Tom torment…..

Serving suggestion

I planted the seed, staggered over several weeks. Thus ensuring a regular and manageable supply of ripe, red, organic fruits.

To make absolutely sure of a constant supply, I planted some earlies, some mediums and some late fruiting varieties.

To make absolutely, absolutely, abso-bloody-lutely certain, I planted some of the little beauties in the green house and some in pots down the sunny side of the garden…..

Oh yes, it was going to be one long Summer of Tomato heaven and no mistake.

I did everything you’re supposed to do with tomatoes, soil not too wet, not too dry. Feeding liberally and often, taking out the side shoots, taking off the bottom leaves stringing them up with canes using ever more Heath Robinson inspired scaffolding…

Well I’ve waited and waited right through the long hot Summer, waiting for the green to go red, like a traffic light in reverse.

I’d planned for an orderly queue of green’uns to red’uns, well I sort of got one, but not an orderly queue of a couple of months. No, my orderly queue of green to red has happened in just a span of one week.

I’ve got tons of them. Tons and tons and tons of red beauties. So in our house at the mo’ it’s toms with everything….
Sugarpuffs and toms, custard and toms, Special Brew and toms with added toms….. The kids hate them, the cats aren’t too fond of them either, but they’re just too good to waste…

I don’t know, you wait all Summer for one big red tomato to come along and then surprise surprise, several thousand arrive all at the same time.

FArce and the theatre of the absurd…..

David Davies, FA Chief Executive and part time screaming skull impersonator was on the telly this morning. Dave, should have looked as sick as a parrot, but instead beamed a ghastly smile as he enthused about the prospect of Team GB entering a British Football Team into the 2012 Olympic Games. He should be ashamed of himself – he’s supposed to be championing English football and nothing else.

Maybe he was smiling because he knew something we don’t? Maybe a knighthood’s in the offing…. Who knows?

One thing’s for sure, Blair and Sports Minister Richard Cayborne have no doubt been leaning on him to comply with the New Labour all inclusive UK-ery credo. Predictably, the BBC have also fallen into their brown nosing position of abject surrender. Carefully selected vox-popping of non footy fans ‘on the street’ elicited predictably positive responses from people that knew bugger all about the beautiful game.

….. "Yes, a GREAT British football team, we'll beat the world!"...... "Ooooh yes, a British Football team, that sounds like a good idea"

Well, it doesn’t - at all!

Football is tribal – it’s the original sport to replace warfare. Allegiances matter, in my case it’s to the 3 lions (more correctly, the 3 leopards). Over the years, I’ve suffered their triumphs and tragedies. The boys of '66, Keegan’s dodgy perm, Pearce’s manic psycho stare, Gazza’s memorable goal celebration against the Scots – and Owen’s goal of genius against Argentina…. My team is Eng-er-land and always will be….. NOT Great Bri-tain.

And who will play for team GB? If it’s talent we’re talking about, then it’ll be 11 Englishmen. But I guess that won’t happen will it. Politics of the absurd will decree that the team should be equally spread across the 4 home nations for such a high profile team…

Looks like an early exit from the comp’ then……

For more info and an objective appraisal on this sorry state of sporting affairs have a look at Toque's take on it.

By the sea with the metal men…..

In between blinding headaches, Bank Holiday Monday saw the OK crew take in a bit of culture for the masses. Crosby beach, a stone’s throw from the Liverpool Freeport Docks complex is the setting for Antony Gormley’s ‘Another Place’ – which basically consists of around a hundred life size cast iron effigies of the artist liberally sprinkled around the beach.

Crosby beach is a bit of a weird place. The sand is fantastic, the sea is getting cleaner every year – young Salmon have recently been found in the upper reaches of the Mersey….. and now there’s a hundred rigid figures to add to the surreal vista.


We meandered through the sandhills down to the beach. The sand stretched away for a hundred yards or more to the shiny twinkles of the tumbling waves. The hot, high Sun in the middle of an azure blue wash – straight out of a David Hockney painting, the metal men stood erect, gazing out to sea in all their metalled nakedness.

It was all a bit surreal – I half expected some of them to be vandalised, nicked even, for scrap or trophies….. but they were all untouched. The only damage coming from Mother Nature. The iron is oxidising the skin - and the figures positioned further down the beach are suffering from a nasty rash of barnacle infestation in and around the nether regions.

The kids enjoyed them, so did the dog, he smelt up to half a dozen metal backsides before he gave up sniffing and started to wee on them instead.

Lights on, no one at home….

Posts have been thin to non-existent recently. Mainly because I’ve been feeling a little bit ‘wrrrrrrr’ and a little bit ‘gahhhhhh’ over the past few days. Laid low with blinding headaches, nausea and a distinct feeling that Stabby-Stan from Daggerthorpe was in residence just behind my right eye. The little git has been gouging away with his stabbing tools for all he was worth. Stabby stab, stabby stab, stabby. So much so that me old pals Pendle Witch, Bombardier and Cain’s Cask have had to go on a bit of a temperance sabbatical. Tuesday night was the worse – I took my eldest Son back to Chester – and drove the whole 80-mile round trip in the darkest glasses I could find…. at 10 o’clock at night. Today I’m feeling a lot better – and hopefully the headaches, nausea and Stabby have gone for good.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear….

I’ve been left a few comments lately in reaction to some of my more contentious posts with the prefix ‘Oh dear’.

What does that mean then? ‘Oh dear’ ….. It’s beginning to bug me a bit. It sort of comes over a bit superior-like – or maybe a bit sanctimonious perhaps? It’s like a pat on a kid’s head from an adult…. "Oh dear – never mind, your mental faculties aren’t quite up to the mark"…..

Presumably it’s intended as a bit of a mild putdown from a brain of a planet bohemian. Maybe it’s the sort of thing Oscar Wilde might have said of one of his contemporaries. "Oh dear Mr Bernard-Shaw, you’re such a beardy-weirdy tosser".

I must remember, next time I need to dig out the ultimate literary equivalent of a roll of the eyes and a shake of the head – from the masters of quick wit and ready repartee… well, it’s got to be ‘Oh dear’….

Yup. Prose perfect.

Tricky, tricky, tricky….

Mo Mowlam’s untimely death this morning has put a bit of a spanner in Tony Blair’s holiday plans – again! Just a week after Robin Cook’s internment, Blair is faced with another tricky decision – and it’s nothing to do with which factor of Sun block to use or where else he can blag another few weeks of executive B and B…..

Does he go to the funeral of his former colleague? – And if he does, won’t that blow his pathetic excuse for not going to Cook’s funeral right out of the water? Blair quoted the old ‘security’ angle….. he didn’t want to ‘distract’ the mourning process and the Cook family service by arriving with 600 RayBann-wearing men in black. It might disrupt proceedings – and Blair, ever the kind, considerate type thought it better to avoid rainy Edinburgh and instead stay somewhere in the dreary Caribbean, relaxing on his sun lounger…. What a guy.

Of course, it sort of means he can’t now go to the Mowlam funeral doesn’t it? And if the excuse is taken through to its logical conclusion he can’t ever go to another funeral ever, ever again. (except his own, of course).

Mind you, everyone else will be there – jockeying for position, plotting, glad handing, sharpening their knives, cosying up to Gordon Brown…

Tone, I’d watch your back if I were you – and I’m not talking about sunburn…..

Not national, not healthy and not a service…..

A few posts ago, I was severely slapped on the knuckles via the comments box for sharing my cash dodging experiences of how to get out of Hospital car parks without paying. The reason I do this is because of my fervent belief that it is fundamentally wrong to charge people for visiting a hospital – especially as the public transport system would shame a banana republic. I see absolutely no difference between car park charges and charging people at the door to get in through a turnstyle. We go there as patients or as visitors to see sick friends or relations – we don’t go there to do the shopping. I see these charges and others like them as creeping and insidious tax top-ups dreamt up by the BMW pinstripe brigade of strategic health officials.

I don’t think charging people for ‘extras’ was part of Nye Bevan’s utopian vision of free health care for all. Mind you, I reckon Bevan would be horrified to know that the NHS is no longer ‘National’ …… and to be honest, not much of a ‘Service’ either really. The NHS has degenerated into a collection of fiefdoms, run by such ‘indispensable’ middle and senior pen pushers that were all but non-existent 25 years ago.

Ever anxious to make every square yard in the hospital ‘pay its way’ at any cost. Creative thoughts from red braced power thinkers on more ways to wring even more cash out of patients that have already paid their dues via the tax system seems to be the order of the day. They have already earned the right to their treatment – ideally free of charge.

It started in the mid eighties, with the arrival of Healthcare Trusts as profit centres, actively selling and buying skills and equipment time from other like minded organisations. Pretty soon, senior management began to look at realising assets that were not theirs to realise. First the car parks were rented off to a third party to ‘administer’ and maintain them – for an annual fee, obviously. It has moved onto excessive call rates for the use of the ward phone and a particularly insidious and nasty charge to view the ceiling mounted ward televisions at exorbitant rates. These examples are small potatoes compared with the selling off of ‘redundant’ buildings to developers, however.

By ‘redundant’ I’m talking about 'unfashionable'. By 'unfashionable' I'm talking about 'assets to be flogged'...... Buildings like old people’s homes and period nursing homes suddenly being declared unsafe. The residents kicked out and re-housed in some God awful gulag – the unsafe building, usually an Edwardian Mansion suddenly being converted to executive apartments….

Such an episode happened in my own part of the world about 3 years ago. A group of old people, living in a beautiful Edwardian country house within its own grounds were suddenly being moved ‘for their own good’ to an overcrowded '70's hovel in a nearby new town. The excuse from the health authority was that it would cost too much to refurbish – and in spite of wide spread protests, the closure of the home went ahead. Within 3 days, 4 of the old people had died, within 3 weeks, the ‘dilapidated’ mansion was put up for auction. It was even featured on one of those daytime TV property programmes. The slimeball property developer thought he’d got a real bargain, paying £700,000 for the house, he reckoned that he could squeeze some 11 apartments out of it. He said the building was very, very sound – and the only work he would really have to do would be the sub division of the house into apartments. He said he would make about 2.5 mill profit….

Thankfully, local feeling and the downturn in the housing market has meant that he hasn’t sold any…… the last time I past the building he was offering substantial reductions on hastily daubed property boards.

