Chess – showing its age …..
I was thinking the other day, it’s about time that Chess, the greatest game in the world – ever; should have a makeover. Not a Linda Barker or (God help us) an Anna Ryder Richardson job… "Oooohhh yes Carol, just got to drape this fantastic velour off the Rook, sprinkle some glitter on this gambit – and we’ll be finished".
I was thinking about being a bit more radical…..
It’s been around for thousands of years – unchanged. So how about freshening it up? After all, ‘Monopoly’ has been updated - and that’s only 65 years old.
I don’t mean changing the pawns into wearing Star Wars garb, giving the Bishop a ‘power mitre’ or dressing the Queen in a Quentin Crisp outfit. I was thinking about a whole new team member. A new man or two that would compliment the existing crew.
You’ve got your Bishop, Castley thing and Horsey gee-gee, I though that we could get rid of a couple of pawns and bring in ‘Omega’ and ‘Politician’
Omega would be in the shape of a button and would be in 2 parts. Part 1 would sit on top of the board, the second part would be hidden somewhere underneath the board, known only to each player.
And that second part would consist of a little bit of plastic explosive and have wires connected to part 1 – the button. The explosive would be just enough to take out 10 squares.
Each player would attempt to lure the opposing pieces towards the area that the volatile bit of the Omega piece was hidden. Once the player was satisfied that he had gathered enough opposing pieces into the Omega or ‘Death Zone’ he would reach for his Omega button.
Imagine how a match between Gary Kasparov and our own plucky loser Nigel Short might be really spiced up…
"Oh my God, Kasparov’s about to deploy the Omega gambit"
"DUCK!!!"
The ‘Politician’ is an altogether different affair. This piece would be a stiletto shape, cast in 100% Machiavellian ore – with a specially hardened two-faced tip. When a player is in a particularly difficult and tricky situation he very slyly and very coldly picks up ‘The Politician’.
The opposing player, referee and audience all fail to notice.. Everyone is distracted by a manifesto given out by the player holding the ‘Politician’ "Hmmmm lower taxes and better healthcare – sounds good"…
The player with the piece in his hand excuses himself to go to the toilet – as he is passing his opponent, he makes his move and stabs him in the back - with the Politician, right between the shoulder blades.
"Ohh my God, he’s used the ‘spinal tap’ gambit! Brilliant, quite, quite brilliant…"
Talking about Chess……
Ever tried to do the trick where you start at the first square of a chess board with 1 grain of rice? The next square has 2 grains and the one after that 4, and so on, doubling up on every square. Has anyone ever got to the end? I tried once, ended up nearly halfway across with a ton of paper and 86 gazziollion zeros.
And finally…..
On the chess front – My most favourite, chess-related quote from dour, mashed-in Blackpool fighter Brian London. The time – the mid ‘60’s and Brian is bitterly reflecting on the way he has been manipulated throughout his pugilistic career.
Brian declared "Me? I’m just a prawn in the game"……..
‘Nuff said.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Smoking gun…..
So, another widow is taking tobacco companies to court – suing them for killing her husband. Sorry, widow woman, but you just can’t do it, it just won’t wash, it just aint right. – Your hubby knew exactly what he was doing – basically committing suicide in a long winded and short of breathless sort of way. Shoving a cocktail of poisons down your lungs every few minutes is going to kill – eventually. Ignorance was a defence in the early part of the last century – but since the ‘50’s ciggies have had the bad press they deserve.
‘Alfie the abstainer’ used to be ‘Alfie the chain smoker’ – regularly going through 5 packs of 20 a day. I was so weed dependent that at night I would brush my stained, yellowing teeth in the bathroom – then light up for my walk to the bedroom. At work, I had a glass fruit bowl for an ash tray – its capacity was about 600 stumps, easy. I gave up 20 years ago when my first son was born. He was born, I held him in my arms, had a celebratory fag and stopped dead. It was easy; the alternative was halitosis, leg ulcers, cancer, emphysema, heart disease and death. The only complication was going from ‘Alfie the slim jim’ to ‘Alfie the big boned’
Arnie’s Army…..
Arnold Schwarzenegger pumped up body-builder, wooden actor, political clone of ‘dubbya’ - and a man with more skeletons in his locker than Bobby the bone collector has been on the news a lot lately. Always anxious to capitalise on our fiscal potential I was a bit disappointed when I asked my wife if Arnie had ever attempted to grope her. "No" Came the firm reply. "For God’s sake, THINK! Arnie used to live in Blackpool you know – you might have run into him there"
"Definitely not"
"I’ll throw Max Clifford’s ‘phone number away then"…..
Why doesn’t he stick to ‘actoring’? A few years ago we were taking our youngest son to see one of his more family friendly movies. "And it stars Arnold Schwarzenegger" I said enthusiastically.
He turned and looked at me "Who’s Arnold Sports-Mega then?"
Deggsy’s back…..
It’s great to see scouse medium Derek Acorah back on the box. For those who haven’t seen his programmes, Derek, along with ex Blue Peter presenter Yvette Fielding fronts a show on Living TV called ‘Most Haunted’.
The format of the show is to visit haunted locations all over the Country. The crew arrive during the day, set up experiments and camera equipment, wait until dark then SWITCH ALL THE LIGHTS OFF!!
Deggsy then goes around each spooky room with his little torch and tells us about the spirits that ‘live’ there. Sometimes it’s a wonder there is any room left for the furniture - there are so many spirits in one place.
