Art - boxing clever.......

Damien Hurst, doyen of the Brit-Art movement and ‘enfant-prat’ to the pretentious mod art appreciation society has just launched his latest slaughterhouse-centric show.

Box after box of cow heads, dead, pickled in formaldehyde and retailing for about half a million quid each, Damien certainly has delivered in the ‘shock-horror’ department.

"Half a million quid for THAT horror – Christ, what a shock".

The boy wonder really does know how to turn boxes of slop into chests full of wonga, but how will he continue with his shock horror portfolio? The law of diminishing returns means that year on year he will have to try and think of subjects even more shocking and horroring in the queasy tummy department. What will he be putting in his little formaldehyde boxes by 2010?

"I don’t know about you Julia, but putting a horse’s willie in a box is so passe"

"I know Ptolomy, horses willies were really big 2 years ago – but this is 2010".......

So what would ‘shock’ in 7 years time? I reckon a pair of Bernard Manning’s used baggy white underpants would do it for me. Damien could also attach little sick bags to the side of the box in case the viewing public had a ‘hughie’ moment.

"God, it’s awful. Quite, quite awful – in fact, it’s worse than offal.
I think one is going to puke"

A new art ‘movement’ is born…….

'PC' show hits the road. An occasional series, gleaned from the newspapers. This one was in the Daily Mail and is all about someone confusing a wretched disease of the male nether regions with a traditional English dish ......

The Gloucestershire NHS Trust and Tesco announced that after three years 'Spotted Dick' was back on the menu. In 1999 the two groups changed the name of the traditional English pudding to 'Spotted Richard', after claims that folk were embarrassed to ask for it by name. A Tesco spokesman said: "Our shoppers are more than happy with Spotted Dick".


Alfie note - "Are those people barking?"
Alfie response to Alfie note. "Yes"

More things I didn't know…..

Well, not strictly me - this bit should be known as more things the record breaking balloonists in St Ives didn't know. For a start, they were trying to launch the balloon in the wrong sort of gravity. They needed to find the sort of gravity that pulls you away from the earth's surface, not keeps you planted on it.

They obviously didn't know that accidents DO happen - so it would have shown a bit of forethought if one of the crew had stowed some blu-tack or some old post-it notes in their back pockets to seal any gaping wound that may arise in the canopy - which of course, it did… and they didn't…..


I didn't know that ….
We are THE World authority for the disposal of 150 decrepit American Navy Warships, filled to the gunnels (and funnels) with PCBs', heavy metals and other man made horrors.

Well, apparently, we are. Just imagine, throughout the entire seaboard of the World's most powerful and sophisticated super state there isn't one, NOT ONE dockyard that has the technology to decommission and dispose of these floating ticking environmental time bombs.

One American Senator recently described this fleet of festering metal as "An environmental time bomb waiting to go off - we need to get these hulks out of United States waters NOW!"

In all, the US Navy has about 300 of these ships, they have sent the first 50 to such 'hive of industry techno regions' as Bangladesh, and the west coast of Africa for scrapping. The locals have complained however - especially as some of them have started to grow third eyes, webbed feet and exterior breathing apparatus.

Who would have thought it. We can't as a nation deal with soggy leaves on a railway line. We can't as a nation deal with the wrong kind of snow (white), the wet kind of rain (damp) and the sunny kind of sunshine (phew, what a scorcher). But we can handle extremely dangerous garbage from our Super-pal because we are so damn good at it …... apparently.

Anyway, the hub of the crud - disposable World is Hartlepool - for that is where these hulks are going to. I wonder if the locals realise they are living in such a World Class skill centre?

The balloon goes up …..

The World's biggest pile of polyethylene has just been dumped into St Ives Bay, Cornwall. All that is left of the prophylactic that was 'Kinetic 1'.

Apparently, says Mission Damage Limitation Control. "The wrong kind of glue was used on one of the seams"

"What kind of glue WAS used then?"

"The kind that doesn't stick"

All that high tech' back-up. The cutting edge bullshit, the media drama queens…..

It reminds me of the American - Russian Space Race in the '60's and '70's. The Yanks wanted to invent a writing implement that would work in zero gravity and upside down in orbiting spacecraft. $6 billion later, and 10 years development, NASA proudly announced the launch of their 'Space Pen'. A technological marvel, each pen has a little pumping heart that delivers just the correct amount of ink to the tip of the nib - brilliant. You may have seen it advertised in those 'must have' catalogues that plop out of your Sunday Supplement……..

