Snow, cool stuff…..
Snow, I love snow. And as I’m sitting here, looking out on a clammy grey damp day, sartorially dressed in my Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts and plimsolls I’m wondering if I’ll ever see another flake of the wafty, white floaty stuff again.
My kids find it real hard to believe but when I was at school, winter mornings used to, quite often consist of traipsing through snow so deep it went over the top of your wellies and down into your socks.
Even 20 years ago, I can remember working in a converted office building – it was so cold at night, the pipes exploded. No plumber, obviously – so in order to ‘flush’ the toilet we would nip out, get a bucket of virginal white snow and chuck it down the pan. Due to its unique absorption properties, the snow suddenly acquired the look of a big, distressed orange flavoured ‘jubbly’ sticking out of the bog.
January, ten years ago – and joy of joys we got a sudden and unexpected heaven sent snow dump. Not much, but just enough for me to get out there and build the kids a snowman. Well not really a snowman – more a snowhobbit. It was very small and had big feet.
"Snow! – Great! – C’mon kids – let’s get out there and get building!" After a bit of negotiation, it’s agreed. I’ll go out into the zero-degreed tempest – and the kids will stay inside, in the warmth, and watch me through the double glazing …… seems reasonable.
As I build it, I get so short of white stuff material – it wasn’t so much ‘deep and crisp’ more ‘thin and soggy’. I dispense with his arms. – And the head reflects a certain minimalist look – rather like a Henry Moore sculpture.
"Where’s his arms? And why is his head so small"
"His arms are folded behind his back – and his head is small, because he hasn’t been very well"
Coal – for buttons, teeth and eyes? Sorry kids, we’ve only got gas central heating, we’ll use wine gums instead. One of the kids throws me a scarf – when I tie it around Snowy’s neck, it completely obscures his head. I change it for one of my natty, stripey ties……. Stylish!
No carrots, so I use a rather kitsch twirly, tapered red candle for his nose, I don’t bother with a hat, I can’t find one small enough. It’s finished.
I stand back and survey the scene. One snowperson (small), one garden (ruined), ten digits (dropping off). I turn in triumph to the window – no kids, they’re all watching telly. It’s dark and frost flakes are beginning to fall. I go in and get acquainted with a Famous Grouse.
Next morning, I go out into glaring sunny warmth. All that’s left of ‘Snowy’ is a kitsch candle, a stripey tie and some wine gummed coloured blobs of snow that haven’t yet melted. My unique snowhobbit has gone.
He was no ‘fair-weather’ friend………
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Absolute Power – Absobloodylutely
Anyone see ‘Absolute Power’ last night on BBC2. It’s a slick comedy about the P.R. game and stars Stephen Fry & John Bird as a couple of utter, utter bastards.
They both treat their clients, friends, employees with utmost contempt – lying, cheating, money grabbing – and that’s just their positive attributes.
Working in the creative field, Alfie once came across a P.R. chap that would put Stephen Fry’s character into kindergarten. This man was so ruthless, I reckon he must have been related to Genghis Khan. He was a legend. An absolute bastard – absolutely.
This is the most audacious scam he ever did.
He had this regular client…. He did loads of work for this guy over many, many years. The two knew each other socially and met regularly with their wives for meals – and even went on holiday together.
Unfortunately, one day, the client had a fatal heart attack. The P.R. man was beside himself with grief, his closest friend had died. No, sod that, his biggest cash cow, his number one client had slipped off the mortal coil. What was he going to do now?
Simple, get into accounts, quick like and invent some ficticious really big, really juicy P.R. jobs – then translate them into a series of very handsome fees + expenses. Address them with the deceased moniker on the top and bang them off to his business office with some nice big red messages all over them. Something along the lines of OVERDUE ACCOUNT - PLEASE SETTLE IMMEDIATELY
Result: The P.R. man got £25k for doing precisely bugger all…
I wouldn’t like to be married to …..
I wouldn’t like to be married to a porn star.
Obviously she would look dead, dead sexy.
Obviously, she would wear skimpy, sexy suzzy type stuff at all times – even when doing the ironing.
And when she speaks she would go into double-entendre overdrive.
But how would I cope when she comes home from work and tells me she’s had a really hard day….. Or she’s had as much as she can take……. Or she’s been disciplined at work?……
Anyone see ‘Absolute Power’ last night on BBC2. It’s a slick comedy about the P.R. game and stars Stephen Fry & John Bird as a couple of utter, utter bastards.
