties to his adoring clack of Party cash donators...

The two dimensional 'I'm Tony Blair - trust me' smile, the over sincere hand movements, the really irritating way he says "I say to you...", the emails to his Ministers demanding that they give him some good news to announce. The vacuous way he announces everything and anything to the public - then moves away as yet another major initiative goes tits up.

His horrible wife and her horrible lawyer friends from the Matrix Chambers - all now safely ensconced into cushy Government jobs with pensions to die for, his failure to censure or punish anyone under him for anything, ever - even Peter Mandelson.

His moronic and power mad Ministers - John Prescott, Charles Clark, John Reid and Alistair Darling, especially. His pathetic management of the Country's infrastructure, the concreting over of the South East as the rest of Country becomes ever more victims to the 'Southern Drift'.....

The appointment of 'homers' for his back of a fag packet inquiries and reports, the way he says how 'brave' he is sending our soldiers and countless civilians to their deaths on the say-so reports from sycophantic yes men......

The way that his rash and gung-ho expeditions have effected security measures to be installed in Westminster costing £6.5 million quid to protect MPs - whilst the rest of us will have to make do with putting on an extra cardy and wearing a stout hat for bomb blast protection.

Maybe I'm being too critical on Tone - after all, as the learned Lord Butler said yesterday, "No one is to blame"....

Michael Schumacher – a grand prick ……

I watched the British Grand Prix on Sunday on the telly.

It was OK I suppose – in a eeeeeeeeeooooooowwwwww – mad-Murray Walker, Mansell-Mansell sort of way.

It was OK I suppose – in a "Oh bugger, has that German twat won again?"

I mean, watching it on the telly, you can follow all the action can’t you? Slo-mo’s, fast Germans, prancing ponies, faster women… It’s all there for the telly punter to view from the comfort of his armchair. With dynamic camera angles from tiny cameras stuffed into every orifice of Jensen Button’s anatomy, interest was kept to a fairly high level – even though you just knew what the end result was going to be.

But what’s it like to actually be there – at Silverstone? What’s it like to be stuck up in the stands as red, blue, green and yellow blurs career past you at the speed of Superman with a severe case of the Lex Luthor’s desperately searching for a bog.….

"Who was that?"………
"Who’s winning?"………
"Where’s Jensen?"……..
"I hate that German twat"……..

I mean it strikes me that you see about 5% of the race for the ticket that’s cost the same as a small semi-detached house. My advice is to save your cash – if you want all the thrills of Grand Prix racing, but on a budget, get your Scalextric out and shove your face right next to the track. It’s just phenomenal – and you get the added ‘danger’ bonus of the possibility of the car spilling off the track and smacking you full on the snozz.

The most controversial part of the race was Jensen Button’s decision to have a St George’s flag on his helmet – and not a Union Jack. Shock horror. The interviewer demanded to know exactly why Jensen had dumped Jack for George.

"So Jensen, why no Union Jack?"

Jensen stammered, and blustered.

"Just tell him Jense, matey. Tell him you’re bleeding English. You’re English and you’ve nothing to be ashamed of" I screamed. "Tell him to go and ask David Coulthard exactly why he has a Saltire on his helmet and not a Union Jack"…..

Jensen mumbled something about supporting the football team. Fortunately, just then, racing’s own little and large strolled into view. Bernie ‘the hobbit’ Ecclestone and his stratospheric wife, Amazonia gave a short – and long interview. The guy from ITV asked all the usual questions. Yawn. Why don’t they ask some real questions?

"Well Bernie, what’s it like earning over 100 mill’ a year, you smug bastard?

"Amazonia, are you really attracted to this old and short, but very, very rich guy?

"Bernie, can you fix it for me to be a racing driver?"……

I’d like to be a racing driver – the money, the women, the Monaco apartment, the women, more women. Until I do get spotted doing a racing start from the high street traffic lights, I’ll just have to content myself with the Scalextric. Eeeeeeeeeoooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

The ‘Typhoid Mary’ of the blogging world…..

