Antiques Roadshow eye candy....

OK, did you see me? Last Sunday night on the telly – the Antiques Roadshow from glorious Southport. There I was, stood in a queue to nowhere with the family jewels in my hand, third hot and sweaty loser from the right, just behind the woman having her huge chest expertly examined by the show’s huge chest expert.

I just knew I’d be on – standing around for hours on end, basting gently on regulo 7 in a hall stuffed to the rafters with people, loads of tat, some proper good stuff, Michael Aspel and his faithful crew of make up wizards and those hot, hot TV lights ….

My face really was that orange - and yes, I really wasstanding in a pool of sweat the size of Lake Windermere….

The Daily Play – deserving of a good handbagging…

Late at night, when I cannot sleep, I sometimes watch ITV’s post midnight offering ‘The Daily Play’ the crappiest waste of TV space on the box. It basically consists of a failed actor smarm machine, a ‘70’s porn film music track, a phone line and an almost impossible puzzle to solve. I know I’m sad – but it’s the greatest cure for insomnia I know.

It’s all a scam of course. Punters ring up and try to guess the answers….. they shouldn’t bother, they always get it wrong and even if they don’t get through (which is most of the time) ITV still lift nearly 80p from each phone call. They’ve earned millions from such low brow exploitative tat.

You’d think in sophisticated Britain there would be a watchdog looking out for the little guy in such circumstances – well there is, and they’re not happy. Apparently they’ve criticised one of the puzzles in which punters were asked to try and guess the top ten contents of a woman’s handbag… they thought that two of the hidden answers - ‘Rawlplugs’ and a ‘Balaclava’ were perhaps not entirely contextually typical of a laydee’s accoutremental handbaggy make up.

Well, are they typical or are they not? Alfie decided to turn into Private dick, Sam Fabulous to find out. Risking wrath and the imminent loss of some fairly vital bodily parts, I decided to have a butcher’s into Alfreda’s constant companion and see what was within. Hmmm, well that is disappointing. No Rawlplugs, of Balaclavas, just the usual emergency make up kit, diary, purse, a crate of Newcastle Brown, a pair of football boots and Colt 45 Magnum handgun.

Bring back (or dig up) Biddy Baxter….

Blue Peter has been criticised for showing the ritual slaughtering of a goat as part of a festival in Jordan. The goat, or ‘Billy the Cuddly Goat’ as all the kids knew him, had his throat cut from ear to ear and then hung from a tree.

Bit of a bummer really, I expect when Billy heard he was going to star on the show, he must have reckoned he was stepping into Shep’s shoes and join the menagerie that sits with the presenters at the end of the show….. and not be in the kebab butty after it.

Climate change, munchkins and new year tomatoes….

Last night, I got back from the Ring ‘o’ Bells pub surprisingly wide eyed and bushy tailed. So much so, I decided to watch a Christmas present DVD – the disaster movie‘The Day After Tomorrow’.

The film is all about climate change – and the scariest of catastrophic climate scenarios: the buggering up of the Gulf Stream – or ‘North Atlantic Current’ as film star Dennis Quaid insisted on calling it. The physics involve billions of tonnes of melt water from the polar ice caps. The water flows on top of the salt sea water, sinks the Gulf Stream to the frozen depths of the ocean – and stops it…..

The warming goodness of the Gulf Stream ends, the whole of western civilisation freezes – and Dennis Quaid ends up the hero. Of course, it’s all a right load of simplistic Hollywood rubbish isn’t it?

Mind you, last night, outside, the weather went uber nuts. Stormy, rainy and tempesty – it reminded me of Munchkins, Kansas, Dorothy and Toto….. But this wasn’t a dust bowled mid-west state, it was soggy Lancashire in January. There were no Munchkins – I hadn’t drunk enough to see any. Our dog, Domino was dead to the world, and I look crap in a gingham dress & ruby red slippers…

But it got me thinking, the seasons are definitely in flux – and after reading about The Birdman’s seasonally weird Ox-Eye daisy encounter, maybe the climate really is changing.

Half way through the film, I pressed ‘pause’ and decided to have a nice ham and tomato sandwich. The ham came from the remaining bits of the hamper my Mum had given me at Christmas. And the tomato? It came all the way from my green house, it was the very last from the crop of 2006 – and I picked it at the weekend… Now that really is climate change.

Maybe we should rename the seasons, get rid of a couple of them as being surplus to requirements…. Just have 2 rather than the 4 we have now. Maybe we could have a competition, suitably sponsored by the Sun…. You could win, win, win big in our special comp to rename the seasons. An executive ‘Gulf Stream’ jet, a luxury Chelsea tractor or your very own coal-powered Power Station could all be yours! Not only that, but the winner will get to plant a tree to help offset his carbon impact! It’s all in your greener, cleaner, environ mental -as-anything Sun, now!

