Eccentrics, leprechauns and saxophone players….
The other day, I was browsing the message boards of our local radio station’s web site and came across someone enquiring about the eccentric ‘no smoking’ cyclist commonly seen all over the North West of England.
For anyone who hasn’t seen him, this man rides an old road racing bike. The bike is adorned entirely in clear plastic and collected litter. Big hand written signs are stuck to the frame on the evils of smoking. On his head is always worn an old skateboarding helmet. And he rides – to virtually every City, Town and Village in the North West. Often seen standing next to his bike, occasionally muttering, frequently shouting, especially to people he’s seen smoking…….. sad cyclist with a message.
When I was a kid, where I lived there was a weird guy who one day suddenly started to build a ship in his back garden. The garden backed onto a field, so us nosy kids had a first hand view of progress.
When I say he built it in the garden, he really did build in the garden – all of it. From one end to the other, a bloody great big ship. And when I say ‘ship’ – I really do mean ‘ship’. It wasn’t a yacht – or a boat …. It was a bloody massive ship! It was entirely built out of wooden planks, clinker fashion. Eventually, after a few years, he got to the top and laid the decking down. It towered above the rest of the gardens. I suppose it was about 20 feet tall. The next time we came to look at it he had added a new feature on the top – it was then that I knew exactly what he had built. On the top of the deck, amidships he had plonked a garden shed. It now looked like everyone’s idea of how a ‘Noah’s Ark’ should look like.
He had built his own Noah’s Ark – in his garden. I don’t know whether he was a religious nut, or just a really pessimistic weather forecaster……. That ship was there for years, nobody seemed to mind – I guess it was before the World was populated to the brim with ‘jobsworth’ planning officers…. ..two by two
Near Cammel Lairds in Birkenhead, There’s a man who, most days stands under an old railway bridge. He faces the wall, playing a saxophone - quietly to himself. He has no cap on the floor to collect cash – and anyway, the place he plays has hardly any passers by………. mellow bluesman with a stoned audience….. nice
A three piece suited, 7 stone OAP threatened to wipe me out once – God knows why. It was the early nineties and Alfie was at his most physically imposing…. Alfie the brick bog, 18 stone of mile high manliness (my vision, obviously) was striding down the street in confident fashion with Alfreda. Out of nowhere, leapt a little old wizened type gent, with slicked down dwindling hair and thin bony knobbly knuckles waving millies from my face.
"Come on then, you don’t frighten me yer terwat. I’ll bloody ‘ave yer. Come on, stick yer dooks up – or are yer a chicken? With that, he starts to do a strutting chicken walk, wafting his arms about and clucking and squawking to himself. Baaquaa baquaa baaabaaaquaaa" …….. mad leprechaun with a death-wish.
A bad tackle down at the newsagents……
Massive controversy and consternation in our locality when a couple of weeks ago the local rag inadvertently published a photo of a footy player with his ‘bobby knoblett’ hanging out – in glorious technicolour!
Needless to say, the publisher was horrified, but the word was out – and the rush was on to buy copies. In hours, they were all sold out – probably for the first time ever.
I eeeed them, under the heading of ‘Competition Winner’ asking if they were starting a ‘spot the bobby knoblett competition’ – and if so, could I have my prize as I had spotted this weeks member……
They declined to comment.
Best thing about it though was the flasher wrote in a week later – to apologise for his bobby ‘just slipping out’ and how he ‘hadn’t noticed’ that it was free and running wild – like it’s got a life of it’s own or something……
I thought it must have had something to do with the way he was pulling his shorts aside to let Tommy Togger get unleashed and the ‘ear to ear’ grin he had on his boat….
I have agonised long and hard about whether I should reproduce the photo for you, but have decided against it - mainly because I can’t get a magnifying tool on the pic’….
Saturday, November 08, 2003
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Guy Fawkes – done up like a kipper…..
"I am here today at the Law Courts to plead for Mr Fawkes’ case to be reopened, re-examined and his sentence rescinded. We, at the appeals tribunal do not think Mr Fawkes received a fair trial – and consequently we believe there has been a travesty of justice. My colleague, Mr Mansfield will elucidate…"
"Thank you Ludovic, we believe our case is a strong one and that this guy, Guy has been well and truly ‘fawked’.
"We intend to show that once arrested, Mr Fawkes –
Did not have his rights read to him.
Was not allowed a free phone call.
Had no access to legal aid.
Was put in a damp, cold cell with a piece of wood for a bed and a hat for a privvy. He didn’t even have a decent pair of jim-jams - those blankets really do chafe you know".
Was not allowed his religious freedom – and access to a bible was denied.
"In short we believe Mr Fawkes’ human rights have been violated – and we intend to indict one King James 1 of England as a war criminal.
"We feel the interviewing techniques engaged were overly aggressive. Mr Fawkes was not allowed toilet breaks, ciggy breaks or tea breaks. The only ‘breaks’ he did get were to his arms and legs. The interrogator also made extremely derogatory remarks concerning Mr Fawkes and his sexuality.
"Just because he wore flamboyant outfits including a big floppy hat with wafty feathers, natty thigh length leather boots and full length capes, these are not a sign that Mr Fawkes’ had an effeminate nature. As far as we are aware, Mr Fawkes rampantly chased well rounded, buxomly-comely Elizabethan bar room totty on a regular basis.
"We also think the sentence of being hung, drawn and quartered just a bit too excessive. Possibly a community service sentence would have been more appropriate. Mr Fawkes, I know was keen to work with under-privileged kids.
"We would like to see ‘Bonfire Night’ renamed as ‘Guy Fawkes-he wasn’t all that bad’ – and possibly set up some work shops, education courses etc – and maybe obtain a grant from The Lottery Commission…. Kids could make a ‘Guy’ as they do now – but when they meet passers-by they could say something like "Hey, could you give our Guy a hug?"…
"We should all get together and send a letter to the Pope urging him to make Guy a saint. ‘St Guido of Whitehall’ or something. After all, he did try to blow up a whole load of whining, low-life parasites – and do us all a favour"…….
"I am here today at the Law Courts to plead for Mr Fawkes’ case to be reopened, re-examined and his sentence rescinded. We, at the appeals tribunal do not think Mr Fawkes received a fair trial – and consequently we believe there has been a travesty of justice. My colleague, Mr Mansfield will elucidate…"
"Thank you Ludovic, we believe our case is a strong one and that this guy, Guy has been well and truly ‘fawked’.
"We intend to show that once arrested, Mr Fawkes –
Did not have his rights read to him.
Was not allowed a free phone call.
Had no access to legal aid.
Was put in a damp, cold cell with a piece of wood for a bed and a hat for a privvy. He didn’t even have a decent pair of jim-jams - those blankets really do chafe you know".
Was not allowed his religious freedom – and access to a bible was denied.
"In short we believe Mr Fawkes’ human rights have been violated – and we intend to indict one King James 1 of England as a war criminal.
"We feel the interviewing techniques engaged were overly aggressive. Mr Fawkes was not allowed toilet breaks, ciggy breaks or tea breaks. The only ‘breaks’ he did get were to his arms and legs. The interrogator also made extremely derogatory remarks concerning Mr Fawkes and his sexuality.
"Just because he wore flamboyant outfits including a big floppy hat with wafty feathers, natty thigh length leather boots and full length capes, these are not a sign that Mr Fawkes’ had an effeminate nature. As far as we are aware, Mr Fawkes rampantly chased well rounded, buxomly-comely Elizabethan bar room totty on a regular basis.
"We also think the sentence of being hung, drawn and quartered just a bit too excessive. Possibly a community service sentence would have been more appropriate. Mr Fawkes, I know was keen to work with under-privileged kids.
"We would like to see ‘Bonfire Night’ renamed as ‘Guy Fawkes-he wasn’t all that bad’ – and possibly set up some work shops, education courses etc – and maybe obtain a grant from The Lottery Commission…. Kids could make a ‘Guy’ as they do now – but when they meet passers-by they could say something like "Hey, could you give our Guy a hug?"…
"We should all get together and send a letter to the Pope urging him to make Guy a saint. ‘St Guido of Whitehall’ or something. After all, he did try to blow up a whole load of whining, low-life parasites – and do us all a favour"…….
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
The Turner Prize – what’s it all about then?
OK, here we are at the Tate Britain Gallery, waiting, gagging, and hyperventilating with anticipation at the prospect of gazing in adoration at the collective genius that is the infinitely infantile BritArt School. Within these walls, there lies a gloriously clichéd mix of emperor’s new clothes cutting edge dross.
I’m sure the genius that was Joseph Mallord William Turner, landscaping master of light, tone and shade would fully endorse some of the previous groundbreaking entries. Efforts such as Tracy Emmin’s detritus-strewn ‘Unmade Bed’, Damien Hirst’s ‘nice bit of fillet’ in formaldehyde - and the saddo that produced a light bulb going on and off in a concrete box.... Yeah, I'm sure he would.....
Anyway, that was then – and this is now, so let’s start and get the objective appraisal up and running. Just check I’ve got everything… Catalogue check, Dickie Bow check, Sick Bag (lots of them) check.
Objective Appraisal:
We’re in – and the overwhelming feeling is of horror and nausea. It’s not unlike the feeling I have when I’m clearing out our cat’s litter tray. The Turner entrant’s brief seems to be to SHOCK at all costs. These things aren’t even witty, or skilful or thought provoking. They are banal, twee, self centred, bought from B&Q, gathered out of a skip, picked from the artist’s belly button or made from the residue of the local bunion trimming centre.
Then some bi-focalled pseudo-intellectually challenged inadequate sallies forth with a paper-thin justification for a six-foot copy of a latex-clad, suspended in stockings jelly baby. "It’s Man’s angst. Does he eat the jelly baby and devour all its sugary goodness, or does he make mad passionate love to it and be consumed by its sweet sex-crazed depravity?"…… (Bloody Hell, not a bad idea that – a sure fire winner for next year… Hmmm, latex-clad, six foot jelly baby).
Every year, it’s the same ‘subtle as a brick in the bread basket’ treatment. Never mind Nobs, Flies, Rotting Flesh and Festering Piles of Pink Putrefying Pustules…..
How about a nice landscape or a nice bit of greenery and maybe a flock of birds in a meadow? Some bambi-like cute looking deer with big puppy dog eyes would be nice ….. Come to think of it, I can’t remember seeing that ‘Pierot’ clown geezer with the teardrop on his cheek in any Turner exhibition. And why hasn’t the green Chinese lady or the Gypsy dancer made an appearance? Now that really would be shocking….
OK, here we are at the Tate Britain Gallery, waiting, gagging, and hyperventilating with anticipation at the prospect of gazing in adoration at the collective genius that is the infinitely infantile BritArt School. Within these walls, there lies a gloriously clichéd mix of emperor’s new clothes cutting edge dross.
I’m sure the genius that was Joseph Mallord William Turner, landscaping master of light, tone and shade would fully endorse some of the previous groundbreaking entries. Efforts such as Tracy Emmin’s detritus-strewn ‘Unmade Bed’, Damien Hirst’s ‘nice bit of fillet’ in formaldehyde - and the saddo that produced a light bulb going on and off in a concrete box.... Yeah, I'm sure he would.....
Anyway, that was then – and this is now, so let’s start and get the objective appraisal up and running. Just check I’ve got everything… Catalogue check, Dickie Bow check, Sick Bag (lots of them) check.
Objective Appraisal:
We’re in – and the overwhelming feeling is of horror and nausea. It’s not unlike the feeling I have when I’m clearing out our cat’s litter tray. The Turner entrant’s brief seems to be to SHOCK at all costs. These things aren’t even witty, or skilful or thought provoking. They are banal, twee, self centred, bought from B&Q, gathered out of a skip, picked from the artist’s belly button or made from the residue of the local bunion trimming centre.
Then some bi-focalled pseudo-intellectually challenged inadequate sallies forth with a paper-thin justification for a six-foot copy of a latex-clad, suspended in stockings jelly baby. "It’s Man’s angst. Does he eat the jelly baby and devour all its sugary goodness, or does he make mad passionate love to it and be consumed by its sweet sex-crazed depravity?"…… (Bloody Hell, not a bad idea that – a sure fire winner for next year… Hmmm, latex-clad, six foot jelly baby).
Every year, it’s the same ‘subtle as a brick in the bread basket’ treatment. Never mind Nobs, Flies, Rotting Flesh and Festering Piles of Pink Putrefying Pustules…..