The whole concept of the NHS providing a service – for the benefit of the people that have paid money to finance it seems to have been left behind as some sort of old fashioned reactionary nonsense. The whole concept of everyone receiving the same level of healthcare, no matter where you are and how important you deem yourself is further away than ever. Damning evidence is provided via the Government’s own figures – England predictably fare the worst of the 4 home countries, Scotland come away with most money spent per head of population.

"But why do we have to pay? Didn’t we pay for the building of that car park out of our taxes?" Shouldn’t that MRI Scanner be financed via the Treasury? This country should be sophisticated and savvy enough to organise and optimise healthcare for all throughout the length and breadth of the land. A formula of 1 MRI scanner per so many thousand of the population should not be an insurmountable problem to solve.

But the NHS isn't fair, or free or reliable is it? Live in the South East of England and you get much better cancer care than the North West. Drugs available as a right in Norwich but not in Newcastle, some hospitals are virtual death sentences, such is their awful reputation..... And then there’s the devolution debacle – free prescriptions for all in Wales by next year, nudging seven quid in England. Free dental check ups in Scotland, going up to sixteen quid in England, (if you can find a dentist in England). Fantastic old persons care in Scotland, non-existent except via pernicious means testing in England. And who knows, patients in Scotland and Wales probably get free car parking to boot!

My own local Health authority has just announced losses of 6.5 million quid. They have committed to savings of £13 million over the next 2 years in an effort to balance the books…… They rather laughingly declare that services will not be affected.

It’s all part of the Government project to get out of properly funding the NHS. I notice they have started to put their grubby little digits into the National Lottery coffers – the word from them, (from the Right Hon’ Peter Hain no less) is that apparently, the people of this Country want the lottery cash spent on Health and Education. As ever, from the mouth of Peter Hain, not true, an absolute lie. John Major’s Lottery Bill, passed in Parliament with the specific proviso that none of the money should be spent on Health or Education. He has recently accused the Government of stealing the cash – and rather wearily stated that he thinks the Government have opened the safe and will find it impossible to limit themselves to a reasonable amount. They’ll just keep going back, taking ever more outrageous amounts with them until the Lottery is renamed. – The National Health Lottery……

But the Government know they are on solid ground. They only have to ask whether money should be spent on an extra nurse or a piece of Tracy Emin modern art. Guilt and wanting to say the right thing means the question is a no brainer, but it doesn’t make it right. Adequate health services should be financed from the central purse, not from dodgy car park deals, dodgier property flog offs or planetary scale pilfering from the National Lottery.

Not paying for hospital car parks at the point of exit is my way of protesting that I’ve already paid, through my taxes.

Nye Bevan must be spinning in his grave – presuming he still has a grave and it hasn’t been flogged off for a bit of executive car parking……

Butterflies are back….

Up till Sunday morning, I, along with most of the nature loving population of the UK wondered where all the butterflies had gone this year. The buddleia plants in our garden are traditional butterfly food beacons, which in previous years has been choc-a-block full with vibrant lepidoptera of all colours, shapes and hues. At the moment, the plants are festooned full of magnificent aromatic blooms – but they look a bit like decorated Christmas trees without the fairy lights. The glittering twinklings of Peacock and Painted Lady wings have just not been present this year.

A bit of a shock then when I strolled out on the OK sod on this last bright, warm Sunday morning.

They’re back. Hundreds of them.
Correction, thousands of them.
Painted Ladies, Red Admirals, Large Whites, Brimstones, Peacocks, Brown Skippers, Commas, Common Blues…..

The air was full to bursting, fluttering here and there. The great conical flowers of the buddleia were sagging under the weight of bunteresque butterflies feeding for all they were worth.

They looked like multi-coloured kites pulled by invisible pixies with invisible strings. It lifted my spirits, Ralph Vaughan Williams and his fluttery lark ascending music came into my head…. My little piece of England was whole again.

I was puzzled though. If they’re all here today, then where were they yesterday and the day before that?

Getting better with age, just like a good malt….

A survey has just published some useful, ego boosting findings. Apparently men in their fifties make the very best lurvers – ever.

Of course they do for God’s sake. It's something I've always known – I’m always telling my missus…… Technique, stamina, touch, style, sensitivity and consideration – us big five–0 guys tick all the right lurve-God boxes and no mistake. Yes for us guys in our fifties, it’s not so much ‘wham, bamm, thank you ma'am. Oh no, it’s Barry White on the CD, the scent of jasmine in the air and a bottle of massage oil to hand. Slow, silky, sexy and flexy in the temple of love-action is the norm for us experts in the bedroom.

It’s not so much 'fore' as five, six and sevenplay…

Ladeez, form an orderly queue – I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished my beer and this footy match is over on the telly…… And you don't mind if I wear my socks in bed as well do you?

Everything in the garden is not lovely……

Bad news – disease has taken root in the ancient sod that is the OK Towers back garden.

My humble crop of tomatoes are under a relentless attack from ‘brown blob’ disease. Look under the larger tomatoes and there it is – galloping ‘brown blob’. Great big blobby discs of brown – like Antarctica on the world…. Only brown.

Not good. What are they and can they cross onto other species? Would I want ‘brown blobs’? – As if by magic, I saw an article in a magazine by gardening guru Monty Don…. Which is a double coincidence, because I actually saw the great Monty man in the public bogs at last weeks flower show at Tatton in Cheshire …. Amazing really, a BBC celeb actually going to the bogs and having a slash …. I guess that must mean the Queen farts as well then does it?

Anyway…

As I said, I read Monty’s article on tomato diseases and apparently I am suffering from terminal ‘Blossom End Rot’…..

Anyone got a bell to ring then?

The last word in ‘lazzy bands…….

In view of the current vogue for elasicated wrist bands – started by Lance Armstrong’s yellow ‘Stay-Strong’ campaign, Alfie has decided to leap on the elastic bandwagon with his own tribute to an issue near to his heart…

It concerns the return of a long forgotten and much loved Hollywood superstar. Yes, ‘Lassie’ the wonder dog is making a long overdue comeback to our screens. A brand new series of films is planned. Screen tests for the lead role of the pointy nosed dog with the doggy breath and the shiny coat are being conducted. Indications are that the role will go to a canine – but Meryl Streep was reported to be making a late, desperate, last ditch bid to claim the coverted prize.

To commemorate Lassie’s return – and in the hope they will also bring My Friend Flicka, Old Yeller, Spotty Dog from the Woodentops and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo back from the taxidermy table, Alfie has brought out a hot new edition of elastic band – and everyone who’s anyone will want it……. It’s called the ‘Lassie-band’.

If you want to order one of these fantastically classy pieces of mechandise, log onto e-commerce web site at
elassie-band.com…..

I thank you.

Cheapo Britain….Hospital car parks

Ever visited one of our gloriously efficient hospitals, either as a patient or visitor? If you have and you’ve driven there, then no doubt the hospital car park has ruined your day.

The bright, jolly black and yellow bar rises and you’re in. For the next 20 minutes you cruise around looking for a 5 foot wide space in a sea of metal. Of course, there are places, but only if you are a merc-driving consultant, they’ve got loads of room in their special enclave of executive tarmac.

You eventually find a space, park the car, see your Granny or have your lumps felt. Either way, you’re there because you have to be, not because you’re going shopping or whatever. You’re there because you’re seeing someone who is sick – or you yourself are sick.

So why charge people for the privilege of parking in hospitals anyway? It’s cheap, nasty and vindictive. It’s a tax on the sick and worried - and it’s a bloody disgrace.

Take a tip from me, I’ve never paid to get out of any hospital car park. I drive in, see who I have to, then nip round to the Administrators Office and explain to them that I’ve had to dash to the hospital as a matter of urgency. If they ask "Why?" – tell them to mind their own business. Quote patient confidentiality, then tell them in the rush to get to the hospital, you’ve come out without any money at all.

Before you can say ‘Health Executive’s BMW petrol fund’ – they’ll shove a car park exit token in your hand so you can drive out.

This country is unique in the way we just ‘accept stuff’. Hospital car park charges were brought in when they were given autonomy during the Thatcher era. We were told it was just for ‘administration’ purposes. Inevitably, ‘admin’ gave way to ‘cash-cow’ – charges rose rapidly and the rest is history. Pretty soon, to accompany the spiralling car park charges, exorbitant fees for watching bog standard TV programmes and breathtaking charges for phone calls made from wards followed.

If more people refused to pay, the whole ‘patient tax drive initiative’ would get binned. As a start, I suggest you all find out where your hospital admin’ office is as soon as possible….

We’re alll going on a Summer Holiday, no more working for 12 weeks or so……

No, not a tribute to Cliff Richard’s film career, this time it’s yet another post about our rubbishy MPs and their outrageous 12 week Summer junket. Easy targets I know, but it’s the pomposity of it all that I find so depressing. I mean, 12 whole weeks without Parliament sitting, 12 whole weeks without this right honourable and that learned friend poking about into the guts of our lives, interfering, lecturing, taxing.

How will we get by without all those fat baldy blue rinse busy bodies to guide us? Very well I should think. Somehow, Joe and Jane Public will just manage to survive without the help of 659 parliamentary life coaches.

But what happens to the Palace of Westminster while ‘school’s out’? Could it double up as a site for a car boot sale?…. maybe it could be opened up as a soup kitchen and take in the Capital’s homeless. The slogan to attract them could be ‘Doss where there was Dross’…..

And what of the MPs - where do you think they’ve all gone to? I shouldn’t think too many of them will be at Southport Pontins or doing B and B in Scarborough.. Most of them will be going to more exotic climes –Barbados, Kathmandu, Bangkok ……. And who knows, some of them may actually pay for their own holidays rather than going on a Parliament sponsored fact finding mission.

"Yes, I’d like to go on a most vitally important fact finding mission. It’s not for me – obviously. It’s to support a vitally important part of our manufacturing base. I’d like to take photographs of sea shells on Acapulco beach in Mexico – and compare them with the sea shells on Bridlington beach. We can learn important lessons on the making of little gaudy animals with shells, glue and nail varnish, but if we can raise Mexican sea shells then we can make bigger, better and more colourful animals. This can really help the 'gaudy animal made from shells industry'. To make the research fully optimal I may also want to compare them with the shells on Waikiki beach in Hawaii, so can you put me down for a trip to Honolulu for this time next year as well"………

Well, surprise, surprise. The BBC is not decentralising after all……

In a dramatic U turn, the BBC – slavish Government mouthpiece and ultra London-centric employer of the liberal elite, sushi eaters, the tosserati and John Motson, has decided not to relocate the Sports Department way, way, way, way ‘oop North’ to Manchester, England. Apparently this very difficult and absolutely predictable decision came about after much soul searching, navel gazing and pontificating.

