Coming soon to a bookshop near you……

I was listening to the radio the other day. The interviewer was talking to a bloke who was about to publish 'The Book of Sporting Put-Downs’…. Basically, it's the art of insult - out in the sporting arena. The usual suspects are all there - masters of the putdown quoted within the book include Ali, Brian Clough and Roy Keene.

The interviewer read out a few memorable examples - and then his favourite from the book –
Ferocious Aussie fast bowler, Glenn McGrath had just clean bowled a hapless Zimbabwean batsman. His rather rotund, non athletic replacement ambled out to the wicket.

McGrath anxious to unsettle the new batsman, glowered at him and hissed "Hey tubby, why are you so f***ing fat?"

The chubby Zimbabwean batsman thought a bit, then replied "Because every time I shag your wife, she gives me a biscuit"…

Well, it made me laugh…..

Harvest Festival …….

Hands up all those people that took a tin of beans with them to their school harvest festival….
Hands up all those people that took the beans wrapper off and replaced it with another wrapper from a posh tin of salmon….

I didn’t like Harvest Festival much. My Mum never gave me anything nice to give – preferring to say that we needed food more than ‘them’. More than who, I wondered?

One day, I asked her.

"Mum, where does all the food that we give at Harvest Festival go to?"

"It goes to the poor people in the slums, the old people in hospitals and the tramps who don’t have anything to live in other than a cardboard box……
"That’s why we give them ‘beans’ – good, wholesome food in a handy tin ….. as long as those poor people have a tin opener, that is"….

I don’t think my Mum very much liked giving food away to complete strangers at all really.

My most feeble Harvest Festival gift was a few apples harvested from our manky back garden tree and a nearly unopened jar of raspberry jam. My Mum assured me they’d be ‘fine’….. All the other rich kids brought hampers as almost supplied by Fortnum and Mason’s. I felt like a right 'chav' taking my flimsy, bulimic effort up to ‘Skip’ and his troop of senior Scouters. Well I would have – if I’d known what a chav was then….

But I do now. I was fortunate to be listening to Simon Mayo on FiveLive when the 2 founders of a cult web site I’ve never heard of were being interviewed. These bods were so concerned about their safety they were using assumed names – due to the numerous death threats their contentious web site had provoked.

Intrigued, I had a quick look at the totally non contentiously titled www.chavscum.co.uk and take in some ‘cultism’…. Wall to wall Burberry, ‘Chav’ of the month and lots of other chav types, such as Neds, Townies, Kevs, Charvers, Steeks, Spides, Bazzas, Yarcos, Ratboys and Kappa Slappers. It’s clearly ‘chavery’ at its worst.

All things bright and beautiful…..not.



Blog Shares

I’ve had a quick look on the Blog Share Index to see just how incredibly vibrant, bullish and gilt edged ‘Alfie Corp’ blog stock is performing. Let’s just say I’m quietly confident, in a smug bastard, red braces, pink business newspaper kind of way.

Bloody hell – and bollocks in a Wall Street crash sort of way. It’s a cliff, it’s a vertical drop, it’s an abyss – stopped only by the bottom horizontal axis of the graph. It’s like Barings after Leeson and Ratners after Gerald, rolled into one almighty void.

It’s clear to see, Alfie Corp is in the departure lounge.

If I were you, I’d keep your pensions and endowment mortgages well away……



Pension Dodge - idea number 2

Alfie has been thinking ever so laterally lately - and has come up with a cast iron cure for the British pension crisis. All you do is make everyone in the Country a Westminster MP - all 60 million of us. That way, as soon as we shoe horn ourselves through the door, we'll all automatically qualify for an index linked,non contributionary pension.... plus to die for travel allowances and exclusive membership of the Commons overseas travel club. You know the sort of thing I mean? Trips undertaken by MPs to investigate injustice around the world. Some of the biggest problem areas have, in the past included such appallingly awful locations as Barbados, The Seychelles, Acapulco and Las Vegas.......

Back to Westminster. Admittedly, it'll be a bit of a crush getting into the lobby to vote - but I reckon that's a small price to pay - and maybe, just maybe I'll be able to rub shoulders with his Royal Blairyness......

Democracy rocks, ok…..

That guardian of democracy, the freedom loving Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is having its first-ever nationwide elections next year. Admittedly, they are not elections to vote in a Prime Minister or a President – they’re just municipal type council jobs …. But hey, it’s a start, isn’t it?

Whooppee do! Democracy is sort of alive and well in the world’s biggest penninsula then?

Well, it is if you are a man.
If you are a man in Saudi, you are wise, informed, well balanced…. and entitled to vote.