Last night I updated my ‘blogging list. ‘Pasted in some new contacts – and deleted the ones that have become as dead as dodo.blogspot…. ’A blogged drain’…… ‘Just pop it in then’……. ‘The blogging bard’ ……. ‘Hidden ranting’ …. These, amongst many, many others have all ceased to be. And as the legendary Norwegian Blue Parrot, they are no more, deceased, kicked the bucket, expired, pushing up daisies, croaked, snuffed-it ex-blogs.

Whilst doing this little exercise, it occurred to me that an awful lot of the people I originally had on my list have jacked it in, or gone to the great bloggerama in the sky… Just like Typhoid Mary in New York in the 1920’s – all those around her dropped dead from the virus Mary carried within, whilst she probably thought she only had a bit of a personal hygiene problem…..

Judging by my deletions list, I seem to be a bit like that – a bit of a Jonah. A bit of a bad luck, black spot, bad karma dude. What all you new linkees have to ask yourselves is "Do you really feel lucky?" – and if you do, will I put the evil-eyed curse of closure onto your blog?

STOP PRESS:

World’s first ‘Pooh-sticks’ circuit opened by the Queen in Hyde Park this morning.

"Simply astonishing", said Christopher Robin. "This’ll really put ‘Pooh-stickery’ on the map. For too long now, ‘Pooh-sticks has been associated with fat-arsed bears, bouncy tigers and sad donkeys….. This is just the sort of thing that’ll sex up our sport for the good. The circuit's really tricky - rapids, bubbly bits and gravity - it's all there for the trooh-pooh enthusiast".

The first ‘Pooh-stick’ Grand Prix is scheduled for next month.


For Sale: Good franchising opportunity

Ever thought of franchising? It’s profitable, cost effective and fun to do! Unique opportunity to invest in ‘Pooh-stick’ stalls, ‘Pooh-stick stick-pins, ‘Pooh-stick’ plastic poo and ‘Pooh-stick pogo sticks –

Apply to Christopher Robin, Hundred Acre Wood.

Confessions of a King and a jolly birthday party with 2 Toms, Ken and Frank………

Tomorrow is my birthday.
And that’s very, very nice.
Prezzies and jellies and trifles …… and alcohol galore, hurrah.

Looking through my bumper ‘Have a look at who you share your birthday with’ book, and I’m praying that Bernard Manning, Jim Davidson and Tony Blair were not born on the same date that I was. It would be real nice if I shared my special day with some people that are a bit more intelligent than three crap comedians……

Well, that is a stroke of luck, it must be my birthday or something! I share my special day with some real intellectual luminaries –Lisztomaniac director Ken Russell, Metamorphic author Franz Kafka, former Czech and prolific playwright Tom Stoppard and errrr, that crap American actor, Tom ‘pleasure’ Cruise. Oh well, you can’t have everything can you?

I wonder if Tom will be naming me as his birthday buddy on his web site tomorrow? Or will he be sticking with Ken and Franz?

Anyway, I bet the Croozster doesn’t get a prezzie half as good as what I’m getting. I know I’m getting a good ‘un because I chose it – via the 3 dubbyas.

He’ll probably be getting another Ferrari or something (yawn). I mean, how passe is that? How very power-shouldered eighties. Maybe it’s some sort of substitute for something – maybe he’s lacking down there in the trouser department? Who knows?

What’s my prezzie then, I hear you ask?
It’s only an Anglo-Saxon, Edward the Confessor Silver penny – that’s bloody all!



I mean, how cool is that then, it’s over a thousand years old and it’s all mine - I bet Tom Cruise hasn’t got one. A coin from the reign of Edward the Confessor, a man who totally screwed up our history, because he couldn’t decide just who would succeed him. "William or Harold, which one, which one to choose? I mean, Harold is big and strong and Wessexy, but William’s an utter, utter bastard ….. and French of course."

So just why was he called Edward the Confessor? Maybe Edward the Vacillator, Edward the Fence Sitter or Edward the Special Needs King would have been more appropriate?