It is amazing just how many times he is spot on, he names people, dates, tragedies etc that no one in the house has heard of before. Occasionally, he will meet up with a real bad ‘un. During an episode in an old Methodist church in Manchester last year he was completely taken over by a malevolent spirit who used to be a minister there. Christ, it was scary….. there was Derek strutting about and shouting his head off telling everyone to get out of his church. Then all of a sudden, he collapses, sweats buckets and whimpers "Get me out of here"
It’s great TV – last night they were all at a really spooky WW2 airfield. It was probably one of the best episodes yet. Lots of spooked panicky people, lots of girlies screaming, lots of crew members kacking their pants – and the sceptical psychologist scratching his head at the end of the show.
I don’t know if I believe – but I think that Derek really does think that he communicates with dead people.
Most Haunted, Living TV, Tuesdays @ 9.00pm.
So, another widow is taking tobacco companies to court – suing them for killing her husband. Sorry, widow woman, but you just can’t do it, it just won’t wash, it just aint right. – Your hubby knew exactly what he was doing – basically committing suicide in a long winded and short of breathless sort of way. Shoving a cocktail of poisons down your lungs every few minutes is going to kill – eventually. Ignorance was a defence in the early part of the last century – but since the ‘50’s ciggies have had the bad press they deserve.
‘Alfie the abstainer’ used to be ‘Alfie the chain smoker’ – regularly going through 5 packs of 20 a day. I was so weed dependent that at night I would brush my stained, yellowing teeth in the bathroom – then light up for my walk to the bedroom. At work, I had a glass fruit bowl for an ash tray – its capacity was about 600 stumps, easy. I gave up 20 years ago when my first son was born. He was born, I held him in my arms, had a celebratory fag and stopped dead. It was easy; the alternative was halitosis, leg ulcers, cancer, emphysema, heart disease and death. The only complication was going from ‘Alfie the slim jim’ to ‘Alfie the big boned’
Arnie’s Army…..
Arnold Schwarzenegger pumped up body-builder, wooden actor, political clone of ‘dubbya’ - and a man with more skeletons in his locker than Bobby the bone collector has been on the news a lot lately. Always anxious to capitalise on our fiscal potential I was a bit disappointed when I asked my wife if Arnie had ever attempted to grope her. "No" Came the firm reply. "For God’s sake, THINK! Arnie used to live in Blackpool you know – you might have run into him there"
"Definitely not"
"I’ll throw Max Clifford’s ‘phone number away then"…..
Why doesn’t he stick to ‘actoring’? A few years ago we were taking our youngest son to see one of his more family friendly movies. "And it stars Arnold Schwarzenegger" I said enthusiastically.
He turned and looked at me "Who’s Arnold Sports-Mega then?"
Deggsy’s back…..
It’s great to see scouse medium Derek Acorah back on the box. For those who haven’t seen his programmes, Derek, along with ex Blue Peter presenter Yvette Fielding fronts a show on Living TV called ‘Most Haunted’.
The format of the show is to visit haunted locations all over the Country. The crew arrive during the day, set up experiments and camera equipment, wait until dark then SWITCH ALL THE LIGHTS OFF!!
Deggsy then goes around each spooky room with his little torch and tells us about the spirits that ‘live’ there. Sometimes it’s a wonder there is any room left for the furniture - there are so many spirits in one place.
It is amazing just how many times he is spot on, he names people, dates, tragedies etc that no one in the house has heard of before. Occasionally, he will meet up with a real bad ‘un. During an episode in an old Methodist church in Manchester last year he was completely taken over by a malevolent spirit who used to be a minister there. Christ, it was scary….. there was Derek strutting about and shouting his head off telling everyone to get out of his church. Then all of a sudden, he collapses, sweats buckets and whimpers "Get me out of here"
It’s great TV – last night they were all at a really spooky WW2 airfield. It was probably one of the best episodes yet. Lots of spooked panicky people, lots of girlies screaming, lots of crew members kacking their pants – and the sceptical psychologist scratching his head at the end of the show.
I don’t know if I believe – but I think that Derek really does think that he communicates with dead people.
Most Haunted, Living TV, Tuesdays @ 9.00pm.
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Magic – the new black….
Well, first it was St David Blaine of Pretentia – then ‘Roy’ from the poptastic 70’s throwback magic duo ‘Siegfried and Roy’ got half of his neck seriously sucked by a well pissed off white tiger. Now - mind maestro Derren Brown of Dementia crops up with his ballistic bravado. The Russian-Rouletter extraordinary sticks his Smith and Wesson to his temple and ‘click’ the tension rises. Will he blow his brains out, (click) will he put us off our Sunday supper? (click) It’s taken magic to a whole new level.
Kaboom! – "Christ, what a mess. Who’d have thought it – a magician cocking up a trick like that"
"Just turn over, Heartbeat’s on the other side"………
Gone are the tuxedos, white doves, endless knotted hankies and dull background xylophone music. Gone are the inane card tricks, the cheesy smiles and the frilly assistants. In, are contrived life-threatening operettas played in front of our very eyes – for our minimal and transient entertainment.
Whatever happened to Jonny Hart, Ali Bongo, The Great Soprendo, Paul Daniels and Sooty? The magic wand has now been swapped for instruments of death and destruction. The magic cabinet has changed into a transparent dungeon were we are invited to see a man doing irreparable damage to himself.