And what about the laydees in Saudi?
They’re much too busy with cooking, looking after the kids, looking after their man and doing even more cooking to have time to vote……

So the Saudi Government have thoughtfully excluded them from their role in the electoral roll. Every single one of them.

Where’s Emily Pankhurst when you need her?





Alzheimer’s rules, ko…..

‘Alfie, the brain of a planet’ gave all the good folk down at the ‘Blood Tub’ Public House on Monday a right good laugh.

Our all stars quiz team, going under the tribute moniker of ‘Ken Dodd’s Dad’s Dog’s Dead’ truly spanked the opposition to a bloody pulp. We’d have got every single question right …. Except for the inspirational answer from yours truly.

Question: Which British cyclist won Olympic gold, silver and bronze medals at Athens?

Answer: "Bradley Walsh"

Reaction: Uproarious laughter…

"Aye up, I didn’t know the cockney Jack the Lad comedy entertainer and recent Coronation Street rag trade import was a bi-cycool-ist"…..

You know, I’m bloody sure I thought ‘Bradley Wiggins’ – it just came out ‘Bradley Walsh’….




Pension Plans…..

Alfie’s pension portfolio is currently looking thinner than Tony Blair’s little booklet of Iraqi weapons of mass destruction….. and faced with the March of time and the November of crusty old age, Alfie has decided to do something about it.

1) Stand for Parliament.
2) Become biggest Party.
3) Become Leader – and therefore Prime Minister.
4) Move into number 10 on the Thursday.
5) Resign on the Friday - telling my shocked Party that I'm just too weary to carry on.
6) Collect free, index linked Prime Minister’s perk £100k per year pension on Saturday.
7) Book ticket to Tahiti on Sunday.

Fog on the mind…..

Former brilliant footballer and friend of ‘five bellies’, Paul Gascoine wants to be taken more seriously.

He’s left fat ‘n’ jovial pal Danny Baker and sad ‘n’ ginger pal Chris Evans standing at the bar of life, waiting for last orders.

Paul’s gone. He wants to do more cerebral things with his post-footy career. Elocution lessons are being taken, with a view to break into Planet Punditry on the telly - and he is half way through his football coaching badges. There is even talk of him starting the odd ghosted footy column in a national newspaper.

There’s a problem though. Paul’s got baggage. Fifteen years of boozing, birding, wife beating, and playing crap practical jokes means Paul reckons no one will take him seriously in his new career move.

Paul’s answer is to change his first name via deed poll for the princely sum of just a tad under thirty quid. He reckons something like ‘Brad’, 'Shane' or ‘Jonny Gascoine’ will give him a really seriously mature profile. But he wants much more than that. When some adoring member of the public utters his new name, he wants them to think "God, this guy really knows his stuff – he’s a brain of a planet bloody genius"…..

Paul’s bound to be disappointed though. Someone else has already got ‘Bamber’……

Quaint Customs…....

The Alfie crew are thinking of invading France in December. The alignment of Christmas, New Year and a big, big wedding means that severe strain is going to be put on the stitching of Gordon Brown’s pockets (with all the extra metal he’ll be collecting) – unless I can find an alternative source.

We are the most ripped off Country in the E.U. – And especially in the hazy world of alcohol. In France, the duty on a typical bottle of wine is one and half pence. In this Country it’s £1.55 – around 100 times more.

So, a day trip to a Calais hyper-market seems to be the order of the day – and thereby take advantage of the much trumpeted free market economy that stretches from Western Ireland to the Polish/Russian border.

There’s just one, slight problem. It’s the ‘declaration boys’..

The peaked capped, rubber gloved, KY jelly-toting Uber-Nazis residing in little huts at Dover. HM Customs are on a mission.

On a mission to stop the ‘smuggling’ of fags and booze into Blighty – and everyone is suspected. Just the other day, they nicked an 82 year old man, confiscated his car and poured the booze down the grid.

You can just imagine the conversation between the two.

Old geezer "What’s the problem, officer?"

Nazi "I don’t believe these 6 bottles of Ruby Wine are for your own use Sir – you’ll be dead before you can drink them all. So I have no alternative but to conclude that you are a dangerous booze-crooze smuggla. So spread 'em, matey boy - you're nicked "

When we were little, we used to play a game called ‘Smugglers’. Basically, one of you had the ‘contraband’ hidden about your person – the idea was you and your mates had to saunter past another group of kids who were trying, by skills of deduction (and bullying) to find ‘the guilty one’… It was here, on the fields of burnt out cars and cast aside mattresses that I honed my ‘little boy lost as Michael Owen’ look.

I’m as innocent as the driven snow, obviously. But for my inaugural Booze Cruise sortie, I’ll need some essential tools of the trade.