How about a nice landscape or a nice bit of greenery and maybe a flock of birds in a meadow? Some bambi-like cute looking deer with big puppy dog eyes would be nice ….. Come to think of it, I can’t remember seeing that ‘Pierot’ clown geezer with the teardrop on his cheek in any Turner exhibition. And why hasn’t the green Chinese lady or the Gypsy dancer made an appearance? Now that really would be shocking….
Monday, November 03, 2003
The Big Apple – and we’re not talking Granny Smith’s…..
During the last week, I’ve been as busy as a busy bee at a buzz, buzz, buzzy bee convention….
Today ‘Rick’ from New York gave me a ring.
"Hiiiiyyyyyyaaaaa! – Is that the M.D. of the Company?"
"It is" – I reply.
"My name is Rick. I’m talking to you from Wall Street in Nooooo York City, and I want to make you richer – a lot richer than you already are!"
"Great – but I’m a bit busy at the moment – like a bee…. So.."
"Sure!" says Rick. "Sir I do deals, and when I get a sniff of a great deal, I like to share it with my clients. Successful clients – like yourself"
"Great"
"Sure, we made a fortune this Summer – in Plastics!
"Great"
"Sure! – Sir, can I ask you what your current portfolio value is at the moment….. Is it above a million or above five million?"
"Hmmmmm – let me think"…. I leave Rick stewing on regulo 5 whilst I meander, mumbling through these imaginary stocks and those imaginary bonds. "Yeah, mumble, mumble, Consolidated Condos’, French Letter Corp, CrapCo….."
"Well Rick, it looks like my portfolio stands at around eight million"
Rick’s gob is well smacked. "Eight million!…… – that’s some portfolio"
"Yeah Rick, it used to be over fifteen, but those muthas in French Letter Corp have blown me out…."
"Sir, can we act on your behalf in the American markets? We’ll get it back up to fifteen – and beyond!!!"
"Hmmmm, lemme think about that Rick - bud. I’ll get my people to talk to your people, yadder, yadder, yadder – and all like that - and everything"….
I shout across the room ….. "Hey asshole, I ordered pastrami on my Goddamm, Goddamm rye. And where’s my Soda with extra triple banana squishy? Geez Rick, I’m employing 'assholes anonymous' in this Goddamm place. Look Rick baby, there’s Tokyo on the other line. Ipso - gotta go, I’ll get back to ya – probably"
"Sir, it would be an honour"
"No problemo Rick, baby ……ciao".
During the last week, I’ve been as busy as a busy bee at a buzz, buzz, buzzy bee convention….
Today ‘Rick’ from New York gave me a ring.
"Hiiiiyyyyyyaaaaa! – Is that the M.D. of the Company?"
"It is" – I reply.
"My name is Rick. I’m talking to you from Wall Street in Nooooo York City, and I want to make you richer – a lot richer than you already are!"
"Great – but I’m a bit busy at the moment – like a bee…. So.."
"Sure!" says Rick. "Sir I do deals, and when I get a sniff of a great deal, I like to share it with my clients. Successful clients – like yourself"
"Great"
"Sure, we made a fortune this Summer – in Plastics!
"Great"
"Sure! – Sir, can I ask you what your current portfolio value is at the moment….. Is it above a million or above five million?"
"Hmmmmm – let me think"…. I leave Rick stewing on regulo 5 whilst I meander, mumbling through these imaginary stocks and those imaginary bonds. "Yeah, mumble, mumble, Consolidated Condos’, French Letter Corp, CrapCo….."
"Well Rick, it looks like my portfolio stands at around eight million"
Rick’s gob is well smacked. "Eight million!…… – that’s some portfolio"
"Yeah Rick, it used to be over fifteen, but those muthas in French Letter Corp have blown me out…."
"Sir, can we act on your behalf in the American markets? We’ll get it back up to fifteen – and beyond!!!"
"Hmmmm, lemme think about that Rick - bud. I’ll get my people to talk to your people, yadder, yadder, yadder – and all like that - and everything"….
I shout across the room ….. "Hey asshole, I ordered pastrami on my Goddamm, Goddamm rye. And where’s my Soda with extra triple banana squishy? Geez Rick, I’m employing 'assholes anonymous' in this Goddamm place. Look Rick baby, there’s Tokyo on the other line. Ipso - gotta go, I’ll get back to ya – probably"
"Sir, it would be an honour"
"No problemo Rick, baby ……ciao".
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Wednesday night is pub quiz night.
Because we know who’s who and what’s what, Alfie the know-all, Alfreda, and two of his pals tour the locality looking for sucker pubs and their quiz night prizes to exploit.
Last Wednesday we hit ‘The Bull and Dog’. We case the joint. "Fifteen quid first prize, easy, peasy, let’s do it!"
We saunter in, cocksure and cockily cerebral with it, we’re strangers in a strange pub. I feel like Alfie Eastwood in ‘A fistful of questions’. The pub hushes. Bar flies look us up and down. We get our drinks and find a table. A quick look round to ‘case’ the opposition confirms our suspicions that this is going to be like taking candy from a ……
Hang on….. I know that man. Just to the side of us, on the next table is a baldy geezer, aged about 55 with adoring entourage. He has a van dyke beatnik type beard … He’s a scouser and is waxing lyrical like a crazy man in a cool daddyo – oh so intelligent type way. His team is focused, they look like the biggest threat alright.
Cool Daddyo is chilling…… suddenly, he looks over and clocks me and our eyes meet – he recognises me. I met him about 15 years ago, when he brought his son in for a job in our studio. "And what University did you go to?" Cool Daddyo chips in… "Errr, Jimmy’s been to the University of Life" ….
"Has he got an art folder?"
"Not exactly, he has a ‘folder of opportunities’ - in his mind"…..
"In his mind? …….. Riiiiigggghhhhhttttt"
Not impressed, I show them the door. The door of ‘please sod off and stop wasting my time’…..
Back to the pub…..
Cool Daddyo is none other than ‘Redwall’ author Brian Jacques. I surreptitiously lean over and whisper to Mrs Alfie "There’s Brian Jacques"
"Who?"
"Brian Jacques, there’s Brian Jacques, sitting over there".
"Who?" She looks ‘round, craning her neck like a craney thing.
"Don’t look, don’t look, just don’t look"…..
I hiss, hissingly "It’s Brian Jacques – you know ….. the Author, Brian Jacques. He wrote the mousey saga – about mice"
"Who’s Brian Jacques?"
"AAGGGHHHHHH - You know, BRIAN bloody JACQUES!" I scream.. – "BRIAN Goddam-sodding JACQUES the author. It’s BRIAN fuckin’ JACQUES!"
"Ohh, that Brian Jacques……"
We got beaten by a team of Piltdown, missing link, inbred farmers at the end of the room.
Because we know who’s who and what’s what, Alfie the know-all, Alfreda, and two of his pals tour the locality looking for sucker pubs and their quiz night prizes to exploit.
Last Wednesday we hit ‘The Bull and Dog’. We case the joint. "Fifteen quid first prize, easy, peasy, let’s do it!"
We saunter in, cocksure and cockily cerebral with it, we’re strangers in a strange pub. I feel like Alfie Eastwood in ‘A fistful of questions’. The pub hushes. Bar flies look us up and down. We get our drinks and find a table. A quick look round to ‘case’ the opposition confirms our suspicions that this is going to be like taking candy from a ……
Hang on….. I know that man. Just to the side of us, on the next table is a baldy geezer, aged about 55 with adoring entourage. He has a van dyke beatnik type beard … He’s a scouser and is waxing lyrical like a crazy man in a cool daddyo – oh so intelligent type way. His team is focused, they look like the biggest threat alright.
Cool Daddyo is chilling…… suddenly, he looks over and clocks me and our eyes meet – he recognises me. I met him about 15 years ago, when he brought his son in for a job in our studio. "And what University did you go to?" Cool Daddyo chips in… "Errr, Jimmy’s been to the University of Life" ….
"Has he got an art folder?"
"Not exactly, he has a ‘folder of opportunities’ - in his mind"…..
"In his mind? …….. Riiiiigggghhhhhttttt"
Not impressed, I show them the door. The door of ‘please sod off and stop wasting my time’…..
Back to the pub…..
Cool Daddyo is none other than ‘Redwall’ author Brian Jacques. I surreptitiously lean over and whisper to Mrs Alfie "There’s Brian Jacques"
"Who?"
"Brian Jacques, there’s Brian Jacques, sitting over there".
"Who?" She looks ‘round, craning her neck like a craney thing.
"Don’t look, don’t look, just don’t look"…..
I hiss, hissingly "It’s Brian Jacques – you know ….. the Author, Brian Jacques. He wrote the mousey saga – about mice"
"Who’s Brian Jacques?"
"AAGGGHHHHHH - You know, BRIAN bloody JACQUES!" I scream.. – "BRIAN Goddam-sodding JACQUES the author. It’s BRIAN fuckin’ JACQUES!"
"Ohh, that Brian Jacques……"
We got beaten by a team of Piltdown, missing link, inbred farmers at the end of the room.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Bad day at ‘Hanging Rock’ today –
really, really bad day at the rocky, hanging place…..
Firstly, I have (rather condescendingly) been put down by some Government lackey on how to spell ‘QUANGO’ – I had applied to try and get my name on one and spelt it KWANGO – they’ve eeeed back ticking me off for misspelling the acronym. Big deal, arse boy! Do I not give an FCUK about that? I know that QUANGO stands for ‘Quasi Autonomous Non-Governmental Organisations’. I really do know that – and I really do know what they do for their hard-earned corn.
FCUK ALL.. That’s why I wanted to get on one in the first place!
Secondly? Well, after an in-depth 2 hour conversation with BT this morning, I came off reeling. I had originally rung them to ask why we haven’t had any bills for the last 6 months and also why our Standing Order repayments had soared to £270 per month.
"Because, Sir, you have racked up charges of two and a half thousand pounds since February".
"TWO AND A HALF THOUSAND POUNDS Geeeeezzzzusssss!!!!!!! Are you having a laugh or what!"
"But Sir, because you have been paying a monthly fee of £270 pounds, you now only owe £1,200"
"Whooooppppy fucking doo!"
BIG TIP: Adolescent lads, empty house, and small ads for chat lines just do not mix……
Alfie the Art Critic……
Another year, another Turner Competition.
I have decided to give the exhibits the once over and to impart onto each Artist the benefit of my not inconsiderable painty, painty experience.
This year, I have divided the exhibits into various categories, which I feel will best reflect the dynamic bravura of each piece – and how it optimally explores the juxtaposition between hard reality and soft soap. I will report tomorrow on each entry. I will be firm, but fair - rigid in a flopsy-whopsy sort of way and as outrageously posh as Brian Sewell at an elocution lesson.
The categories are as follows:
1) Utter shite (pretentious)
2) Utter, utter shite (actual. i.e. Elephant dung sculpture).
3) What the hell is that?
4) Skip sculpture.
5) Shock horror.
6) Pass me the sick bag.
7) Useless shapes from used bin bags.
8) Guts, nuts, butts and other offal offerings.
really, really bad day at the rocky, hanging place…..
Firstly, I have (rather condescendingly) been put down by some Government lackey on how to spell ‘QUANGO’ – I had applied to try and get my name on one and spelt it KWANGO – they’ve eeeed back ticking me off for misspelling the acronym. Big deal, arse boy! Do I not give an FCUK about that? I know that QUANGO stands for ‘Quasi Autonomous Non-Governmental Organisations’. I really do know that – and I really do know what they do for their hard-earned corn.
FCUK ALL.. That’s why I wanted to get on one in the first place!
Secondly? Well, after an in-depth 2 hour conversation with BT this morning, I came off reeling. I had originally rung them to ask why we haven’t had any bills for the last 6 months and also why our Standing Order repayments had soared to £270 per month.
"Because, Sir, you have racked up charges of two and a half thousand pounds since February".
"TWO AND A HALF THOUSAND POUNDS Geeeeezzzzusssss!!!!!!! Are you having a laugh or what!"
"But Sir, because you have been paying a monthly fee of £270 pounds, you now only owe £1,200"
"Whooooppppy fucking doo!"
BIG TIP: Adolescent lads, empty house, and small ads for chat lines just do not mix……
Alfie the Art Critic……
Another year, another Turner Competition.
I have decided to give the exhibits the once over and to impart onto each Artist the benefit of my not inconsiderable painty, painty experience.