It’s only a matter of time then, before someone croaks in the name of light entertainment in this Country. A few years ago in the Philippines there was a magician whose stage act revolved around his unlikely ability to catch bullets in his teeth. There he is, catching bullet after bullet from his stage gun. Suddenly, some prat gets up from the audience, revolver in hand and shouts " Catch this then!" Needless to say, the magician’s brains end up plastered all over the scenery. The guy that shot him got off –his plea was that he honestly believed the magician could catch bullets.
I do wonder however, if it was Paul Daniels that was doing the Russian Roulette trick, would the punter that put the bullet in the chamber be bothered as to whether the diminutive trickster got it right or not?
Would we, as watchers be sitting there all saying to ourselves "Go on Paul, get it wrong, and while you’re at it, get Debbie Magee to position her head right next to yours" – it’s a 2 for 1 deal…..
Also on the box on Channel 4 last Sunday, was the 50 greatest magic tricks – ever. Top of the pile was David Copperfield, not for the fact that he managed to get off with Claudia Schiffer (I suspect sleight of hand in that magic trick) but for the amazing ‘saw through the body’ trick. Brilliant, who’d have thought that after a fledgling career in a comedy show with Lenny Henry and Tracy Ulman - Dave would end up being the toast of Vegas.
Well, first it was St David Blaine of Pretentia – then ‘Roy’ from the poptastic 70’s throwback magic duo ‘Siegfried and Roy’ got half of his neck seriously sucked by a well pissed off white tiger. Now - mind maestro Derren Brown of Dementia crops up with his ballistic bravado. The Russian-Rouletter extraordinary sticks his Smith and Wesson to his temple and ‘click’ the tension rises. Will he blow his brains out, (click) will he put us off our Sunday supper? (click) It’s taken magic to a whole new level.
Kaboom! – "Christ, what a mess. Who’d have thought it – a magician cocking up a trick like that"
"Just turn over, Heartbeat’s on the other side"………
Gone are the tuxedos, white doves, endless knotted hankies and dull background xylophone music. Gone are the inane card tricks, the cheesy smiles and the frilly assistants. In, are contrived life-threatening operettas played in front of our very eyes – for our minimal and transient entertainment.
Whatever happened to Jonny Hart, Ali Bongo, The Great Soprendo, Paul Daniels and Sooty? The magic wand has now been swapped for instruments of death and destruction. The magic cabinet has changed into a transparent dungeon were we are invited to see a man doing irreparable damage to himself.
It’s only a matter of time then, before someone croaks in the name of light entertainment in this Country. A few years ago in the Philippines there was a magician whose stage act revolved around his unlikely ability to catch bullets in his teeth. There he is, catching bullet after bullet from his stage gun. Suddenly, some prat gets up from the audience, revolver in hand and shouts " Catch this then!" Needless to say, the magician’s brains end up plastered all over the scenery. The guy that shot him got off –his plea was that he honestly believed the magician could catch bullets.
I do wonder however, if it was Paul Daniels that was doing the Russian Roulette trick, would the punter that put the bullet in the chamber be bothered as to whether the diminutive trickster got it right or not?
Would we, as watchers be sitting there all saying to ourselves "Go on Paul, get it wrong, and while you’re at it, get Debbie Magee to position her head right next to yours" – it’s a 2 for 1 deal…..
Also on the box on Channel 4 last Sunday, was the 50 greatest magic tricks – ever. Top of the pile was David Copperfield, not for the fact that he managed to get off with Claudia Schiffer (I suspect sleight of hand in that magic trick) but for the amazing ‘saw through the body’ trick. Brilliant, who’d have thought that after a fledgling career in a comedy show with Lenny Henry and Tracy Ulman - Dave would end up being the toast of Vegas.
Friday, October 03, 2003
Homage to the Blainster
"Yeah, the great man, the boy Blaine is over the bridge"
"Thanks very much". And with that I’m off across Tower Bridge accompanied by a whole raft of expectant gawperatti. Half way over and I see him, well not strictly true, I first see the crane, then the tiny, tiny bit of clear plastic dangling from it - and within that there appears to be a gently undulating bin bag lying on the bottom.
Closer still and the pushing and shoving intensifies, I’m over the bridge now and wending my way down the stairs towards the tatty bit of waste ground underneath the plastic box. The place is humming, and all manner of seedy low-life is here….
"Sprig of lavender dearie?…. Or how about one of these beautifully designed light-flashing necklaces?"
"Begone, ancient wizened old hag!" …..
Tyburn obviously doesn’t have a show today…
So here it is ….’Above the Below’ – so not too pretentious a title there then. Channel 4 have erected naff pvc banners all over the place – ‘David Blaine, Above the Below’
He is ‘above’ – and the ground, plebs, chancers, gawpy people and winos are all below. All below with cricks in our necks and wonder in our hearts that we are here in the presence of the great St Davieness. I feel blessed, anointed even, or is that just condensation or body fluids dribbling from the box joints above?
God, this place is tatty. I look around and there are lots of young dolly birds shouting "David, David, DAVID…. Give us a wave!"
The bin-bag clad shape in the box duly obliges.
"OOOOOOhhhhhhh, he waved at me!" One of the dolly’s squealed.
I queue to get into the compound directly underneath the box… everyone is getting searched by big, ugly, bulky, baldy blokes with ear-pieces. Well I can understand that, after all, Dave’s a Yank so he’ll have enemies all over the place. They’ll have to check that none are bringing in weapons and stuff. One of Dave’s crew approaches me. Christ, he’s massive.