White Van with dodgy back tyre - check
Lilac shell suit with gathered, elasticated cuffs - check
Bling-Bling bog-chain goldish necklace - check
Staffordshire Bull Terrier called ‘Tyson’ - check
Sovereign Gold Rings – assorted - check

Right, that’s it – I’m good and ready to welcome the world of innocence, free trade ….. and meeting several thousand bottles of Asti Spumanti…..

Question: Just how do you get ‘prostate’ and ‘prostrate’ to make sense in the same sentence?

Hmmmm, a bit of a tough one that. But after watching John Pilger’s hour long report last night on ITV, I reckon I can concoct a sentence with the two words in and make sense of it.

I haven’t really felt very proud of being British lately. The naïve values I was raised on – and passed down to my kids, seem less and less relevant in a world of connivance, double dealings, double crossings and double entendres.

Last nights show however, plumbed the depths - I was absolutely ashamed of being British. Pilger is, I know traditionally anti British in his reportage, but as last nights programme unfolded, I sat, dumbfounded as successive HM Governments connived to keep the loyal British Subjects of The Chagos Archipelago in the slums they have been condemned to.

Up to last night, I’d never heard of ‘The Chagos Archipelago’ – a beautiful, British owned pearl string of tropical islands, cloaked in the azure blue Indian Ocean. I had, however heard of its principle island, Diego Garcia. I knew it was now a static U.S. aircraft carrier, handy for kicking ‘aayrab ass in the mid east’ via B-52s, the carpet-bombing weapon of choice. I also remember watching a black and white newsreel in the ‘60’s. That old Government mouthpiece and part time gong holder in the original ‘Take Your Pick’ – Bob Danvers Walker was waxing lyrical.

The reel showed lots of smiling people boarding boats for "a new life in the island paradise of Mauritius". Cue wobbly patriotic music, fade out to the Union Flag fluttering away……. By God, it’s great to be British, people round the world really do love us, don’t they?

So I knew these people had been displaced, evicted from the Archipelago. But in my naivety, I thought they had willingly gone for the greater good – and been properly recompensed. That was then – and over the years, it dawned on me that they had basically been kicked out – and that it was a real injustice.

Just how much of an injustice was made plain last night. The good people of The Chagos Archipelago are residing in slumsville – in downtown Mauritius (well, at least those that are still alive are). They’ve been there for 40 years in squalor, in sewerage, in perpetuity if HM Government has anything to do with it.

In the year 2000, in the high court, the Islanders finally got a verdict that Harold Wilson’s Government – and all subsequent Governments have acted illegally in keeping them off their own property. The Islanders and their lawyers expected the then Foreign Secretary Robin Cooke and his much trumpeted ‘Ethical Foreign Policy’ to kick in – and kick out the U.S. Navy and Airforce, the KFC franchise and all the other accoutrements of Uncle Sam’s war machine. The Islanders started to pack their bags, they were going home!

Well no, not really. Not at all – ever. Because the USA are our mates. Because the USA are a staunch ally in the fight against whatever they tell us. Because they’ve signed a bit of paper called a ‘lease’ for the islands, Robin and his ethics decided the islanders could not go back. The reason they are now being refused access is because the islands are just too dangerous, Global warming is making the sea rise, there is lots and lots of sand on the beaches – and it could get in their sandwiches. The Islands also have loads of coconut trees, full to the brim with deadly coconuts – mix that with gravity, and it’s a recipe for disaster.

Far better, concluded our ethical Government to let the Yanks (all 5,000 of them) live a life of Riley on a piece of coral they call ‘Paradise Island’.

Far better, concluded our ethical Government to let the displaced Islanders rot in the corrugated shacks in the backside of Mauritius…..

Back to the challenge of the sentence that started this post….
"I reckon, that when the United States of America come calling, we immediately fall prostrate to the ground and try to brown nose so much, we often get way beyond the prostate".

Decisions, decisions……

Someone has just given me a DVD.

It’s a plain disc – in a plain plastic jewel case and it looks dead, dead dodgy. When he gave it me, he nudged me in the ribs, winked at me and whispered "Ere, have a look at this. Ceeeelebs being naughty"…...

"What?"

"Ceeeelebs, you know, doing things"

Penny drops, blinkers off, lights are on, uptake goes from ‘slow’ to ‘fast’….
"Ohhhh, things"

He then rattled through the performers he reckoned are on the disc…..a former star of ‘Baywatch’ and her former hubby, a hugely inflated ‘modull’, some Americans he didn’t have a clue who they were "But boy, they were fit" ….. and a former presenter of a colourful children’s TV show, his ambitious laydee and her sexy female friend.

"And you wanna see what those three get up to – deesgustin’!
I mean, don’t they have any deecorum at all?"

I confessed to not knowing about their decorum quota.