The BBC commissioned a special relocation focus group with a view of finding ways to weasel out of the commitment to move - with a suitably feeble excuse. Titled ‘Operation Going through the Motions’ (or ‘Operation Dysentery’ for short) the group composed several implausible excuses before the Governors decided on the one being circulated to a gullible and fed up public.

Although the excuse proffered is about as convincing as a Tony Blair smile, it still beats some of the more fanciful meanderings that were run up the think tank flagpole.

Rejected excuses include:

1) Not enough Sushi Bars in Manchester.
2) Manchester is not in London.
3) No one at the BBC in London has a road map – and so do not know exactly where Manchester is.
4) Not sure if Manchester has got electricity yet…..
5) London sports journos not keen on tripe, black pudding, pigs trotters or Betty’s ‘Hot-Pot’ down at t’Rovers.
6) ‘Manchester’ does not sound too politically correct. It should be renamed ‘Personchester’ to reflect the equal and significant contribution that women have made to the prosperity of the city.

A bit fanciful? Maybe…..
But take a look at the one they have actually rolled out …..

Press Release:
From BBC HQ / London.
The totally crap excuse for not relocating the BBC Sports Department to Manchester is…….

"The BBC cannot move the Sports Department to Manchester because London has been awarded the 2012 Olympic Games – and the costs involved in getting journalists and researchers down to London for the whole 2 weeks that the Games are on will be absolutely prohibitive"….

Amazing – a whole 200 miles down the motorway…. it looks like it will financially cripple old Aunty for good if they move to Manchester and have to report on the Games in London from there. .

I just wonder how the Beeb survived the Commonwealth Games in Manchester a few years ago, didn’t they have to traipse up to cover it – or did they tune into ITV?…… On the other hand, what would have happened if Twenty-Twelve had been awarded to Paris, or Madrid…… or even New York for God’s sake….

Are they seriously trying to say that covering the Games from Manchester would be more expensive that going half way around the world?

And it’s a bit rich that the BBC should offer ‘expense’ as the reason for calling off the move to Manchester. Have a guess just how many BBC personnel managed to wangle a jolly for the last Olympic Games at Athens, Greece…..

Answer: 628.
Six bloody hundred and twenty bleeding eight people sunning themselves in Athens at our expense!….

(That’s around 62 people per Gold medal)……

Blair’s world of fraud….

Just a thought, our glorious and infallible leader Emporio Blair has spent the last week desperately trying to disassociate the London bomb outrages from the Iraq debacle. There’s been loads of stiff upper lipped posturing from the great man. Lots of trembling voice commitment to solidarity, determination and an implacable British spirit. It was almost as if Churchill himself had risen from the dead and dusted himself off in our hour of greatest need….

But consider the suicidal bomb attacks in Iraq over the last 48 hours. 30 kids blown to pieces in one incident, over 100 innocents burned to death on Saturday night, over 30 more killed in other attacks.

It’s bloody carnage on a daily basis – and a direct result of Bush and Blair’s mad gung-ho adventure in the land of the second largest oil producer.

Not one word from Blair, not one.
Not one word from Defence Minister John Reid.
Not one word from Foreign Secretary, the man of Straw. Nothing from anyone.

How does Blair sleep at night?

Silence is damning and talk is cheap. Does Blair think lives in Iraq are as well?

The price of things and the value of them……
(It’s important to know the difference)


The Mersey millpond, the red duster and the waterfront…

We committed the old man’s ashes to the care of Davie Jones’ lock-up on Monday morning. The day was fine, clear and most importantly, ‘still’ as we gathered at the Liverpool landing stage and waited to board the good ship ‘SS Royal Iris’ for the committal.

The River Mersey was as flat as a millpond – which was very, very good news. Windy days and the committal of ashes do not mix…. The threat of ‘blow back’ & ‘white face’ are very real ones when there’s a force ten gale blowing. And the thought of getting an atomised gob-full of my old man did not appeal.

We huddled in the only bit of shadow we could find – shading us from the fierce Sun. It was weird, but because it was so hot, we were all dressed like we were going to the beach – everyone was wearing ‘Hawaiian-tragic’… I think my Dad would have approved. Just then, my eldest sister turned up with the urn under her arm. My Mum said "What’s that you’re carrying under your arm then?"

"It’s your husband" came the reply……

The Royal Iris steamed into view. It’s one of the Mersey Ferries fleet and takes passengers ‘across the water’ between Liverpool, Birkenhead and Seacombe. The vicar from the local Seaman’s Mission briefed us on the ceremony.

The ferry would steam straight up river at full speed. After about 10 minutes, we would gather at the stern, the engines would be cut and the service would commence. The Rev’ reckoned it would take about seven minutes from start to finish.

"Don’t they mind?" I asked. "You know, the Captain and the ferry company - won’t they mind that the ferry will be late because of the service?"…

"No, they do it all the time…..and they do it for nothing. They don’t charge a cent – except the fare, of course"…

"But what about the passengers?…. The ferry’s absolutely packed with people"…..

"They’ll have to wait – it’s a mariner thing"…

And so it was. My Dad, wartime sailor with the Atlantic and Russian convoys, was given a suitably nautical farewell into the murky depths of the River Mersey. The service was very touching, the engines died, a little reminisce, a prayer or two. A sailor then got out the board that would slide my Dad into a watery oblivion. The ashes were sprinkled onto its inclined plane. Gravity and the super-slick varnish smooth finish of the board did the job and the reconstituted bits of my Dad slid majestically into the water. "Just add water"I thought….

The engines kicked, full throttle into life and the ashes, bouquets and single roses boiled on regulo 10.in the foam below.

And that was it. A Company that knows the value of something – and recognises its marine obligations had just done something special, as a matter of course for the community – as part of its operating philosophy…. And it was all free!

Contrast that with the telecom vultures that set up the 0870 emergency help number for worried relatives of the missing victims of the London bombings. Hazel Blears, one of Tony Blair’s ‘Babe Ministers’ sought to justify the 50 pence a minute charges in the most grotesque way…… a pity really, for at the very moment she was telling the world the charges would stay, the back stabbing boys at ‘Back-Stab HQ’ were appointing Tessa Jowell, the former ‘Minister for the Olympic bid’ to be the new ‘Minister for free disaster phone calling’…

Like I said, ‘the price and worth of things’……..

Tony Blair – jammiest man in history, official.

Is he in league with the devil or what? Is one of his middle names ‘Beelzebub, or does he own a four-leaf clover farm? Maybe, along with the jam, he’s covered head to toe in the finest teflonic armour, with an accompanying sporran made from rabbit’s feet just for good measure.

It‘s as if he’s got a pact with Old Non-Stick Nick himself. Teflon Tony is flourishing. He’s just as lucky as the luckiest man in ….. Hang on a mo’ – that’s not quite right is it? There is some bad luck in Tony world isn’t there? He’s married to ‘the mad woman’. So, not so lucky in his domestic life then – but politics? As jammy as the guy with a jammy dodger fetish I reckon. Whenever our glorious Leader appears to be falling into the brown and pungent, he pops up – like a cork in a sewerage farm, without a stain on his ego or odour on his character.

"Tony, what is that God awful smell?"

"Oh that. Looks like John Prescott’s been using the Prime Ministerial toilet again, Cherie"….

Don’t you just hate it? Don’t you just hate that smirky smirk on his slimy boat? How does he always seem to get away with it?

Take this last week, lucky ‘Lionel’ Blair, kicks off by basking in the reflected glory of Live8, rubbing shoulders with Sir Bob, Bono, The Edge and Richard Curtis (I don’t know, do you reckon any of these Superstars own any nice holiday villas?) Then just as quickly he's off, over to Singapore to help bring home the Olympic bacon for 2012…..

Sorry - Tone can’t stay to milk the applause, or blag his latest exotic freebee holiday. He’s got an appointment in Scotland to make African poverty history, sort the climate change challenge… And - if he’s got time after Supper, to dismantle the World’s trade protectionist cartels…..

Tony Blair seems to be able to give a Georgie Best body swerve to potential disaster, or by saying "It was him, not me" a lot. Similarly, he has a real gift to leech onto the beautiful, the brave, the successful, the intelligent …. Oh, and not forgetting the money grabbing, self obsessive, narcissistic Beckhams.

"Who’s that talking to Tony Blair, our glorious omnipotent Leader?"
"Oh him, that’s Jesus of Nazareth trying to get an introduction to Saint Bob and Bono… and a few guitar lessons from The Edge"…..

On second thoughts that would never happen would it, Jesus doesn’t own a sexy beach side villa in Barbados does he?……

Phew......

Over a whole week has gone since my last post and I still can't think of anything to write about.....
That must mean that -
a) Everything in the whole world is hunky dory.
b) Tony Blair really is the wise man from the Orange adverts.
c) Our transport system is efficient, modern and cheap to use.
d) John Prescott has finally managed to do something that actually works.
e) I've won the Lottery jackpot.
f) The cruddiness of the Country has finally done me in - and I've lost the will to moan.

The 'eff' has it I think.

Normal, one eyed observations will be resumed tomorrow.

The kiss of death…..

Well there you go, the coup de grace has just been well and truly delivered to the London 2012 Olympic bid by an own goal to end all own goals.

And it was all going so well wasn't it? So ‘professional’, so ‘we’re coming up on the rails and we’re gonna pip Paris at the tape’ …….. but now we’re not are we? The cockneys will probably limp in somewhere behind Moscow, Bootle and Wigan…..

We’ve handed twenty-twelve on a platter with a side salad of golden laurel leaves to our French neighbours…. It’s entente cordial with ‘le knobs on’ as the French are obviously going to waltz away with the big prize now that our cock up masters par excellence, once again do their worse......

What disaster could have befallen our bid? Not enough money? …. Someone pocketing a few million quid ‘biscuit money’ expenses? ….. Bid leader, Lord Seb’ Coe found in flagrante with Anne Widdecombe in a broom cupboard? ….. No, none of those, it’s much, much worse than that.