I reckon he should have tossed for it – maybe he did? Maybe that was his problem, too much tossing. Too much tossing so he forgot exactly why he was tossing in the first place – but what the hell, he was enjoying it much too much to care. Take a look on the Bayeaux tapestry if you get the chance – is he tossing? It looks bloody suspicious alright….Or is he just going eeny, meeny, miney, mo….. Come to think of it, the portrait of him on my silver penny looks a bit odd. What’s he doing with his regal right hand?

I’ve been to Edward the Confessor’s tomb in Westminster Abbey, very grand and very old, in a dust to dust sort of way. A bit disappointing though, there’s no witty inscription on it… Nothing like "See, I told you I was ill" courtesy of Spike Milligan. Maybe he should have one, something like ‘My name is King Edward Creosote – I was always sitting on the fence’…..

Happy Birthday to me,
Happy Birthday to me,
Haaaaappy Birthday to meeeeeeeeeeee - eeeee,
Happy Birthday to me,
(Anyone got an iron lung to help me blow out this forest of candles?)

Stating the bleedin’ obvious…….

Tube strike in ‘The Smoke’ today. A London Transport spokesman said "I advise workers to walk to work, because the buses are all going to be full".

That’s the trouble with Government spokespeople – no bloody imagination whatsoever. Where’s the left field thinking? – doesn’t anyone in power read any of Edward de Bono’s stuff?

Maybe they could ‘space hop’ to work. Or handstand, perhaps? Cart-wheeling could be quite creative – and giving not very nimble people piggy back rides could be pretty profitable. Just get a meter riveted to your head, stick a ‘No Smoking’ sign to your bum and you’re off. But remember, don’t take anyone with a snotty nose or obvious weight problem. ‘Light is alright, heavy is "Do me a favour, luv - there's a bus following in a minute - honest"

Or you could go the vengeful route. Round up a striking tube train driver, whack a bridle on him, don some very, very sharp pointy spurs - and ride him apace down Regents Street – Lone Ranger fashion. Only problem is, you’ll probably arrive just this side of Christmas.

Real creative thinking however may have been to avoid the strike at all costs. Or failing that, laying on a few extra buses or coaches and relaxing the congestion charge to cope with the rush…….. Nah, maybe not, The Ministry of the Bleeding Obvious will never take on board such radical ideas.

My advice to all you Larnderners though is to just throw a sickie – and watch day-time TV instead. I hear Dale Winton is on at 9.30 this morning, then there’s Fern and Phil and Richard and Carol after lunch ……. Pure, pure quality.

How gutted am I?...

Am I as gutted as a freshly gutted bloater, slapped on a marble slab in a fish shop window in Grimsby high street?

No, much, much more gutted than that - by some considerable margin, I'm afraid.

When will we stop being heroic failures?
It's at times like these I remember what Noel Coward once said (possibly) - "My dear, dear boy, it could be a lot worse, you could support Scotland"

That's true. By gum, I feel better all ready.
p.s. - Anyone want to buy 500 small car window St George's flags?



Did he really see that?…….

My brother-in-law insists that whilst driving around in North London last week he saw a van with a sign on the side of it that said - Patel & Patel, Plumbers. You’ve been let down by the cowboys, so why not try the Indians!

Is that an urban myth?



Welcome to my very worst of……
(an occasional series)

Worst ad’ currently on the telly – The very, very fat man with oversized strap on jingly-jangly jowlingtons, advertising his ambulance-chasing services from PA helpline. Always on during the daytime, it’s cheap nasty and very jowly.

Actor’s budget – Bugger all. Just the big guy, who obviously owns the gaff.

Props budget - less than bugger all. An old beach ball with some dodgy felt-tip writing on – and a ‘70’s phone. Plus, the strap on jowls (jumbo size).

Father’s Day pressies – getting what you really want…..

Yesterday I got a really, really fab pressie. It was a great day all round really.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do the ironing.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do the washing up.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do any cooking.
Because it was Father’s Day, I mostly sat on my arse, drinking beer and watching the footy on the telly.