I thought of ‘Strummer’ and ‘Winting’ as my new seasons – a homage to the Clash front man and a subtle and clever fusion of Winter and Spring, brilliant eh?…. Sure fire winners if ever I saw them…. Maybe the weather is going further, sliding into a minging mono season of grey, lukewarmy windy dampness – where the only things we can look forward to is trenchfoot, walking at an angle of 45 degrees and Christmas tomatoes…..

Time will tell.

The Antiques Roadshow comes to town…

In mid October, the Antiques Roadshow rolled into a seaside town just 8 or so miles from Alfie Towers. It was a perfect opportunity to get the family jewels valued (so to speak) - then I could have a few angst ridden weeks wondering whether to flog them to the Getty Museum in California for a zillion quid or donate them to a grateful nation…..

This being the UK – and hence unable to organise anything apart from endless heats of the World Queuing Championships, I had to try and think of a way to get my stuff swooned over and valued by a grateful antiques expert and back home in double quick time. Being a person who hates queuing with a passion – let alone with my priceless heirloom, there must be a way to avoid the endless coils of humanity that were sure to be there?

A call to Roadshow HQ in Bristol and a visit from an antiques bod confirmed that my 3 foot high piece of solid Wedgewood was indeed worth taking…. “It’s a pedestal” he said. Unusual colour – have you got the pot that should go on the top?”

“Err, no. It’s a long story”

“Pity. If it had the pot with it – we’d be talking a lot of money …. And that really is an unusual colour all right”….

I’d always thought of it as mustard coloured, but maybe ‘dusky diarrhoea with a hint of Rangoon rim’ would be more accurate.

Just before the antiquarian left, he gave me a ticket – “This will get you straight through to the reception past all the suckers who will be queuing for England. From there you’ll wait around 20 minutes before seeing an expert – get there around half ten and you should be able to just stroll in”.

The day duly arrived and we loaded the Wedgewood pedestal, a nice Victorian music cabinet and the magical yellow ticket into the car and set off. We arrived, found space and prepared for the short walk to Antiquarian nirvana. Mrs A got hold of the music cabinet, I grappled with the pedestal. After about 50 yards, my kidneys felt they were going to burst. The lump of Victorian pottery began to metamorphose into the consistency of lead weight. Sweat is pouring off me.

Up there, along the prom on a very windy Autumnal day, kidneys bursting with my big mustard piece between my legs I must have looked a right berk. Nearing the entrance, two women have just walked out of the theatre doubling up as Antiques Roadshow HQ. As they pass me, their eyes are transfixed on the big mustard column between my legs…. “What an unusual colour…. A bit like baby diarrhoea”….

“It’s mustard. The bloody colour is bloody mustard, OK?”.
“Sorreee! But where’s the pot, if you had the pot it would be worth a lot of money you know”….

I don’t reposte, I’m right out of any reposting. All the breath has been sucked out of me as I waddle through the entrance, straight into Mr Jimmy Jobsworth.

“Straight down and into the theatre and join the queue” he said.

“But we’ve got a ticket – it’s a special, non queuing ticket”

Somehow, I just do not think Mr Jobby was in. The lights were on but what with Eric Knowles, Michael Aspel and Henry Sandon being in town, the elixir of celebrity was surging through his jumped up little body. Nothing this exciting had happened to him since The Krankies had headlined – and he’d been appointed Head of Security for Jimmy Krankie’s school cap. He was on auto-pilot, gears set onto a pompous twat setting…..

“Yes, yes, yes….. down the stairs, through the lobby, on into the theatre and ask someone there. He’ll give you a ticket”…
With that, his finger jabbed down to a sea of humanity in the lobby, all holding their little jewels of antique flotsam, jetsam and crapsam.

We struggle down the stairs and fight our way into the lobby. It’s wall to wall people all standing around. Suddenly, rather alarmingly I realise that these people are in a snaking queue. I’m looking at the longest brick-a-brac conga line in history.

Right in the far corner, we see the entrance to the theatre. A spotty youth with the tickets is there just inside the gloomy entrance. He’s giving out little raffle tickets on a big role. He gives us 6003 and 6004. My heart sank…. “Just sit there at the back, when your number is called you can join the end of the standing queue in the lobby….. Unfortunately, the wait is around 4 hours before you get called”…..

The theatre is swathed in a penumbra of gloom – just like it is before an act is about to come on. I can just make out men in macs, sitting with their original Van Gogh’s and women nursing heirlooms passed down from great aunties and careful grannies……

“So this is a queue – a queue for ‘the queue’ proper then?
“Sright, mister”….

“But we’ve got a special ticket” I pleaded.
In the dim antique grimness of the theatre his eyes locked onto the golden ticket. Golden rays of celeb dust bathed his acne-furrowed face as the magic ticket was waved in front of his eyes.