"I mean, that bloke from the kids programme, he’s got the camera, you can’t really see him, and anyway, his direction’s crap and the camera’s wobbling all over the place – hardly surprising really, judging by what the two women are doing"…..

Without waiting, he shoved it on the desk and went.

Well I would normally take a look – coz I am a big, big fan of ‘celebrity’……. But ‘Bargain Hunt’ was on the telly – and I really do need a new coaster for my cup of tea…. Honest.



I never knew it was contagious….

Alfreda’s Godmother is a real blue rinse pillar of the community. She’s slightly to the right of Attilla the Hun and Ghengis Khan in her politics.

In her ‘70’s, she’s a retired Head teacher of a large Grammar School and a former Magistrate/Justice of the Peace. Unfortunately, she lost her husband a couple of years ago and is now quite lonely.

About four months ago, she struck up a friendship with a couple in their mid forties. Two months later, the wife rang her up. She was in floods of tears. Her husband Gerald has left her to live with another man. My wife’s Godmother went round to offer support to Gerald’s distressed wife.

A couple of weeks later, whilst visiting, she relayed the episode with Gerald and his new man friend to my wife….

"Honestly, it’s such a shame, Gerald was such a normal man – and then he caught it"

"Caught what?"

"Gayness"

"You can’t catch ‘Gayness’ – it’s something that’s there all the time, or it isn’t. You don’t just catch the ‘gay’ germ - there's no such thing as a gay germ"

"Oh yes there is – and Gerald’s definitely caught it – maybe from toilet seats, because he was fine only a few weeks ago"….

Tony, I didn’t know you cared…..

I got a touchy-feely email communiqué from the Rev’s disciples – ‘dark arts division’ at Labour Party HQ the other day. It asked me to help them make a better life for hard working families…. Looking at the Conference this week, it was easy to see that the Government front bench have had the new strap battered into them. They were shoving it in at every opportunity…

Hmmm. ‘Help us make a better life for hardworking families’ – that’ll be next year’s election mantra, then. Obviously, the New Labour spinneratti reckon this is a real winner – it’s cuddly, it’s two point four and it’s all-inclusive – (as long as you belong to a family?)…

You can just picture the scene in Labour HQ ‘think-tank corp’. Lots of middle aged men with balding pates, pony tails and open toed sandals: sucking pencils, mints and stomachs (in)….

Barry, the team leader outlines the requirement "Listen up people – let’s don the collective cerebral cap and think!. We need a strap for next year’s Gen’ Elec’…

"Tony wants something to take the Electorate’s mind off"….

"The War?" blurted Simon

"Don’t mention the bloody War! NewLab Directive 23769/d clearly states that ‘The War’ should never be mentioned unless accompanied by a clearly resolute, four-square attitude, a steely resolve, a change of underwear and a double set of crossed fingers"

"Anyway, back to the brief
It’s got to be snappy,
It’s got to push the right buttons,
It’s got to be aspirational,
It’s got to mean something to John & Joan Average - and their family,
It’s got to get them back on side – let them know we care
In short, It’s got to be a sure fire winnerooney!"

"So let’s think!"

"Hmmmm"

"Uhhhhhhh"

"I’ve got it" screams Jeremy.

"Back to basics!"….

Where's the sick bag when you need one?

Just finished watching the Very Rev' St Tony of Blairyness giving his speech at Brighton - and now I've got my head down the toilet. Can someone please pull the chain. P.S. Tone - you are not allowed to invade another Country on the excuse of regime change - it's against the law, even for saints.


Flier, flier, Pendolino’s on fire……

"Attention, attention, the Virgin Galactic flight to space, the Universe and everywhere is about to depart from gate number 6. Please make sure your tribble pets are all safely stowed. Your Captain is Dan Tiberius Slog ….. have a good trip"…..

So how brill is that then? Yesterday, Sir Richard Branston announced plans to start a new service for the discerning traveller. Sir Dick’s going ‘Galactic’ – straight into space (and back again, hopefully!) – and all for the princely sum of 115 grand per head.

Form a queue?…Hmmm, I don’t know really – seems a bit steep. But it’s still cheaper than a cup of steaming hot Virgin Rail tea…..

As it happened, on the same day, Branston’s brand new supa dupa sexy train service started. The sexy new tilting ‘Pendolino Train’, with sexy new go faster whizz lines down the side is intended to make the journey down the west coast more comfier, more sexier, more quickly-er for the hard pressed, pissed off, British commuter….. I don’t know whether Branston has thought of a sexy new word for the sexy new train service…. ‘Reliable’ would be a good one.