Some divvi in the Government has just appointed one ‘John Prescott’ as the man, the man charged with ensuring all the London Olympic venues are built, on time, on spec, and on budget……

"Eh up, Coe, yer southern ponce, merk way for t’maestro…. This ‘ere ‘Twenty 12’malarky is now a New Labour prorject so shift yer posh arse, change t’name on the doower, put t’kettle on and go and get us a sack o’ pies & a side skip o' mushy peas, you great gormless posh twat"……

If you listen very carefully, you can hear Jonny Frenchman laughing his head off as he cycles down the Champs Elysee with his stripey jumper and pungent string of onions in tow….

Andrew Murray - tennis wonderkind...

Listening to the radio, I have noticed how many times a drooling FiveLive commentary team are most careful to emphasise that Andrew Murray is from SCOTLAND - and not Britain..... "Murray from Scotland"... "Plucky Scot, Murray"..... etc, etc....

It's funny, but I can't remember Tim Henman - when he was regularly getting to the quarters and semis of Wimbledon - EVER being called 'The Englishman, Tim Henman' or 'England's Tim Henman' or 'England's great tennis hope, Tim Henman'...

He has always been known as 'Britain's Tim Henman'...... Hasn't he?

I'm all for national pride - so why, when an Englishman is successful, he is 'British' - and when a Scot is successful, he is 'Scottish'? And if the media start to call him/her 'British' - they are accused of 'hijacking' their own Scottish heroes...

You can see this happening all over sport today - for example, in F1motor racing. David Coulthard has a Scottish Saltire plastered all over his helmet - Jensen Button has a Union flag on his. When he changed it to a St George's cross last summer to support the England football team, he was assailed by an ITV commentator, demanding to know why he was being so 'un-British' and unpatriotic by removing the Union Flag - and replacing it with a "Red and White squiggle"..... The design was artistic, in the same way that the Union flag was, but Button still felt the need to explain and to justify it... Needless to say, he made Button feel embarrassed and uncomfortable - and sure enough, at the next race Jensen had replaced the St George's cross with the British emblem....
David's identity is strongly Scottish and that is perfectly fine.. when he is mentioned, he is 'The Scot, David Coulthard'... Button, however is always referred to as 'The British driver, Jensen Button'....

It is clear that as far as the establishment are concerned, Scottish sportsmen/women are Scottish, Welsh sportsmen/women are Welsh and Northern Irish sportsmen/women are Northern Irish.......
But what of English sportsmen/women? Well, of course, they're all from BRITAIN, obviously!!!!

Free the ‘Plate-gate 1’ ....

from this

Neil Prendergast a young driver from Manchester was caught bang to rights by the Old Bill last Friday. A plain clothes plod in a plain clothes plod-car pulled him over and slapped a 30 quid ticket into his surly, suspiciously guilty, suspiciously ordinary Astra saloon owner’s hand.

"Well, as soon as I saw him, I just knew he was a bad ‘un’. The streets are safer now this scum has been banged up" reported P.C. Agenda.

Well thank goodness for that. I can tell my old Mum she can go and get her pension in complete safety now that the law has come down on Prendergast with all the force of Charles Clarke sitting on a kitten. .

So what crime did young Prendergast commit that was just so heinous? The very worse crime of all, apparently….. a shocking and wanton declaration of identity. Yes, Prendergast (aka Baby-Face Caponee-ownee) was caught with a St George’s cross and the word ‘ENG’ provocatively and brazenly displayed on his registration plate. Sorry, it’s twice as bad as that…. He had the flag on both registration plates. And not only that, he’s obscured the Euro flag in the process – twice!……

I feel sick. There should be a list that this sicko has to register on, so the police and good citizens can keep tabs – and if necessary, send the vigilantes round to work a bit of retribution. I’d call it the 'flagophile file'…..

Alfie the man whose arm is strong - and vengeance total, has been doing a bit of detective work to get to the bottom of this ‘happy slappy, flag not flappy’ craze and has managed to find a sad and perverted enthusiast of the ‘flag on the plate’ genre.

He told me his name was ‘Reginald Plate’ – or Reg for short.
I’m not sure I believe him.
He said he originally put the stickers on to support England in last years Euro Nations Cup….. and it sort of grew from there. He’s now expanded his flag collection, nothing is off limits anymore….. car air fresheners, stickers for the back window, even the ‘Reg and Sharon’ sticker along the top of the front windscreen has been binned in favour of one saying ‘ENGERLAND 4 EVER’…….

He said that sometimes a whole load of these ‘enthusiasts’ gather at a ‘flag meet’ to wave the flag and taunt the filth. "Sometimes, it can get quite nasty when a few of us get together to try and compose a national anthem. Afterwards, we feel great... but, you know.... a bit, well 'dirty'"…

‘Sick’, just isn’t the word…. – ‘revolution’ is.

Reg Plate in front of his banned plate doing a bit of fuzz taunting.......

The ‘E’ word has been elbowed – official…

Perusing the seats of power on the Parliament web site, I came across Welshman Alun Michael’s new portfolio. After ballsing up the countryside brief, Michael,MP for Cardiff South & Penarth has been given a job in ‘industry’. His official and pretty damn grand moniker is now – Rt hon Alun Michael, Minister of State for Industry and the Regions.

I thought it sounded a bit weird… ‘Industry and the Regions’. I mean, what does that mean then?

I decided to bang off an email to Ivory Towers Inc and find out…

Good afternoon,

I have a question and I wonder if you could clear it up for me.
The Rt. Hon. Alun Michael, MP for Cardiff South & Penarth is, I understand the
‘Minister of State for Industry and the Regions’.

Does his responsibilities include the regions of the whole of the UK?...
Or is it just the regions of England that Mr Michael has responsibility for?

And if it is the regions of England, then why not have ‘England’ in the title of his job?

Regards,

‘John’ from Alun Michael HQ got back to me quicker than you could say ‘Jobs for the boyos’ with the following reply…. (although, it might have been better if he had read ‘Eats, shoots and leaves’ by Lynne Truss before he’d done so).

Dear Steve,

Alun Michael has responsibility for the nine Regional Development Agencies (RDAs) throughout the UK.

There is no RDA in Scotland or Wales, I think any issues arising are handled within the assembly's.

Hope this helps.

John

Well John, it actually doesn’t help – at all. You didn’t answer my question did you? Because you couldn’t bring yourself to say ‘the word’ – the word that cannot be uttered - ever.

Yes, the ‘E’ word has been eradicated from Labour’s lexicon of waffle….. "period" (to quote Tony Blair).


So there you have it, when Gordon Brown, Alun Michael and even ‘John’ – the guy who doesn’t know his grammar from his grandma goes on about the Nations and Regions of the UK…. They really do mean ‘the Regions of the UK’….. I’m now a norf westerner of the UK apparently.

Alfie has resolved to reply to ‘John’ with a bit of Anglo Saxon advice on Geoggers and Eng’ Lang’ - and to also ask just why an MP with a Welsh constituency has an English only brief – I’ll keep you posted.

Free the Jackson 1…. Oh, they already have….

Whacko Jacko is: barmy, white, black, deluded, Diana Ross clone, mad, bad, sad, rad, a tad talented, innocent….

Hmmmm. Which of those boxes do you tick?

Maybe all of them? Probably not.

There’s no doubt about it, Jacko is a complex puzzle, wrapped in an ebony enigma, packaged in a white plastic bag.

He’s a middle-aged, cross-race, cross-gender, cross-wired man.

He’s 200 million dollars in debt – and he hasn’t had his invoice from his lawyers yet. (so make that 300 million in debt)

What’s left of his nose is slipping south, due to the melting point of wax being lower than the ambient Californian daytime temperature.

His relationships with women have been few and far between. Lisa Marie Presley was a passing trophy fad – and his second wife Debbie Rowe, appears to be little more than a convenient surrogate for his kids. Even their initial meeting was far from normal. He first met her in a hospital burns unit after he had been a bit too zealous slapping on the old skin whitening agent onto his scrotum. Result? 3rd degree burns to an intimate part of his body, wedding bells and a multimillion dollar pay off for Debbie.

So, after the trial and trib’ of the trial and fib, what’s Jacko going to do now?…..

Well, I don’t want anyone to panic, but the word on the streets is that the great man/boy/girl/saint/messiah is thinking of relocating to London, England.

I suggest you lock up your sons/daughters/plastic surgeons/scrotum burns specialists/and any blazers you may have with a coat of arms on the pocket. Jacko and his entourage are about to hit blighty.


Overheard on Richard ‘n’ Joody tonight…

The story: The conspiracy theory on the death of Princess Diana.

The guests: Two high powered ex Mi5 secret service people.

Joody: …"And to discuss whether Diana was killed by members of MFI, let me introduce to you our guests"….

I’m not surprised, it all makes sense now… those furniture flat pack instructions are just murder….

Jimmy Page – short-changed again….

Jimmy Page, rock God and charity man has just been awarded an OBE by a grateful nation. He will shortly meet Queen Brenda, Phil the Greek, Chaz the human FA Cup, ‘Plug’ his wife and the rest of the Buck’ House chavs for the medal ceremony, in the very near future….

Well, whoopy do!

Better late than never I suppose? But I’d have thought a Knighthood would’ve been the very least he’d have got…..

After all, the King of the Gibson has a ton more talent than almost anyone else you can name. Plus, his charity foundation for homeless Brazilian kids has for years been quietly doing good works without the rock star hoopla of other celeb charity organisations….

But then again, if he had received a Knighthood, he’d be in the same ‘league’ as Sir Cliff Richard, Sir Elton John, Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Jimbo Saville…..

Suddenly, an OBE seems a bit of a result….

Conspiracy theory from the greyscale man’s recent transport initiative…..

Seems a bit funny, don’t it?
Repressed Transport Secretary and the greyest man in the country, Alistair Darling suddenly goes a bit ‘left field’, a bit expansive, a bit lateral in a dull and wholly ill thought through kind of way …

The Darling of dullness has initiated a brand new system for the road vehicles of blighty. Gone(ish) are the punitive road taxes, gone(ish) are the outrageously expensive petrol taxes….. Instead we’re going to have ‘PTTN-AYG’…which is short for ‘Pay Through The Nose - As You Go’.

The more you go, the more you pay. A bit draconian I think.
I don’t know about you, but it all seems a bit rushed, a bit ‘back o’ the fag packet’ - written in the Noo-Laber tradition against a battered and fed up nation.

In fact, if you ask me, something smells rotten in the state of Nomark.

I reckon Darling’s been to the Moon set in Hollywood to get inspiration for the biggest conspiracy theory this country has ever known. Jiggery pokery is definitely at work on the British public, courtesy of the monotone greyscale man and his acolytes.