Come to think of it, most days are Father’s Days…..

Back to my pressie. I hinted, I coughed, I left post it notes around – ‘Must remember to buy Dad ‘Who murdered Geoffrey Chaucer’ by Terry Jones’ for Father’s Day’

It’s a brilliant book, not least giving a superb account of the malevolent murky medieval machinations that I love reading about.

No hints were taken up – only one thing to do, buy it myself – and raid offspring’s piggy banks to pay for it. Magic, dictatorship is alive and well and living in OK Mansions – and you could tell, they were really, really happy for me – honest!




The strange case of the one legged policeman – (does ‘P.C.’ stand for Police Constable anymore)……

West Midlands police have taken on a one-legged police recruit – a career traditionally taken up in the past by bipeds. I just don’t understand it at all – can a one legged man be as active as someone with twice as many legs? It reminded me of that great sketch by Dudley Moore and Peter Cook.

Cook plays a theatrical agent, auditioning for the role of ‘Tarzan’. In hops little Dud’ – he’s only got one leg…
Cook eyes him up and says "Let me get this straight, you’ve come to audition for the role of Tarzan? You, a one legged man is going for a role traditionally undertaken where the minimum requirement in the leg department is two"….

"Correct"

"As soon as you hopped in I looked straight at your right leg and thought to myself, now that’s a lovely leg. That’s a lovely leg for the role of Tarzan. I have nothing against your right leg …. Unfortunately, neither have you".

Slow on the uptake in gender realignment…..

Dave works for a company in Leeds and is a big guy. We talk to him now and again, he sorts stuff out for us, he’s a ‘no nonsense’ type of man – early 40’s, quiet - and hairy, in a hairy-hirsute sort of way. His beard and chest hair both look like they’ve all had the baby bio treatment.

Dave has a big, deep, booming gruff voice – that sounds like he gargles with gravel every single morning.

Dave is a man’s man alright …….. sort of - ish

Yesterday morning, Dave’s answerphone was a bit different though. Something not quite right there, I thought. Same gruff voice, same apology for not being at his desk at the moment but please leave a message….

But, I don’t know..... something’s just not right……. I replace the receiver and dial again.

"Hi, Davina here, sorry I’m not at my desk at the moment…."

Davina has a big, deep, booming gruff voice – that sounds like she gargles with gravel every single morning……

Davina is still probably as hirsute as ever – but I bet Immac sales in Leeds have gone through the roof.

Davina is a woman’s man alright …….. definitely. .

Dave is dead,
long live Davina……
It’s all a bit of a shock.

Searching for solace in the Solstice ……..

This is my favourite time of the year. I love it. The light, the warmth, the booze, the greeny stuff, the flowery colours and the burst of life – everywhere. How does the rhyme go? Oh to be in England now that strong lager is here…. (or something like that). I’m at my most optimistic, most sagely, willing to give anyone and everyone, pearls of pearly wisdom – whether they want any or not.

It’s all building to the Summer Solstice on June 21st. I love sitting outside at half eleven at night watching the sky go a deep inky azure blue, gazing at bats as they chase Britain’s biggest moth, the gi-normous and bright-orange coloured Elephant Hawk moth.

Then the great day dawns – sometimes I stay up all night, sit outside (with a few scoops obviously) and see just how short the time of complete darkness is – which is very short indeed.

I’m not a druid or anything – or a tree hugger, it’s just the atmosphere that gets to me. I’d like to go down to Stonehenge – just to see it happen, the Sun rising over the heel stone and central Trilithon – it must be a really awesome event. Of course, modern ‘Druids’ and ‘New age travellers’ have ruined it for everyone – who the hell gave those tossers in white hats and gowns the right to have control of the ceremony for most of the 20th Century anyway? Every ‘Midsummer News Report’ would show yer actual troop of local Druids doing the business at Stonehenge. Once in the ‘80’s, Corry’s most overrated and over wooden actor – William ‘Woody’ Roche was there, dressed in his floppy white, flopsum and whitesum gear, inspecting entrails, waving his sticky stick in great comical cosmic circles, casting spells and swinging crystally things about.