"Looking for weapons?" I enquired as my hands shoot skywards. He doesn’t answer.
"Got any eggs, fresh, rotten, hard boiled or raw, golf balls, satsumas, tennis balls, sprouts, hamburgers or equivalent?"
"Err no, the only thing I have in my pocket is this"
"Best keep it there" he says. I readily agree.
Satisfied, the gate opens and I’m in. I gaze up to the egg-stained, food-spattered plastic box…….. and there he is – isn’t he? A podgy face peers out from the bag he is residing in. David is not in, but his fat, pie-loving, pizza-hugging twin brother is.
Geez, whatever they are putting in the water, it’s keeping old lardy arse up to his bouncing weight all right.
"Hi Dave, how are you doing, been anywhere interesting lately? Do you want a sweety? Are you keeping regular?"
He looked at me like I was the Prince of Titheads. "Miserable sod." I muttered. I circle the box and put on my most menacing countenance – like I’m from the magic fraud squad…. I’m looking for smoke and mirrors. Is he really in the box – or is it just a projected image? Is he actually in L.A. and eating a pie, The Big Apple and eating a pizza or sunning himself on a beach somewhere and eating a seafood banquet?
But what’s it all about, what’s the point of it all? World peace, saving the rain forests, inflating David Blaine’s ego, inflating David Blaine?………
Are there any loaves and fishes here – or do we have to get our own meals? Is Dave gesticulating to us telling everyone to go forth and multiply? Is he thinking outside the box – is the box an envelope? Is it a window on the World or a box of delights? Is Dave mad, bad, sad and pretentious to know?
Who knows …. who cares?
"Yeah, the great man, the boy Blaine is over the bridge"
"Thanks very much". And with that I’m off across Tower Bridge accompanied by a whole raft of expectant gawperatti. Half way over and I see him, well not strictly true, I first see the crane, then the tiny, tiny bit of clear plastic dangling from it - and within that there appears to be a gently undulating bin bag lying on the bottom.
Closer still and the pushing and shoving intensifies, I’m over the bridge now and wending my way down the stairs towards the tatty bit of waste ground underneath the plastic box. The place is humming, and all manner of seedy low-life is here….
"Sprig of lavender dearie?…. Or how about one of these beautifully designed light-flashing necklaces?"
"Begone, ancient wizened old hag!" …..
Tyburn obviously doesn’t have a show today…
So here it is ….’Above the Below’ – so not too pretentious a title there then. Channel 4 have erected naff pvc banners all over the place – ‘David Blaine, Above the Below’
He is ‘above’ – and the ground, plebs, chancers, gawpy people and winos are all below. All below with cricks in our necks and wonder in our hearts that we are here in the presence of the great St Davieness. I feel blessed, anointed even, or is that just condensation or body fluids dribbling from the box joints above?
God, this place is tatty. I look around and there are lots of young dolly birds shouting "David, David, DAVID…. Give us a wave!"
The bin-bag clad shape in the box duly obliges.
"OOOOOOhhhhhhh, he waved at me!" One of the dolly’s squealed.
I queue to get into the compound directly underneath the box… everyone is getting searched by big, ugly, bulky, baldy blokes with ear-pieces. Well I can understand that, after all, Dave’s a Yank so he’ll have enemies all over the place. They’ll have to check that none are bringing in weapons and stuff. One of Dave’s crew approaches me. Christ, he’s massive.
"Looking for weapons?" I enquired as my hands shoot skywards. He doesn’t answer.
"Got any eggs, fresh, rotten, hard boiled or raw, golf balls, satsumas, tennis balls, sprouts, hamburgers or equivalent?"
"Err no, the only thing I have in my pocket is this"
"Best keep it there" he says. I readily agree.
Satisfied, the gate opens and I’m in. I gaze up to the egg-stained, food-spattered plastic box…….. and there he is – isn’t he? A podgy face peers out from the bag he is residing in. David is not in, but his fat, pie-loving, pizza-hugging twin brother is.
Geez, whatever they are putting in the water, it’s keeping old lardy arse up to his bouncing weight all right.
"Hi Dave, how are you doing, been anywhere interesting lately? Do you want a sweety? Are you keeping regular?"
He looked at me like I was the Prince of Titheads. "Miserable sod." I muttered. I circle the box and put on my most menacing countenance – like I’m from the magic fraud squad…. I’m looking for smoke and mirrors. Is he really in the box – or is it just a projected image? Is he actually in L.A. and eating a pie, The Big Apple and eating a pizza or sunning himself on a beach somewhere and eating a seafood banquet?
But what’s it all about, what’s the point of it all? World peace, saving the rain forests, inflating David Blaine’s ego, inflating David Blaine?………
Are there any loaves and fishes here – or do we have to get our own meals? Is Dave gesticulating to us telling everyone to go forth and multiply? Is he thinking outside the box – is the box an envelope? Is it a window on the World or a box of delights? Is Dave mad, bad, sad and pretentious to know?
Who knows …. who cares?
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Gullible Northerner vows never to ride the white knuckle experience that is Virgin Trains – again…..
Thick Northern punter, ‘Alfie the not too bright’ has definitely vowed never, ever, ever under any circumstances whatsoever to use the getting from A to B via "sorry for the delay" services of that crap carrier ‘Virgin Trains’…….