Suddenly, I knew what it must be like to be a somebody. Suddenly we were whisked away by the spotty kid towards the lobby….

We breezed past the conga queue and into the large side room to a reception desk. This room was where ‘the action’ was. He planted us right at the head of the conga queue…. A few weary queuers started to shout about the unfairness of it all. The very posh lady behind the desk held up our golden ticket and roared to the varicose veined huddled masses in a perfect received English tone “Excuse me, these people have a golden ticket!”

They cowed back in shame.

So this is what Margaret Thatcher is doing in her spare time then? Maggie gave us a big ticket each. Mine said ‘POTTERY’, Alfreda’s ‘FURNITURE’….. We joined our respective mini queues of around half a dozen people each.

I looked round, mini-queues everywhere. Cameras, lights and antique type people all milling around. In the middle of the room was where they did the filming. If someone had a nice piece then they would have to do the talk again in front of camera. Some bloke had brought in a really superb collection of Japanese animal bronzes. Oriental expert David Batty was drooling over them. Then there was the woman with the fantastic 16th century wooden chest….. Away from the filming area, little tables with experts sat back, unwrapped parcels and either made someone’s day or left them devastated. Some woman approached the bloke who was an expert on silver. I recognised him immediately, just then an old crone staggered up to him with three bags of newspaper parcels. She carefully unwrapped her bounty to reveal a shed load of nicked hotel coffee and tea sets. He valued the hoard at about 100 hours community service if the police ever caught up with her.

Finally, it’s my turn – and I’m sat down actually looking at the great ceramics experts, Henry Sandon and his son, John. They inspect the Wedgewood.

“Interesting colour” said Henry. “Rather like…..”
John interjects, “Mmmmmm. Have you got the pot?”

“No, it’s a long story, my sister rolled it down the stairs in our house in 1957 – she was only 6 years old”

Henry winced “Oh that is a pity. Only, if you did have the pot it would be worth maybe 1500 – more if you sold it to the Americans….. As it is, I think we are talking about £400”….

John said he’d heard longer stories than my long story.

Crestfallen, I thanked Henry and John and met up with Alfreda outside. She seemed happy, her tiny little music cabinet was worth at least £800. We struggled back to the car with the stuff. I packed away the useless lump of Wedgewood onto the back seat …… come to think of it, the colour wasn’t mustard at all….. but one thing’s for certain, it wasn’t the colour of money either.

If you get a chance, watch the Antiques Roadshow episode from Southport when it is on. You might see a man in the background with a very red face, burst kidneys, a big yellow ticket in his top pocket - and carrying the biggest lump of solid baby diarrhoea in the world.

Steve Strange but true…

Just watching Celebrity Scissorhands last night to see none other than ‘80’s style icon and uber Visager, Steve Strange as one of the competitors.

It was a bit of a shock. ‘80’s cool has given way to noughties shambling, Steve looks completely cooled out. Not only that, he’s just about the worst hairdresser in the world….. He seems to get the shakes when he’s got a pair of scissors in his hands.

I don’t know what he’s been on but he now cuts a sad figure in the Celeb hairdressing salon. He’s still got his eye make up on and his shaped eye brows, but all his face has gone South…… as well as his career it would seem.

A month off… but now I’m back….

October was a bit of a weird month for me. 30 odd days of reflection, resolve and reinvention. Tap, tap tapping has not been a priority, hence the paucity of postings. What caused it? Dunno really, could be my age and a growing sense of my own mortality - or it might be that for the past few years I’ve not so much been stuck in a rut as down a hole. But it was more likely that at the beginning of October Mrs Alfie decided to take a bit of a look at our current financial position – and it’s not good. We owe over 40 grand to banks, finance houses and credit card-sharks…..

So, at 53 years old, is this it? Up to my eyes in debt, doing stuff I hate for a living and living on the hellish A59 uber-bahn, the most dangerous trunk road in the country?

We had to talk. A crisis meeting was hastily convened to discuss ways of getting out of debt and redirecting our lives.

We’ve decided to sell the house and move out of mad commuter belt world and go to live in the middle of nowhere. The more remote the better. I want to live a simpler, more relaxed lifestyle, so I’ve also decided to change career – as long as we can get a broadband connection we’ll be OK.

So for the last month I’ve been playing at Bob the Builder, trying to get the place in some sort of state so we can put it on the market. It’s a five bedroomed house, so we should get a fair whack. The plan is to downsize, pay off the mortgage & the 40 grand and live a simple idyllic life away from New Labour politicians, Tesco superstores and reality TV. We’ve had a look round and found some tumble down cottages with land just right for doing up – and as we’ll have cash in hand, we don’t need Building Society approval for any potential purchase.