They both treat their clients, friends, employees with utmost contempt – lying, cheating, money grabbing – and that’s just their positive attributes.
Working in the creative field, Alfie once came across a P.R. chap that would put Stephen Fry’s character into kindergarten. This man was so ruthless, I reckon he must have been related to Genghis Khan. He was a legend. An absolute bastard – absolutely.
This is the most audacious scam he ever did.
He had this regular client…. He did loads of work for this guy over many, many years. The two knew each other socially and met regularly with their wives for meals – and even went on holiday together.
Unfortunately, one day, the client had a fatal heart attack. The P.R. man was beside himself with grief, his closest friend had died. No, sod that, his biggest cash cow, his number one client had slipped off the mortal coil. What was he going to do now?
Simple, get into accounts, quick like and invent some ficticious really big, really juicy P.R. jobs – then translate them into a series of very handsome fees + expenses. Address them with the deceased moniker on the top and bang them off to his business office with some nice big red messages all over them. Something along the lines of OVERDUE ACCOUNT - PLEASE SETTLE IMMEDIATELY
Result: The P.R. man got £25k for doing precisely bugger all…
I wouldn’t like to be married to …..
I wouldn’t like to be married to a porn star.
Obviously she would look dead, dead sexy.
Obviously, she would wear skimpy, sexy suzzy type stuff at all times – even when doing the ironing.
And when she speaks she would go into double-entendre overdrive.
But how would I cope when she comes home from work and tells me she’s had a really hard day….. Or she’s had as much as she can take……. Or she’s been disciplined at work?……
Monday, November 10, 2003
A week is a long time in Anglo-American relations…..
Today, exactly one week after he first rang me, ‘Rick’ from some crappy U.S. investment Company (supposedly based on Wall Street in Nooooooo York City) eeeeed me with a red-hot investment tip. Because I am the sort of guy I am, Alfie the Blabbergob is going to let everyone who wants to be, in on the deal…..
And I quote……
‘BREAKING NEWS - TUCSON, Ariz.--(BUSINESS WIRE)--Arizona Aircraft Spares, Inc.
Arizona Aircraft Spares' market potential is measured in billions of dollars. The company works directly with the U.S. Government and other international world governments. The proposed U.S. military budget alone is 399.1 billion-dollars, of which twenty-five percent is allocated for spare parts and ground support systems’……. And lots, lots more bull.
So there you go, get your shirt on it - Arizona Aircraft Spares, Inc. Or ‘AARSI’ for short.
Feeling confident, Rick followed up his email with a one to one interactive chat with me.
I picked the ‘phone up.
"Hiiiiiyyyyyyaaaaa, Rick here Sir, from Nooooooooooo York City. Hello, Sir – are you there?
"Velly solly, this Chinese Lestaurant – me no understand. Good day."
I think I got away with that……. Yeah, easy, peasy.
A week’s a long time in the Alfie party…..
Today, through the post, I received my very own copy of The House of Lords induction pack. Superb!!
A complete pack, giving anyone who wants it all the goss’ and up to date info’ on yer actual Lordly duties. They have helpfully included a little leaflet on what would be expected of a newly inducted Lord, plus other useful stuff - you know…. where to park the roller, where I can get my cucumber sandwiches tailored and tips on how to snore silently. There was also some other lightweight bits and bobs on democracy……
Anyway, I will fill all the forms in, and hopefully, hopefully get selected to the best club in the World. Who knows, this blog could shortly be ‘By Appointment’.
Today, exactly one week after he first rang me, ‘Rick’ from some crappy U.S. investment Company (supposedly based on Wall Street in Nooooooo York City) eeeeed me with a red-hot investment tip. Because I am the sort of guy I am, Alfie the Blabbergob is going to let everyone who wants to be, in on the deal…..
And I quote……
‘BREAKING NEWS - TUCSON, Ariz.--(BUSINESS WIRE)--Arizona Aircraft Spares, Inc.
Arizona Aircraft Spares' market potential is measured in billions of dollars. The company works directly with the U.S. Government and other international world governments. The proposed U.S. military budget alone is 399.1 billion-dollars, of which twenty-five percent is allocated for spare parts and ground support systems’……. And lots, lots more bull.
So there you go, get your shirt on it - Arizona Aircraft Spares, Inc. Or ‘AARSI’ for short.