The theory: A boffin has invented a car that runs on grass, or pigeon poo, or privet cuttings… something that’s cheap, readily available and more importantly impossible to control by HMG. The boffin reckons he can roll this out to market in about 8 years time……

"Yes dear, I’m just going to fill her up. I’ll get the lawn mower. See! …. HMG control totally buggered. How do you collect revenue duties from a bloke’s flymo?

You can just see the panic emanating from Gordon Brown’s fiscal fissures. Quick, control’s gone, invent summat else – like now!

"I know, what about ‘Pay as You Go?"……

"Oh Darling, that's brilliant".

"Oh Gordon, I didn’t know you cared"……


The parentage of Gordon Brown…..

Talking about Gordon Brown….. I know a man who knew Gordon’s dad. He was a man of Kirkcaldy and a fan of Raith Rovers. Gordon’s dad went to school with my very old mate, Bill Mac’…..

Bill told me all about our esteemed Chancellor about 5 years ago, in a Glasgow wine bar.

"Oh really, what was Gordon Brown’s dad’s name then?"

"Ebeneezer" came the reply……

‘Ebeneezer’ That sort of works I suppose. Is it Gaelic for ‘Tight-fisted sod’?….. Maybe his name could have been ‘Gullible’ or ‘Soft-touch’…

I wondered whether his mum’s name was ‘Prudence’?…….

Overheard on the radio…..

Apparently, dogs have owners, but cats have ‘staff’…
I concur.

Seen on the extremely fine David Dimbleby programme about the English landscape…..

That superb church in Norfolk I was going on about a couple of posts ago…. It was on the box last night - did you see it?

Shock horror. Alfie is accused of being 3 ‘pees’ short of a pod by Auntie BBC…..

Oh yes, Alfie has been well and truly mullered by some p.c. jobsworth-bod from the complaints department at FiveLive HQ, Ministry of Truth Department. He obviously had his dictionary open at a page of ‘pees’, as he used a devastating triple pammy to put Alfie firmly in his place. And that place is ‘purgatory’

Jonny BBC called me ‘Parochial’ - ‘Petty’ - ‘Prejudiced’

Why?

Well I love footy – even women’s footy, and last Sunday I was listening, courtesy of BBC FiveLive to the European Nations Women’s Football Championship match of England v Finland. I burst with pride as England grabbed the winner with about 15 nanoseconds to go…. Huzzah!! Revel in that national pride!

Well, not really. For a start, the commentary on the radio was courtesy of Conor McNamara a perfectly professional commentator from the Republic of Ireland. The summarising was done by an ex Scotland footballer called Kevin Gallagher… from Scotland.

Now it seemed to me that seeing an English team was playing, there should, oooh I don’t know, possibly be someone from this Country doing the broadcast….. You know, someone from good old Blighty, someone from England. I also thought that I couldn’t imagine say a Scottish match being commentated on by a bloke from Belgium and summarised by a guy from England… Alfie decided to put pen to paper and contact the Beeb.

Well that told me then. I’m a parochial, prejudiced and petty git for even daring to ask a question that must never be asked………

(Small mercies though, at least he didn’t call me a pranny, a prat….or a prick)…..

Well you’ve got to have faith afaith afaith…….. bay-beeee!

Not often I start a post with a little ditty from former Wham man, George Michael, but it definitely does fit the bill for this one. Two highlights from the week in Norfolk. Both different, but both, in their very different way totally similar. Cynicism aside, I love the Broads. I love the pace of life there, the cleanliness of the pretty little villages and the polite manner of the locals. The immaculate countryside yet to be flooded with New Labour’s view of ‘sustainable’ development and the optimistic way the local councils are building dykes for all they’re worth in an effort to stop the grey and grizzled North Sea from making further inroads into the manicured Countryside.

After we had boarded the boat, it only took 20 minutes to see our first halcyon vision of the azurri – a Kingfisher, resplendent in a brilliant blue zoot suit sitting on a branch, smoking a dead fish. Five minutes later and a Marsh Harrier, a big, beefy Junkers of a bird of prey droned into view looking for unfortunate victims to flop onto…….

But these weren’t the highlights. No, the nature was great but what happened to me, a man with the word ‘cynicism’ tattooed onto my forehead – twice in two days was truly extraordinary….

We pulled into Ranworth Broad on Tuesday morning and moored at the jetty. In the distance, I could see St Helen’s parish church. I knew it was a medieval masterpiece, one of over 1,100 such ancient churches in the county of Norfolk. I’m not religious, I come from the school of thought that this life is no rehearsal. You’re born, you live, you die, you’re worm food – that all.

But I really do love the bravery of medieval architecture. The consummate confidence of building something amazing, something closer to God – and therefore guaranteeing you a first class cloud in the afterlife… Alfreda and I resolved to go over and explore.

We pushed open the 600 year-old great oak door, hard as bell metal with the patina of pilgrimage etched deep into its rough grain and stepped in.

Awesome…. what a space. What a fantastic space.

We’re all alone in this great perpendicular vault. I touched the ancient font, marble with a lining of lead. I wondered how many babies had been christened in its waters. We moved down the aisle towards the undoubted gem of the church. And there it was in all its glory. A rood screen. Not just any old rood screen – but probably the best rood screen in all of England. I was gazing down at a fantastic piece of work, made of oak with exquisite carving and utterly amazing medieval illustrations. On the other side of it were the choristers’ seats. Each one carved out of a huge hunk of oak. Each one, perfectly balanced, flipped down on hinges forged by a master blacksmith’s hand of long ago. They are all, like everything else in this architectural marvel completely original as the day they were put in. They must be 700 years old – the wood is obviously all heartwood. The trees they were hewn from were probably growing when William the Conquerer invaded in 1066 for God’s sake….

We passed the ancient wooden Lectern. Some Monk had scribbled some copperplate on the back of it – a 500 year old graffito. Next to a wall, under a glass screen we found a great book – It’s an illuminated firmament of gold leaf and latin text. This great book used 27 sheepskins to make the vellum pages. It is in such good condition, it looks like it was made last week. We ambled back towards the far end of the church, and saw a sign next to a small door that looked like it had a spiral staircase spinning upwards and away into the gloom….

‘The stairs to the top of the tower, 89 uneven steps, two wobbly ladders, a trap door to the roof and a great view…. (Climbers do so at their own risk)’….

We both looked at each other and decided that today, the spirit of Sherpa Tensing was with us. We climbed. As we went higher and higher, the spiral staircase got tighter, rougher, darker, scarier. Eventually, the stairs ran out. We were in the belfry. Right in front of us, wobbly ladder 1 – an old rickety metal job, wobbled in the wind. We clung and climbed. Another ladder, this time of the wooden variety was negotiated, and at the top of that……. The trap door.

We scrambled out and stood up. It took our breath away. The glory that is the English countryside – at least how I used to remember it rolled out before us to infinity. We could see for miles across the flat Broadlands of Norfolk.

Eventually, we descended and left the church. I was troubled, I sort of felt ‘uplifted’. Kind of ‘happy-clappy’ – and warm all over, like I’d o-deed on Ready-Brek extra strong with lashings of Christianity syrup drizzled on top.

Had it got to me….. Religion?

Had big Gee singled me out that day to receive a Christianity makeover? Was it a miracle?

I walked away from the great church… Did God exist?… Is he an Englishman?……

I needed a drink.

The rest of the day saw us exploring the landscape of the area. As the hours passed, my theological musings faded, and anyway, I had a European Cup Final to look forward to…

The following day, all we could think about was ‘the match’. Every member of the family had brought a Liverpool shirt in their holiday luggage. At 6.45pm precisely, the whole damn lot of us donned our colours and left the boat. We’d already scouted out a decent pub with a big screen and a big selection of beers a couple of days previously..

Our hostelry of choice was The Kings Head at Luddham, a sleepy pub in a sleepy village, … but not that night. That night was a night for football fans. The place was packed. To get the evening off to a flyer, we started on Hoegarten – an absolute ‘bargain’ at £3.52p per pint. The tension built, the beer flowed. I talked to a few of the other people at the bar. Sprinkled amongst the Reds were Man City, Spurs, Norwich and Villa fans.

The kick off.

A minute later we’re 1 down.

Then 2.

Then 3.

Half time arrives and stops the slaughter. The pub is stunned. We’re stunned. Our gobs are smacked. Our glasses are empty. Our spirits are at rock bottom.

Alfreda mutters something along the lines of "Well, never mind, it’s only a game"…..

Note to brain, Alfreda’s a real sweety, but bloody hell she knows bugger all about football. Must get her interested in lace making or something……

We need a miracle. No we don’t, we need a shed full… make that several sheds….

I pray. A little silent prayer to anyone that’s listening.
Just make it so it isn’t so embarrassing – please.

The second half starts – and the rest is history. The Rossoneri forget the script, forget how to kick a football and for 6 minutes play like wusses in tight skirts and stilettos.

It’s 3-3…. We’re only going to go and bloody win it, that’s all!
I looked across to my eldest Son. He’s in his early 20’s and in total shock. He looks bloody awful – as pale as Michael Jackson after he’s just fallen into a tub of chalk dust….. Like all of us, he just cannot handle the fact we’re back on level terms.

I believe. We all believe. The City fan is going ballistic. Every couple of minutes, he’s downing another pint and screaming at the red men to hold firm.

They do.

Well, they do, until a minute from the end of extra time. A whipped centre comes in from the left. It curls over Hyppia’s head and Shevchenko, the European Footballer of the Year meets it perfectly with his forehead.

Oh bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger. This bullet header has got ‘goal’ written all over it. The ball arrows at the speed of light down to Dudek’s right.

That’s it then. I’m just waiting for the net to bulge.

Miracle – he’s saved it. Somehow the ball had rebounded off Dudek’s outstretched hand.

It bounces away, hopefully to safety.

Not a chance. Ukrainian ace Shev’ is first to react. He’s onto it in a flash and smashes the ball goalbound from all of 2 yards…..

Somehow….. somehow the ball goes straight up in the air from Dudek’s outstretched glove as if powered by a Saturn 5 rocket motor……

The whole pub gasps. Did we just see that, was it possible? We’ve just witnessed the laws of physics being chucked into the bin haven’t we? Had we just witnessed a corruption of the space time continuum? Maybe Dr Who is a Liverpool fan. Looking at Dudek, he can hardly believe it either.

The penalty shootout was a formality. We watched as successive Milan players, devoid of all pretensions of coolness and superiority bottled their spot kicks.