This year, I have divided the exhibits into various categories, which I feel will best reflect the dynamic bravura of each piece – and how it optimally explores the juxtaposition between hard reality and soft soap. I will report tomorrow on each entry. I will be firm, but fair - rigid in a flopsy-whopsy sort of way and as outrageously posh as Brian Sewell at an elocution lesson.
The categories are as follows:
1) Utter shite (pretentious)
2) Utter, utter shite (actual. i.e. Elephant dung sculpture).
3) What the hell is that?
4) Skip sculpture.
5) Shock horror.
6) Pass me the sick bag.
7) Useless shapes from used bin bags.
8) Guts, nuts, butts and other offal offerings.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Alfie - a new third force in politics.....
Great news, I have received my form to apply to be a Lord (see Saturday's post) - I really, really have! I'm optimistic I can break the mould - and become the first 'joe average' to sit in the Upper Chamber. Maybe that could be my title - 'Lord Joe of Averageshire'.
But finding the right handle is not my only worry - I will need suitable accutrements - and I don't know where my local ermine shop is or where to order my crown from.
I'm also going to have to get used to being addressed as "Your Lordyness" - or in my case "Your Lardyness"
With this success, I have also applied to have a go at serving on a Government 'KWANGO'. So far no one has got back to me but as soon as I know, I'll post.
Isn't democracy wonderful?
Great news, I have received my form to apply to be a Lord (see Saturday's post) - I really, really have! I'm optimistic I can break the mould - and become the first 'joe average' to sit in the Upper Chamber. Maybe that could be my title - 'Lord Joe of Averageshire'.
But finding the right handle is not my only worry - I will need suitable accutrements - and I don't know where my local ermine shop is or where to order my crown from.
I'm also going to have to get used to being addressed as "Your Lordyness" - or in my case "Your Lardyness"
With this success, I have also applied to have a go at serving on a Government 'KWANGO'. So far no one has got back to me but as soon as I know, I'll post.
Isn't democracy wonderful?
Saturday, October 25, 2003
A wizard wheeze (and an early Chrizzy prezzy)…..
OK, I am going to share this with you – I’ve been doing it for years and it really does work!
The clocks go back on Saturday night – result? You get an extra hours sleep on Sunday morning. Absolutely no good at all.
What you want is an extra hour on Monday morning – when you really need it. Leave the clocks as they are, right the way through Sunday. OK, ‘Corry’ will be on an hour earlier but I can live with that. Go to bed as usual, set the clock as usual… then next morning when the alarm goes just turn over, and slap the ‘snooze’ button for another hour…… Serweeet. – you can then put the clocks back when you get up.
Democracy most definitely needs me……
After 30 years of working for a living, I have decided that I may, in the future like to take things a bit easier. With this in mind – and to embrace the first flush of democracy sweeping the upper chamber, I have decided to apply to work in the House of Lords - as a Lord, obviously.
It’s so easy, you log on to the HoL web site and ……… apply, nimps. I have sent my letter off, saying that I am of sound mind, have a clean driving licence etc. Now all I have to do is wait – meanwhile, I can practice painting eyeballs on my eyelids.
I suppose the other thing I have to consider is a suitably Lordly handle. I quite like Lord of the Rings. Second choice would be Lord a Leaping – or possibly Lord-a-lumpkins or even Lordy-Lordy-Lordy...
OK, I am going to share this with you – I’ve been doing it for years and it really does work!
The clocks go back on Saturday night – result? You get an extra hours sleep on Sunday morning. Absolutely no good at all.
What you want is an extra hour on Monday morning – when you really need it. Leave the clocks as they are, right the way through Sunday. OK, ‘Corry’ will be on an hour earlier but I can live with that. Go to bed as usual, set the clock as usual… then next morning when the alarm goes just turn over, and slap the ‘snooze’ button for another hour…… Serweeet. – you can then put the clocks back when you get up.
Democracy most definitely needs me……
After 30 years of working for a living, I have decided that I may, in the future like to take things a bit easier. With this in mind – and to embrace the first flush of democracy sweeping the upper chamber, I have decided to apply to work in the House of Lords - as a Lord, obviously.
It’s so easy, you log on to the HoL web site and ……… apply, nimps. I have sent my letter off, saying that I am of sound mind, have a clean driving licence etc. Now all I have to do is wait – meanwhile, I can practice painting eyeballs on my eyelids.
I suppose the other thing I have to consider is a suitably Lordly handle. I quite like Lord of the Rings. Second choice would be Lord a Leaping – or possibly Lord-a-lumpkins or even Lordy-Lordy-Lordy...
Friday, October 24, 2003
Out and about.........
I've been away all week, just got back from doing yet more art direction .…"Sorry, can we just try that again with a more genuine expression – oh, and can we please try to be less wooden, is that grin fixed?. "……
I’m totally knackered, massaging bruised photographer’s ego, liasing with client, general glad-handing and pushing cows around (we did some countryside shots)…
Don’t get me wrong, I really like this part of the job, it’s just so tiring – like Christmas shopping without the bags.
A few years ago we were doing a calendar for a bloody massive PetroChem Company. They had recently put down a gas pipeline running from Scotland to the North of England. In order to preserve the landscape, they built, then buried the pipe and re-instated the flora and fauna on top.
Our task was to show what a great job ‘OilyCo’ had done – and to be fair to them, they had! It was a really fab jolly, we stayed in some of the finest pubs in some of the finest countryside on offer. On one particularly fantastically ‘Turneresque’ day we found ourselves slap-bang on top of Shap Fell in the Lake District. Apparently, our brief was to meet up with a Professor of Botany and his assistant. They were conducting a survey on some reinstated moorland, making sure that everything was as it should have been. We were also told that they would be joined by a couple of students that were walking the route.
I met up with the photographer, a miserable, moaning rotund man, dressed head to foot in M & S beige casual gear. Pretty soon I find out he also has a ‘tact’ bypass and as his jaunty flat cap gets blown off and jauntily disappears over hill and dale, I notice a six inch wide centre parting on his head. "Ohhh ‘kin hell – me cap, that cost 15 quid!"
We espy the Prof’ & assistant in the distance and amble over to them. Bloody hell, what a great day, blue sky, fluffy clouds, wheeling scudding screaming skyborne birds – and us. We’re in God’s own photo’ studio – and he’s got the floods full on. The light is truly, truly amazing.
Dave, our photographer can be heard gently moaning…. "Bloody hell that Sun is bright ….moan, moan, moan … Christ, this heather’s soaking …. moan, moan, moan …. Jeeezzzusss – this sheep shit is everywhere! …. moan, moan …. God, I’ve got grass marks on me slacks …. moan, moan, moan."
Just then, on the far horizon, 2 figures can be seen striding towards us amongst the heather. Well, even at that distance, I can see that they are the young students. They are wearing tight T-shirts, jeans and wellies – and they both have clip-boards and a small shoulder bag.
In no time at all, they are almost upon us – they are both magnificent specimens of womanhood. I look over to Dave - photography is definitely not on his mind. Prof’ says to Dave, "Do you want to shoot us inspecting this particularly fine specimen of heather?"
Dave doesn’t answer. Dave is miles and miles away, locked up in his own Valhalla, stoically trying to disguise the mile wide parting, shooing away the viscous dribble oozing out from the corner of his mouth. Desperately trying to suck in his mile out gut and positioning his camera, (which has now sprouted a good 6 inch telephoto lens) somewhere near to his groinal accoutrements.
Dave’s in love with the students– and it’s serious. I watch, fascinated as I can see him searching, desperately searching, groping for the words. The perfect Keatsian phrase that will suitably sum up his new found love. Or maybe ‘The Bard’ – Shall I compare thee to a …..
Dave’s mind leaps out of neutral, and goes straight into turbo drive. Connection is made between brain and speech centre.
Dave opens his mouth points to the generously endowed chests and shouts ….. "Kin Hell, just look. JUST LOOK at the jiggerly joggerly jugaboos’ on those babeeezzzz!!"
The trouble with flat moorland is that there is just no where to look. No cover to hide in, no holes to swallow you up, and no AK 47’s lying about to blow away a gobby snapper.
I've been away all week, just got back from doing yet more art direction .…"Sorry, can we just try that again with a more genuine expression – oh, and can we please try to be less wooden, is that grin fixed?. "……
I’m totally knackered, massaging bruised photographer’s ego, liasing with client, general glad-handing and pushing cows around (we did some countryside shots)…
Don’t get me wrong, I really like this part of the job, it’s just so tiring – like Christmas shopping without the bags.
A few years ago we were doing a calendar for a bloody massive PetroChem Company. They had recently put down a gas pipeline running from Scotland to the North of England. In order to preserve the landscape, they built, then buried the pipe and re-instated the flora and fauna on top.
Our task was to show what a great job ‘OilyCo’ had done – and to be fair to them, they had! It was a really fab jolly, we stayed in some of the finest pubs in some of the finest countryside on offer. On one particularly fantastically ‘Turneresque’ day we found ourselves slap-bang on top of Shap Fell in the Lake District. Apparently, our brief was to meet up with a Professor of Botany and his assistant. They were conducting a survey on some reinstated moorland, making sure that everything was as it should have been. We were also told that they would be joined by a couple of students that were walking the route.
I met up with the photographer, a miserable, moaning rotund man, dressed head to foot in M & S beige casual gear. Pretty soon I find out he also has a ‘tact’ bypass and as his jaunty flat cap gets blown off and jauntily disappears over hill and dale, I notice a six inch wide centre parting on his head. "Ohhh ‘kin hell – me cap, that cost 15 quid!"
We espy the Prof’ & assistant in the distance and amble over to them. Bloody hell, what a great day, blue sky, fluffy clouds, wheeling scudding screaming skyborne birds – and us. We’re in God’s own photo’ studio – and he’s got the floods full on. The light is truly, truly amazing.
Dave, our photographer can be heard gently moaning…. "Bloody hell that Sun is bright ….moan, moan, moan … Christ, this heather’s soaking …. moan, moan, moan …. Jeeezzzusss – this sheep shit is everywhere! …. moan, moan …. God, I’ve got grass marks on me slacks …. moan, moan, moan."
Just then, on the far horizon, 2 figures can be seen striding towards us amongst the heather. Well, even at that distance, I can see that they are the young students. They are wearing tight T-shirts, jeans and wellies – and they both have clip-boards and a small shoulder bag.
In no time at all, they are almost upon us – they are both magnificent specimens of womanhood. I look over to Dave - photography is definitely not on his mind. Prof’ says to Dave, "Do you want to shoot us inspecting this particularly fine specimen of heather?"
Dave doesn’t answer. Dave is miles and miles away, locked up in his own Valhalla, stoically trying to disguise the mile wide parting, shooing away the viscous dribble oozing out from the corner of his mouth. Desperately trying to suck in his mile out gut and positioning his camera, (which has now sprouted a good 6 inch telephoto lens) somewhere near to his groinal accoutrements.
Dave’s in love with the students– and it’s serious. I watch, fascinated as I can see him searching, desperately searching, groping for the words. The perfect Keatsian phrase that will suitably sum up his new found love. Or maybe ‘The Bard’ – Shall I compare thee to a …..
Dave’s mind leaps out of neutral, and goes straight into turbo drive. Connection is made between brain and speech centre.
Dave opens his mouth points to the generously endowed chests and shouts ….. "Kin Hell, just look. JUST LOOK at the jiggerly joggerly jugaboos’ on those babeeezzzz!!"
The trouble with flat moorland is that there is just no where to look. No cover to hide in, no holes to swallow you up, and no AK 47’s lying about to blow away a gobby snapper.
Friday, October 17, 2003
The ‘X’ files………
I’m not always ‘Alfie the OK.’ I have another persona – occasionally I am ‘Alfie the politician worrier.’
I write reams to them – I like to think they are pithy, witty, punchy letters that unfortunate politicians read with trepidation and awe. Once read, they immediately change Government policy as a consequence.
"Oh my God, it’s pithily witty Alfie – again showing us the error of our ways….. Thank goodness for Alfie and his wise words of waffle. If only he could be PM…."
The reality is that they are stamped ‘sod off you sad Meldrew git’ then shoved straight into the recycling bin. The old girl (Old mother Alfie) has been warning me – "I’m warning you, you’ll have ‘em-fifteen’ building a file on you."
"Em-eye-five" I wearily gesticulate. "It’s M-I-5…."
"AND they’ll be buggering your ‘phone"
Now I’d like to see that trick…..
Two weeks later, middle son rings me…. Apparently, there is a BT engineer fiddling with our wall box. Apparently, he says that there is a ‘fault’ on the line. Apparently, no one has reported it, but "there just is"
How’s that for efficiency? Bloody suspicious I think.