After his last train journey, the 4 hour late express to Glasgow 3 years ago, Alfie had resolved to put his iron horse tribulations behind him. In future he would travel by car, plane, donkey, pogo stick or shank’s rather than fall again for the Branston sorcery.
So when a meeting was arranged with the European Head of one of the largest financial institutions in the World for 11 am on Monday, in the City of London, the travelling options were carefully trolled through…….
"Right, I mustn’t be late - so the donkey is out. Car? I’ll be damned if I give sucker, money and endorsement to Mayor Ken. Pogo stick? – Too bouncy …. ‘Plane? - Christ, are you having a laugh, never heard of terrorism? So that leaves ‘The Train’ then…… Never mind, if I get the ‘crack of dawn’ express, I can easily be in the square mile by 9ish. That’ll leave 2 hours slack – should anything go wrong …….. easy"
6:45 am ….Make the train – just! Bloody hell, Alfie feels blessed! The iron-clad leviathan is kept waiting as ‘Alfie the corpulent’ struggles up the stairs to platform 5…. "Thank you God, and thank you Guard" Alfie, in his rather myopic, puppy trusting way thinks today is going to be a good day……..
Alfie stretches out in his seat, "Bloody hell, hardly any people on the train – Nice!" Smug snoozing interrupted by lack of train type ‘dee dum dee dum’ noise activity……….. Mushroom syndrome kicks in.
Eventually, ‘Ian’ the on board travel manager tells us that the air brakes have lost all their air. We have no brakes.
7.15 am - Ian says the engineer is coming from Crewe.
7.25 am – Ian says the engineer isn’t coming – but that he and the Guard are going to get the engine from the back of the train and put it to the front. Ian says it will take 10 minutes.
7.52 am – Ian says "Bugger that, we’ll wait for the engineer"
8.08 am – Ian says the engineer isn’t coming "The engineer isn’t coming" he says.
8.10 am – Ian says a towing engine is coming from Crewe, to take us to Crewe, so we could get another train - from Crewe.
8.14 am – Alfie wonders were the nearest donkey depot is.
8.30 am – Ian tells us the towing engine is definitely on its way, "Almost definitely …… probably"
8.40 am - Alfie says "Fucking Hell I’m going to kill someone" as he watches his business / career / sanity go down Ian’s ‘out of order’ Virginal bog.
8.50 am – Towing engine pulls us the 1k to Crewe at 10 miles per hour. Ian issues his 53rd apology.
8.52 am – Ian issues his 54th apology "I’m very, very very sorry" He says.
8.53 am – Alfie’s knuckles reach the colour dynamic of Dulux Ultra Brilliant White.
9.00 am – Ian says that there is a train due in for London any minute on platform 1. "Yes, the train from Liverpool is due in 2 minutes, on platform 1"
9.01 am – Train stops on platform 8 at Crewe. Passengers pile out and struggle upstairs, heading for platform 1.
9.05 am – Alfie struggles with luggage past platform 5 and a rather good looking stationary imitation of a train bound for the smoke.
9.07 am – Huddled masses arrive at platform 1.
9.08 am – No show on the train front. Railway announcement "Theghgh traihgn on pletfrghm fife is theghgh 9.09 am to Loughgndod Eustoghn.
9.09 am – Wheezing throng, including Alfie arrive on platform 5 to get London train - just….. Ian keeps a very low profile.
9.10 am – Alfie and fellow passengers dig pretend sleeping, spread out students and fat arsed businessmen in ribs to pick up bags, coats, butties to let us sit down. Train is as full as an over full train.
9.30 am – Leave Rugeley station – Alfie reckons he should be in London by just past 11.
9.33 am – All stop. ‘Alan’ – the on board travel manager apologises. "Signal failure just in front of us"
9,34 am – Alan says we are going to have to reverse and get on the slow line – to get past the fault.
9.35 – Alfie spends post nervous breakdown time gazing through the glazing at a bull and his harem copulating like rabbits.
9.38 am – Rugeley Station revisited. Alan says he is sorry
"We are very sorry for the delay"
9.40 am – Alfie foams at mouth.
9.41 am – Alfie has to relieve himself, gets up and searches for a toilet. Train crawls out of Rugeley.
9.50 am - Toilet located, Alfie starts to relieve himself down bowl. Unbeknown to him, the train is about to jerkily relocate back onto the fast track to London. Alfie widdles all the way down his light olive green mix wool trousers.
9.55 am - Having used up all the available paper towels, Alfie limps back to seat.
10 00 am – Alan is done apologising. Alan is now triumphant. "The train will arrive at Euston at 11.20 am – and you had better believe it baby!!"
Just time for Alfie to wrack tattered embolic brain cells for the mother of all excuses to tell head financial honcho …….
Tomorrow – Alfie meets David Blaine, and sets a new World record for the most one sided conversation ever. (Well, I didn’t feel like talking to him).
Thick Northern punter, ‘Alfie the not too bright’ has definitely vowed never, ever, ever under any circumstances whatsoever to use the getting from A to B via "sorry for the delay" services of that crap carrier ‘Virgin Trains’…….
After his last train journey, the 4 hour late express to Glasgow 3 years ago, Alfie had resolved to put his iron horse tribulations behind him. In future he would travel by car, plane, donkey, pogo stick or shank’s rather than fall again for the Branston sorcery.
So when a meeting was arranged with the European Head of one of the largest financial institutions in the World for 11 am on Monday, in the City of London, the travelling options were carefully trolled through…….