Feeling confident, Rick followed up his email with a one to one interactive chat with me.
I picked the ‘phone up.
"Hiiiiiyyyyyyaaaaa, Rick here Sir, from Nooooooooooo York City. Hello, Sir – are you there?
"Velly solly, this Chinese Lestaurant – me no understand. Good day."
I think I got away with that……. Yeah, easy, peasy.
A week’s a long time in the Alfie party…..
Today, through the post, I received my very own copy of The House of Lords induction pack. Superb!!
A complete pack, giving anyone who wants it all the goss’ and up to date info’ on yer actual Lordly duties. They have helpfully included a little leaflet on what would be expected of a newly inducted Lord, plus other useful stuff - you know…. where to park the roller, where I can get my cucumber sandwiches tailored and tips on how to snore silently. There was also some other lightweight bits and bobs on democracy……
Anyway, I will fill all the forms in, and hopefully, hopefully get selected to the best club in the World. Who knows, this blog could shortly be ‘By Appointment’.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
Eccentrics, leprechauns and saxophone players….
The other day, I was browsing the message boards of our local radio station’s web site and came across someone enquiring about the eccentric ‘no smoking’ cyclist commonly seen all over the North West of England.
For anyone who hasn’t seen him, this man rides an old road racing bike. The bike is adorned entirely in clear plastic and collected litter. Big hand written signs are stuck to the frame on the evils of smoking. On his head is always worn an old skateboarding helmet. And he rides – to virtually every City, Town and Village in the North West. Often seen standing next to his bike, occasionally muttering, frequently shouting, especially to people he’s seen smoking…….. sad cyclist with a message.
When I was a kid, where I lived there was a weird guy who one day suddenly started to build a ship in his back garden. The garden backed onto a field, so us nosy kids had a first hand view of progress.
When I say he built it in the garden, he really did build in the garden – all of it. From one end to the other, a bloody great big ship. And when I say ‘ship’ – I really do mean ‘ship’. It wasn’t a yacht – or a boat …. It was a bloody massive ship! It was entirely built out of wooden planks, clinker fashion. Eventually, after a few years, he got to the top and laid the decking down. It towered above the rest of the gardens. I suppose it was about 20 feet tall. The next time we came to look at it he had added a new feature on the top – it was then that I knew exactly what he had built. On the top of the deck, amidships he had plonked a garden shed. It now looked like everyone’s idea of how a ‘Noah’s Ark’ should look like.
He had built his own Noah’s Ark – in his garden. I don’t know whether he was a religious nut, or just a really pessimistic weather forecaster……. That ship was there for years, nobody seemed to mind – I guess it was before the World was populated to the brim with ‘jobsworth’ planning officers…. ..two by two
Near Cammel Lairds in Birkenhead, There’s a man who, most days stands under an old railway bridge. He faces the wall, playing a saxophone - quietly to himself. He has no cap on the floor to collect cash – and anyway, the place he plays has hardly any passers by………. mellow bluesman with a stoned audience….. nice
A three piece suited, 7 stone OAP threatened to wipe me out once – God knows why. It was the early nineties and Alfie was at his most physically imposing…. Alfie the brick bog, 18 stone of mile high manliness (my vision, obviously) was striding down the street in confident fashion with Alfreda. Out of nowhere, leapt a little old wizened type gent, with slicked down dwindling hair and thin bony knobbly knuckles waving millies from my face.
"Come on then, you don’t frighten me yer terwat. I’ll bloody ‘ave yer. Come on, stick yer dooks up – or are yer a chicken? With that, he starts to do a strutting chicken walk, wafting his arms about and clucking and squawking to himself. Baaquaa baquaa baaabaaaquaaa" …….. mad leprechaun with a death-wish.
A bad tackle down at the newsagents……
Massive controversy and consternation in our locality when a couple of weeks ago the local rag inadvertently published a photo of a footy player with his ‘bobby knoblett’ hanging out – in glorious technicolour!
Needless to say, the publisher was horrified, but the word was out – and the rush was on to buy copies. In hours, they were all sold out – probably for the first time ever.
I eeeed them, under the heading of ‘Competition Winner’ asking if they were starting a ‘spot the bobby knoblett competition’ – and if so, could I have my prize as I had spotted this weeks member……
They declined to comment.