What did the Russians do, beaten to a pulp by the techno muscle of America's finest brains? Well they went round to the local stationery shop and bought some HB pencils ….

Self fulfilling prophecies ……
The Government is launching an urgent and expensive enquiry as to why the Nation’s kids are hitting new levels of obesity……….Duhrrr.

Location: Council offices, Somewheresville.
Time: Early June, 1994.

"OK people. The proposition is this….. We need to realise some assets – and quick. Have you seen these expense forms? PLUS, don’t forget the twinning junket planned for next month, Tuscany isn’t cheap you know! Any ideas?"

"Hmmm", Hillary, toyed with his newly inscribed triangular name plaque. It was not what he had expected. He'd just been appointed Director of Education for the City – and already he was being asked to scratch around for cash by the Committee.

Suddenly, as if by divine intervention, he gets the ‘Don Corleone’ of ideas.

"I’m thinking how we can turn VERDANT GREEN into VERDANT GREENBACKS! I’m thinking two up - two down. I’m thinking town houses and imaginatively designed family sized suburban dwelling units for the discerning buyer. But I’m really thinking about a million quid an acre"

"How-so?"

"Listen, we’ve got ‘assets’. And the best thing is, nobody will notice if we ‘realise’ them. School playing fields – they’re only used now and again, we could flog them off for housing and ‘trouser’, sorry commit those newly realised funds to urgently needed education projects"

"Brilliant – that deserves a pay rise"

"But what knock-on effects would there be?"

"Look, apart from the dinner hour, the 2 daily play times, the sports days, the football, cricket, hockey & rugby teams, the track & field sports, the Summer fetes, the Autumn fairs, the after schools pastimes……… It’s not doing ANYTHING – It’s just damn well lying there, growing".

"Like a big flat green elephant?"

"Well, I was thinking more along the lines of a huge big green fatted calf actually"

"Sactly"

"Look, the kids don’t use it, it won’t be missed – and we’ll make a fortune. Anyway, if we DO build on it, the kids will turn to academia. This way we will force them to take up their studies instead of humping a football around. It’s win-win!"

"Right, that’s that sorted, what’s next on the agenda?"

"Closing school canteens and replacing them with vending machines ……."

Wear bling-bling – and get ahead…..

Watching the World Athletics Championships on the box last week, I was struck by the amount of winners that wore wall to wall ‘bling-bling’. Time and again the ‘slo-mo’ would show chiselled athlete after chiselled athlete dip to breast the tape with their bling. The blingless losers (usually British) wallowed through, in 5th, 6th, last position, dazzled by the bling-fest they had just witnessed. Cool winners got even cooler by being awarded even more bling in the form of gold medals.

Where were our athletes in the bling medal table? Nowhere! That’s why we lost every event. Sure, we had the odd subtle necklace, or the finely honed earring, but no bling-bling. No ‘smack you in the gob’ bog chains. No links forged for ocean going liners around OUR athletes’ necks. Just a few wispy pieces that looked as if they had been fashioned from 13 amp fuse wire and some old ‘Rolo’ toffee wrappers.

Blingyness is something we want more of – there should be a Euro directive. We need more Bling-Bling.

I wonder how it would look if I got some? Would it go with my wool mix grey suit, white Rael-Brook shirt and paisley tie. Would I have the neck muscles to support it? Would people think ‘Christ, what a lot of dynamic Bling – he MUST be a winner!’

Should I wear it whilst jogging? Or maybe when I’m playing snooker? Surely wearing a ‘subtle as a brick in the chops’ piece of Bling is as good as a 50 break?

Wake up Britain, get some ‘Bling-Bling into your life!




The power of suggestion ……

Mars. Bom, bom bom bormmmm. Bom, bom bom bormmmm.
Harbinger of doom, celestial neighbour and brooding red sky marble is the closest it has been for 60,000 years.

Wow, 60,000 years! From Neanderthals to Neon, I REALLY must find the old binoculars and show the kids. Yeh, I really must do that ……. I'll just watch this really interesting programme on 101 things you can do with twine......

Youngest son, "Dad, have you found the bins, have you Dad? Have you?"

"There’s no point, it’s too misty, too cloudy, too clear, too dark, too light, I’m too tired"………. Well, that delayed actually having to find the binoculars for a good week. Pretty soon though, I ran out of excuses. Rog’ had done his last dodge, I would have to find the bins’. Two hours and much swearing later, I emerge triumphant from the garage. "Let’s go Mars hunting!"

"Now Son, hold them carefully now. Look through the eye-pieces, point them up to the sky, over there towards the South East. Now, focus, twiddlle the knurled ring until the Red Brooder sharpens up".