"Right, I mustn’t be late - so the donkey is out. Car? I’ll be damned if I give sucker, money and endorsement to Mayor Ken. Pogo stick? – Too bouncy …. ‘Plane? - Christ, are you having a laugh, never heard of terrorism? So that leaves ‘The Train’ then…… Never mind, if I get the ‘crack of dawn’ express, I can easily be in the square mile by 9ish. That’ll leave 2 hours slack – should anything go wrong …….. easy"
6:45 am ….Make the train – just! Bloody hell, Alfie feels blessed! The iron-clad leviathan is kept waiting as ‘Alfie the corpulent’ struggles up the stairs to platform 5…. "Thank you God, and thank you Guard" Alfie, in his rather myopic, puppy trusting way thinks today is going to be a good day……..
Alfie stretches out in his seat, "Bloody hell, hardly any people on the train – Nice!" Smug snoozing interrupted by lack of train type ‘dee dum dee dum’ noise activity……….. Mushroom syndrome kicks in.
Eventually, ‘Ian’ the on board travel manager tells us that the air brakes have lost all their air. We have no brakes.
7.15 am - Ian says the engineer is coming from Crewe.
7.25 am – Ian says the engineer isn’t coming – but that he and the Guard are going to get the engine from the back of the train and put it to the front. Ian says it will take 10 minutes.
7.52 am – Ian says "Bugger that, we’ll wait for the engineer"
8.08 am – Ian says the engineer isn’t coming "The engineer isn’t coming" he says.
8.10 am – Ian says a towing engine is coming from Crewe, to take us to Crewe, so we could get another train - from Crewe.
8.14 am – Alfie wonders were the nearest donkey depot is.
8.30 am – Ian tells us the towing engine is definitely on its way, "Almost definitely …… probably"
8.40 am - Alfie says "Fucking Hell I’m going to kill someone" as he watches his business / career / sanity go down Ian’s ‘out of order’ Virginal bog.
8.50 am – Towing engine pulls us the 1k to Crewe at 10 miles per hour. Ian issues his 53rd apology.
8.52 am – Ian issues his 54th apology "I’m very, very very sorry" He says.
8.53 am – Alfie’s knuckles reach the colour dynamic of Dulux Ultra Brilliant White.
9.00 am – Ian says that there is a train due in for London any minute on platform 1. "Yes, the train from Liverpool is due in 2 minutes, on platform 1"
9.01 am – Train stops on platform 8 at Crewe. Passengers pile out and struggle upstairs, heading for platform 1.
9.05 am – Alfie struggles with luggage past platform 5 and a rather good looking stationary imitation of a train bound for the smoke.
9.07 am – Huddled masses arrive at platform 1.
9.08 am – No show on the train front. Railway announcement "Theghgh traihgn on pletfrghm fife is theghgh 9.09 am to Loughgndod Eustoghn.
9.09 am – Wheezing throng, including Alfie arrive on platform 5 to get London train - just….. Ian keeps a very low profile.
9.10 am – Alfie and fellow passengers dig pretend sleeping, spread out students and fat arsed businessmen in ribs to pick up bags, coats, butties to let us sit down. Train is as full as an over full train.
9.30 am – Leave Rugeley station – Alfie reckons he should be in London by just past 11.
9.33 am – All stop. ‘Alan’ – the on board travel manager apologises. "Signal failure just in front of us"
9,34 am – Alan says we are going to have to reverse and get on the slow line – to get past the fault.
9.35 – Alfie spends post nervous breakdown time gazing through the glazing at a bull and his harem copulating like rabbits.
9.38 am – Rugeley Station revisited. Alan says he is sorry
"We are very sorry for the delay"
9.40 am – Alfie foams at mouth.
9.41 am – Alfie has to relieve himself, gets up and searches for a toilet. Train crawls out of Rugeley.
9.50 am - Toilet located, Alfie starts to relieve himself down bowl. Unbeknown to him, the train is about to jerkily relocate back onto the fast track to London. Alfie widdles all the way down his light olive green mix wool trousers.
9.55 am - Having used up all the available paper towels, Alfie limps back to seat.
10 00 am – Alan is done apologising. Alan is now triumphant. "The train will arrive at Euston at 11.20 am – and you had better believe it baby!!"
Just time for Alfie to wrack tattered embolic brain cells for the mother of all excuses to tell head financial honcho …….
Tomorrow – Alfie meets David Blaine, and sets a new World record for the most one sided conversation ever. (Well, I didn’t feel like talking to him).
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Movie icons – a series (if I can be bothered to write any more)
Number 1 - The Baddie.
Requirement originally met by Indians of the reddish hue, whipping boys for Duke Wayne and his trusty Winchester repeater. "The hell I’ll let those redskin varmints live." They were often seen throwing themselves with gay abandon into the sights of a six-gun. Occasionally, they would even paint a target onto themselves just to make it easier.
During the 40’s however, these were usurped by the very nasty Germans and their very nasty habit of invading other Countries and pulling out other people’s fingernails – very nastily. "Vee haff vays ov making you talk, schvinehundt!!"…….
Now, we are more enlightened, it was soon realised that the Germans were misunderstood. Their bad behaviour was traced to a diet dominated by sour-kraut, cheap beer – oh, and an over burdening desire to dominate the World.
With the Germans forgiven, Hollywood demanded a new nation of saps for the all American hero boys to wup. That mantle has now been passed to the new kids to kick with their heads on the block.