We are just 2 of millions in this country who aren’t buying into Blair’s utopian vision of Britain, who feel frustrated and ignored by a control freaked-out government. We can’t go overseas, so we are doing the next best thing – moving to somewhere remote, far, far away from the madness of modern British life. We’re going to pay off the mortgage, grow vegetables, keep poultry, brew home made beer, build my own reed bed filtration unit for our waste and put a big sign at the gate post – ‘Dunlisteningtonulabourlies’……..

That’s the plan. We call it ‘Plan A’ – there is no ‘Plan B’….

The Goodie, the baldy and the babe..

This week sees the start of the Autumn Watch series on BBC1. There is much excitement in our neck of the woods as the show is based at Martin Mere, which is about 2 miles down the road from where I live. With luck, we might get a glimpse of Kate Humble - but we have a superb pie shop in the village -so I guess we're more likely to see Bill Oddie with his chops wrapped around a dribbling meat 'n' tater pie.

I worked at Martin Mere soon after it opened in the '70's. There was a real frontier spirit around then, it was mostly mud, mud - and more mud. The reason it was created in the first place was to protect the wintering marsh land areas of the Pink-footed Goose. This visitor from Greenland & Iceland arrives in West Lancashire - and Martin Mere in particular in great numbers during the winter. It's sobering to think that most of the world's population of these lovely looking birds migrate to the area. Andy, my old friend from the time I worked there has risen through the ranks to become acting Curator of the place, so no doubt he's already met Kate (jammy sod).

Over the past two weeks, I1ve been keeping a close eye on the build up to the show. A little corral has been created in the corner of the car park as every day, more and more 'stuff' arrives - it's wall to wall satellite dishes, motor homes, catering trucks, Landrover hardware and around 15 million makeup artists.

Just how many people does it take to make a wildlife programme?

I hope they never have to change a light bulb.

Calling all pie eaters....

I've found this little site dedicated to the dark art of pork pie eating. I don't think it's based in Wigan...... (but maybe they're ex-pats).

Good news, bad news

The good news? Quiiz uber champ, Pat Gibson failed to turn for last night's quiz. (see previous post).....

The bad news? His replacement was brilliant. We got battered - as battered as a beaten up Blackpool battered Cod......

Clash of the giants…..
Tonight, our quiz league season starts up again.

I’m a bit worried. We’ve just been promoted to the top division – that makes us the Watford, Reading and Sheffield United of the quiz world.

As is customary with newly promoted whipping boys, our first fixture is a bit of a toughie. Our team, the ‘4 Men in a Tub’ are playing ‘The Old Dog’ at the Old Dog pub in Up Holland, West Lancashire. Unfortunately, they have as one of their team members one Pat’ Gibson, a relaxed Irishman, currently living in Wigan, the pie eating capital of the Universe.

Pat’s bloody brilliant, he’s been on telly a few times. In 2004 he won a million quid on ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’….. in 2005, he became BBC’s ‘Mastermind’ champion.

Let’s hope the questions tonight are all about daytime telly, ‘Love Island' contestants, the history of the Beano comic and the life and times of Stevie Gerrard, otherwise it could be a cricket score…..


Pat Gibson, all round smart arse....

Forks in the road…..

I’m just watching a programme on BBC2 called ‘Turning Back Time’. It’s a weekly one-to-one between Dara O'Briain and celeb guests. They waffle on about how they’ve made sometimes wise and sometimes foolish decisions in their lives – and the impact those decisions have had on their careers.

This week it was aussie, Barry Humphries talking about Edna Everidge, Australia, tinnies, kangaroos and Les Patterson, which was OK, I suppose. But I’m sort of sick of seeing celebs and their egos on the box. For a change, I’d like to see an ordinary bloke on – someone who could have been a legend, but chose not to…..

I wonder if Dara will ever have Mike Bersin on?

So, who’s Mike Bersin then?

Well he could have been as famous as some members of royalty, if only he’d have said "Yes"…….

Mike was a technician at Liverpool Art College during the ‘70’s when I was there. He was a really great bloke, one of the lads who liked a pint and could play the guitar just like ringing a bell (so to speak) – he was good. The college at that time had spawned a few good bands, including ‘Nasty Pop’ and ‘Deaf School’ - headed up by a sculpture student called ‘Steve’, who by night became lead singer ‘Enrico Cadillac III. Down into town, in Mathew Street, just a few yards from the Cavern, a new club had exploded into our consciousness. 'Eric’s' had opened. What a place, pulsating, sweaty, brooding punk before Malcolm McLaren had given it a name. Around by the college, Kirkland’s, O’Connor’s, The Phil and John Lennon’s favourite pub, Ye Cracke pulsated to local bands and singletons with acoustic guitars. The place was alive. Deaf School managed to get a contract from Warner Brothers – but they needed a manager to try and get a better deal. One night, they appeared at a club down the road called The Back of the Moon. We were all there to support Enrico and the band. Unfortunately, we were all pissed on Black Velvets and free cheese vol-au-vents. Then someone espied Mickey Most, the manager of managers in pop Britain at the time. He had hoped to keep his incognito intact as apparently he was going to sign them up. We descended on him, his cognito was outed – and within minutes, the Simon Cowell of the seventies was gone in a cloud of Ferrari exhaust fumes, never to return…..