Unfortunately it isn’t. Whilst Richard Branston was playing with scale models of his Virgin spaceship in front of the worlds press. – and with the timing that comedy writers can only dream of. The first train out of Glasgow – bound for London and intending to make the journey in the blink of an eye lasted until Carlisle – some 300 miles short of the intended target. "Sticky brake causing a bit of friction and ‘wheel flattening" – another couple of feeble excuses pulled from the ‘lexicon of utter bollocks’ by the most overworked employee in the entire Virgin organisation, The Director, Bullshit Division.

That’s Pendolinos for you, designed by Italians, built by Italians, bought by Plutocrats, driven by British Train Drivers, until they break down, sold to the Chinese as scrap….

So there’s the choice, the 09:15 from Glasgow to London (eventually) or the 07:30 to space ….. (and oblivion?)…

I bet, even now The Virgin Director – Bullshit Department is concocting some brand new excuses for Virgin Galactic failures of service…..
"We are sorry but the 07:10 Virgin Galactic to space exploded on the runway. This was due to a virulent plague of killer Tribbles eating through the wiring and vapourising the dillithium crystals"…

By way of recompense please accept a free can of Virgin GalactiCola with our compliments"…..

It’s one thing to be dumped on a wet and windy platform in Carlisle – it’s quite another to be stranded just left of Alpha Centauri due to an unforeseen gust from the wrong kind of cosmic wind…

You'll obviously miss that very important appointment by several hundred light years, but its no use swearing your head off, effing and blinding won’t make the relief spaceship arrive any quicker……..

After all, in space no one can hear you blaspheme….

Dan, Dan the p.c. man……


Manly Dan, before the final make over made him into a big girl’s blouse.

Desperate Dan, the rootenest, tootenest, hombre this side of the Mason-Dixon line has had a makeover.

Dan, the chunky cowboy from the comic pages of The Dandy is no longer what he once was. The comic has updated him - so he now fits the P.C. matrix, as defined by the Ministry of Political Correctiveness. Gone is the monster barrel chest – Dan’s body is now a temple. Gone is his pair of fine, ‘fancy Dan’ ‘spurs – Dan doesn’t ride horses anymore, he cycles. Gone is his pearl handled six shooter pistol – it’s been replaced by a little belt bag. That way his handy multi-tool, a bit of string and his tree identification booklet are all safely stowed.

I bet he also doesn’t shave with his trusty blow torch anymore. Probably opted for something girly like a Gillette disposable – as advertised by David Beckam?…. Dan still lives in Cactusville – but I bet it’s now twinned with ‘Newmansville’ - P.C. State. I don’t think Dan eats the mighty coronary-inducing ‘Cow Pie’ anymore. Aunt Aggie probably does him a light Rocket salad with garnish…

Dan’s found his feminine side all right. He’s gone all caring and considerate. Indians are no longer ‘varmints’ – but are displaced Native Americans. Criminals are no longer ‘desperados’ – but are misunderstood men, the product of broken homes who have never been given a chance…

Let’s face it, Dan’s just not ‘desperate’ any more. Alfie the ‘Dandy’ reader has made a few suggestions for a new strip title to reflect his new lifestyle..
Devoted Dan,
Decaff’ Dan,
Duncausinghavoc Dan,
Dan, Dan the considerate man,
Dan, Dan the really big, girly man….

Another Alfie hero goes West…..

How very brave….

Last week, some toffs on a mission blagged their way into the mother of Parliaments. Smartly dressed in their colour co-ordinated, key message, correctly syntaxed tee shirts, casual country slacks by Armani and stout estate boots, they certainly looked the part of a pressure group that meant business – in a very amateurish sort of way.

The blue-blood bunch launched into a veritable tirade of posh verbal abuse at the sparsely populated Government benches. "Gadzooks, bagger orf, you Bolshevik bounder oiks"….
Cue outrage, cue hysteria, cue foaming machinations from the great Leader of the House – Peter (pass me the sun tan oil) Hain.

"We cannot have our safety in the House compromised – MPs must be protected by a modern, professional cadre of hand picked security experts – and not by the ‘men in tights’. After all, these people could have been suicide terrorists with bombs" Ranted Peter.

Well they weren’t terrorists, just a bit of posh flotsam from the gentry. Rank amateurs from the right side of the tracks – armed with nothing more than double-barrelled names and a full set of silver spoons.

Hain and his quivering band of baying henchmen were an absolute cowardly disgrace. Hysterical in the extreme, they showed their true colours – mostly yellow, yellow and..... yellow….

Contrast that with the cool, forthright statement emanating from the Foreign Office yesterday. Basically, it concerned the kidnap of British civilian, Mr Kenneth Bigley in Iraq – and the subsequent threat to murder him in cold blood – and in an unspeakably barbaric way.