I rush home. It’s only 5 minutes from our office and knowing the inefficiency of BT, I reckoned he wouldn’t even have got his coat off and enquired about our tea stocks by the time I got there.
I get home fully expecting to see a man buggering a ‘phone but shadowy engineering dude has already gone. Tyre tracks are all that’s left of the BT Bug-mobile…
I rush in – "Was he a ‘smoking man’?"
"No, he wasn’t even a tea drinking man"
The box has been tampered with alright.
He’s disconnected our upstairs extension and has been fiddling around within.
"What are you looking for?"
"Bugs – I’m looking for bugs"
"What’s a bug look like Dad?"
I don’t know…….. I just don’t know what the bloody hell I’m looking for. Within the box is a passable impression of 3 plates of tangled up spaghetti – then there is some little boxy things with spikes sticking out. By this time, all 3 of the younger kids are standing in a line looking at me desperately fumbling about.
"Has a spy been here Dad?"
In desperation, I grab a bit of scratty earthing wire – attached to nothing in the bottom of the box.
"Ahhhh. Got it!"
I triumphantly hold aloft my very, very tightly closed fist.
"Well let’s see it then – the bug, let’s see the bug"
With that, I rush upstairs…
"Sorry, too dangerous – much, much too dangerous – must neutralise with bog water"
Upstairs to toilet, shut door, flush toilet, slip wire into pocket.
Emerge hero…
Hurrah, Big Brother foiled again!!
The power of advertising, so time to conduct an experiment …...
Call me ‘Thicky McTavish’ from the village ‘Densegit’ or whatever, but I’ve just noticed something. Sometimes the little blue adverts on the top of blogspot pages have a definite link with stuff that has been written a few days previously on the blog. So if you’re banging on about games and pastimes – a couple of days later you get ads for snooker tables and chess sets etc.
The server thingee must scan the blog for key words that link to its ad’ pool and bingo! – ‘warm’ advertising……
Anyway, have you been watching the Rugby? That DIRTY Aussie HOOKER, what a disgrace. And what about the motorways – traffic jams all the way! I travelled South the other day, there I was, tootling along in my Ford ESCORT, going nowhere fast….. I eventually turned up in MiddleSEX.
‘ Thinking of going to AMSTERDAM for a short break. I do LOVE going away. It’s going to be a coach TOUR. Must go now, a man is delivering our new SHAG pile carpet.
Subtle, it aint ….
I’m not always ‘Alfie the OK.’ I have another persona – occasionally I am ‘Alfie the politician worrier.’
I write reams to them – I like to think they are pithy, witty, punchy letters that unfortunate politicians read with trepidation and awe. Once read, they immediately change Government policy as a consequence.
"Oh my God, it’s pithily witty Alfie – again showing us the error of our ways….. Thank goodness for Alfie and his wise words of waffle. If only he could be PM…."
The reality is that they are stamped ‘sod off you sad Meldrew git’ then shoved straight into the recycling bin. The old girl (Old mother Alfie) has been warning me – "I’m warning you, you’ll have ‘em-fifteen’ building a file on you."
"Em-eye-five" I wearily gesticulate. "It’s M-I-5…."
"AND they’ll be buggering your ‘phone"
Now I’d like to see that trick…..
Two weeks later, middle son rings me…. Apparently, there is a BT engineer fiddling with our wall box. Apparently, he says that there is a ‘fault’ on the line. Apparently, no one has reported it, but "there just is"
How’s that for efficiency? Bloody suspicious I think.
I rush home. It’s only 5 minutes from our office and knowing the inefficiency of BT, I reckoned he wouldn’t even have got his coat off and enquired about our tea stocks by the time I got there.
I get home fully expecting to see a man buggering a ‘phone but shadowy engineering dude has already gone. Tyre tracks are all that’s left of the BT Bug-mobile…
I rush in – "Was he a ‘smoking man’?"
"No, he wasn’t even a tea drinking man"
The box has been tampered with alright.
He’s disconnected our upstairs extension and has been fiddling around within.
"What are you looking for?"
"Bugs – I’m looking for bugs"
"What’s a bug look like Dad?"
I don’t know…….. I just don’t know what the bloody hell I’m looking for. Within the box is a passable impression of 3 plates of tangled up spaghetti – then there is some little boxy things with spikes sticking out. By this time, all 3 of the younger kids are standing in a line looking at me desperately fumbling about.
"Has a spy been here Dad?"
In desperation, I grab a bit of scratty earthing wire – attached to nothing in the bottom of the box.
"Ahhhh. Got it!"
I triumphantly hold aloft my very, very tightly closed fist.
"Well let’s see it then – the bug, let’s see the bug"
With that, I rush upstairs…
"Sorry, too dangerous – much, much too dangerous – must neutralise with bog water"
Upstairs to toilet, shut door, flush toilet, slip wire into pocket.
Emerge hero…
Hurrah, Big Brother foiled again!!
The power of advertising, so time to conduct an experiment …...
Call me ‘Thicky McTavish’ from the village ‘Densegit’ or whatever, but I’ve just noticed something. Sometimes the little blue adverts on the top of blogspot pages have a definite link with stuff that has been written a few days previously on the blog. So if you’re banging on about games and pastimes – a couple of days later you get ads for snooker tables and chess sets etc.
The server thingee must scan the blog for key words that link to its ad’ pool and bingo! – ‘warm’ advertising……
Anyway, have you been watching the Rugby? That DIRTY Aussie HOOKER, what a disgrace. And what about the motorways – traffic jams all the way! I travelled South the other day, there I was, tootling along in my Ford ESCORT, going nowhere fast….. I eventually turned up in MiddleSEX.
‘ Thinking of going to AMSTERDAM for a short break. I do LOVE going away. It’s going to be a coach TOUR. Must go now, a man is delivering our new SHAG pile carpet.
Subtle, it aint ….
Thursday, October 16, 2003
In Space, no one can hear you scleam…
So the Chinese have thought of a new word for their ‘star sailors’. The Yanks have ‘Astronaut’ the Russians, ‘Cosmonaut’ – and the Chinese now have ‘taikonaut’ – (after ‘taikong,’ the Chinese word for space).
It’s got me thinking – what would we name our own explorers of space? Imagine the scene, plucky Tommy Atkins is blasted off into space aboard the lottery-funded, coal-fired, built from recycled bits of the Millennium dome – GB1 Rocket.
Raymond Baxter could do the commentary, "The blue touch paper has been lit ….. and there she goes, orf to the stars – GB 1. This great symbol of British ingenuity climbs majestically into the sky, speeding to its escape velocity of 68 miles per hour. Aboard is squadron leader ‘plucky’ Tommy Atkins. We salute you plucky Tommy, and no doubt you’ll be back in time to have kippers for breakfast".
So what could we call him? After all, GB 1 has been built in Britain by British workers using the very latest cutting edge steam driven technology. Backed by our dynamic Prime Minister & his competent Cabinet and funded by a leading edge, focused, Government backed scientific agency…….
Well we have to call him a ‘Fearnaut’ – obviously.
You never see these two in the same place…….
Hands up all those who think that the prodigiously talented footy wunderkind, Wayne Rooney and the three legged potato headed Coca Cola striker in the trailer for ITV’s ‘The Premiership’ are one and the same person…..
Stating the bleeding obvious.....
This is a really real ad' in our local red top.
(Thanks to Mrs Alfie - (Alfreda) for pointing this one out to me).
IRONER REQUIRED -
15-35 hours per week,
Ormskirk area,
MUST BE ABLE TO IRON......
So the Chinese have thought of a new word for their ‘star sailors’. The Yanks have ‘Astronaut’ the Russians, ‘Cosmonaut’ – and the Chinese now have ‘taikonaut’ – (after ‘taikong,’ the Chinese word for space).
It’s got me thinking – what would we name our own explorers of space? Imagine the scene, plucky Tommy Atkins is blasted off into space aboard the lottery-funded, coal-fired, built from recycled bits of the Millennium dome – GB1 Rocket.
Raymond Baxter could do the commentary, "The blue touch paper has been lit ….. and there she goes, orf to the stars – GB 1. This great symbol of British ingenuity climbs majestically into the sky, speeding to its escape velocity of 68 miles per hour. Aboard is squadron leader ‘plucky’ Tommy Atkins. We salute you plucky Tommy, and no doubt you’ll be back in time to have kippers for breakfast".
So what could we call him? After all, GB 1 has been built in Britain by British workers using the very latest cutting edge steam driven technology. Backed by our dynamic Prime Minister & his competent Cabinet and funded by a leading edge, focused, Government backed scientific agency…….
Well we have to call him a ‘Fearnaut’ – obviously.
You never see these two in the same place…….
Hands up all those who think that the prodigiously talented footy wunderkind, Wayne Rooney and the three legged potato headed Coca Cola striker in the trailer for ITV’s ‘The Premiership’ are one and the same person…..
Stating the bleeding obvious.....
This is a really real ad' in our local red top.
(Thanks to Mrs Alfie - (Alfreda) for pointing this one out to me).
IRONER REQUIRED -
15-35 hours per week,
Ormskirk area,
MUST BE ABLE TO IRON......
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Job Advert......
Wanted, Woman with twin set, to work in a vibrant, 'hair free' office environment. Must be able to compile copious amounts of Christmas card lists - in alphabetical order. Must have moist tongue (for licking stamps) and a merry Yuletide disposition for writing the greetings within.
Other duties, organising Bazaars, Jumble Sales and Summer Fairs.
The successful applicant will be required to have an HNC in 'pencil sharpening' and a focused and relentless pursuit of maximising sales of 'Bring and Buy' tickets to friends and relations.
Idiots need not apply, we don't want a Patsy - or even a Betsy.
Salary: !5k p.a.
Perks: Use of a black limo' and unlimited supplies of blue hair dye.
Hours: Possibly, but not essential.
Holidays: One long one.
Boring, boring Clint.....
Did anyone see Clint Eastwood being interviewed by Parky last Saturday? Boring or what - especially as Ben Elton and Jennifer Saunders were the other previous guests.
Parky would ask a question, monotone Clint would drone back some banal answer. Parky would then retort his standard code response for 'Christ, this is boring' .... "Ohh really? How extraordinary."
Pretty soon, I was ruminating "Go on Clint, make my day - GIVE US A REASON TO CARRY ON LIVING!"
"I know what you're thinking, have I shot five questions at you, or have I shot six?" "Do you feel lucky, punk? Well do ya?
You're damn right I do Clint baby, I've just found the Remote!
Wanted, Woman with twin set, to work in a vibrant, 'hair free' office environment. Must be able to compile copious amounts of Christmas card lists - in alphabetical order. Must have moist tongue (for licking stamps) and a merry Yuletide disposition for writing the greetings within.
Other duties, organising Bazaars, Jumble Sales and Summer Fairs.
The successful applicant will be required to have an HNC in 'pencil sharpening' and a focused and relentless pursuit of maximising sales of 'Bring and Buy' tickets to friends and relations.
Idiots need not apply, we don't want a Patsy - or even a Betsy.
Salary: !5k p.a.
Perks: Use of a black limo' and unlimited supplies of blue hair dye.
Hours: Possibly, but not essential.
Holidays: One long one.
Boring, boring Clint.....
Did anyone see Clint Eastwood being interviewed by Parky last Saturday? Boring or what - especially as Ben Elton and Jennifer Saunders were the other previous guests.
Parky would ask a question, monotone Clint would drone back some banal answer. Parky would then retort his standard code response for 'Christ, this is boring' .... "Ohh really? How extraordinary."
Pretty soon, I was ruminating "Go on Clint, make my day - GIVE US A REASON TO CARRY ON LIVING!"
"I know what you're thinking, have I shot five questions at you, or have I shot six?" "Do you feel lucky, punk? Well do ya?
You're damn right I do Clint baby, I've just found the Remote!
Monday, October 13, 2003
Grey matters....... but green matters more .....
09068 444444 ….. "Thanks for calling ‘Who wants to be a millionaire….." So starts the Chris Tarrant auto phone response for the TV show, ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire?’ (Well, I do, obviously)
I’ve rung that number so many times my index digit can do it on air ‘phone. Ever since the very first trailer came on our screens I’ve been obsessed with the power and glory that the show promises – oh, and the cash ….. always the cash.
It got to such a pitch, I even used to practice my ‘I’ve won a million quid celebration’, now to do a grass splash dive – or maybe a ‘strongman pointing to the sky’ pose……. Or even sticking my shirt over my head and revealing the message on my vest – ‘I hate you Tarrant, you smug tosser – now gizz the cash".