"Can you see it yet?"

"No" ……….."Wait!" …… "I see it! I see it. Dad, I see it!"

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I THINK I can see it – sort of"

"I’ll take off the lens caps"

When the going gets ‘tough’, just let go –

The Stade de France at the World athletics championships -
Jonathan Edwards, triple jumper extraordinary chucks the towel in after only 2 triple jumps. Why? Because he didn’t feel he could ‘perform to his potential’. It’s hardly the stuff that made Alf Tupper in ‘The Tough of the Track’ great is it?

Alf used to weld metal all day, then change into his knitted woolly mum-made track suit, do 1,500 miles of pounding road work - in the pouring rain, (always in the pouring rain) on ill lit, petrol soaked cobbled streets. Finally finishing off at Gasworks Street Fish and Chip Emporium for a well earned carbohydrate-cholesterol sphincter testing treat of steak pie, double chips and extra large mushy peas with dollops of onion gravy.

Now that IS tough………

Jonathan, where was the will to win? Where was the gritty Geordie determination to succeed? And most importantly where was God? For, at his Friday retirement-announcing press conference, Jonathan said that Big G would be there with him as he hurtled down the track towards his silica-sodden nemesis. Well He wasn’t, whoever was watching, it wasn’t Him – or me. Just a few die-hard turnips watching a Swede trouncing the opposition.

I think the Big Man was probably taking a sneak look at the women’s pole vault – I know I was.

Take into consideration Dwain Chambers negative reaction to his athletes village-supplied bed. This powder puff, fluffy as a 'just washed feather boa' mattress – and Dwain's subsequent ‘flounce-out’ to the nearest 5 star hotel and you get the feeling that British athletes are not as tough as they once were.

For true toughness just think of George Mallory. You may remember that George, along with Andrew Irvine was spotted in 1924 at around 24,500 feet ‘going strongly for the top’ – of Mount Everest that is. The next thing, clouds rolled in and they were lost from view forever. It isn’t known if they made it to the top, but a few years ago an American Expedition set out to find the bodies – and maybe the camera that they were known to have. In this way, they could prove one way or the other what actually did happen.

They found Mallory’s body, he was crouched over into a foetal position. Because his back had been exposed to the elements for 75 years it had been polished ivory white. Add the intense cold, and his petrified skin had become as hard as carerra marble.

It was then noticed what sort of equipment George had with him. He was wearing a buckled up sporting Norfolk jacket – the sort of thing you might wear to nip down to the pub on a grim November night, a polo neck sweater, a cardy, a cotton shirt, a vest and a regulation pair of trousers – and that was it. On his feet he was wearing some sturdy walking boots and a few pairs of woolly socks.

They searched his pockets and found a Gamages Department store receipt, some string, library tickets as well as other ephemeral stuff. It was almost as if he had been in a Home Counties pub’ having a drink and been challenged with "I bet you couldn’t do ……"

"I bet I bally well could! I will bet you a crisp white fiver that I can do it. Landlord, if you can hold the stake, I am orf to climb Mount Everest, I may be some time, so look after my drink.

"I will ask my wife to prepare me some sandwiches, and make a flask of strong, hot tea to go with my tube of peppermints – that should do it"

Now that IS tough………

I didn’t know that ……..

I didn’t know that big ‘G’ – (God) was a fan of that fantastically technical event – ‘The triple jump’.

Well he is! Jonathan Edwards, World and Olympic Champion says so. Apparently ‘God’ said to Jonathan - and I paraphrase from his ‘shock’ news conference, where he announced his ‘shock’ retirement – "God wants me to retire, I am in great shape, but God has said ENOUGH ALREADY, so that’s it, a fantastically lucrative career in religious broadcasting beckons".

Just imagine, God toiling away doing the bizz for 6 days, all the time thinking "I must create a really great sport …… something to remind me of ‘The Son, The Father and The Holy Ghost……… something with a ‘3’ in it, hmmmmm".

"Lordy! I’ve got it – 3 pin bowling!"


I didn’t know that ……

70’s advertising techniques were still in use – until I saw the 118 – 118 moustachioed David Bedford lookalikes prancing around on my screen. I half expected the ‘Shake and Vac’ lady to make an appearance.

It’s nice to know they are really thinking about us though. In order to make a scouser, geordie, or brummy more easily understood they are utilising call centres in India and The Philippines to service our directory enquiries……… Obviously nothing to do with saving a ton of cash and exploiting desperate people in third world Countries then.