The final save was made, the City fan went into orbit.
We sat, shell-shocked. A banging headache and nausea were my companions as Stevie Gerrard collected the cup in a blizzard of red confetti and a chorus of ‘Champ-ion-eeee, ole, ole, ole’ from the pub.

Eventually, we left. In spite of watching something amazing, I was troubled, I sort of felt just too ‘uplifted’. Kind of ‘happy-clappy’ in a ‘You’ll never walk alone’ sort of way – and warm all over, like I’d o-deed on Hoegarten extra strong…… which I had.

Had it got to me…..

Had big Stevie Gee saved the day to receive a Champions Trophy and the medal he had craved. Was it a miracle?

I walked away from the pub… shattered, exhausted, pissed.

Did God exist?
Obviously. Just look at the miracle of Dudek’s glove…

Was he an Englishman?
Definitely. But not only that, I bet he’s also a Scouser…..

Back from the booze-crooze….

Well, I’m back from darkest, dankest Norfolkshire – and what a week that was. A life on the broadland wave for the OK crew along with a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of gin, a case of medium-rough red wine and a brewery load of beer.

10 adults, one hyperactively bouncy-bouncy dog, two chemical residual karzis and a 1970’s retro-crap cruiser that wouldn’t look out of place in an early Cliff Richard movie. I can almost hear the song as Cliff, still in denial, still in the closet, serenades a young British starlet…. "We’re all a goin’ on a Summer boatin’ holiday"…..

Our boat, improbably called the ‘Majestic Gem 2’ was a Tardis in reverse. Big on the outside, mini-me with a liberal sprinkling of umpa-lumperage on the inside.

It was certainly cosy, especially in the corridor – lemon squeezy without the easy peasey – I don’t know, but everyone but me seemed to have piled on the pounds. Cupboards and drawers had creatively been renamed ‘Bedrooms’ - and the bijou kitchen or ‘galley’ as us nautical jonnies like to call it was a cast off from Barbie and Ken’s divorce settlement.

Our contingent of five plus the dog were inevitably the last to arrive at the boat yard - so all the best rooms had been taken. Worse than that, someone was wearing a Captain’s hat.

Well that’s it then. I’m completely outranked….
First and Second Mate had already been baggsied as well for God’s sake. Rope Coiler-in-Chief was history, as was Crow’s Nest Lad, Cook and Bin-Bag Wanger. Bugger! That just left Bilge Rat, Chemical Toilet Aspirator and Powder Monkey…. Not much of a choice for a man whose Dad was nicknamed ‘Matt Low’…..

I surveyed the jolly jack tarring of it all – everyone was really getting into the lifestyle on the ocean wave. Stripey jumpers, grog, ahoying their very own mateys, and everything….

The Cap’n held sway, well it was pretty damn choppy. With the wearing of that hat, he could marry us, he could bury us at sea, he could hang us from the yard arm, he could even get first use of the chemical karzi every morning….. In short, the Cap’n was God…. He could do anything he liked.

Obviously the Cap’n shouted "Avast behind", "Get back you scurvy dogs" and "Cast off aft, cast off forrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrad" alot….

Obviously, the Cap’n did all the driving.

Obviously, the Cap’n shouted a lot and was never wrong, even when he was.

It couldn’t go on.

Alfie resolved to buy an even bigger and even more gold braidier Captain’s hat than the encumbent Skip. I’ll outrank him with purest plastic bling.

Alfie resolved a name change. ‘Fletcher Christian’ seemed to fit the bill.

Alfie plotted….. Mutiny!

The first souvenir shop we hit in Wroxham had a fine stock of naval, power hats. I put one on my head. Immediately, I felt anointed. I felt Horatio Nelson himself coursing through my frame. A mirror, I must find a mirror.

And there I am, in all my salty glory.
Boy, I’m looking mighty sharp – jaunty almost. My hand sort of began to creep up to the peak of the hat – I felt a salute coming on…

"Yaaaaaa it’s Cap’n Birdseye"…..

Some gobby kid had just ruined the mood…. Twat! Crestfallen, I replaced the hat on the shelf, all shiny black peak, gleaming white cap and goldy-bling-bling badge of it. I shuffled away, wondering where the Bilge Rat calipers were kept……

A new contraceptive…

I’ve just discovered a new one.
More effective than ‘the pill’….
More reliable than the ‘rhythm method’…
Not as messy as a condom…..
This is a scientific breakthrough – 100% reliable and a real passion killer…

Since Alfreda started doing field trials with this new device, I’ve hardly had a chance at doing anything remotely resembling rumpy pumpy…..

She didn’t get it in a Chemist’s shop or a Family Planning clinic. She didn’t need to, she’s found an inexhaustible supply in our local Newspaper shop.

And the name of this, the ultimate killer of passion?

‘Sudoku’ apparently.

Fashion Statements…..

Alfie decided to do a bit of power shopping on Saturday. Well, Summer is on the way – and that can only mean polo shirts and baggy shorts draped around a cool dude countenance.

Unfortunately, ‘cool dude countenancery’ does not come cheap. Not even in my local branch of 70’s banality that is known locally as ‘Gone for A’…..I didn’t get any change from a hundred quid. The guy behind the counter asked me if I wanted the hangers.

"Are they freemans?"

He nodded.

"Then I’ll have ‘em"

He packed them away in the big plazzy bags and smiled and nodded an imaginary football to me. I nodded it back. I’ve known this guy for years. Whenever I bump into him we sort of nod to each other, like we’re in a nodding dog competition. I don’t know his name – but I’m 54 – 28 up in the imaginary game of imaginary footy we’ve been having over the years. He nods it to me, I feign to go right, but at the last moment I give him the old Stanley Matthews body swerve and bullet it to the left.He falls for it every time.

I noticed that he has begun to grow his hair. Suddenly, he’s got long flowing locks cascading over his collar and onto his shoulders. It’s sad, very sad to see. He’s trying to over compensate for the stuff he’s losing on top of his bonce…. I bet next time I go into that shop, he’ll have it in a middle aged pom-pom pony tail.

I digress.

We got the bag of style back home and reviewed. Yes, it’s fashion week down at Alfie Towers as yours truly slinked up and down the cat walk in baggy shorts and XXXXXXL shirts.

Pink appears to be ‘in’ this year, draped around a no style hulk with dodgy knees. Just as well then that I tick all those boxes! Trinny and Suze would be proud.

All went well until I tried on the last polo shirt. This little number is pink and light blue stripes. It looks cool and Summery, but something is wrong. Very, very wrong. At intervals of around 2 inches there is fraying all along the edges of the collar and sleeves. It looks like there has been a fault in the manufacture, or else some div has been stabbing it with a knife.

We march back to remonstrate with man-in-denial man at Gone for A…

He flicks his curly locks around his shiny, seen better days collar and tie – As if tired of constantly, constantly repeating himself.

"Sir, that’s the style. It’s distressed, it’s meant to be like that……. Look, they’re all the same"

With that, he wafts his wafty hand, with sovereign ring accompaniment towards a veritable infestation of racked pink and blue striped polo shirts. Every single one of them is ‘distressed’

His triumph is complete. Game set and polo match. We make a feeble excuse – and leave. I passed my frustration onto Alfreda.

"We’re so in a rut, we don’t know style and hipness, even when it comes up and slaps us right in the jallops – We're stuck here in Squaresville, in the heart of Nowhereshire…… a little tiny spot on the bum that is Blairland"…

"Yeah" she confirmed. "It’s all Tony Blair’s fault"….


On location…..

Alfie will be off on a bit of a jolly for the next few days. I shall be on a boat, never too far from a pub, a pint and a pie.
Norfolk and its Broads are the object of my desire…. Although I’ve heard they are a bit rough in the more seedier parts of the County…

I will attempt to get the odd report from the boat - watch this space.....

I’ve been thinking……. Again.

I’ve been thinking about how I could waste 4 million quid. Blow it, in one gloriously pointless exercise of pointless excess. Shouldn’t be too difficult to do should it? It’s sort a recipe of madcap disposal. I’ll get the ingredients together – I’ll need a pad - check, a pencil – check …. And four million quid – cheque.

I could buy Emile Heskey – mind you, I’d still have nearly 3.75 million left.

I could buy a seat in the House of Lords – but the going rate is apparently only around 100 grand - deposited into Labour Party coffers of course…

Hmmmmm.

Phew, getting rid of 4 million is certainly harder than I thought. I really must try and think a bit more expansively…… I know, I could buy some Man Utd shares, or invest in Rover Cars?……

Maybe not.

Hmmmmm. I’m obviously an amateur in the genre of excessive fiscal blow-outery – I haven’t really had that much practice. Not too many 4 million pound wads have fallen into my lap lately. The nearest I’ve got to holding that much money in my mitt is courtesy of the Bank of Toytown….

I need to consult an expert, someone with the appropriate amount of largesse – the right mix of style and panache to do it almost without thinking….
Step forward, Philip Green – plutocrat, retailocrat and now, a right old pratocrat…

Phil has just spent an estimated 4 million sobs on his son’s bar mitzvah party. He flew out over 300 guests to stay at the Grand Hotel du Cap-Ferrat in the South of France. They were entertained by the blind Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli and Destiny’s Child featuring Beyonce.

OTT or what?

You can just imagine the chit-chat as the guests hand over their prezzies to little Brandon, the 13 year old bar mitzvah boy.

"Wow – a 15 quid book token, thanks Auntie"…

"Excellent, a PlayStation game"
"Glad you like it, I’ve got the receipt in case you want to change it"…

"Great! A Destiny’s Child cd"…..

I don’t know. What do you get the kid who doesn’t have Balloon Artist, Zippo the Clown, but does have Beyonce and pals at his birthday bash?

Answer: A sense of perspective, all wrapped up in a sheet of humility….

Suggestions for presents for Brandon Green, aged 13 years.
1) Fund a tiger survival project.
2) Sponsor an African village/district/country.
3) Purchase vast swathes of Amazonia and sell the lot to the indigenous peoples of the area for the grand total of 27 glass beads (well, it’s been done before, hasn’t it?).
4) Replant and restore the ancient and fast disappearing woodland environments of England.
5) Start a charity, dedicated to stopping works of art from being lost to the nation….

Brandon, tell your billionaire Dad to get his gold-fingered digits out of his very deep pockets. Don’t blow obscene amounts of cash on facile acts of wastefulness that would put even Elton John, Marie Antoinette and Posh Spice to shame.