I reckon that over the years, I must have ‘phoned to get on the show at least 500 times – probably nearer to 800. That’s a hell of a lot of Tarrant to listen to. I’ve tried answering the phone prompt questions and registering my details in various regional and ethnic accents to try to take advantage of any positive discrimination policy they may have. I’ve also done posh, common, spivvy, divvy and jaunty. All to no avail, the ‘Tarrantino’ has never rung me back.
I know a couple of people that have got on the show "Ohh yes Alfie, I just rang a few times, they rang back, I got the qualifying question correct and ‘bingo’, I was on." Then I ask them why didn’t they ask me to be one of their ‘phone a friend,’ friends?
"Sorry, never thought"
"But I knew the 4 grand question you went out on. I knew that the first British woman to climb ‘Everest’ was Rachel Stevens……. I bloody well knew it. I could have got you up to 8 grand at least …… TOSSER!"
"A tosser with 4 grand in my pocket!"……
I don’t ring quite so much now, not since I was perusing the printout on my ‘phone bill a few months ago. "Geez, what the bloody hell is all this then? There must be 80 quids worth of premium number call fees here". As any dutiful, pissed off father would, I lined my kids up and asked them which one had been making the calls. Everyone swore their innocence. "Paaa!" I scoffed, scoffily…
"I scoff at your pathetic efforts at any feeble minded attempt at weedling out from your guilt. Someone has made those calls – and I intend to find out EXACTLY who it is. Then I will deduct it from your pocket money. Do you think I was born yesterday? Do you think you could get away with it? …….. I am going to ring the number – and if the voice at the end of the line is giving out advice on computer game cheats, how to get girls or advice about pimples – there will be hell to pay"…..
And so I tap, theatrically tapping the number out on the hand set – funny but it does seem vaguely familiar……
I wait for the connection, the tension is barely bearable ……. "Thanks for calling Who wants to"…. I ring off.
"Right, this time, THIS TIME I will let you off"….
"Well, who was it?"
"Never mind, it doesn’t matter – just sod off, all of you"
I thought I had got away with it, unfortunately, my youngest son knows all about the redial facility on the handset ……
09068 444444 ….. "Thanks for calling ‘Who wants to be a millionaire….." So starts the Chris Tarrant auto phone response for the TV show, ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire?’ (Well, I do, obviously)
I’ve rung that number so many times my index digit can do it on air ‘phone. Ever since the very first trailer came on our screens I’ve been obsessed with the power and glory that the show promises – oh, and the cash ….. always the cash.
It got to such a pitch, I even used to practice my ‘I’ve won a million quid celebration’, now to do a grass splash dive – or maybe a ‘strongman pointing to the sky’ pose……. Or even sticking my shirt over my head and revealing the message on my vest – ‘I hate you Tarrant, you smug tosser – now gizz the cash".
I reckon that over the years, I must have ‘phoned to get on the show at least 500 times – probably nearer to 800. That’s a hell of a lot of Tarrant to listen to. I’ve tried answering the phone prompt questions and registering my details in various regional and ethnic accents to try to take advantage of any positive discrimination policy they may have. I’ve also done posh, common, spivvy, divvy and jaunty. All to no avail, the ‘Tarrantino’ has never rung me back.
I know a couple of people that have got on the show "Ohh yes Alfie, I just rang a few times, they rang back, I got the qualifying question correct and ‘bingo’, I was on." Then I ask them why didn’t they ask me to be one of their ‘phone a friend,’ friends?
"Sorry, never thought"
"But I knew the 4 grand question you went out on. I knew that the first British woman to climb ‘Everest’ was Rachel Stevens……. I bloody well knew it. I could have got you up to 8 grand at least …… TOSSER!"
"A tosser with 4 grand in my pocket!"……
I don’t ring quite so much now, not since I was perusing the printout on my ‘phone bill a few months ago. "Geez, what the bloody hell is all this then? There must be 80 quids worth of premium number call fees here". As any dutiful, pissed off father would, I lined my kids up and asked them which one had been making the calls. Everyone swore their innocence. "Paaa!" I scoffed, scoffily…
"I scoff at your pathetic efforts at any feeble minded attempt at weedling out from your guilt. Someone has made those calls – and I intend to find out EXACTLY who it is. Then I will deduct it from your pocket money. Do you think I was born yesterday? Do you think you could get away with it? …….. I am going to ring the number – and if the voice at the end of the line is giving out advice on computer game cheats, how to get girls or advice about pimples – there will be hell to pay"…..
And so I tap, theatrically tapping the number out on the hand set – funny but it does seem vaguely familiar……
I wait for the connection, the tension is barely bearable ……. "Thanks for calling Who wants to"…. I ring off.
"Right, this time, THIS TIME I will let you off"….
"Well, who was it?"
"Never mind, it doesn’t matter – just sod off, all of you"
I thought I had got away with it, unfortunately, my youngest son knows all about the redial facility on the handset ……
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Chess – showing its age …..
I was thinking the other day, it’s about time that Chess, the greatest game in the world – ever; should have a makeover. Not a Linda Barker or (God help us) an Anna Ryder Richardson job… "Oooohhh yes Carol, just got to drape this fantastic velour off the Rook, sprinkle some glitter on this gambit – and we’ll be finished".
I was thinking about being a bit more radical…..
It’s been around for thousands of years – unchanged. So how about freshening it up? After all, ‘Monopoly’ has been updated - and that’s only 65 years old.
I don’t mean changing the pawns into wearing Star Wars garb, giving the Bishop a ‘power mitre’ or dressing the Queen in a Quentin Crisp outfit. I was thinking about a whole new team member. A new man or two that would compliment the existing crew.
You’ve got your Bishop, Castley thing and Horsey gee-gee, I though that we could get rid of a couple of pawns and bring in ‘Omega’ and ‘Politician’
Omega would be in the shape of a button and would be in 2 parts. Part 1 would sit on top of the board, the second part would be hidden somewhere underneath the board, known only to each player.
And that second part would consist of a little bit of plastic explosive and have wires connected to part 1 – the button. The explosive would be just enough to take out 10 squares.
Each player would attempt to lure the opposing pieces towards the area that the volatile bit of the Omega piece was hidden. Once the player was satisfied that he had gathered enough opposing pieces into the Omega or ‘Death Zone’ he would reach for his Omega button.
Imagine how a match between Gary Kasparov and our own plucky loser Nigel Short might be really spiced up…
"Oh my God, Kasparov’s about to deploy the Omega gambit"
"DUCK!!!"
The ‘Politician’ is an altogether different affair. This piece would be a stiletto shape, cast in 100% Machiavellian ore – with a specially hardened two-faced tip. When a player is in a particularly difficult and tricky situation he very slyly and very coldly picks up ‘The Politician’.
The opposing player, referee and audience all fail to notice.. Everyone is distracted by a manifesto given out by the player holding the ‘Politician’ "Hmmmm lower taxes and better healthcare – sounds good"…
The player with the piece in his hand excuses himself to go to the toilet – as he is passing his opponent, he makes his move and stabs him in the back - with the Politician, right between the shoulder blades.
"Ohh my God, he’s used the ‘spinal tap’ gambit! Brilliant, quite, quite brilliant…"
Talking about Chess……
Ever tried to do the trick where you start at the first square of a chess board with 1 grain of rice? The next square has 2 grains and the one after that 4, and so on, doubling up on every square. Has anyone ever got to the end? I tried once, ended up nearly halfway across with a ton of paper and 86 gazziollion zeros.
And finally…..
On the chess front – My most favourite, chess-related quote from dour, mashed-in Blackpool fighter Brian London. The time – the mid ‘60’s and Brian is bitterly reflecting on the way he has been manipulated throughout his pugilistic career.
Brian declared "Me? I’m just a prawn in the game"……..
‘Nuff said.
I was thinking the other day, it’s about time that Chess, the greatest game in the world – ever; should have a makeover. Not a Linda Barker or (God help us) an Anna Ryder Richardson job… "Oooohhh yes Carol, just got to drape this fantastic velour off the Rook, sprinkle some glitter on this gambit – and we’ll be finished".
I was thinking about being a bit more radical…..
It’s been around for thousands of years – unchanged. So how about freshening it up? After all, ‘Monopoly’ has been updated - and that’s only 65 years old.
I don’t mean changing the pawns into wearing Star Wars garb, giving the Bishop a ‘power mitre’ or dressing the Queen in a Quentin Crisp outfit. I was thinking about a whole new team member. A new man or two that would compliment the existing crew.
You’ve got your Bishop, Castley thing and Horsey gee-gee, I though that we could get rid of a couple of pawns and bring in ‘Omega’ and ‘Politician’
Omega would be in the shape of a button and would be in 2 parts. Part 1 would sit on top of the board, the second part would be hidden somewhere underneath the board, known only to each player.
And that second part would consist of a little bit of plastic explosive and have wires connected to part 1 – the button. The explosive would be just enough to take out 10 squares.
Each player would attempt to lure the opposing pieces towards the area that the volatile bit of the Omega piece was hidden. Once the player was satisfied that he had gathered enough opposing pieces into the Omega or ‘Death Zone’ he would reach for his Omega button.
Imagine how a match between Gary Kasparov and our own plucky loser Nigel Short might be really spiced up…
"Oh my God, Kasparov’s about to deploy the Omega gambit"
"DUCK!!!"
The ‘Politician’ is an altogether different affair. This piece would be a stiletto shape, cast in 100% Machiavellian ore – with a specially hardened two-faced tip. When a player is in a particularly difficult and tricky situation he very slyly and very coldly picks up ‘The Politician’.
The opposing player, referee and audience all fail to notice.. Everyone is distracted by a manifesto given out by the player holding the ‘Politician’ "Hmmmm lower taxes and better healthcare – sounds good"…
The player with the piece in his hand excuses himself to go to the toilet – as he is passing his opponent, he makes his move and stabs him in the back - with the Politician, right between the shoulder blades.
"Ohh my God, he’s used the ‘spinal tap’ gambit! Brilliant, quite, quite brilliant…"
Talking about Chess……
Ever tried to do the trick where you start at the first square of a chess board with 1 grain of rice? The next square has 2 grains and the one after that 4, and so on, doubling up on every square. Has anyone ever got to the end? I tried once, ended up nearly halfway across with a ton of paper and 86 gazziollion zeros.
And finally…..
On the chess front – My most favourite, chess-related quote from dour, mashed-in Blackpool fighter Brian London. The time – the mid ‘60’s and Brian is bitterly reflecting on the way he has been manipulated throughout his pugilistic career.
Brian declared "Me? I’m just a prawn in the game"……..
‘Nuff said.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Smoking gun…..
So, another widow is taking tobacco companies to court – suing them for killing her husband. Sorry, widow woman, but you just can’t do it, it just won’t wash, it just aint right. – Your hubby knew exactly what he was doing – basically committing suicide in a long winded and short of breathless sort of way. Shoving a cocktail of poisons down your lungs every few minutes is going to kill – eventually. Ignorance was a defence in the early part of the last century – but since the ‘50’s ciggies have had the bad press they deserve.
‘Alfie the abstainer’ used to be ‘Alfie the chain smoker’ – regularly going through 5 packs of 20 a day. I was so weed dependent that at night I would brush my stained, yellowing teeth in the bathroom – then light up for my walk to the bedroom. At work, I had a glass fruit bowl for an ash tray – its capacity was about 600 stumps, easy. I gave up 20 years ago when my first son was born. He was born, I held him in my arms, had a celebratory fag and stopped dead. It was easy; the alternative was halitosis, leg ulcers, cancer, emphysema, heart disease and death. The only complication was going from ‘Alfie the slim jim’ to ‘Alfie the big boned’
Arnie’s Army…..
Arnold Schwarzenegger pumped up body-builder, wooden actor, political clone of ‘dubbya’ - and a man with more skeletons in his locker than Bobby the bone collector has been on the news a lot lately. Always anxious to capitalise on our fiscal potential I was a bit disappointed when I asked my wife if Arnie had ever attempted to grope her. "No" Came the firm reply. "For God’s sake, THINK! Arnie used to live in Blackpool you know – you might have run into him there"
"Definitely not"
"I’ll throw Max Clifford’s ‘phone number away then"…..
Why doesn’t he stick to ‘actoring’? A few years ago we were taking our youngest son to see one of his more family friendly movies. "And it stars Arnold Schwarzenegger" I said enthusiastically.