Best thing about it though was the flasher wrote in a week later – to apologise for his bobby ‘just slipping out’ and how he ‘hadn’t noticed’ that it was free and running wild – like it’s got a life of it’s own or something……
I thought it must have had something to do with the way he was pulling his shorts aside to let Tommy Togger get unleashed and the ‘ear to ear’ grin he had on his boat….
I have agonised long and hard about whether I should reproduce the photo for you, but have decided against it - mainly because I can’t get a magnifying tool on the pic’….
The other day, I was browsing the message boards of our local radio station’s web site and came across someone enquiring about the eccentric ‘no smoking’ cyclist commonly seen all over the North West of England.
For anyone who hasn’t seen him, this man rides an old road racing bike. The bike is adorned entirely in clear plastic and collected litter. Big hand written signs are stuck to the frame on the evils of smoking. On his head is always worn an old skateboarding helmet. And he rides – to virtually every City, Town and Village in the North West. Often seen standing next to his bike, occasionally muttering, frequently shouting, especially to people he’s seen smoking…….. sad cyclist with a message.
When I was a kid, where I lived there was a weird guy who one day suddenly started to build a ship in his back garden. The garden backed onto a field, so us nosy kids had a first hand view of progress.
When I say he built it in the garden, he really did build in the garden – all of it. From one end to the other, a bloody great big ship. And when I say ‘ship’ – I really do mean ‘ship’. It wasn’t a yacht – or a boat …. It was a bloody massive ship! It was entirely built out of wooden planks, clinker fashion. Eventually, after a few years, he got to the top and laid the decking down. It towered above the rest of the gardens. I suppose it was about 20 feet tall. The next time we came to look at it he had added a new feature on the top – it was then that I knew exactly what he had built. On the top of the deck, amidships he had plonked a garden shed. It now looked like everyone’s idea of how a ‘Noah’s Ark’ should look like.
He had built his own Noah’s Ark – in his garden. I don’t know whether he was a religious nut, or just a really pessimistic weather forecaster……. That ship was there for years, nobody seemed to mind – I guess it was before the World was populated to the brim with ‘jobsworth’ planning officers…. ..two by two
Near Cammel Lairds in Birkenhead, There’s a man who, most days stands under an old railway bridge. He faces the wall, playing a saxophone - quietly to himself. He has no cap on the floor to collect cash – and anyway, the place he plays has hardly any passers by………. mellow bluesman with a stoned audience….. nice
A three piece suited, 7 stone OAP threatened to wipe me out once – God knows why. It was the early nineties and Alfie was at his most physically imposing…. Alfie the brick bog, 18 stone of mile high manliness (my vision, obviously) was striding down the street in confident fashion with Alfreda. Out of nowhere, leapt a little old wizened type gent, with slicked down dwindling hair and thin bony knobbly knuckles waving millies from my face.
"Come on then, you don’t frighten me yer terwat. I’ll bloody ‘ave yer. Come on, stick yer dooks up – or are yer a chicken? With that, he starts to do a strutting chicken walk, wafting his arms about and clucking and squawking to himself. Baaquaa baquaa baaabaaaquaaa" …….. mad leprechaun with a death-wish.
A bad tackle down at the newsagents……
Massive controversy and consternation in our locality when a couple of weeks ago the local rag inadvertently published a photo of a footy player with his ‘bobby knoblett’ hanging out – in glorious technicolour!
Needless to say, the publisher was horrified, but the word was out – and the rush was on to buy copies. In hours, they were all sold out – probably for the first time ever.
I eeeed them, under the heading of ‘Competition Winner’ asking if they were starting a ‘spot the bobby knoblett competition’ – and if so, could I have my prize as I had spotted this weeks member……
They declined to comment.
Best thing about it though was the flasher wrote in a week later – to apologise for his bobby ‘just slipping out’ and how he ‘hadn’t noticed’ that it was free and running wild – like it’s got a life of it’s own or something……
I thought it must have had something to do with the way he was pulling his shorts aside to let Tommy Togger get unleashed and the ‘ear to ear’ grin he had on his boat….
I have agonised long and hard about whether I should reproduce the photo for you, but have decided against it - mainly because I can’t get a magnifying tool on the pic’….
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Guy Fawkes – done up like a kipper…..
"I am here today at the Law Courts to plead for Mr Fawkes’ case to be reopened, re-examined and his sentence rescinded. We, at the appeals tribunal do not think Mr Fawkes received a fair trial – and consequently we believe there has been a travesty of justice. My colleague, Mr Mansfield will elucidate…"
"Thank you Ludovic, we believe our case is a strong one and that this guy, Guy has been well and truly ‘fawked’.