Do something constructive with it!

A night to remember……

The big night came. Thursday the fifth of May. Me and the Missus get all togged up in our best election winning gear, slap on the old red and white rosettes, do a double clench fist pose in front of the mirror whilst shouting "Come and get my seat if you think you’re hard enough"….. and we’re off. We have a date with destiny.

And then we’re not.

Because I thought this might be a night to remember – I reckon I’ll need my camera to record the great event, the very moment I’m declared a Member of Parliament.

Fantasy over. I’ll be made up to get 50 votes.

We arrive at the Civic Hall in Ormskirk. The main players are already in. The Labour crew look like mafia hoods and molls – all grey hair, badly fitting dark suits and chin stubble. The men looked pretty rough as well.

The Tory cadre are typically posh. Tweed, tatty hair-cuts, lots of comb-overs, ruddy cheeks, red fleshy ears and the most enormous blue velour rosettes abound. Amongst the old fogies and blue rinses are a couple of well fit posh totties. I fantasise, riding crops, rounded vowels and shapely, well filled blouses, tiffin, Ferraris’……

Suddenly, a big neon, yellow-coated plod ushers us towards the interior of the hall, proper. The Lib Dems flounce around in their Hush Puppies, aged slacks and round, penny-collar lemon shirts. They’ve all got clip-boards and LibDem-yellow pens – and are trying to outdo each other in officious speed-walking around the hall. They all appear to be called Jeremy, Barry and Isabel….

We stroll in. It’s just like the Ringo kid and Mrs Ringo Kid gallooting their way into Dodge City’s most notorious Saloon…
We ain’t looking for trouble, we’ve just come in off the trail. We mosie on in.

The entire Hall goes quiet.

The Hum stops. The Drum is silenced. Two hundred pairs of politically biased eyes look us over. Think, think think!!!
What would Blair or Howard do in a situation like this?

I check my flies and give a weak as water wavette.

We seek sanctuary in the form of the nearest pair of seats. The spell is broken and counters, tellers, Mafia bosses, Barry, Jeremy and posh totty get back to the business of checking votes.

We survey the activity – and it’s frantic. Voting slips are being dumped onto desks and sorted into bundles - It’s 11 o’clock at night. It’s pretty clear that we are the Electoral Virgins here because we’ve rather over judged the dress code - and appear to be the only ones to have bothered to get togged up at all. It looks like tat-central in that place – almost as if a jumble sale is about to start, and the customers are wearing the stuff on sale.

In the middle of the Hall, rising like a big, black risey thing with white lettering on the sides, are the ballot boxes. They are stacked higher than a stack of corrupt politicians – and that’s high. Now and again, a student is sent over to get another box and tips the contents all over the desks. The counters count. After an absolute age, I check with Alfreda. "What’s the time then?"

"5 past 11".

It’s going to be a very, very long night.

The UKIP Candidate saunters over to us. "What a bloody crap night we’re having" he says. "D’you know what, I should have voted for you lot, our only policy is to get out of Europe….. we’re bloody crap".

His agent nodded in agreement "Yeah, UKIP’s finished - I reckon you’ll be pushing us pretty close tonight, mate. It’s a bit of a bummer – we’ve had a full time crew out canvassing, full time in this constituency for a month now".

I inwardly smirk, smug in the knowledge that these guys are actually worried about little old me and not admitting that since the great ego that is RKS left them, they’ve been withering away.

The Labour Don, the boss of bosses cruises past with his little flotilla of fags. They are handing out real red roses to their team. Righteous indignation takes hold of me. I wanted to say – "Hey Don-Bollocks, what the bloody hell are you guys hijacking my country’s emblem for – got a bloody cheek haven’t you?"

Instead, I seethe and decide to twiddle with my rosette flanges. It helps to calm me down.

I think it’s about time I strolled around the tables to check that fair play and democracy is being served. I stroll like a Statesman, stiff-legged and hands behind my back I really do look the bizz – Lord of all I survey.

In spite of my very best efforts I can’t find one, not one voting slip that has a cross next to my name. It’s very depressing. And then – I see it. Result, hat trick, loss of virginity and passing driving test all in one gloriously orgasmic moment. And I know it’s not the one that I filled in, this one’s got a ‘tick’ next to my name. A tick for God’s sake – will they say it’s legal? Of course they do! My pile is off and growing! I am a Statesman after all. I glide over to Alfreda.

"Why are you walking like a twat?"

"Sorry, I thought I was walking like Prince Charles"

"Exactly!"

It’s now 2 am in the bloody morning. With 200 people in one airless room it’s getting hot and stale and manky. Still the counting goes on. I compare piles of votes. The Labour woman has millions, an entire forest worth of paper has been shovelled into the corner called ‘winner’. Next is the Tory – he’s a decent guy really – and almost local to boot. The Lib Dem is clearly disappointed – he was pretty arrogant throughout this keenly fought contest and this looks like the final straw. His pile wouldn’t even start a boy scout’s fire. Suddenly, the entire Lib Dem contingent flounce out. Suddenly, there’s a lot less yellow around the room. Suddenly, Hush Puppies are silent….. Ladies and Gentlemen - Barry, Jeremy and Isabel have left the building.

I catch the eye of the Returning Officer. "When do you reckon then – the declaration?"

"Oh we should have everything ready for 4ish"…..

Well they weren’t ready for 4 ‘ish’ - more like gone 5’ish’ actually. We are called over – the Labour manikin wins by miles. Tory second, Lib Dem third, UKIP fourth just – bugger!…
And me with 525 voteroonies. I didn’t even come last – some indy brought up the rear a good 300 votes behind me.

By the time the Labour manikin finishes her speech of thanks, the audience have obviously had enough – it’s light outside and the birds are tweeting. I nervously finger my well-crafted, 4 page speech in my pocket. Everyone else is giving short ‘n’ sharp speechettes. The UKIP guy can’t be bothered to say anything he’s so pissed off, so it’s my turn. I pull out the wad of A4, the crowd sigh.

What would Mel Gibson say at a time like this? Easy, He’d chuck the speech away, thank the Returning Officer, Jane and Anne Marie, his assistants, the counters and his agent. Then he’d shout "Freedom" at the top of his voice….. Ohhh, and "We demand an English Parliament Tony - or else"…

Everyone claps. I don’t know whether it was the message in my speech or the relief at its brevity. I punch the air, hoping against hope that just at that moment, Tony Blair had somehow fallen through the ceiling above to meet my well clenched fist.

The winning Labour candidate, or ‘cardboard box’ as she is known in this area looked at the floor. Bloody hell, I’m no Reg Keys but she looked just a little embarrassed there I think. I walk over to her to shake her hand….

"Hi Rosie, congratulations….. Oh, and you’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the future"…

She looked worried. She obviously didn’t know that I am a fully paid up member of the awkward squad….. But she does now!

Triumphant. I link arms with my agent, my soul mate, my wife Alfreda. We deftly avoid all the no-mark local hacks trying to interview anyone wearing a rosette and saunter past the guard of plod at the door. We stroll out into the weak, watery wet morning light and go home.

The deposit was lost – but it just didn’t matter. By standing I had given people in the constituency an opportunity to express their dissatisfaction at the current political system – all 525 of them.

What was it Bill Shankly once said? "First is first and second is nowhere"…..

Well you were wrong Billy boy. Great footy manager you might have been, but you knew bugger all about elections.

First is first is a cardboard box, but 525 is a bloody miracle mate…..

A question

Question: Just what does anyone have to do to be permanently excluded from Emperor Blair’s Praetorian Clack?

Answer: Nobody knows yet!
Judging by David Blunkett (pensions) and Beverley Hughes’ (children) reinstatement into power, it’s not lying, duplicity, skulduggery, lust, debauchery or incompetence….

Maybe it’s selective memory loss? Nah, that’s not right – Mandelson, the Queen of tarts in the pack of New Labour arses made a Lazarus-like return after forgetting about the 370 grand ‘loan’ from his mate Geoffrey Robinson (the knave of money lenders).

I know, what about doing a deal for a couple of passports? Sorry, there’s that man Mandelson again….

It’s no good, there must be something someone has done in this cabinet to warrant permanent exile…. I’ve got to plumb the depths of depravity…….. got it!

Invasion and genocide – you can’t get worse than that can you? Invasion and Genocide should certainly disqualify anyone from public office shouldn’t it? Unless of course you are Joe Stalin, or Calligula, or Ghengis Khan ……….

Bugger me, that’s no good either. Tony Blair (the ace of a smirking grin that you just want to smack with a well seasoned cricket bat) is still there……

Sustainability on the planet Prescott and other fairy stories…..

It’s another shocker. John Prescott, the Jack of Pies in the pack of New Labour Lying Arseholes is at it again. His grass police have found a previously overlooked piece of Southern England to dump another load of concrete on – and all in the name of ‘sustainability’.

You know how the Prescott sustainability equation goes don’t you?.
Green grass = no Labour voters.
Therefore get building – there’s a Knighthood in it for you.

So another few hundred thousand houses on a fast disappearing piece of verdant Blighty is all set to go ahead. It’s a place I know well – the coastal area between Portsmouth and Southampton.

Prescott has had a report done by some sustainability moron. It recommends that those two great south coast cities be joined up. A sexy name has been thought up – ‘The Solent Gateway’....... Nice.

Even now, I can already see the tailor sizing up the ermine cloak as another New Labour ‘Lordship’ flunky is about to be conferred. Lord Sustainability of Urbania.

As per usual, the local busy bodies with building-supply vested interests declare just how vital this sustainable growth is. As per usual, the opponents to the scheme are the vast majority of the local population. As per usual their ‘very real concerns’ will be fully taken into account, before being consigned to the bin labelled ‘local losers’ ….. as per usual.

Along with the houses for the Solent Gateway will come the schools, hospitals, roads, prisons and all the other sustainable detritus of city living. Where’s the power and the water coming from? The growth isn’t organic – it’s completely manic. The South East is glowing white hot on an altar of self obsessed egomania on the part of Prescott – and simpering brown nosed sycophantasy, courtesy of the army of civil servants currently trying their very best to get a knighthood via Prescott’s back passage.

Prescott is the Adolf Hitler of the English countryside. It’s nothing less than a concrete blitzkrieg on our green belt. And all in the name of ‘sustainability’..