He turned and looked at me "Who’s Arnold Sports-Mega then?"
Deggsy’s back…..
It’s great to see scouse medium Derek Acorah back on the box. For those who haven’t seen his programmes, Derek, along with ex Blue Peter presenter Yvette Fielding fronts a show on Living TV called ‘Most Haunted’.
The format of the show is to visit haunted locations all over the Country. The crew arrive during the day, set up experiments and camera equipment, wait until dark then SWITCH ALL THE LIGHTS OFF!!
Deggsy then goes around each spooky room with his little torch and tells us about the spirits that ‘live’ there. Sometimes it’s a wonder there is any room left for the furniture - there are so many spirits in one place.
It is amazing just how many times he is spot on, he names people, dates, tragedies etc that no one in the house has heard of before. Occasionally, he will meet up with a real bad ‘un. During an episode in an old Methodist church in Manchester last year he was completely taken over by a malevolent spirit who used to be a minister there. Christ, it was scary….. there was Derek strutting about and shouting his head off telling everyone to get out of his church. Then all of a sudden, he collapses, sweats buckets and whimpers "Get me out of here"
It’s great TV – last night they were all at a really spooky WW2 airfield. It was probably one of the best episodes yet. Lots of spooked panicky people, lots of girlies screaming, lots of crew members kacking their pants – and the sceptical psychologist scratching his head at the end of the show.
I don’t know if I believe – but I think that Derek really does think that he communicates with dead people.
Most Haunted, Living TV, Tuesdays @ 9.00pm.
So, another widow is taking tobacco companies to court – suing them for killing her husband. Sorry, widow woman, but you just can’t do it, it just won’t wash, it just aint right. – Your hubby knew exactly what he was doing – basically committing suicide in a long winded and short of breathless sort of way. Shoving a cocktail of poisons down your lungs every few minutes is going to kill – eventually. Ignorance was a defence in the early part of the last century – but since the ‘50’s ciggies have had the bad press they deserve.
‘Alfie the abstainer’ used to be ‘Alfie the chain smoker’ – regularly going through 5 packs of 20 a day. I was so weed dependent that at night I would brush my stained, yellowing teeth in the bathroom – then light up for my walk to the bedroom. At work, I had a glass fruit bowl for an ash tray – its capacity was about 600 stumps, easy. I gave up 20 years ago when my first son was born. He was born, I held him in my arms, had a celebratory fag and stopped dead. It was easy; the alternative was halitosis, leg ulcers, cancer, emphysema, heart disease and death. The only complication was going from ‘Alfie the slim jim’ to ‘Alfie the big boned’
Arnie’s Army…..
Arnold Schwarzenegger pumped up body-builder, wooden actor, political clone of ‘dubbya’ - and a man with more skeletons in his locker than Bobby the bone collector has been on the news a lot lately. Always anxious to capitalise on our fiscal potential I was a bit disappointed when I asked my wife if Arnie had ever attempted to grope her. "No" Came the firm reply. "For God’s sake, THINK! Arnie used to live in Blackpool you know – you might have run into him there"
"Definitely not"
"I’ll throw Max Clifford’s ‘phone number away then"…..
Why doesn’t he stick to ‘actoring’? A few years ago we were taking our youngest son to see one of his more family friendly movies. "And it stars Arnold Schwarzenegger" I said enthusiastically.
He turned and looked at me "Who’s Arnold Sports-Mega then?"
Deggsy’s back…..
It’s great to see scouse medium Derek Acorah back on the box. For those who haven’t seen his programmes, Derek, along with ex Blue Peter presenter Yvette Fielding fronts a show on Living TV called ‘Most Haunted’.
The format of the show is to visit haunted locations all over the Country. The crew arrive during the day, set up experiments and camera equipment, wait until dark then SWITCH ALL THE LIGHTS OFF!!
Deggsy then goes around each spooky room with his little torch and tells us about the spirits that ‘live’ there. Sometimes it’s a wonder there is any room left for the furniture - there are so many spirits in one place.
It is amazing just how many times he is spot on, he names people, dates, tragedies etc that no one in the house has heard of before. Occasionally, he will meet up with a real bad ‘un. During an episode in an old Methodist church in Manchester last year he was completely taken over by a malevolent spirit who used to be a minister there. Christ, it was scary….. there was Derek strutting about and shouting his head off telling everyone to get out of his church. Then all of a sudden, he collapses, sweats buckets and whimpers "Get me out of here"
It’s great TV – last night they were all at a really spooky WW2 airfield. It was probably one of the best episodes yet. Lots of spooked panicky people, lots of girlies screaming, lots of crew members kacking their pants – and the sceptical psychologist scratching his head at the end of the show.
I don’t know if I believe – but I think that Derek really does think that he communicates with dead people.
Most Haunted, Living TV, Tuesdays @ 9.00pm.
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Magic – the new black….
Well, first it was St David Blaine of Pretentia – then ‘Roy’ from the poptastic 70’s throwback magic duo ‘Siegfried and Roy’ got half of his neck seriously sucked by a well pissed off white tiger. Now - mind maestro Derren Brown of Dementia crops up with his ballistic bravado. The Russian-Rouletter extraordinary sticks his Smith and Wesson to his temple and ‘click’ the tension rises. Will he blow his brains out, (click) will he put us off our Sunday supper? (click) It’s taken magic to a whole new level.
Kaboom! – "Christ, what a mess. Who’d have thought it – a magician cocking up a trick like that"
"Just turn over, Heartbeat’s on the other side"………
Gone are the tuxedos, white doves, endless knotted hankies and dull background xylophone music. Gone are the inane card tricks, the cheesy smiles and the frilly assistants. In, are contrived life-threatening operettas played in front of our very eyes – for our minimal and transient entertainment.
Whatever happened to Jonny Hart, Ali Bongo, The Great Soprendo, Paul Daniels and Sooty? The magic wand has now been swapped for instruments of death and destruction. The magic cabinet has changed into a transparent dungeon were we are invited to see a man doing irreparable damage to himself.
It’s only a matter of time then, before someone croaks in the name of light entertainment in this Country. A few years ago in the Philippines there was a magician whose stage act revolved around his unlikely ability to catch bullets in his teeth. There he is, catching bullet after bullet from his stage gun. Suddenly, some prat gets up from the audience, revolver in hand and shouts " Catch this then!" Needless to say, the magician’s brains end up plastered all over the scenery. The guy that shot him got off –his plea was that he honestly believed the magician could catch bullets.
I do wonder however, if it was Paul Daniels that was doing the Russian Roulette trick, would the punter that put the bullet in the chamber be bothered as to whether the diminutive trickster got it right or not?
Would we, as watchers be sitting there all saying to ourselves "Go on Paul, get it wrong, and while you’re at it, get Debbie Magee to position her head right next to yours" – it’s a 2 for 1 deal…..
Also on the box on Channel 4 last Sunday, was the 50 greatest magic tricks – ever. Top of the pile was David Copperfield, not for the fact that he managed to get off with Claudia Schiffer (I suspect sleight of hand in that magic trick) but for the amazing ‘saw through the body’ trick. Brilliant, who’d have thought that after a fledgling career in a comedy show with Lenny Henry and Tracy Ulman - Dave would end up being the toast of Vegas.
Well, first it was St David Blaine of Pretentia – then ‘Roy’ from the poptastic 70’s throwback magic duo ‘Siegfried and Roy’ got half of his neck seriously sucked by a well pissed off white tiger. Now - mind maestro Derren Brown of Dementia crops up with his ballistic bravado. The Russian-Rouletter extraordinary sticks his Smith and Wesson to his temple and ‘click’ the tension rises. Will he blow his brains out, (click) will he put us off our Sunday supper? (click) It’s taken magic to a whole new level.
Kaboom! – "Christ, what a mess. Who’d have thought it – a magician cocking up a trick like that"
"Just turn over, Heartbeat’s on the other side"………
Gone are the tuxedos, white doves, endless knotted hankies and dull background xylophone music. Gone are the inane card tricks, the cheesy smiles and the frilly assistants. In, are contrived life-threatening operettas played in front of our very eyes – for our minimal and transient entertainment.
Whatever happened to Jonny Hart, Ali Bongo, The Great Soprendo, Paul Daniels and Sooty? The magic wand has now been swapped for instruments of death and destruction. The magic cabinet has changed into a transparent dungeon were we are invited to see a man doing irreparable damage to himself.
It’s only a matter of time then, before someone croaks in the name of light entertainment in this Country. A few years ago in the Philippines there was a magician whose stage act revolved around his unlikely ability to catch bullets in his teeth. There he is, catching bullet after bullet from his stage gun. Suddenly, some prat gets up from the audience, revolver in hand and shouts " Catch this then!" Needless to say, the magician’s brains end up plastered all over the scenery. The guy that shot him got off –his plea was that he honestly believed the magician could catch bullets.
I do wonder however, if it was Paul Daniels that was doing the Russian Roulette trick, would the punter that put the bullet in the chamber be bothered as to whether the diminutive trickster got it right or not?
Would we, as watchers be sitting there all saying to ourselves "Go on Paul, get it wrong, and while you’re at it, get Debbie Magee to position her head right next to yours" – it’s a 2 for 1 deal…..
Also on the box on Channel 4 last Sunday, was the 50 greatest magic tricks – ever. Top of the pile was David Copperfield, not for the fact that he managed to get off with Claudia Schiffer (I suspect sleight of hand in that magic trick) but for the amazing ‘saw through the body’ trick. Brilliant, who’d have thought that after a fledgling career in a comedy show with Lenny Henry and Tracy Ulman - Dave would end up being the toast of Vegas.
Friday, October 03, 2003
Homage to the Blainster
"Yeah, the great man, the boy Blaine is over the bridge"
"Thanks very much". And with that I’m off across Tower Bridge accompanied by a whole raft of expectant gawperatti. Half way over and I see him, well not strictly true, I first see the crane, then the tiny, tiny bit of clear plastic dangling from it - and within that there appears to be a gently undulating bin bag lying on the bottom.
Closer still and the pushing and shoving intensifies, I’m over the bridge now and wending my way down the stairs towards the tatty bit of waste ground underneath the plastic box. The place is humming, and all manner of seedy low-life is here….
"Sprig of lavender dearie?…. Or how about one of these beautifully designed light-flashing necklaces?"
"Begone, ancient wizened old hag!" …..
Tyburn obviously doesn’t have a show today…
So here it is ….’Above the Below’ – so not too pretentious a title there then. Channel 4 have erected naff pvc banners all over the place – ‘David Blaine, Above the Below’
He is ‘above’ – and the ground, plebs, chancers, gawpy people and winos are all below. All below with cricks in our necks and wonder in our hearts that we are here in the presence of the great St Davieness. I feel blessed, anointed even, or is that just condensation or body fluids dribbling from the box joints above?
God, this place is tatty. I look around and there are lots of young dolly birds shouting "David, David, DAVID…. Give us a wave!"
The bin-bag clad shape in the box duly obliges.
"OOOOOOhhhhhhh, he waved at me!" One of the dolly’s squealed.
I queue to get into the compound directly underneath the box… everyone is getting searched by big, ugly, bulky, baldy blokes with ear-pieces. Well I can understand that, after all, Dave’s a Yank so he’ll have enemies all over the place. They’ll have to check that none are bringing in weapons and stuff. One of Dave’s crew approaches me. Christ, he’s massive.
"Looking for weapons?" I enquired as my hands shoot skywards. He doesn’t answer.
"Got any eggs, fresh, rotten, hard boiled or raw, golf balls, satsumas, tennis balls, sprouts, hamburgers or equivalent?"
"Err no, the only thing I have in my pocket is this"
"Best keep it there" he says. I readily agree.
Satisfied, the gate opens and I’m in. I gaze up to the egg-stained, food-spattered plastic box…….. and there he is – isn’t he? A podgy face peers out from the bag he is residing in. David is not in, but his fat, pie-loving, pizza-hugging twin brother is.
Geez, whatever they are putting in the water, it’s keeping old lardy arse up to his bouncing weight all right.
"Hi Dave, how are you doing, been anywhere interesting lately? Do you want a sweety? Are you keeping regular?"
He looked at me like I was the Prince of Titheads. "Miserable sod." I muttered. I circle the box and put on my most menacing countenance – like I’m from the magic fraud squad…. I’m looking for smoke and mirrors. Is he really in the box – or is it just a projected image? Is he actually in L.A. and eating a pie, The Big Apple and eating a pizza or sunning himself on a beach somewhere and eating a seafood banquet?