I didn’t know that ………

British train company executives were as thick as the thickest members of the Thick family from the most retarded area of the Planet ‘Dense’.

How else do you explain all the helpful maintenance work on the network over the busiest three days of the year?

On second thoughts, that isn’t true, I really DID know they were that thick.

Virtually real…….

Cousin Jonny, has just returned from a trip to Florida, successfully tying up the loose ends on the purchase of his latest acquisition. It’s a brand spanking new beachside home, costing about $185,000 spondulas.

Jonny is an Essex boy. His everyday job is working for his local Council. It’s steady, but it could hardly be called a cash cow of a job, so how does he do it?

Before you can say ‘Condo Cashamundo’ - the answer is E-bay. Jonny earns a fortune from the virtual market place that is E-bay. What do you think is the speciality that the World can’t get enough of? What is the global commodity that is Jonny’s ‘nice little earner’. The way he is going on, this time next year he will be a millionaire…..

It’s Chopper Bicycles, the naff 1970’s street culture mean machines. But who is buying them – who would want a horrible 30 year old heap of rust? Apparently plenty! He’s shipping them all over the place, Japan, USA, Germany, Stoke on Trent ….. So far, Culture Secretary Tessa Jowell hasn’t yet stepped in to block any exports in order to save them for the Nation – but you never know……

I’ve no idea where he gets them from, but go to his large Essex spread and it’s chopper nirvana. Wall to wall choppers is not something that I really want to get into - I am happy with my 'Raleigh Roadster'. But they obviously turn some people on.

It’s got me thinking though, if he can earn a fortune from 70’s scrap then surely I can find my own little nest egg? What to sell, what to sell? ………….. Anybody want to buy a BetaMax video recorder – I’ve got a whole garage full........

World Class Delivery…….
Why is it that every service I ever engage is described as ‘World Class’?

Why not just ‘Adequate Class’, ‘Reliable Class’ or ‘So-So Class’. Or maybe ‘We Couldn’t Give a Toss Class’? I am sure I once used a service that worked upon the lines of ‘We are World Class until we get your money – and then our ‘phones are off the hook, so sod off Class’.

What the hell does ‘World Class’ mean anyway?
Maybe if the word ‘third’ is put before the phrase then that would be just a little bit more memorable – and truthful.

It would then read ‘Third World Class’.

If I were buying a service that was ‘Third World Class’ then I wouldn’t be under any illusions what I was getting. Therefore, when everything went tits up – well, what did I expect? I bought into a ‘Third World Class’ service.

My colleagues could berate me "Christ, Alfred – you can be such a divvy sometimes, don’t you know you should NEVER go for a Third World Class service – that’s just asking for trouble"…..

"I know, I know – but I was seduced by all the sexy literature and the believable spiel from that ‘Honest John’ sales geezer"……

Basically, you can’t become a good service today - when yesterday you were just a mediocre one, simply by trotting out some tacky, sugar coated drivel. And have you ever noticed the telly advertising? They always get a gravely voiced actor along the lines of John Hurt ….. "Jim’s Water Taxis’, WORRLLLDDD CLAAASSSSSSS Water Taxiing at it’s most Water World Classiest".

Well it sounds good to me, I would certainly use Jim’s water taxis’ – if ever I needed a good, reliable water taxi service….. Dohhh!



Quiz questions on telly…..
Ever noticed just how dense some TV competitors are? Their panic induced answers can be great entertainment.

To get the ball rolling ……
This one was on ‘Dog Eat Dog’ – that’s the quiz were this Country’s high achievers, the very cream of the crop of our Nation, battle it out, head to head in logic, general knowledge and physical tests. It's a formidable challenge, with no quarter asked or given ..... it's 'Dog Eat Dog' GGGGRRRR..

So, one of the questions one bright spark got was "Who wrote The Planets Suite?"
His answer, this top 2 percenter, this future Captain of Industry, this ‘brain of a planet’ academic, his answer was …….. Tolstoy.

TOLSTOY for God’s sake.

When told the correct answer (Gustav Holst) – he made a grimace as if he was SO damn close to the answer. Like he was so nearly right…… (Presumably, he thought Tolstoy wrote operas or something).

I don’t think he would have got it right even if the questioner had said, "Who composed Holst’s The Planets Suite?"

Another one from ‘Dog Eat Dog’ – and remember, these competitors are all ‘top bananas’.
Question – "Name the lion in ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe"
Answer given "Nadia"

It’s just breath taking ……….