Briefly, the statement read that the Foreign Office were very sorry that Mr Bigley was under threat of death in Iraq. They were doing everything they could, through intermediaries, but HM Government will not negotiate with terrorists – and will never accede to blackmail.

Not strictly true there then?
The 20th Century is littered with discreet meetings and agreements between HMG and outlawed organisations in various Countries all over the World. This culminated in the negotiations with terrorist groups of all persuasion in Northern Ireland – and the subsequent ‘Good Friday Agreement’.

I just wonder how four square the Government machine would be if the Toff Brigade that invaded the Commons had have been terrorists. Just how brave would St Tony be if it was Peter Hain and other Cabinet colleagues with knives held to their throats.

Somehow, I think that forthright, ‘no dealing with terrorist’ attitudes would be chucked straight out of the window faster than you could say ‘We do deal with terrorists – but only in special cases that involve Peter Hain’…..

Belle de Jour….. brown de bread….

Belle's le jacked it in - in a 'Belle-end' kind of way.
Belle de Jour is now Belle no more.

Belle, awarded best blog last year

- by some clique de Guardian, is finally closing her blog pages - and her legs, to embark on all manner of marketing enterprises. Her first book is due out in January - and there's talk of a T.V. prog, no doubt followed by a range of lingerie, sex toys, 'how to' videos and a couple of syndicated guest problem page features in some national mags….

Dear Belle,
I'm a bit worried, I've fallen in love with my 48 year old, PVC leather clad mistress. Her name is Gladys - and she's gorgeous, in a rough and ready, bag o' spanners kind of way.

Can you please give me some advice - coz it really, really hurts. Because I am a famous footy player I've got to be careful about my identity. I've changed my name - so my fiancée doesn't suss out it's me.

Thanking you in anticipation,
Regards,
Dwain Mooney.

But is Belle a 20 something babe or a 40 something baldy?
Was 'she' lying on her back - or just lying through 'his' teeth?

I guess we'll never know…..

Yatesy's not happy....

Despite living miles away in 'The Artist previously known as Prince's home town of Minneapolis, Andy's dander is up. The reason? The staggering comment this week from brewery boot boys, Interbrew (or more accurately, 'brewery brand asset strippers') that they are about to 'rationalise' their UK brewing operation.....

Interbrew(or 'Bastards' for short) want to close the Boddingtons Strangeways Brewery in Manchester. Andy wants to get a boycott going of all Interbrew's products - check his post out.

Boycott Interbrew

Even now,I'm chucking the Stella down the bog....

Windy Fillers …..

Bloody typical innit?
You wait ages for a hurricane….
Then 4 turn up one after the other.


Hurricane Names….

Boy, Girl, Boy, Girl.
‘Ivan’ has hit the coast and ‘Jean’ is brewing up nicely in the special Hurricane growing greenhouse off South America.

I reckon that calling hurricanes fluffy, cuddly names – sort of gives them a bit of a benign cloak of breeziness. What you need are names that will truly convey the terrible power of nature at its most terribly powerful.

Alfie the Weathergirl has thought up a few more realistic names that may offer yer actual Floridian a truer perspective of the impending tempest …..

If they still want to stick with peoples names….
Hurricane Hitler.
Hurricane Barbara Cartland.
Hurricane Thatcher.
Hurricane Beelzebub…
And the scariest…..
Hurricane Higgins.

General themes …..
Hurricane Apocalypse – soon.
Hurricane don’t bother planning for the weekend – there isn’t one.
Hurricane big blow job.

Sponsored storms…
Hurricane Beanz Meanz Bloody Windy.
Hurricane B & Q (you’ll need us after it’s been through).
Hurricane Stormy Weather (by Ella Fitzgerald – a compilation of 24 classic tracks on this stunning C.D.)….


Battening down the hatches….

Every time a hurricane is about to hit some unfortunate community, an enterprising local carpenter breaks out the 1 inch screws & quarter inch marine ply to cover the windows of clapperboard built wooden houses. Thus protecting them from 150 mile an hour winds carrying all manner of heavy metal detritus and the odd flying cow …..

That’ll do it then.

Toffs shock – they’re all oiks!

I don’t reckon that the Burberry clad renta-toff crowd in Parliament Square yesterday were posh bods at all. Much more likely to be trouble makers, vagabonds and ne’r do wells from city council estates….

And here’s the proof!



Note: If they were Toffs – then they would be bleeding blue blood, obviously. All I saw was common as muck red stuff, which is very, very vulgar.

To quote Oscar Wilde(ish) "Red is a common colour, used by Bolsheviks, Bounders, Knaves - and Manchester United fans"

Plastic Surgery ……. LIVE!