Anyway, back to Mike Bersin. The various bands in the college used to ask his advice on musical stuff – Mike had been in a few bands since the late sixties, so knew at least some of the ropes. Mike’s bands included ‘Ibex’ which sort of morphed into a band called ‘Wreckage’…..

The final gig that ‘Wreckage’ ever did was on Christmas Eve, 1969 in Widnes at Wade Deacon Grammar School. Incidentally, the entrance of the school is about 30 yards from the railway bench which Simon and Garfunkel composed ‘Homeward Bound’ on while waiting for a non existent train in the early 60’s…..

After that last grammar school gig, they all went their separate ways. The lead singer of ‘Wreckage’ formed another band called ‘Sour Milk Sea’ - they managed just two performances before that too was wound up.

In February of 1970, the lead singer from Mike’s old band wanted to have another go at stardom.

He came up to Liverpool to try to persuade his mate Mike to commit to the new venture. The singer had thought of a name for the band – plus a new name for himself to replace the rather exotic one his parents had christened him with. Mike ummed and ahhed – and finally decided to refuse the offer his close friend had made…. With that, the singer left to pursue a couple of potential members from a band called ‘Smile’…

So who was Mike Bersin’s lead singer mate – the guy who tried to persuade him to join him in the new venture?

His name was Farook Bulsara, better known to his mates as ‘Freddie’ – better known to us all as Freddie Mercury.

On the 28th April 1970, the new band ‘Queen’ held their very first rehearsal with Brian May, rather than Mike Bersin as the new lead guitarist.

Mike was last heard of working at Middlesbrough Art College.

Further reading - Wikipedia Ibex write up – here

Life, the Solar System and everything…

Our little bit of space on the edge of the Milky Way has got just a bit more
crowded. The space boffins at Boffin HQ, Boffington have decreed there should be a planet upgrade, nine has now become twelve. A few big bouldery boulders, one in between Mars and Jupiter, and the others way out there just to the left of Pluto have now been invited into the planetary club.

They’ve even named two of the three newcomers, Ceres is the one near Mars. Charon and err, UB313 are the two near Pluto.

But there’s a problem. Planet UB313 doesn’t really sound very poetic does it? I mean, Gustav Holst could, I suppose expand his Planet Suite to include Ceres and Charon, but UB313? It sounds more like a form you get from Social Security….

Maybe there should be a competition – ‘Name that Planet’… or could someone sponsor it? Welcome to the planet of Big Mac… or Disney might want to buy it and call it ‘Goofy’ to go with neighbour Pluto…..

But I’ve had an idea. The closest planet to UB313 is ‘Charon’ – and I’ve thought of a great name that would go really well with planet ‘Charon'.....
Planet ‘Wayne’……

CDS (Competitive Dad Syndrome)….

Saturday was a bit of a bummer. "Why so?" I hear you ask, especially as it was such a nice day. This Summer, ‘nice day’ means checking the toms, counting the visiting Butterfly quotient, watering the hanging baskets, trying to finish off my pond – and just pottering about a bit. Generally chilling out in the garden is the order of the day……

But silly me. I’d forgotten that next door’s garden was the venue for this year’s Competitive Dad Olympics.

About 8 Dads took part, along with their rubbishy non-sporting kids, making around 26 competitors in all. The kids took to the arena as ‘Team Crap’ – the Dads as ‘Team Testosterone’.

It was a gala of sport and competitive mayhem. All the old favourites were there, Chipping a golf ball into a basket, first to the apple tree race. garden cricket, the crying kid competition, keepy-uppy using a beach ball, 12 aside footy – generously spread over a 12 x 6 yard playing area…… and my very favourite, the Victor Ludorum of the day, who can scream the loudest while bouncing on the garden trampoline.

As the day wore on, the Dads began to wilt. More wilting meant more trips to the bar for refreshments. More refreshment meant more ‘accidents’ as little kids got crushed under beer bellies, received green stick fractures and became broken victims of professional foulery from an unscrupulous foe.

Arguments broke out – was that leg before?, was the ball over the line?…. Every argument meant a time out to cool down and visit the bar…… When will this row ever end? I thought.

Fortunately, the guy on the other side of their garden was thinking the same thing. Fortunately, he decided to do something about it.

In order to get rid of an annoying group of fully pissed adults and 18 hyper active, whinging, moaning, spoilt brats you will need the following:

A 6 foot high bonfire.
A box of matches.
Some green stuff to chuck on when it is well alight.
Wind going in the right direction.