The crew now up for the role of ‘scapegoatery’ has been filled by Englishmen. Yeah, the boys from good old Blighty are now officially Hollywood cannon fodder. "OK Brad baby, in this scene you save mankind, get the dame – and the money. Then you stick a couple of caps into evil Lord Hambledon’s ass"
"Great, then he dies right?"
"Hell no Brad baby! Remember, this is evil English aristocrat Lord Hambledon – Scottish Yard has been on his trail for years….. and it takes you, a rookie cop from the 89th precinct to nail his sweet English ass…. After you let him have it he struggles up the Empire State Building for a fateful rendezvous with his chopper. Desperately seeking a way out he climbs to the top and jumps for the dangling ladder. Unfortunately, he misses and the limey bastard is horribly impaled on the TV mast".
"God, how I love wasting limeys".......
Clipped tones? Well that must mean English cad – and master criminal. Doomed to come to a sticky end at the hands of Tom Cruise……
Estuary? English dodgy criminal geezer, usually employed in Guy Ritchie movies. Not a master criminal, more a thick twat, easily outwitted by razor brains such as Brad Pitt……
Mid European? Englishman, kidnapped at birth and brought up in a secretive Bavarian fencing academy by renegade Neo Nazis’. Ferociously arrogant in an Anglo Saxon sought of way, this psychotically psychopathic psicko is a born terrorist leader. His one weakness however is to always (very stupidly) let the hero off the hook by trying to think of even more exotic ways of killing him. "No…. shooting you between the eyes is far too easy – it does not appeal to my artistic nature ……. Now, where can I find some crocodiles and a tonne of carbolic soap"……….
Meanwhile, the all American hero is fashioning a helicopter behind his back using the twine he is bound with and some discarded chewing gum…….. and escapes, Bruce Willis wins again! Yippee kai ayyyyyyyyy……
Number 1 - The Baddie.
Requirement originally met by Indians of the reddish hue, whipping boys for Duke Wayne and his trusty Winchester repeater. "The hell I’ll let those redskin varmints live." They were often seen throwing themselves with gay abandon into the sights of a six-gun. Occasionally, they would even paint a target onto themselves just to make it easier.
During the 40’s however, these were usurped by the very nasty Germans and their very nasty habit of invading other Countries and pulling out other people’s fingernails – very nastily. "Vee haff vays ov making you talk, schvinehundt!!"…….
Now, we are more enlightened, it was soon realised that the Germans were misunderstood. Their bad behaviour was traced to a diet dominated by sour-kraut, cheap beer – oh, and an over burdening desire to dominate the World.
With the Germans forgiven, Hollywood demanded a new nation of saps for the all American hero boys to wup. That mantle has now been passed to the new kids to kick with their heads on the block.
The crew now up for the role of ‘scapegoatery’ has been filled by Englishmen. Yeah, the boys from good old Blighty are now officially Hollywood cannon fodder. "OK Brad baby, in this scene you save mankind, get the dame – and the money. Then you stick a couple of caps into evil Lord Hambledon’s ass"
"Great, then he dies right?"
"Hell no Brad baby! Remember, this is evil English aristocrat Lord Hambledon – Scottish Yard has been on his trail for years….. and it takes you, a rookie cop from the 89th precinct to nail his sweet English ass…. After you let him have it he struggles up the Empire State Building for a fateful rendezvous with his chopper. Desperately seeking a way out he climbs to the top and jumps for the dangling ladder. Unfortunately, he misses and the limey bastard is horribly impaled on the TV mast".
"God, how I love wasting limeys".......
Clipped tones? Well that must mean English cad – and master criminal. Doomed to come to a sticky end at the hands of Tom Cruise……
Estuary? English dodgy criminal geezer, usually employed in Guy Ritchie movies. Not a master criminal, more a thick twat, easily outwitted by razor brains such as Brad Pitt……
Mid European? Englishman, kidnapped at birth and brought up in a secretive Bavarian fencing academy by renegade Neo Nazis’. Ferociously arrogant in an Anglo Saxon sought of way, this psychotically psychopathic psicko is a born terrorist leader. His one weakness however is to always (very stupidly) let the hero off the hook by trying to think of even more exotic ways of killing him. "No…. shooting you between the eyes is far too easy – it does not appeal to my artistic nature ……. Now, where can I find some crocodiles and a tonne of carbolic soap"……….
Meanwhile, the all American hero is fashioning a helicopter behind his back using the twine he is bound with and some discarded chewing gum…….. and escapes, Bruce Willis wins again! Yippee kai ayyyyyyyyy……
Monday, September 22, 2003
Back again ......
Anyone there? Alfie the OK here again. The last few days, I have mostly been Alfie the can’t be arsed, busy, pissed, absent and just plain Alfie the Alzheimic….. Yeah, I've been through the whole spectrum of adjectivorial Alfieness during the last week or so….. (Is ‘adjectivorial’ a word? Well it is now)
Yesterday, I was ‘Alfie the removals man’. I took my eldest lad back to his new digs as he embarks on his last year at college.
New digs? Christ! A bit of an exaggeration there …. What a dump! Our car, stuffed to the roof rack with student type stuff rounds the corner into Tatty Arsed Street, just off Roach Drive in Bed-sit land, Blackpool. And there it is in all its faded, pox-ridden, paint peeling glory - ‘Shite Towers’.
Ring bell…… doesn’t work, obviously.
Knock on knocker and peer through windows that last saw a chamois when George Formby was leaning on a lamppost at The Winter Gardens.