I did something last night I’ve very rarely done in my life. Something, I’m quite, quite ashamed of.
It was just a bit of weakness, - after all, I’m just a weak willed, easily led, man.
I haven’t been well you see…..it was a fit of madness, or something?

Yes, I must confess, I tuned into Channel 5. Not for long, obviously. Too much exposure could addle the brain. No, I just took a quick look to sample the cerebral delight of the night.

‘Plastic Surgery – LIVE’ was on, hosted by heavyweight Diva, Vanessa Feltz and some smartly dressed, gobby Yank – the expert in all things ‘plastic’.

They were talking about ‘penis enhancement’ and ‘penis normalisation’….. Roll V.T. sequence – Instantly, a picture flashed up behind them. Some blokes nob – with a 90 degree, right angle bend in it. I put my half-eaten scone back on the plate.

"Next we are going to meet ‘Darren", Vanessa bubbled.

Darren’s – a sad, skinny, paler shade of white ‘mid twentyish something’ who had just had some ‘Buttock Implants’ levered into his previously boney arse. Darren smiled, weakly…… Roll V.T. sequence – of Darren’s bum getting the up close and personal buttock leverage treatment. Some Doctor, recently recruited from ‘Kwik-Fit’ is forcing the finely honed implants into Darren’s arse using a set of chromium plated tyre levers (‘Arse-flangers’ – per set, a price of $5,500)

"How do you feel, Darren?"

"Really, really great" he said, between the tears….

The gobby Yank started to plax lyrical. He trumpeted away, about the hottest things going on in the field of creative plastic in L.A.

"Yoweee yup and a hot diggerdy, ‘Anal Bleaching’ and ‘Vaginal Tightening’ are the ‘must have done’ procedures for the foxiest laydees, on the other side of the pond"

I gave the scone to the dog.

"What’s ‘Anal Bleaching?" I asked Alfreda.

As if by magic – and to spare Alfreda’s blushes - because I bet she didn't know, Gobby Yank Junior and Van’ the Man filled in the cracks of my knowledge.

They started talking about ‘Anal Bleaching’…. Roll V.T. sequence – a view of some young woman’s backside and crackside being liberally douched in bleach in a frothy, bleachy sort of way, with a paint brush (anal bleach applicator, price $800) and what looked like a bottle of ‘Domestos’ (special anal bleaching mixture, price $2,500 per litre).

Vanessa, a good enough reason for not having plastic surgery, looked gobsmacked.

The gobby Yank started on ‘Vaginal Tightening’…. Roll V.T. sequence. Another young woman, legs akimbo was having a little bit of tightening done to her front bottom.

The dog left the scone and wandered off.

I turned over. Suddenly, ‘Most Haunted – the bits we couldn’t include in the first showing coz they were too boring’ looked really, really interesting……..

Pretty vacant…..

Been a little bit bland, a little bit grey…..a little bit neutral all last week. Creative juicery has been running on empty in Alfie’s vacant cranium as he struggled to land another client to the ever growing(ish) OK portfolio.

I’ve been staring at a blank screen for most of that time, trying to write a stunning report on how to make the workforce of a leading food manufacturer more…… ‘enthusiastic’.

Enthusiastic about working harder, working smarter, being more considerate…… I’ve got to try and persuade yer average cynical, British worker to bin the habits of a lifetime and start to think ‘Japanese’.

Not much of a problem brief there then?

I reckon turning base metal into Gold, Emile Heskey into a skilful professional footballer and persuading Tony Blair that he is not God Almighty after all, would be a hell of a lot easier…. But maybe not.

The work’s worth a hell of a lot of cash – and we’re basically being promised a 2 year contract. It could be ‘clover fields united', 'kerrrching city' and ‘I’ll have that Merc’ – but in black, nirvana’, if we get it right……. (some hope).

And then there’s the blog……

‘Vacancy’ has spread. I couldn’t think of anything to write about all last week. I was only at home to Mr Void.
All I could think about was slogans and ideas for my ‘Considerate Worker’ campaign.

‘Hey workers, be more considerate – or we’ll squash your bollocks between 2 house bricks’

That might work, maybe…..

‘Hey workers, how about working a bit smarter, you thick twats’…..

Pithy became pitiful. ‘Words’ and ‘thoughts’ became ‘non’ and ‘existent’. I’d got rampant ‘Blog-block’ to go with ‘I can’t think of any idea whatsoever to land all that lovely money’ block.

I’m sure inspiration will creep up behind me and slap me right in the face with a wet, freshly gutted haddock, real soon….

Hey workers, start producing more – or we’ll get the Blowtorch, Pliers and the Nipple Clamps out.…..


Talking about Nipple Clamps…..