But what’s it all about, what’s the point of it all? World peace, saving the rain forests, inflating David Blaine’s ego, inflating David Blaine?………
Are there any loaves and fishes here – or do we have to get our own meals? Is Dave gesticulating to us telling everyone to go forth and multiply? Is he thinking outside the box – is the box an envelope? Is it a window on the World or a box of delights? Is Dave mad, bad, sad and pretentious to know?
Who knows …. who cares?
"Yeah, the great man, the boy Blaine is over the bridge"
"Thanks very much". And with that I’m off across Tower Bridge accompanied by a whole raft of expectant gawperatti. Half way over and I see him, well not strictly true, I first see the crane, then the tiny, tiny bit of clear plastic dangling from it - and within that there appears to be a gently undulating bin bag lying on the bottom.
Closer still and the pushing and shoving intensifies, I’m over the bridge now and wending my way down the stairs towards the tatty bit of waste ground underneath the plastic box. The place is humming, and all manner of seedy low-life is here….
"Sprig of lavender dearie?…. Or how about one of these beautifully designed light-flashing necklaces?"
"Begone, ancient wizened old hag!" …..
Tyburn obviously doesn’t have a show today…
So here it is ….’Above the Below’ – so not too pretentious a title there then. Channel 4 have erected naff pvc banners all over the place – ‘David Blaine, Above the Below’
He is ‘above’ – and the ground, plebs, chancers, gawpy people and winos are all below. All below with cricks in our necks and wonder in our hearts that we are here in the presence of the great St Davieness. I feel blessed, anointed even, or is that just condensation or body fluids dribbling from the box joints above?
God, this place is tatty. I look around and there are lots of young dolly birds shouting "David, David, DAVID…. Give us a wave!"
The bin-bag clad shape in the box duly obliges.
"OOOOOOhhhhhhh, he waved at me!" One of the dolly’s squealed.
I queue to get into the compound directly underneath the box… everyone is getting searched by big, ugly, bulky, baldy blokes with ear-pieces. Well I can understand that, after all, Dave’s a Yank so he’ll have enemies all over the place. They’ll have to check that none are bringing in weapons and stuff. One of Dave’s crew approaches me. Christ, he’s massive.
"Looking for weapons?" I enquired as my hands shoot skywards. He doesn’t answer.
"Got any eggs, fresh, rotten, hard boiled or raw, golf balls, satsumas, tennis balls, sprouts, hamburgers or equivalent?"
"Err no, the only thing I have in my pocket is this"
"Best keep it there" he says. I readily agree.
Satisfied, the gate opens and I’m in. I gaze up to the egg-stained, food-spattered plastic box…….. and there he is – isn’t he? A podgy face peers out from the bag he is residing in. David is not in, but his fat, pie-loving, pizza-hugging twin brother is.
Geez, whatever they are putting in the water, it’s keeping old lardy arse up to his bouncing weight all right.
"Hi Dave, how are you doing, been anywhere interesting lately? Do you want a sweety? Are you keeping regular?"
He looked at me like I was the Prince of Titheads. "Miserable sod." I muttered. I circle the box and put on my most menacing countenance – like I’m from the magic fraud squad…. I’m looking for smoke and mirrors. Is he really in the box – or is it just a projected image? Is he actually in L.A. and eating a pie, The Big Apple and eating a pizza or sunning himself on a beach somewhere and eating a seafood banquet?
But what’s it all about, what’s the point of it all? World peace, saving the rain forests, inflating David Blaine’s ego, inflating David Blaine?………
Are there any loaves and fishes here – or do we have to get our own meals? Is Dave gesticulating to us telling everyone to go forth and multiply? Is he thinking outside the box – is the box an envelope? Is it a window on the World or a box of delights? Is Dave mad, bad, sad and pretentious to know?
Who knows …. who cares?
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Gullible Northerner vows never to ride the white knuckle experience that is Virgin Trains – again…..
Thick Northern punter, ‘Alfie the not too bright’ has definitely vowed never, ever, ever under any circumstances whatsoever to use the getting from A to B via "sorry for the delay" services of that crap carrier ‘Virgin Trains’…….
After his last train journey, the 4 hour late express to Glasgow 3 years ago, Alfie had resolved to put his iron horse tribulations behind him. In future he would travel by car, plane, donkey, pogo stick or shank’s rather than fall again for the Branston sorcery.
So when a meeting was arranged with the European Head of one of the largest financial institutions in the World for 11 am on Monday, in the City of London, the travelling options were carefully trolled through…….
"Right, I mustn’t be late - so the donkey is out. Car? I’ll be damned if I give sucker, money and endorsement to Mayor Ken. Pogo stick? – Too bouncy …. ‘Plane? - Christ, are you having a laugh, never heard of terrorism? So that leaves ‘The Train’ then…… Never mind, if I get the ‘crack of dawn’ express, I can easily be in the square mile by 9ish. That’ll leave 2 hours slack – should anything go wrong …….. easy"
6:45 am ….Make the train – just! Bloody hell, Alfie feels blessed! The iron-clad leviathan is kept waiting as ‘Alfie the corpulent’ struggles up the stairs to platform 5…. "Thank you God, and thank you Guard" Alfie, in his rather myopic, puppy trusting way thinks today is going to be a good day……..
Alfie stretches out in his seat, "Bloody hell, hardly any people on the train – Nice!" Smug snoozing interrupted by lack of train type ‘dee dum dee dum’ noise activity……….. Mushroom syndrome kicks in.
Eventually, ‘Ian’ the on board travel manager tells us that the air brakes have lost all their air. We have no brakes.
7.15 am - Ian says the engineer is coming from Crewe.
7.25 am – Ian says the engineer isn’t coming – but that he and the Guard are going to get the engine from the back of the train and put it to the front. Ian says it will take 10 minutes.
7.52 am – Ian says "Bugger that, we’ll wait for the engineer"
8.08 am – Ian says the engineer isn’t coming "The engineer isn’t coming" he says.
8.10 am – Ian says a towing engine is coming from Crewe, to take us to Crewe, so we could get another train - from Crewe.
8.14 am – Alfie wonders were the nearest donkey depot is.
8.30 am – Ian tells us the towing engine is definitely on its way, "Almost definitely …… probably"
8.40 am - Alfie says "Fucking Hell I’m going to kill someone" as he watches his business / career / sanity go down Ian’s ‘out of order’ Virginal bog.
8.50 am – Towing engine pulls us the 1k to Crewe at 10 miles per hour. Ian issues his 53rd apology.
8.52 am – Ian issues his 54th apology "I’m very, very very sorry" He says.
8.53 am – Alfie’s knuckles reach the colour dynamic of Dulux Ultra Brilliant White.
9.00 am – Ian says that there is a train due in for London any minute on platform 1. "Yes, the train from Liverpool is due in 2 minutes, on platform 1"
9.01 am – Train stops on platform 8 at Crewe. Passengers pile out and struggle upstairs, heading for platform 1.
9.05 am – Alfie struggles with luggage past platform 5 and a rather good looking stationary imitation of a train bound for the smoke.
9.07 am – Huddled masses arrive at platform 1.
9.08 am – No show on the train front. Railway announcement "Theghgh traihgn on pletfrghm fife is theghgh 9.09 am to Loughgndod Eustoghn.
9.09 am – Wheezing throng, including Alfie arrive on platform 5 to get London train - just….. Ian keeps a very low profile.
9.10 am – Alfie and fellow passengers dig pretend sleeping, spread out students and fat arsed businessmen in ribs to pick up bags, coats, butties to let us sit down. Train is as full as an over full train.
9.30 am – Leave Rugeley station – Alfie reckons he should be in London by just past 11.
9.33 am – All stop. ‘Alan’ – the on board travel manager apologises. "Signal failure just in front of us"
9,34 am – Alan says we are going to have to reverse and get on the slow line – to get past the fault.
9.35 – Alfie spends post nervous breakdown time gazing through the glazing at a bull and his harem copulating like rabbits.
9.38 am – Rugeley Station revisited. Alan says he is sorry
"We are very sorry for the delay"
9.40 am – Alfie foams at mouth.
9.41 am – Alfie has to relieve himself, gets up and searches for a toilet. Train crawls out of Rugeley.
9.50 am - Toilet located, Alfie starts to relieve himself down bowl. Unbeknown to him, the train is about to jerkily relocate back onto the fast track to London. Alfie widdles all the way down his light olive green mix wool trousers.
9.55 am - Having used up all the available paper towels, Alfie limps back to seat.
10 00 am – Alan is done apologising. Alan is now triumphant. "The train will arrive at Euston at 11.20 am – and you had better believe it baby!!"
Just time for Alfie to wrack tattered embolic brain cells for the mother of all excuses to tell head financial honcho …….
Tomorrow – Alfie meets David Blaine, and sets a new World record for the most one sided conversation ever. (Well, I didn’t feel like talking to him).
Thick Northern punter, ‘Alfie the not too bright’ has definitely vowed never, ever, ever under any circumstances whatsoever to use the getting from A to B via "sorry for the delay" services of that crap carrier ‘Virgin Trains’…….
After his last train journey, the 4 hour late express to Glasgow 3 years ago, Alfie had resolved to put his iron horse tribulations behind him. In future he would travel by car, plane, donkey, pogo stick or shank’s rather than fall again for the Branston sorcery.
So when a meeting was arranged with the European Head of one of the largest financial institutions in the World for 11 am on Monday, in the City of London, the travelling options were carefully trolled through…….
"Right, I mustn’t be late - so the donkey is out. Car? I’ll be damned if I give sucker, money and endorsement to Mayor Ken. Pogo stick? – Too bouncy …. ‘Plane? - Christ, are you having a laugh, never heard of terrorism? So that leaves ‘The Train’ then…… Never mind, if I get the ‘crack of dawn’ express, I can easily be in the square mile by 9ish. That’ll leave 2 hours slack – should anything go wrong …….. easy"
6:45 am ….Make the train – just! Bloody hell, Alfie feels blessed! The iron-clad leviathan is kept waiting as ‘Alfie the corpulent’ struggles up the stairs to platform 5…. "Thank you God, and thank you Guard" Alfie, in his rather myopic, puppy trusting way thinks today is going to be a good day……..
Alfie stretches out in his seat, "Bloody hell, hardly any people on the train – Nice!" Smug snoozing interrupted by lack of train type ‘dee dum dee dum’ noise activity……….. Mushroom syndrome kicks in.
Eventually, ‘Ian’ the on board travel manager tells us that the air brakes have lost all their air. We have no brakes.
7.15 am - Ian says the engineer is coming from Crewe.
7.25 am – Ian says the engineer isn’t coming – but that he and the Guard are going to get the engine from the back of the train and put it to the front. Ian says it will take 10 minutes.
7.52 am – Ian says "Bugger that, we’ll wait for the engineer"
8.08 am – Ian says the engineer isn’t coming "The engineer isn’t coming" he says.
8.10 am – Ian says a towing engine is coming from Crewe, to take us to Crewe, so we could get another train - from Crewe.
8.14 am – Alfie wonders were the nearest donkey depot is.
8.30 am – Ian tells us the towing engine is definitely on its way, "Almost definitely …… probably"
8.40 am - Alfie says "Fucking Hell I’m going to kill someone" as he watches his business / career / sanity go down Ian’s ‘out of order’ Virginal bog.
8.50 am – Towing engine pulls us the 1k to Crewe at 10 miles per hour. Ian issues his 53rd apology.
8.52 am – Ian issues his 54th apology "I’m very, very very sorry" He says.
8.53 am – Alfie’s knuckles reach the colour dynamic of Dulux Ultra Brilliant White.
9.00 am – Ian says that there is a train due in for London any minute on platform 1. "Yes, the train from Liverpool is due in 2 minutes, on platform 1"
9.01 am – Train stops on platform 8 at Crewe. Passengers pile out and struggle upstairs, heading for platform 1.
9.05 am – Alfie struggles with luggage past platform 5 and a rather good looking stationary imitation of a train bound for the smoke.
9.07 am – Huddled masses arrive at platform 1.
9.08 am – No show on the train front. Railway announcement "Theghgh traihgn on pletfrghm fife is theghgh 9.09 am to Loughgndod Eustoghn.
9.09 am – Wheezing throng, including Alfie arrive on platform 5 to get London train - just….. Ian keeps a very low profile.
9.10 am – Alfie and fellow passengers dig pretend sleeping, spread out students and fat arsed businessmen in ribs to pick up bags, coats, butties to let us sit down. Train is as full as an over full train.