He lit it, and chucked on a load of grass cuttings. Smoke everywhere. The pissed adults massed at the border to remonstrate with the manic fireman. He didn’t take any notice – he was too busy trying to hold back his 2 fully grown German Shepherds…..

The games were abandoned, the competitive Dads staggered back into the house to get a drink. Me? I sat on the step, revelling in the silence with tears rolling down my cheeks. Smoke is no respecter of borders.

Hot

This global warming malarkey has had quite a few consequences within Alfie towers and its sumptuous grounds.

1) My new best friend is the ceiling mounted fan in the lounge. I’d always thought this bit of furniture was a bit naff – something straight out of Lawrence of Arabia or ‘Death on the Nile’…… Since we got it, we’ve hardly ever had it on - until the hot spell kicked in, and now it is never off.

2) The verdant rolling acres of Alfie towers are long gone. Instead it’s scrubland as far as the eye can see. In order to right the natural temperate balance, the weathermen told us to expect torrential rainfall on Saturday morning. At 11:45am, it arrived – torrentially pouring with rain in a torrentially torrential manner. At 11:46am, the torrential rain stopped – like God had just imposed a torrential rain ban. By 11:50am, the torrential rain had torrentially evaporated back up to the fast disappearing clouds from whence it came.

3) Butterfly wars. The Cabbage White is Alfie’s public enemy number 1 at the moment - even more so than the little bitey things currently hatching out of our pond and making a bite-line for Alfie's shapely legs. The Cabbage White is obsessed with laying her cabbage white eggs on Alfie’s fantastic crop of salad Rocket. Alfie is wondering whether the Cabbage White should instead be called the Rocket Eating Bastard?

The Cabbage White has studiously chosen to ignore the special sacrificial crop of Cabbages Alfie has planted nearby during an especially Buddhist weekend last April. "Shoo" just doesn’t seem to work, nor did a gentle wave of my arms….. Maybe I’ll dig out my Slazenger tennis racquet and practise a few overhead smashes?…..

4) Baggy shirts and baggy shorts are the dress code at A.T. at the moment. It may look crap – but it’s comfy – so that’ll do. Fortunately, being the most coolest guy on the planet means I can get away with knobbly knees, odd socks and builder’s bum when I bend over. Other people are not so style lucky as me however. The other day, I actually saw the squarest man in the Universe. He was about 40 years old, walking down the high street wearing dead shiny black leather shoes, grey calf length socks, a tucked-in white shirt with stripey tie – and the tightest, shortest shorts seen since Kevin Keegan was in his England perm-wearing pomp… I don't want to sound like Trinny and Suzanne, but for God's sake, this guy even had a belt holding up his short-shorts and a tie pin holding down his stripey tie......

5) Sex. Errr, none.
Much, much too hot for rumpstering. The ceiling fan is currently my object of desire…

Blanked by the BBC.....

A couple of weeks ago, I had a go at writing a script for the BBC FiveLive listeners competition, World Cup Tapes. The subject was the World Cup - and the listeners experiences of the great competition over the years. The winning entries would get a few hundred quid cash - and their winning entries would be read out on air by my hero, Johnny Vegas. Needless to say, my effort wasn't selected - which was a bit disappointing. Anyway, for what it's worth, it is reproduced here - and concerns a true incident during the 1986 World Cup when I was trying to illustrate to two of my toddler kids just how good Maradona's legal goal against England actually was.....

CONDIMENT UNITED VERSUS MARADONA…..
Under the blazing kitchen ceiling of the Aztec Stadium, the tension is unbearable, the place is a cauldron of noise, sticky handprints, half eaten jam butties and fumes from last night’s curry. OK kids, gather round. This is it. The 1986 quarter final of the World Cup in Mexico City – and England are playing Argentina in the biggest grudge match since Popeye last beat up Bluto for tipping his cap at Olive Oil.

Now pay attention, this bottle of mint sauce is Maradona – he’s captain of Argentina and is the greatest player in the world. Although having more skill than a shed full of brain surgeons, note his untrustworthy profile, his shifty, low cunning demeanour and his tendency to keep handling the ball when no one is looking. Around him stands the cream of honest English yeoman footballing talent. For them, the Corinthian spirit still beats strong within their noble chests. They must surely be more than a match for the man from the pampas - Diego Armando Maradona!

All of a sudden, the ball breaks to the little guy. In an instant, the rolled-up piece of silver paper is under the control of the greatest bottle of mint sauce in the footballing world. Head down, he’s off towards the English half. The control is exquisite, the silver paper ball is glued to his foot as if held there by a force unknown to the average English defender.