That’ll do it then, the Sun will come up again for the next year – it will bathe the planet in life giving warmth – it will sustain billions of life-forms for the next 12 months …. All because Ken Barlow and his magic crystal from Coronation Street in Weatherfield says so.

I’ve been to Stonehenge a couple of times – and have been truly humbled. There's a rope around it now, courtesy of English Heritage. The last time I was there, a young American dude took exception to the fact that this barrier was impeding his progress and stepped over it. He made his short-baggy trousered, tasteless Hawaiian shirted way towards the great stones. All of a sudden, out of the very depths of the monument a little wiry man jumped out waving his hands about a lot. The goblin of the monument was making a statement to this New World traveller…. "Go on, bugger off out of it, yer bloody bugger" And he did.

Then it’s over. Post June the 22nd means that the nights start drawing in – it’s down hill all the way until those damp, dreary days of darkest December, when the Winter Solstice is reached.

June 22nd also means that my eldest Son starts to pack for Glasto’ – and the inevitable annual assault on my wallet that goes with it…. Ho hum.

Ronnie meets Jonny as he rides outta town……

Well, they’ve buried Bonzo’s partner, Ronnie Reagan. It’s a great loss for the almost human, almost understandable cute sidekick to the more intelligent chimp’ genre of movie – there’s only Clint ‘n’ Clyde left now to carry on the flame of baboonery…

It’s a bit of a shock, cut down in his prime at the age of 93 – just goes to prove that living fast and loose will surely get you, in the end. Aside from the acting, Ronnie also did a part time job during his retirement – well that’s understandable, my Dad also took a job signing in members to his local working men’s club when he too jacked the 9-5 in. Everyone needs pin money – even former B movie film actors.

Of course, now he’s gone to the great roundup in the sky, he’s acquired all the kudos normally reserved for the truly great and good. This means that just about everyone in America who can proffer an opinion now reckons that Ronzo was most probably the most cerebral thinker since Norm’ - the fat guy who sat at the end of the bar in ‘Cheers’ last waxed lyrical….

The romantic clack within the States will no doubt be pushing for the deification of St Ronnie of Bonzania – just like when John Wayne was preparing for his last hurrah.

As ‘The Duke’ was sliding off his saddle (.."they got me, Bronco *gasp* tell Mary I love her… tell Mary I love her"….. "Duke, Duke, tell Mary you love her, what?"), all his ‘A’ list movie mates lobbied Congress for a Congressional Gold Medal to be struck before he bit the dust. It didn’t seem to matter that this is mainly given to war heroes, inventors, authors and the like. John Wayne qualified because he had defended The Alamo, killed Japs in Iwo Jima and despatched a whole nation of Redskins – too stupid to get outta the way of his trusty Winchester repeater…. He played war hero – therefore he was war hero.

All of a sudden, miracles are being attributed to his great Reaganess. For instance why was his hair always black – even though he was as old as young Mr Grace?…. how could Ron throw his voice to his wife – so it looked as though it was Nancy who was doing the talking?….. how did Ronnie give the illusion of insanity so convincingly?

I guess we’ll never know. (The hell we will)….

For and against….

During my time away last week, my veg’ has suffered a bit and the stuff in the greenhouse is looking a bit stringy – time to give it some TLC – and retrieve some of that verdant hueage. There’s only one thing that will revive the toms, courgettes, rocket, spinach and fennel – pelletised chicken manure. Nothing finer than stuff out of hens bums for giving your sad plants a kick up the jacksy – it’s nature’s very own ‘red bull’… chuck it around the base of the plant, stand back and wait for the fireworks – simple. Whilst chicken manure is fab for plants – it’s rubbish for your sex life. For some reason, Mrs A has a bit of a problem with me having my hands wrist-deep in chicken shit - then later wanting to getting all frisky……

So there you have it, should I carry on with my plant fertilisation programme thus guaranteeing a bumper show and crop – and if I do, it will surely kaibosh any chance of humpy rumpy pumpy with the Missus – at least until the end of the growing season. Or should I chuck the toms on the compost and buy from Tescos, with my nice clean hands, thus reinstating my non tantric, super-frantic, groping sex life? ……

Fruit and veg’ or meat and two veg’?