"We intend to show that once arrested, Mr Fawkes –
Did not have his rights read to him.
Was not allowed a free phone call.
Had no access to legal aid.
Was put in a damp, cold cell with a piece of wood for a bed and a hat for a privvy. He didn’t even have a decent pair of jim-jams - those blankets really do chafe you know".
Was not allowed his religious freedom – and access to a bible was denied.
"In short we believe Mr Fawkes’ human rights have been violated – and we intend to indict one King James 1 of England as a war criminal.
"We feel the interviewing techniques engaged were overly aggressive. Mr Fawkes was not allowed toilet breaks, ciggy breaks or tea breaks. The only ‘breaks’ he did get were to his arms and legs. The interrogator also made extremely derogatory remarks concerning Mr Fawkes and his sexuality.
"Just because he wore flamboyant outfits including a big floppy hat with wafty feathers, natty thigh length leather boots and full length capes, these are not a sign that Mr Fawkes’ had an effeminate nature. As far as we are aware, Mr Fawkes rampantly chased well rounded, buxomly-comely Elizabethan bar room totty on a regular basis.
"We also think the sentence of being hung, drawn and quartered just a bit too excessive. Possibly a community service sentence would have been more appropriate. Mr Fawkes, I know was keen to work with under-privileged kids.
"We would like to see ‘Bonfire Night’ renamed as ‘Guy Fawkes-he wasn’t all that bad’ – and possibly set up some work shops, education courses etc – and maybe obtain a grant from The Lottery Commission…. Kids could make a ‘Guy’ as they do now – but when they meet passers-by they could say something like "Hey, could you give our Guy a hug?"…
"We should all get together and send a letter to the Pope urging him to make Guy a saint. ‘St Guido of Whitehall’ or something. After all, he did try to blow up a whole load of whining, low-life parasites – and do us all a favour"…….
"I am here today at the Law Courts to plead for Mr Fawkes’ case to be reopened, re-examined and his sentence rescinded. We, at the appeals tribunal do not think Mr Fawkes received a fair trial – and consequently we believe there has been a travesty of justice. My colleague, Mr Mansfield will elucidate…"
"Thank you Ludovic, we believe our case is a strong one and that this guy, Guy has been well and truly ‘fawked’.
"We intend to show that once arrested, Mr Fawkes –
Did not have his rights read to him.
Was not allowed a free phone call.
Had no access to legal aid.
Was put in a damp, cold cell with a piece of wood for a bed and a hat for a privvy. He didn’t even have a decent pair of jim-jams - those blankets really do chafe you know".
Was not allowed his religious freedom – and access to a bible was denied.
"In short we believe Mr Fawkes’ human rights have been violated – and we intend to indict one King James 1 of England as a war criminal.
"We feel the interviewing techniques engaged were overly aggressive. Mr Fawkes was not allowed toilet breaks, ciggy breaks or tea breaks. The only ‘breaks’ he did get were to his arms and legs. The interrogator also made extremely derogatory remarks concerning Mr Fawkes and his sexuality.
"Just because he wore flamboyant outfits including a big floppy hat with wafty feathers, natty thigh length leather boots and full length capes, these are not a sign that Mr Fawkes’ had an effeminate nature. As far as we are aware, Mr Fawkes rampantly chased well rounded, buxomly-comely Elizabethan bar room totty on a regular basis.
"We also think the sentence of being hung, drawn and quartered just a bit too excessive. Possibly a community service sentence would have been more appropriate. Mr Fawkes, I know was keen to work with under-privileged kids.
"We would like to see ‘Bonfire Night’ renamed as ‘Guy Fawkes-he wasn’t all that bad’ – and possibly set up some work shops, education courses etc – and maybe obtain a grant from The Lottery Commission…. Kids could make a ‘Guy’ as they do now – but when they meet passers-by they could say something like "Hey, could you give our Guy a hug?"…
"We should all get together and send a letter to the Pope urging him to make Guy a saint. ‘St Guido of Whitehall’ or something. After all, he did try to blow up a whole load of whining, low-life parasites – and do us all a favour"…….
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
The Turner Prize – what’s it all about then?