His run is relentless, pounding, pacy and unerring - the little genius from the condiments cupboard is on a mission to double his side’s lead – and put an end to Bobby Robson’s boys brave but ultimately futile attempt to progress any further in the competition. He rounds Hoddle the Pepper Poddle with consummate ease. Next, he shimmies past Reidy the novelty squeezy-sauce tomato - and sashays past the near-empty Sanson butter tub, leaving him spread all over the table.

Things are looking serious for England. Where is Roy of the Rovers when you need him, surely Melchester’s finest would put a stop to this dazzling dribble once and for all? On and on, Maradona bears down. The little genius and spring heeled cheat is zeroing in on sporting history…… – But hang on, just let’s wait a mo’ …..let’s not panic, England’s ‘Heart of Oak’ central defence is squaring up. He shall not pass.

There they are, the twin set of four-squared resolution, the English beefed magnificence that is the mustard jar and the vinegar bottle. Unfortunately, whether they’re affected by the dazzling light and relentless heat from the 60 watt kitchen bulb beating down on them, or because they are just a few dollops short of a full measure, they both collapse in synchronistic heaps, their legs knotted, their brains frazzled, their contents unsettled.

First, he makes a monkey out of the tin of Butcher mustard – and in an instant, glides past the Fenwick vinegar bottle as if he isn’t there – which he isn’t – we forgot to buy some on last Friday’s shopping run… For God’s sake, How can I be expected to recreate the greatest World Cup goal in history on this kitchen table when you’ve forgotten to buy the bottle of Terry Fenwick vinegar?…… Never mind kids – you’ll just have to use your imagination, he should be there – but he isn’t….. come to think of it, the same thing happened in 1986!…

By now, the little guy is in the area, relentlessly bearing down on Salty Shilton’s goal. The mustard jar makes one last, despairing effort to block the ball…. He fails miserably. Salty dives, but…… too late. Mint Sauce Maradona slots the ball home between the knife and fork. The serviette bulges and the ball is in the back of the net ….. Argentina 2 : England 0….

Over the Mexican waved roar from the capacity crowd of 2 kids, an overgrown schoolboy and a despairing wife, commentator Barry Drainboard could be heard hysterically summing up this astounding piece of skill perfectly… "You have to say - that is quite, quite magnificent"….. And it was.

And so ended our kitchen table drama – my recreation of the 1986 Argentina – England football match and Maradona’s wonder goal in our kitchen, to a couple of snotty nosed kids and a long suffering spouse. The kitchen table looked like a bomb had hit it. Reidy the novelty tomato is on his side rotating slowly in an arc. Every time he rolls, another dollop of tomato sauce is blobbed onto the formica top. Shilts is in a salty spin – he’s still trying to work out how a vertically challenged Argentinean schoolboy has out-jumped him to palm the ball in for the first goal…

Hoddle the pepper poddle is grinding away in the corner, bitter that someone has comprehensively out-skilled him in the shimmy department…….. And Sanson the butter tub? He’s gone – carried off for a rendezvous with a rather delicious ham salad sandwich.

ENDS.

Today is my 53rd birthday.

I share my birthday with Franz Kafka(123), Ken Russell(79), Tom Stoppard(69) and Tom Cruise(44).

Today my diet is on his holidays.

Today, I shall be going down to the Blood Tub and drinking a lot – starting with Adnams ale and ending up on the floor – a complete A to Zzzzzzzzzzzzz of English alery.

I shall be meeting Franz, Ken and the two Toms there – we’ll laugh, tell stories and get pissed on the fruit of Kent. Kafka will be a bit quiet on account of him being completely dead.. (it’ll still be more than we get out of Cruise though)……

Quite literally hot ‘n’ sticky….

Sunday, 2nd July

After working all day in the garden under a blisteringly hot July Sun I decided to get a very long drink of ice cool water. I strode towards the french windows, brow beaded with honest toil, gnarlied hands with the ingrained hue of home made compost, my white cotton shirt, drenched in sweat stuck to my skin like sticky glue. I began to muse. What figure from literature did I currently resemble?…..

Perhaps a brooding D’arcy, after his lake swim in Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice?…..

Or maybe…..

"Do you think I look a bit like Mellors the gamekeeper from Lady Chatterley’s Lover?"

"More like Stig of the Dump"….

Back crack, sack – and feeling sick….

In an uncommonly brave bit of "childbirth can’t be that painful can it?" banter between me and Mrs A – I was sort of well and truly lead up the garden path and done up like a kipper (metaphorically speaking). Inevitably, being a mere man and not really understanding where the conversation was going, I failed to see the 'Testosterone Gambit' being engineered in front of my eyes. The discussion on pain ended with a very rash bet between myself and my better half, I somewhat foolishly committed myself to a bit of body waxing. Well, not really. It’s actually quite a lot of body waxing (I've got a really big arse) – in very sensitive and personal areas. To be precise, for some amazing and totally bizarre reason, I’ve decided to have what is commonly called a ‘back, crack and sack’…..