Some git owes 'AlfieCorp' 20 grand – and we can’t get it. Cash flow is becoming a bit of an elastic concept - in a taut ‘n’ twangy kind of way. The Anti-Christ – in the form of Vincent Arthur Trumpton, (or Mr VAT, for short) is circling with menaces and destraint orders. Do I dig out the baseball bats, become ’Alfie the Enforcer’ and confront the git? – Do I stick a blue striped tea towel on my head and become ’Alfie the Mother Teresa’ for the VAT man?

Hey workers, don’t behave like gits – stick a blue striped tea towel on your head instead…..

Sure fire winner….

"Hello, my name is Chalky Blair – and I claim my free 5 star holiday in your luxury villa in Tuscany"……

Tone’s back from his 5 week holibob cadgathon …… Phew, thank bloody God for that. We can all uncross our fingers and stop praying quite so hard now that the Father of the Nation and his mad wife are back at the tiller of Steamship ‘Busted Flush’ How on earth did we survive on our own with the ‘Great Smiley One’ in abstentia? ( Abstentia is an exclusive private estate in Tuscany)

Their holiday snaps were a bit of a laugh. We had Cap’n Tone with a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum on board somebody else’s dreamily expensive yacht in the Caribbean.

Four square and square jawed Tony peering peerlessly out on the vast emptiness of the ocean – whilst behind him servile, not so jolly Jack Tars scurry around actually sailing it. The trouble with being on a boat though is that just occasionally, a bit of a wind can whip up from nowhere. A few pictures escaped ‘Blair-censor-corp’ and revealed the Blair Barnet to not be in such a healthily hirsute state as it should be…. Tone’s getting a bit thin on top….

Then there was ‘Bandanna Gate’ The pictures of Tone and ‘MadCherie’ strolling around with a bandanned Berlusconi was real weird. I mean, it was like a capped teeth convention for 3 self-delusional psychos.

You could almost see Blair’s angst through sparklingly clenched gnashers… "Listen Cherie, just smile, let him and his bandanna go a few steps in front - and people will think he’s not with us.

Meanwhile, inside the head of ‘Bandanna world’ …. "Mama mia, if I canna just walka a bitta quicka – I thinka I canna loosa King and Queen Cadge in da crowda"……

Of course, the reason why Berlusconi was sporting a bandanna at all is open to a bit of conjecture. Apparently, the Italian Prem’ has just had a hair transplant to try to disguise his 8 inch wide centre parting. God knows exactly where on his body the donor follicles were taken – I mean, he didn’t have much left on the sides of his head did he? I fully expect that when Silvio dispenses with the bandanna, he will sport a fine thatch of tight curly hair – almost pubescent in appearance.

Maybe, the reason Tony cadged his way into Silvio’s Summerhouse was to ask him exactly where he should get his hair apparent from?


Cherie indulges in the ancient Italian sport of 'Wasp Gobbling’

Did I really hear that?…..

On Friday, we took Stuey, our 3rd alfalfa to the excellent 'Fox' pub in Roby Mill for a celebratory meal. He had done very well in his GSCE exams - so we decided to indulge in a bit of family 'very well done-ery'.

When we got there - you could hardly move for proud parents treating their brilliant offspring to a pub meal as reward for doing very well in their exams. Looks like everyone's brilliant and everyone's done really well …… Hoorah!

We elbowed our way to a table and a 'waiter on-erer' came over to take our order. Alfreda was having 'beef'.

Did the waiter on-erer then say "What about the Yorkshire Pudding?"

Did Alfreda reply "I don't know what he wants - and anyway, he's not from Yorkshire, he comes from Liverpool"

I just don't know - but there was a hell of a lot of giggling going on amongst the littleuns…..

Now this made me laugh.....

Q.How many Labour MPs does it take to change a light bulb?

A.None. But it takes 15 of them to produce a Report - 'Coping with Darkness'...

(Courtesy of the Peterborough Column in the Daily Mail).


The Scream......



Oh my God,
'The Scream' by Edvard Munch
Is still missing.
Good.
It's crap.....
I mean, what's the matter with the guy on the bridge?
He needs to lighten up a bit - it can't be that bad, surely?
Unless of course....
His ears have dropped off?

Or maybe,
The picture was originally called,
'A stroll along the bridge'
Maybe Edvard Munch couldn't draw 'ears'?
Maybe, 'A stroll along the bridge' became
'A stroll along the bridge with two crumpets stapled to the side of my head'
Maybe Edvard Munch thought, "Bugger - I can just about draw 'hands covering ears"
Maybe it was originally called 'Ear-ache' - who knows?

I don't know about you though,
I wouldn't give it house room.
I reckon the geezer what nicked it,
Was either an utter nutter,
Or spotted a bit of card in the Gallery that exactly matched,
The hole in his smashed window back home.
Possibly.