A trifle deaf .......
I was reminded the other day what a complete and utter old fart I am. My 20 year old son walked past me whilst I was singing along to an old 'Jam' single playing on the radio....

"Trifle, trifle, trifle, trifle, trifle, trifle, diddle diddle difle"

"Dad - the song is called Eton Rifles, it's not trifle, trifle, it's Eton Rifles"

"I bloody knew that, OBVIOUSLY. - I am just exploring new words"
I continued ......... "Eton trifles, Eton trifles, diddle diddle difle".........

Trains - a hate, hate affair......
It was all so simple then. When I was a boy (in the '50's) I remember going to the platform waiting room of our local station. Roaring fires, rotund Station Masters and the smell of sooty filaments on an icy ill wind. Occasionally, you would see a man traipsing down the track with a big hammer in his hand. Now and again he would stop, take aim and whelly the track with hammer. If it went 'twang' - the track was OK. If it went 'twoing' - then it had to be replaced ... simple.

Enough of the rose coloured filter job ......... The thing is, 45 years ago, the trains occasionally ran late, broke down and never turned up. That was before we were told our railway service was 'World Class'. That was before all the stations became boarded up festering no-go gulags. That was before I knew 'leaves on the line' was code for 'we own rubbish rolling stock and run it on ancient tracks'. That was before we had the 'wrong kind of snow', too much heat, too dry, too wet, not enough drivers, too many drivers and bolshy customers. That was before we started paying zillions to CEO's that couldn't run a Hornby Dublo train set in their attic.

The final straw ......... MY final straw was the 06.18 am to Glasgow a couple of years ago. I get on at Wigan, no heat. There is no sodding heating on the train and it's the middle of November! And then - the lighting goes. We are all sitting there stone cold freezing and in the dark. And then - we pull in at Preston and wait..... and wait and wait and bloody wait. The driver has finished his shift and the relief hasn't turned up. Jesus H ..... they are getting another driver from Liverpool and that will take about an hour.

Meanwhile, I'm starving. It will take my mind off everything if I can get a butty or something .... I amble to the Buffet car. The first clue that all is not well at the counter is 'the man' furiously doling out free coke cans and cups of tea. For that is all they had, no BLTs', no muffins, no corner-curling ham sammies ..... not even a biccy to dunk.

I rant, but what is the point? he has probably heard of all the orifices in his body that can house a coke can. Who knows, some 'end of their tether' punter may have already forced some home - hence accounting for his surprised expression and strange walking style. I slope back to my seat....

We're underway again AT LAST! - next stop, God knows, but who cares ... we're rolling! We watch as at the next station, a man helps an elderly relative onto the train. He is struggling through the gloom, trying to shove disobedient luggage into ill-considered spaces. He had better hurry up or the train will start to ...... Geez, they've shut the doors "Hey mate, you had better get going".

Imagine the scene, one freezing, hungry man watching one frantically panicking man as he tugs at the not budging an inch door handle. Fortunately a ticket bod, nice and smart in his nice green blazer ambles into view. Fortunately, although the handles are all locked shut, the train is not yet moving. Gosh, I thought that IS fortunate.
"Can you open the door so I can get off" says Mr Panicky. Mr Green-Blazer looks at him with all his ticket inspectoring self assuredness. Unfortunately he couldn't help. Unfortunately he couldn't override the locking system. Unfortunately he would have to issue a ticket to the man - up to the next station and back again. Unfortunately that would cost him about £20 quid. Unfortunately the man had "Just parked on the kerb because it would only take a couple of minutes to deliver the relative to the train and get back again". Unfortunately, he might have been issued with a ticket by the time he gets back.

Mr Panicky became Mr Resigned and finally Mr Peckish. I direct him towards the Buffet ....... "I wonder which orifice he is going to shove his free can of cola" I muttered.

Onwards and upwards towards the Celtic northlands. Just past Carlisle and that's it. All stop. Apparently, there was 'the wrong sort of fully laden locomotive' on a spur line adjacent to ours. I watch as this leviathan colossus slowly sags into the banking. All the rolling stock, full to the brim with stone has burst every single wooden sleeper. The middle of each sleeper is pointing skyward, the track has collapsed and the wheels are on there way to Australia. We wait and wait.

The meeting I was supposed to get to has long gone. Due time into Glasgow Central is 11.10am. we crawl in at 4.15pm. Just time to sprint to the Glasgow offices and grovel like Gerry Grovel from Creepsville on a particularly grovelling mission. I can't stay long though, I have to catch my train........

So it goes …….

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

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

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

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

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