Cue ‘Arsenic’ without ‘Old lace’ as 80-year-old biddy staggers down the corridor to open the door.
Cue stench.
She insists on shaking our hands. Christ, I thought (mental note) – must eat my butty with my left hand on the drive home. Must remember NOT to pick my nose or adjust my manly bits with my right hand. That’s in quarantine until I get home and dig out the bleach.
"It’s up there" she says and points a bony, wizened digit in the general direction of the stairs.
Cue crusty, flowery carpet, in dire need of a ‘Bex Bissell’ and woodchip wallpaper in dire need of a bonfire.
We breast the top of the stairs. Below us the biddy has hardly made base camp, although her odour has sat on our shoulders all the way up. We peer down a black.... black..... bible black corridor to a distant toilet.
The biddy chimes in "Now it’s not gold taps you know John" and gurgles a laugh so chilling I would swear that old Nick himself had suddenly materialised in front of us as ‘old Nicola’.
We get near to the toilet and on our right is a door. THE door to John’s pad. We hurry in – in a vain attempt to avoid the ghastly odour emanating from the bog.
The room is as bad as I thought it would be. I peer around in the unremitting gloom. I must say something. I REALLY MUST say something "35 quid a week for this hovel! JEEZZZUSSS H. KERRRIST this place should be con-bleeding-demned you horrible, horrible, horrible, smelly old bag!!"
Well, that’s what I meant to say. It sort of came out as "Ooooh yes, the room is LOVELY - 50’s chic, functional in a Stalinist sort of way -and yet uncluttered… perfect". Then she shows us the shower room. God all sodding mighty. Underneath the shower tray is a collection of towels, they have been there so long they have morphed together into one wet-through amorphous blob. Vigorous cultures of fungi flourish in near perfect growing conditions.
"Right then John, let’s get you unpacked"
We thank Auntie Festus for the tour and tell her we are just going to the car to unpack John’s stuff.
I didn’t know that a fully laden Toyota Avensis could do 0 – 60 in 7 seconds….
Anyone there? Alfie the OK here again. The last few days, I have mostly been Alfie the can’t be arsed, busy, pissed, absent and just plain Alfie the Alzheimic….. Yeah, I've been through the whole spectrum of adjectivorial Alfieness during the last week or so….. (Is ‘adjectivorial’ a word? Well it is now)
Yesterday, I was ‘Alfie the removals man’. I took my eldest lad back to his new digs as he embarks on his last year at college.
New digs? Christ! A bit of an exaggeration there …. What a dump! Our car, stuffed to the roof rack with student type stuff rounds the corner into Tatty Arsed Street, just off Roach Drive in Bed-sit land, Blackpool. And there it is in all its faded, pox-ridden, paint peeling glory - ‘Shite Towers’.
Ring bell…… doesn’t work, obviously.
Knock on knocker and peer through windows that last saw a chamois when George Formby was leaning on a lamppost at The Winter Gardens.
Cue ‘Arsenic’ without ‘Old lace’ as 80-year-old biddy staggers down the corridor to open the door.
Cue stench.
She insists on shaking our hands. Christ, I thought (mental note) – must eat my butty with my left hand on the drive home. Must remember NOT to pick my nose or adjust my manly bits with my right hand. That’s in quarantine until I get home and dig out the bleach.
"It’s up there" she says and points a bony, wizened digit in the general direction of the stairs.
Cue crusty, flowery carpet, in dire need of a ‘Bex Bissell’ and woodchip wallpaper in dire need of a bonfire.
We breast the top of the stairs. Below us the biddy has hardly made base camp, although her odour has sat on our shoulders all the way up. We peer down a black.... black..... bible black corridor to a distant toilet.
The biddy chimes in "Now it’s not gold taps you know John" and gurgles a laugh so chilling I would swear that old Nick himself had suddenly materialised in front of us as ‘old Nicola’.
We get near to the toilet and on our right is a door. THE door to John’s pad. We hurry in – in a vain attempt to avoid the ghastly odour emanating from the bog.
The room is as bad as I thought it would be. I peer around in the unremitting gloom. I must say something. I REALLY MUST say something "35 quid a week for this hovel! JEEZZZUSSS H. KERRRIST this place should be con-bleeding-demned you horrible, horrible, horrible, smelly old bag!!"
Well, that’s what I meant to say. It sort of came out as "Ooooh yes, the room is LOVELY - 50’s chic, functional in a Stalinist sort of way -and yet uncluttered… perfect". Then she shows us the shower room. God all sodding mighty. Underneath the shower tray is a collection of towels, they have been there so long they have morphed together into one wet-through amorphous blob. Vigorous cultures of fungi flourish in near perfect growing conditions.
"Right then John, let’s get you unpacked"
We thank Auntie Festus for the tour and tell her we are just going to the car to unpack John’s stuff.
I didn’t know that a fully laden Toyota Avensis could do 0 – 60 in 7 seconds….
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
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…….
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…….
Monday, September 08, 2003
'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"
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"
Friday, September 05, 2003
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?
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?
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
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 ….
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 ….
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
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 ……."
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 ……."
Monday, September 01, 2003
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"
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"
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
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………
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………
Friday, August 22, 2003
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.
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.
Monday, August 18, 2003
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........
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........
Thursday, August 14, 2003
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 ……….
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 ……….
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
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".........
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".........
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
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........
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........
Friday, November 08, 2002
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!
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!