OK, here we are at the Tate Britain Gallery, waiting, gagging, and hyperventilating with anticipation at the prospect of gazing in adoration at the collective genius that is the infinitely infantile BritArt School. Within these walls, there lies a gloriously clichéd mix of emperor’s new clothes cutting edge dross.
I’m sure the genius that was Joseph Mallord William Turner, landscaping master of light, tone and shade would fully endorse some of the previous groundbreaking entries. Efforts such as Tracy Emmin’s detritus-strewn ‘Unmade Bed’, Damien Hirst’s ‘nice bit of fillet’ in formaldehyde - and the saddo that produced a light bulb going on and off in a concrete box.... Yeah, I'm sure he would.....
Anyway, that was then – and this is now, so let’s start and get the objective appraisal up and running. Just check I’ve got everything… Catalogue check, Dickie Bow check, Sick Bag (lots of them) check.
Objective Appraisal:
We’re in – and the overwhelming feeling is of horror and nausea. It’s not unlike the feeling I have when I’m clearing out our cat’s litter tray. The Turner entrant’s brief seems to be to SHOCK at all costs. These things aren’t even witty, or skilful or thought provoking. They are banal, twee, self centred, bought from B&Q, gathered out of a skip, picked from the artist’s belly button or made from the residue of the local bunion trimming centre.
Then some bi-focalled pseudo-intellectually challenged inadequate sallies forth with a paper-thin justification for a six-foot copy of a latex-clad, suspended in stockings jelly baby. "It’s Man’s angst. Does he eat the jelly baby and devour all its sugary goodness, or does he make mad passionate love to it and be consumed by its sweet sex-crazed depravity?"…… (Bloody Hell, not a bad idea that – a sure fire winner for next year… Hmmm, latex-clad, six foot jelly baby).
Every year, it’s the same ‘subtle as a brick in the bread basket’ treatment. Never mind Nobs, Flies, Rotting Flesh and Festering Piles of Pink Putrefying Pustules…..
How about a nice landscape or a nice bit of greenery and maybe a flock of birds in a meadow? Some bambi-like cute looking deer with big puppy dog eyes would be nice ….. Come to think of it, I can’t remember seeing that ‘Pierot’ clown geezer with the teardrop on his cheek in any Turner exhibition. And why hasn’t the green Chinese lady or the Gypsy dancer made an appearance? Now that really would be shocking….
OK, here we are at the Tate Britain Gallery, waiting, gagging, and hyperventilating with anticipation at the prospect of gazing in adoration at the collective genius that is the infinitely infantile BritArt School. Within these walls, there lies a gloriously clichéd mix of emperor’s new clothes cutting edge dross.
I’m sure the genius that was Joseph Mallord William Turner, landscaping master of light, tone and shade would fully endorse some of the previous groundbreaking entries. Efforts such as Tracy Emmin’s detritus-strewn ‘Unmade Bed’, Damien Hirst’s ‘nice bit of fillet’ in formaldehyde - and the saddo that produced a light bulb going on and off in a concrete box.... Yeah, I'm sure he would.....
Anyway, that was then – and this is now, so let’s start and get the objective appraisal up and running. Just check I’ve got everything… Catalogue check, Dickie Bow check, Sick Bag (lots of them) check.
Objective Appraisal:
We’re in – and the overwhelming feeling is of horror and nausea. It’s not unlike the feeling I have when I’m clearing out our cat’s litter tray. The Turner entrant’s brief seems to be to SHOCK at all costs. These things aren’t even witty, or skilful or thought provoking. They are banal, twee, self centred, bought from B&Q, gathered out of a skip, picked from the artist’s belly button or made from the residue of the local bunion trimming centre.
Then some bi-focalled pseudo-intellectually challenged inadequate sallies forth with a paper-thin justification for a six-foot copy of a latex-clad, suspended in stockings jelly baby. "It’s Man’s angst. Does he eat the jelly baby and devour all its sugary goodness, or does he make mad passionate love to it and be consumed by its sweet sex-crazed depravity?"…… (Bloody Hell, not a bad idea that – a sure fire winner for next year… Hmmm, latex-clad, six foot jelly baby).
Every year, it’s the same ‘subtle as a brick in the bread basket’ treatment. Never mind Nobs, Flies, Rotting Flesh and Festering Piles of Pink Putrefying Pustules…..