God, I really hate that man and his meddling ways. Just answer me this Prezza or is it now Milliband? – if all the land gets built on, what happens to the sustainability plan then? What about the land to the north? What about your ‘plan’ to knock down 400,000 perfectly sound (mainly stone built) houses in the North of England? What about Scotland? It’s currently depopulating at a McScary rate in the head long rush to get down to the South East……

After Thursday, in spite of pious Tony’s declaration that he will listen in future, nothing’s going to change, nothing’s going to alter – just the same old Stalinist dictats from Blairyworld and his brain dead flunkies. Just the same old dogma, the same old invective from people with as much imagination as can be written on the back of a packet of Woodbines….

I wish I could leave this once fantastic country. It has become such a God awful place, governed by toadies and penpushers and led by a preening, self obsessed flawed fantasist. (Five times a night? Pass me the sick bag, Alistair)......

Note - I really am trying to finish off the election night thing - it should be posted tomorrow.....

Hello from the stump!…..

My God, little no mark Alfie reporting here from the coal face of democracy – no, not in Basra, Southern Iraq… but Ormskirk, West Lancashire.

Life’s certainly a bit tough when you’re up against the big Party machines…. And you’ve got to hold down a job…… And you’ve had no media training….. And you feel a bit of a pranny swanning round in your big fluffy rosette…… And as you catch the eye of a potential voter – how their face crumples into resignation as another glad handing guy with a message does a bit of quarry cornering.

That wasn’t the worse part of it though. The very worse thing was getting the leaflet out. The leaflet that will define the message to the electorate…..

Should I have a slogan?

‘Vote for me, or I’ll come round and nut yer’

‘Vote for me, coz I’m bloody fab - no I really am’

‘Vote for me – you know you want to' …..

I need a photo. Unfortunately, the only photographer in town is Alfreda (or Box Brownie Brenda as we like to call her). We dig out the ultra cheap, ultra plastic ‘digicol’ camera.

I pose. I explore the environs of the office…. It’s pretty damn uninspiring though. Do I want to be shot against an urban chic background? Or possibly metropolitan tat? Maybe a football manager’s pose – courtesy of a sheepskin coat, a telephone to my ear and a big fat cigar in my hand?

We experiment.

Against some venetian blinds – light and dark stripey.

Fly on the wall, reportage style – pretentious grainy.

Informal and all friendly like – Colin Montgomerie cloney.

We eventually decide a brick wall background will look best – Inspirational or what? The bricks depict stability and order, the mortar - the glue of society binding the whole structure together. Thus creating one strong regular object from many disparate pieces…… (Yawn)

Alfreda lines me up.

She zooms.

I posture.

I’m trying for serious with a bit of humanity, a dollop of gravitas with just a hint of humour.

I’m thinking Brad Pitt and Jonny Depp, with a liberal sprinkling of Orlando Bloom. All cunningly wrapped around a Bill Clinton countenance.

Can I pull it off? (as Bill Clinton once said)….

Alfreda’s on motorised overdrive as she furiously clicks away…

"Oh baby, give me ‘humility"….. "great"….. now four square determination. Love it, just love it"…..

The pics are in the can.

Alfreda assures me she’ll pick out the best one and send it to the printers…..

Fast forward to delivery day.

I get a couple of courtesy copies – the rest, 35,000 have been sent to the Royal Mail for distribution.

I open my leaflet.

Geezzzzzzzzzzus.

H.

Kerrrrrrist.

What happened to Brad, Jonny, Orlando and Bill?

They’ve been replaced by Harold Shipman, David Bellamy, Rolf Harris and Santa Claus that’s what…

I’ve become jowl-boy meets Jabba the Hutt with a beard and glasses.

Somehow, somehow the picture has put about 4 stone on my boat. My beard looks like something Moses would have been proud of and my eyes have disappeared into 2 slits on my moon shaped smirking face……… Not to worry then – there’s only 35, 000 of the damn things….

Great, great news. Alfie’s ‘plus’ column is off and running. My eldest son has committed his precious vote to his old man. It makes you proud don’t it?

Anyway, I must keep my part of the bargain and return all his back issues of FHM and other ‘art’ mags…..

Tomorrow – I do a ‘Question Time’ style event and one of the candidates gets caught ‘resting his eyes’ Then I do a few radio interviews – and manage to string 4 words together without saying "you know"……… Also – The big, big day is looming, it’s all so exciting! (ish)……..

Keir Hardie’s flat cap and John Henry’s cut throat razors……

So there I was, counting out 500 quid in twenty pound notes to Jane, a once sexy, now middle aged Returning Officer. They don’t accept cheques, or credit cards – just cold hard cash. Jane stuffed the wad into a brown envelope. I handed over my bit of paper with 10 signatories – all people of sound mind from the said constituency. Jane cross checks the names with the electoral roll and confirms they are all ‘OK’. – She declares that I have been accepted to kiss babies, knock on doors and generally annoy people for the next 4 weeks.

I’m a candidate for the General Election.

It’s been a bumpy old road though. Alfreda almost scuppered the great adventure by declaring I didn’t qualify. "Oh really, why is that then?" I asked.

Alfreda has a weighty tome from the Electoral Commission in her mitt… "Well, it says here ‘People who are ‘idiots’ are disqualified from standing"…..

"Vereee funeeee"… I wittily reposte – well it’s good training for when I get into the House isn’t it? "And does the Speaker agree with me that the Right Honourable Member for Sedgefield is a complete and utter twat"….

"Hear hear"….

But she’s got a point though. It’s a sort of Catch 22 deal isn’t it? You’d have to be an idiot or a narcissistic arse to stand for Parliament in the first place wouldn’t you?

Well I’m not a narcissistic arse am I? A big arse maybe, definitely a big arse, but not a narssy-arse. I don’t even like my big arse – it’s too big and arsey…. So that must make me an idiot – ergo I am disqualified from standing….. I need some lateral thinking. Someone to clear the whole conundrum up for me. Where’s Edward De Bono when you need him?….

Yes, ordinary bloke Alfie has decided to get it on and mix it up with the giants of oratory and spin, fight toe to toe with the slipperiest of characters known to man… the British politician. It’s not exactly ‘Mr Smith goes to Washington’ – more Mr Grumpy crosses number 23 off his list of 50 things to do before he snuffs it…. I’m following in a family tradition though, – my old Granddad – George Albert stood twice as an independent in between the two wars.

I decided to have a bit of a root into the Alfie archive. Eventually, I found this picture taken in the mid 1920’s – at first glance it appears to be a Keir Hardie flat cap convention, but it was in fact, the Liverpool section of the mass hunger march to London. My Granddad is the big geezer with the really big and really floppy flat cap just to the left of the banner and next to the little kid. Please note his square jawed countenance.



George was a seaman, a writer and a Communist, active in the docklands of Liverpool. His first electoral slogan above a picture of him as if chiselled out of purest foursquarium was ‘Vote for George Albert – the man that cannot be bought’…… His second, aimed at the jaunty nautical vote was ‘Put it there, sailor’…. The graphic showed a big hand holding a pencil about to draw a big cross on the ballot paper.

He didn’t get very far. He lost both times, but I can’t help thinking that if he’d stood in Brighton he might have been a bit more successful…..

Campaigning then was a bit tougher than it is now, so tough in fact that George Albert employed a bodyguard. His name was John Henry, a mountain of a man, granite jawed, sporting a flat cap made of the ear lobes of his victims - and as tough as a three-week old flame grilled ‘whopper’ beef burger (and that’s really tough). – He was so hard - he had two little pockets sewn into the end of his coat sleeves…. And in those little pockets he hid two razor sharp, cut-throat razors. When danger threatened, as quick as a flash, John Henry would whip them out, wave them about a bit like a demon Sweeney Todd - Whirling Dervish ensemble and ask who’s up for it then….

I don’t have a ‘John Henry’ to protect me, I don’t need him, I’ve got somebody much, much scarier. Alfreda is my newly appointed agent and hired muscle. She’s five and a half foot tall in her very pointy-sharp pointy boots. She’s 100% of feline wildcat savagery…… I just hope we don’t run into John Prescott on the campaign trail, I don’t think having his head shoved up his backside will look very nice – for a start, it’ll stop him speaking the usual drivel and make him look silly to boot. Hmmmm,a win-win situation if ever there was one.

Next instalment – On the stump, on the high horse, on the doorstep, on the ale….

Hi everybody....

Apologies all round for neglecting the blogging bizz.
I've been dead busy.
A million things whizzing round my head.
It's just too much to cope with.
However, all will be revealed tomorrow as to what I've been up to......

But for now, I'll just say that I think everyone should have a go at it.
Like jury service.
Or scuba diving.
Or eating a whole Victoria sponge all by yourself.
Or losing your virginity.
Or going to Glasto......

Hats off to Clinton Cards……

Strolling around that there London yesterday, just by Bank underground station and not a Pearly King’s jig away from the grand old lady of Fred Needle Street, we happened upon a Clinton Card shop. As is customary with us oop-northerners when passing a shop, we had a right good gawp in – to see if there was anything interesting therein.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a well slimy, jellied eel and no mistake guv’nor.

For there, in all its red ‘n’ whiteyness was the biggest display of St George’s Day cards I’ve ever seen. Well, let me clarify – it’s the only display of St George’s cards
I’ve ever seen.

I just could not believe it. A whole aisle devoted to St Gee. Not only lots of different reasonably priced cards (5 for £2.55p), but also flags, patriotic pens, key-rings and badges.

It was great to see, not only because they were on show – but the mere fact that Clinton Cards reckon there is such a big market out there in England-land in the first place. And thus translating that into such a large commitment to space within the shop.

Earth to Tone, Mike and Chas – get your manifestoed fingers out of your pontificating celtic backsides and recognise the nation – before it comes back to bite you.

Note, if you go onto the Clinton Card web site - http://www.clintoncards.co.uk/ASP/front/default.asp
You will find St Gee’s is the card of the month.

Final Pope comment...

During ITV's magisterial coverage of all things papal last Friday; the anchorman got a tad carried away with the occasion. It might have been because of the presence of His High Highness, Tony Blair, his windy-wafted locks and his wife, the virgin Cherie. It might have been Robert Mugabe's handshake to Charlie Windsor "Yo, Chaz, you and your lovely new wife, Cammy must come over to our house sometime".........

But most probably, it's because the anchor man is a total, non bible-reading wally.

For those of you that missed it, he said "This must surely be the biggest day in Christianity - ever"...

Hmmmmm.... bigger than the virgin birth, bigger than loaves and fishes, bigger than the resurrection?

Obviously.