Well, it can’t be that painful, can it?

Can it?

I comforted myself by believing I would get it done in our local Waxing Emporium (wherever that is) – the delicate procedure being performed by a stunningly good looking young laydee….. Hmmmm, pleasure-painnnnnnnnnn.

Unfortunately, that bubble has been burst – my missus is going to do the backing, cracking and the sacking. She’s never done anything like this before – and has hardly ever done any waxing of her own legs. She’s always used ‘Desperate Dan’s patent Brillo Pads’ in the past.

She’s advised me to find a substantial piece of English Oak to bite on whilst she does the stuff.

I feel sick.

I’ll keep you posted. Hopefully, I will still be able to walk afterwards, even if it's only on all fours – and I’m going to hide the digital camera – to stop her taking compromising photos and posting them on www.fathubbylardyarses.com

Meeting a couple of old friends at Malham Cove…

I met a blast from my schoolboy past last weekend. I literally stumbled upon ‘Clint’ and ‘Gryke’. Not a Yorkshire comedy duo, nor a north country concoction of sheep offal, but something last seen by me in Mr Fraser’s geoggers lesson, circa 1967.

For those who don’t know, Clints and Grykes are the descriptive components of upland limestone pavementing – and some of the very best bits in all of England can be found atop the sheer limestone escarpment that is Malham Cove, North Yorkshire. It’s a fantastic place to go for a walk – and Sunday’s yomp was specifically formulated as part of the ‘Get Alfie Fighting Fit Again’, or GAFFA for short.

After my scare at the doctor’s a few weeks back, I have become a newish man. Drinking alcohol at home is now banned – Adam’s ale is the only exception. I still have a scoop or two when I’m on quiz team duty – and of course, ‘Gin Night’ every Friday is absolutely sacrosanct obviously. But believe it or not, I’ve saved a shed load of cash implementing the GAFFA plan. I used to drink around 3 cans a night at home – that’s at least 20 cans a week, sitting on my arse watching the telly or tapping away on the keyboard.

I hate to think of my weekly unit intake – but counting my ‘quiz beer’ and my ‘gin nippies’ and adding it to my home beer stock, it must have been around 60 per week….. or nearly 3 times the recommended weekly intake for an adult male.

After a hurried, post-doc’ serious chat with myself, I resolved to change my ways. My alcoholic intake is now no higher than 15 units per week – and I feel loads better. The ‘gutometer’ (my jeans belt) has reduced by a full 2 whole holes worth, in only 3 whole weeks – so things are going in the right direction.

I have never had a problem with self-reassessment. I used to smoke like a chimney, between 60 to 80 a day – and gave it up forever on the 1st January, 1983. My first Son was nearly a year old at the time – and I reasoned that if I carried on puffing away, I wouldn’t see his 10th birthday.

Anyway, back to Malham. As well as drastically cutting down on alcohol, I thought I should take more exercise. Walking in beautiful and remote places in England seemed like a good idea. Number 1 was Malham Cove, North Yorkshire. Unfortunately, it’s getting harder to find both beautiful and remote places in England nowadays. As we breasted the little hill that guards the entrance to the Malham valley – my heart sank. Millions of people sporting brightly coloured kagools, billions of tents…. And one enormous, hastily convened car park – hours ago it was a sheep field, now it was hedge to hedge metal. The beaming smile of the farmer at the gate beckoned us toward him – and charged us 3 quid to get in. I reckoned a hernia was being groomed under his tweedy waistcoat, courtesy of the gargantuan weight of pound coin in his ticket bag.

Once we’d parked up, had our butties and started off towards Gordale Scar, things got better, kagool sighting got rarer. The scenery was breathtaking, gorge, waterfall, sparkling river until at last we arrived at Gordale. What a place. Just fantastic. A gothic masterpiece in limestone, towering columns and buttresses, rising sheer and going up hundreds of feet - almost closing above our heads has been carved by nothing but wind, ice and water. After Gordale, we wheeled away up the adjacent hill towards Malham. This part of the walk was really knackering. The hill just went on and on upwards towards the top of the cove. And then we got there. The top of Malham Cove proper – and it’s wonderful Clint and Gryke architecture.

The view was stunning, awesome - and then some. And then some more. We could see for miles. Fortunately, in the near distance we could just make out a hostelry, no doubt selling fine English ales. That settled it, we descended the long and winding steps at the double – and then at the treble. We reached the foot of the giant cliff that was Malham. At the bottom of the sheer limestone wall bubbled the source of the River Aire – as clean as, err, a mountain stream. We reached The Buck and downed a superb pint of Timothy Taylor. It had been a really great day, a day that makes you thank your lucky stars you live in England – even though Blair and his control freaks are doing their utmost to wreck the place.

Domino the dog, Clint and Gryke.