Faster than a speeding bullet….

After my travails and travels last week I have been getting back to the garden…. Well, mostly sitting on my IKEA orange plastic seat (Hey, style guru or what?) on the grass, cat on my lap, beer in my hand, Zepp’ on the CD and gazing up at the sky, trying to make objects out of the fluffy white clouds…..

It’s amazing what a bit of imagination and a couple of cans of super strength lager can achieve. All of a sudden, I’m seeing fluffy cars, bouncy castles, a portrait of Terry Wogan with his toupee sliding off, a five mile wide teddy bear spun from finest white gossamer and ……. A bird. This bird isn’t white though, and it isn’t meandering across the sky with all the urgency of a Network Rail service. This thing is doing a passable impression of Clark Kent’s alter ego in a bit of a hurry - because he only has 30 seconds to save the Earth.

The bird, black silhouette against the sky, has pressed the turbo supercharger and is hurtling towards the ground at an angle of about 40 degrees. Wings tucked well in to improve streamlining, he’s as straight as an arrow and it’s clear this feathered dude is on a mission.

As I watch, it dawns on me what I’m looking at.
It’s only a bloody Peregrine Falcon!
It’s only a bloody Peregrine Falcon doing its most famous aerial manoeuvre – The Stoop. This is where the falcon cruises at a high altitude looking for its favourite dish of the day – and it’s always pigeon that’s on the menu. Once spotted, using its fantastic eyesight with in-built telephoto lens set-up, it folds its wings – and drops.

The pigeon is usually history. The peregrine slams into it at full speed. The terrific impact means instant death for the rat of the skies. Sometimes its head is torn off with the body shock – and I’m watching it all happen.

This miracle of evolution has just screamed past me at a speed of up to 200 mph. The fastest bird in the sky - bar none…. Unbelievable.

Unfortunately, not living in the country means that the feathered bullet is soon hidden from view by number 28’s roof. So I don’t see the end of the drama.

One thing’s for sure though, Dick Dastardly, Muttley and all the rest of the Vulture Squadron could have learned a lot from what I’ve just watched….

Stop that pigeon, stop that pigeon, stop that pigeon now,
Nab him, grab him, stab him ………..
Or you could just get a Peregrine Falcon to take his head off, Dickey baby.




The Transit of Venus…..

Well, how was it for you?
For me it was mostly anti-climactic, in an ‘is that it’ kind of way. The ‘marvelling’ part of my brain did marvel though at how very small Venus was against the hugely vast, vastly huge vastness of The Sun.

"Hmmm, isn’t Venus very small against the massive flabby bulk of The Sun, how marvellous"……

Just as well really. The Sun burns 4 tonnes of fuel a second – a second! That’s 345,600 tonnes a day! Every day (including night!).

What a waste of fuel – especially in the Summer when it’s warm, what is needed is someone to turn down the solar thermostat at this time of the year – thereby saving fuel for when it’s really needed - in the depths of Winter…..

I’ll get me coat.

Thank God for experts like Mr ‘Ronnie Road-Safety’, otherwise I’d probably leave the house and walk straight under a bus……

A road safety expert from the AA was on the radio yesterday. He was warning those people that are sporting the latest craze in flag waving to beware. Apparently, it’s potentially very, very, very very dangerous to have one of those little St George’s flags fluttering from your rear window.

I listened. Would he say it? Would he say it? Would he say "Those flags are very, very, very dangerous – and if you’re not careful they’ll have someone’s eye out"

He didn’t say it – bugger! He did say however that you could kill someone with one – which isn’t nearly so much fun as having your eye flagged.