9.30 am – Leave Rugeley station – Alfie reckons he should be in London by just past 11.
9.33 am – All stop. ‘Alan’ – the on board travel manager apologises. "Signal failure just in front of us"
9,34 am – Alan says we are going to have to reverse and get on the slow line – to get past the fault.
9.35 – Alfie spends post nervous breakdown time gazing through the glazing at a bull and his harem copulating like rabbits.
9.38 am – Rugeley Station revisited. Alan says he is sorry
"We are very sorry for the delay"
9.40 am – Alfie foams at mouth.
9.41 am – Alfie has to relieve himself, gets up and searches for a toilet. Train crawls out of Rugeley.
9.50 am - Toilet located, Alfie starts to relieve himself down bowl. Unbeknown to him, the train is about to jerkily relocate back onto the fast track to London. Alfie widdles all the way down his light olive green mix wool trousers.
9.55 am - Having used up all the available paper towels, Alfie limps back to seat.
10 00 am – Alan is done apologising. Alan is now triumphant. "The train will arrive at Euston at 11.20 am – and you had better believe it baby!!"
Just time for Alfie to wrack tattered embolic brain cells for the mother of all excuses to tell head financial honcho …….
Tomorrow – Alfie meets David Blaine, and sets a new World record for the most one sided conversation ever. (Well, I didn’t feel like talking to him).
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Movie icons – a series (if I can be bothered to write any more)
Number 1 - The Baddie.
Requirement originally met by Indians of the reddish hue, whipping boys for Duke Wayne and his trusty Winchester repeater. "The hell I’ll let those redskin varmints live." They were often seen throwing themselves with gay abandon into the sights of a six-gun. Occasionally, they would even paint a target onto themselves just to make it easier.
During the 40’s however, these were usurped by the very nasty Germans and their very nasty habit of invading other Countries and pulling out other people’s fingernails – very nastily. "Vee haff vays ov making you talk, schvinehundt!!"…….
Now, we are more enlightened, it was soon realised that the Germans were misunderstood. Their bad behaviour was traced to a diet dominated by sour-kraut, cheap beer – oh, and an over burdening desire to dominate the World.
With the Germans forgiven, Hollywood demanded a new nation of saps for the all American hero boys to wup. That mantle has now been passed to the new kids to kick with their heads on the block.
The crew now up for the role of ‘scapegoatery’ has been filled by Englishmen. Yeah, the boys from good old Blighty are now officially Hollywood cannon fodder. "OK Brad baby, in this scene you save mankind, get the dame – and the money. Then you stick a couple of caps into evil Lord Hambledon’s ass"
"Great, then he dies right?"
"Hell no Brad baby! Remember, this is evil English aristocrat Lord Hambledon – Scottish Yard has been on his trail for years….. and it takes you, a rookie cop from the 89th precinct to nail his sweet English ass…. After you let him have it he struggles up the Empire State Building for a fateful rendezvous with his chopper. Desperately seeking a way out he climbs to the top and jumps for the dangling ladder. Unfortunately, he misses and the limey bastard is horribly impaled on the TV mast".
"God, how I love wasting limeys".......
Clipped tones? Well that must mean English cad – and master criminal. Doomed to come to a sticky end at the hands of Tom Cruise……
Estuary? English dodgy criminal geezer, usually employed in Guy Ritchie movies. Not a master criminal, more a thick twat, easily outwitted by razor brains such as Brad Pitt……
Mid European? Englishman, kidnapped at birth and brought up in a secretive Bavarian fencing academy by renegade Neo Nazis’. Ferociously arrogant in an Anglo Saxon sought of way, this psychotically psychopathic psicko is a born terrorist leader. His one weakness however is to always (very stupidly) let the hero off the hook by trying to think of even more exotic ways of killing him. "No…. shooting you between the eyes is far too easy – it does not appeal to my artistic nature ……. Now, where can I find some crocodiles and a tonne of carbolic soap"……….
Meanwhile, the all American hero is fashioning a helicopter behind his back using the twine he is bound with and some discarded chewing gum…….. and escapes, Bruce Willis wins again! Yippee kai ayyyyyyyyy……
Number 1 - The Baddie.
Requirement originally met by Indians of the reddish hue, whipping boys for Duke Wayne and his trusty Winchester repeater. "The hell I’ll let those redskin varmints live." They were often seen throwing themselves with gay abandon into the sights of a six-gun. Occasionally, they would even paint a target onto themselves just to make it easier.
During the 40’s however, these were usurped by the very nasty Germans and their very nasty habit of invading other Countries and pulling out other people’s fingernails – very nastily. "Vee haff vays ov making you talk, schvinehundt!!"…….
Now, we are more enlightened, it was soon realised that the Germans were misunderstood. Their bad behaviour was traced to a diet dominated by sour-kraut, cheap beer – oh, and an over burdening desire to dominate the World.
With the Germans forgiven, Hollywood demanded a new nation of saps for the all American hero boys to wup. That mantle has now been passed to the new kids to kick with their heads on the block.
The crew now up for the role of ‘scapegoatery’ has been filled by Englishmen. Yeah, the boys from good old Blighty are now officially Hollywood cannon fodder. "OK Brad baby, in this scene you save mankind, get the dame – and the money. Then you stick a couple of caps into evil Lord Hambledon’s ass"
"Great, then he dies right?"
"Hell no Brad baby! Remember, this is evil English aristocrat Lord Hambledon – Scottish Yard has been on his trail for years….. and it takes you, a rookie cop from the 89th precinct to nail his sweet English ass…. After you let him have it he struggles up the Empire State Building for a fateful rendezvous with his chopper. Desperately seeking a way out he climbs to the top and jumps for the dangling ladder. Unfortunately, he misses and the limey bastard is horribly impaled on the TV mast".
"God, how I love wasting limeys".......
Clipped tones? Well that must mean English cad – and master criminal. Doomed to come to a sticky end at the hands of Tom Cruise……
Estuary? English dodgy criminal geezer, usually employed in Guy Ritchie movies. Not a master criminal, more a thick twat, easily outwitted by razor brains such as Brad Pitt……
Mid European? Englishman, kidnapped at birth and brought up in a secretive Bavarian fencing academy by renegade Neo Nazis’. Ferociously arrogant in an Anglo Saxon sought of way, this psychotically psychopathic psicko is a born terrorist leader. His one weakness however is to always (very stupidly) let the hero off the hook by trying to think of even more exotic ways of killing him. "No…. shooting you between the eyes is far too easy – it does not appeal to my artistic nature ……. Now, where can I find some crocodiles and a tonne of carbolic soap"……….
Meanwhile, the all American hero is fashioning a helicopter behind his back using the twine he is bound with and some discarded chewing gum…….. and escapes, Bruce Willis wins again! Yippee kai ayyyyyyyyy……
Monday, September 22, 2003
Back again ......
Anyone there? Alfie the OK here again. The last few days, I have mostly been Alfie the can’t be arsed, busy, pissed, absent and just plain Alfie the Alzheimic….. Yeah, I've been through the whole spectrum of adjectivorial Alfieness during the last week or so….. (Is ‘adjectivorial’ a word? Well it is now)
Yesterday, I was ‘Alfie the removals man’. I took my eldest lad back to his new digs as he embarks on his last year at college.
New digs? Christ! A bit of an exaggeration there …. What a dump! Our car, stuffed to the roof rack with student type stuff rounds the corner into Tatty Arsed Street, just off Roach Drive in Bed-sit land, Blackpool. And there it is in all its faded, pox-ridden, paint peeling glory - ‘Shite Towers’.
Ring bell…… doesn’t work, obviously.
Knock on knocker and peer through windows that last saw a chamois when George Formby was leaning on a lamppost at The Winter Gardens.
Cue ‘Arsenic’ without ‘Old lace’ as 80-year-old biddy staggers down the corridor to open the door.
Cue stench.
She insists on shaking our hands. Christ, I thought (mental note) – must eat my butty with my left hand on the drive home. Must remember NOT to pick my nose or adjust my manly bits with my right hand. That’s in quarantine until I get home and dig out the bleach.
"It’s up there" she says and points a bony, wizened digit in the general direction of the stairs.
Cue crusty, flowery carpet, in dire need of a ‘Bex Bissell’ and woodchip wallpaper in dire need of a bonfire.
We breast the top of the stairs. Below us the biddy has hardly made base camp, although her odour has sat on our shoulders all the way up. We peer down a black.... black..... bible black corridor to a distant toilet.
The biddy chimes in "Now it’s not gold taps you know John" and gurgles a laugh so chilling I would swear that old Nick himself had suddenly materialised in front of us as ‘old Nicola’.
We get near to the toilet and on our right is a door. THE door to John’s pad. We hurry in – in a vain attempt to avoid the ghastly odour emanating from the bog.
The room is as bad as I thought it would be. I peer around in the unremitting gloom. I must say something. I REALLY MUST say something "35 quid a week for this hovel! JEEZZZUSSS H. KERRRIST this place should be con-bleeding-demned you horrible, horrible, horrible, smelly old bag!!"
Well, that’s what I meant to say. It sort of came out as "Ooooh yes, the room is LOVELY - 50’s chic, functional in a Stalinist sort of way -and yet uncluttered… perfect". Then she shows us the shower room. God all sodding mighty. Underneath the shower tray is a collection of towels, they have been there so long they have morphed together into one wet-through amorphous blob. Vigorous cultures of fungi flourish in near perfect growing conditions.
"Right then John, let’s get you unpacked"
We thank Auntie Festus for the tour and tell her we are just going to the car to unpack John’s stuff.
I didn’t know that a fully laden Toyota Avensis could do 0 – 60 in 7 seconds….
Anyone there? Alfie the OK here again. The last few days, I have mostly been Alfie the can’t be arsed, busy, pissed, absent and just plain Alfie the Alzheimic….. Yeah, I've been through the whole spectrum of adjectivorial Alfieness during the last week or so….. (Is ‘adjectivorial’ a word? Well it is now)
Yesterday, I was ‘Alfie the removals man’. I took my eldest lad back to his new digs as he embarks on his last year at college.
New digs? Christ! A bit of an exaggeration there …. What a dump! Our car, stuffed to the roof rack with student type stuff rounds the corner into Tatty Arsed Street, just off Roach Drive in Bed-sit land, Blackpool. And there it is in all its faded, pox-ridden, paint peeling glory - ‘Shite Towers’.
Ring bell…… doesn’t work, obviously.
Knock on knocker and peer through windows that last saw a chamois when George Formby was leaning on a lamppost at The Winter Gardens.
Cue ‘Arsenic’ without ‘Old lace’ as 80-year-old biddy staggers down the corridor to open the door.
Cue stench.
She insists on shaking our hands. Christ, I thought (mental note) – must eat my butty with my left hand on the drive home. Must remember NOT to pick my nose or adjust my manly bits with my right hand. That’s in quarantine until I get home and dig out the bleach.
"It’s up there" she says and points a bony, wizened digit in the general direction of the stairs.
Cue crusty, flowery carpet, in dire need of a ‘Bex Bissell’ and woodchip wallpaper in dire need of a bonfire.
We breast the top of the stairs. Below us the biddy has hardly made base camp, although her odour has sat on our shoulders all the way up. We peer down a black.... black..... bible black corridor to a distant toilet.
The biddy chimes in "Now it’s not gold taps you know John" and gurgles a laugh so chilling I would swear that old Nick himself had suddenly materialised in front of us as ‘old Nicola’.
We get near to the toilet and on our right is a door. THE door to John’s pad. We hurry in – in a vain attempt to avoid the ghastly odour emanating from the bog.
The room is as bad as I thought it would be. I peer around in the unremitting gloom. I must say something. I REALLY MUST say something "35 quid a week for this hovel! JEEZZZUSSS H. KERRRIST this place should be con-bleeding-demned you horrible, horrible, horrible, smelly old bag!!"
Well, that’s what I meant to say. It sort of came out as "Ooooh yes, the room is LOVELY - 50’s chic, functional in a Stalinist sort of way -and yet uncluttered… perfect". Then she shows us the shower room. God all sodding mighty. Underneath the shower tray is a collection of towels, they have been there so long they have morphed together into one wet-through amorphous blob. Vigorous cultures of fungi flourish in near perfect growing conditions.
"Right then John, let’s get you unpacked"
We thank Auntie Festus for the tour and tell her we are just going to the car to unpack John’s stuff.
I didn’t know that a fully laden Toyota Avensis could do 0 – 60 in 7 seconds….