Yes, apparently Ronnie Road-Safety is worried that an ill-fitting flag can droop down just at the time when you are looking out of a rear side window – maybe when joining a motorway thus obscuring your view. So the 80mph barrelling 40 tonne juggernaut – like something out of the movie ‘Duel’ that you are about to get in the way of is probably driven by Jocky McTavish. He’ll be an English hating Scotsman and will no doubt take a dim view to you getting in his way. The resultant distressing and violent collision will inevitably follow. Who knows, the flag may get damaged as well….

Mr Road-Safety also had concerns that the flag could fall off at high speed and hit someone. Bloody hell yes, I bet that’s lethal – a bit of tat weighing several ounces flying through the air at 70 mph. I’m surprised that the road sides aren’t littered with flag-poleaxed pedestrians…..

Ronnie reckoned that the best and safest thing to do was to take the flag off the window and leave it at home. "Take it off the window and place it on the table in your house, or even in the bin, very, very carefully – then move away very, very slowly"

With such dangerous accoutrements removed from your motor, you’ll be safe to then get in your 0-60 in 6 seconds gti get out of the way, I’m coming through souped up roadster weighing up to a couple of tonnes and hurtle down the motorway at 80…….

Well thanks for that Ron, but are you sure you’re not Scottish, Welsh, Irish – or even French?

A promise……

If Gordon Ramsey ever comes up and bawls his head off, blaspheming and chundering at me just 2 inches from my face, I’ll bloody well lay him out, one punch, an upper cut right on the button – Promise. Then I’ll ram a fish knife in his eye.

There you go Gord’ stick that on your menu yer bullying twat - Michelin Stars are no defence against a nutter with cutlery……..




Postal voting…..

Well hoo-bleeding-ray. John Prescott, some snivelling, servile yes men, some rip-off dodgy printers, Postman Pat and his utterly shite postal non service - and a huge dollop of lady luck have conspired to finally, finally deliver my postal voting slip on Friday. And what a choice. And what a lot of instructions. And what a lot of liberties taken with the British electorate.

I’m not kidding, if my postal vote hadn’t arrived by Saturday morning, I was fully intending to chuck myself under the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby horse race in protest……

But fortunately, the form did arrive and this day has been taken up with reading the instructions on how to deliver said vote successfully. Simplicity itself - not.

‘Alfie the swingometer’ has thought of another and possibly even more simple way of registering my displeasure (is that possible?).. Simply go along to a ‘polling station’ – maybe this could be situated in a local school, possibly? Go into a little booth made of hardboard and curtain with your little slip giving a list of the usual suspects – and plonk a cross against the geezer’s name you least hate. Once done, simply fold it up and slip it into a little black voting box. Now how simple and easy is that? - But I don’t suppose it will ever catch on, it doesn’t involve a load of nosey control freak busy bodies and the organisational skills of a pie eating cretin called John Prescott does it?……




The Big Brother law of diminishing returns…..

I predict that by the year 2010 and the ever increasing need to chase audience figures and invent ever more bizarre ways of titillating the fickle British public, BB will have its first ritual murder. The public will vote on who will be killed next – until everyone, even Davina is totally, totally dead.

Then it will fold - for good. Roll on 2010……

Field Notes…

Alfie the OK has this week mostly been ‘Alfie the travelling the country, art directing pictures of aircraft bits and pieces in various stages of manufacture’.

Today, he is in Llantrisant, South Wales, photographing even more bits of aircraft. He has asked me to pass on his apologies for the somewhat thin to non existent content of his web site this week. As luck would have it, the factory Alfie is at today is situated right next to the Royal Mint – manufacturer of the nation’s coinage.

If you are in that part of the country, be sure to give him a wave – he will most probably be round the back of that secure building going through the skips looking for any rejects and seconds.

He assures me he will be back tomorrow to resume his posts – unless of course he manages to find several hundred thousand rejects, in which case he will be posting from Rio….

Thank you,
Edward the Compressor.

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.