How about a nice landscape or a nice bit of greenery and maybe a flock of birds in a meadow? Some bambi-like cute looking deer with big puppy dog eyes would be nice ….. Come to think of it, I can’t remember seeing that ‘Pierot’ clown geezer with the teardrop on his cheek in any Turner exhibition. And why hasn’t the green Chinese lady or the Gypsy dancer made an appearance? Now that really would be shocking….
Monday, November 03, 2003
The Big Apple – and we’re not talking Granny Smith’s…..
During the last week, I’ve been as busy as a busy bee at a buzz, buzz, buzzy bee convention….
Today ‘Rick’ from New York gave me a ring.
"Hiiiiyyyyyyaaaaa! – Is that the M.D. of the Company?"
"It is" – I reply.
"My name is Rick. I’m talking to you from Wall Street in Nooooo York City, and I want to make you richer – a lot richer than you already are!"
"Great – but I’m a bit busy at the moment – like a bee…. So.."
"Sure!" says Rick. "Sir I do deals, and when I get a sniff of a great deal, I like to share it with my clients. Successful clients – like yourself"
"Great"
"Sure, we made a fortune this Summer – in Plastics!
"Great"
"Sure! – Sir, can I ask you what your current portfolio value is at the moment….. Is it above a million or above five million?"
"Hmmmmm – let me think"…. I leave Rick stewing on regulo 5 whilst I meander, mumbling through these imaginary stocks and those imaginary bonds. "Yeah, mumble, mumble, Consolidated Condos’, French Letter Corp, CrapCo….."
"Well Rick, it looks like my portfolio stands at around eight million"
Rick’s gob is well smacked. "Eight million!…… – that’s some portfolio"
"Yeah Rick, it used to be over fifteen, but those muthas in French Letter Corp have blown me out…."
"Sir, can we act on your behalf in the American markets? We’ll get it back up to fifteen – and beyond!!!"
"Hmmmm, lemme think about that Rick - bud. I’ll get my people to talk to your people, yadder, yadder, yadder – and all like that - and everything"….
I shout across the room ….. "Hey asshole, I ordered pastrami on my Goddamm, Goddamm rye. And where’s my Soda with extra triple banana squishy? Geez Rick, I’m employing 'assholes anonymous' in this Goddamm place. Look Rick baby, there’s Tokyo on the other line. Ipso - gotta go, I’ll get back to ya – probably"
"Sir, it would be an honour"
"No problemo Rick, baby ……ciao".
During the last week, I’ve been as busy as a busy bee at a buzz, buzz, buzzy bee convention….
Today ‘Rick’ from New York gave me a ring.
"Hiiiiyyyyyyaaaaa! – Is that the M.D. of the Company?"
"It is" – I reply.
"My name is Rick. I’m talking to you from Wall Street in Nooooo York City, and I want to make you richer – a lot richer than you already are!"
"Great – but I’m a bit busy at the moment – like a bee…. So.."
"Sure!" says Rick. "Sir I do deals, and when I get a sniff of a great deal, I like to share it with my clients. Successful clients – like yourself"
"Great"
"Sure, we made a fortune this Summer – in Plastics!
"Great"
"Sure! – Sir, can I ask you what your current portfolio value is at the moment….. Is it above a million or above five million?"
"Hmmmmm – let me think"…. I leave Rick stewing on regulo 5 whilst I meander, mumbling through these imaginary stocks and those imaginary bonds. "Yeah, mumble, mumble, Consolidated Condos’, French Letter Corp, CrapCo….."
"Well Rick, it looks like my portfolio stands at around eight million"
Rick’s gob is well smacked. "Eight million!…… – that’s some portfolio"
"Yeah Rick, it used to be over fifteen, but those muthas in French Letter Corp have blown me out…."
"Sir, can we act on your behalf in the American markets? We’ll get it back up to fifteen – and beyond!!!"
"Hmmmm, lemme think about that Rick - bud. I’ll get my people to talk to your people, yadder, yadder, yadder – and all like that - and everything"….
I shout across the room ….. "Hey asshole, I ordered pastrami on my Goddamm, Goddamm rye. And where’s my Soda with extra triple banana squishy? Geez Rick, I’m employing 'assholes anonymous' in this Goddamm place. Look Rick baby, there’s Tokyo on the other line. Ipso - gotta go, I’ll get back to ya – probably"
"Sir, it would be an honour"
"No problemo Rick, baby ……ciao".
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Wednesday night is pub quiz night.
Because we know who’s who and what’s what, Alfie the know-all, Alfreda, and two of his pals tour the locality looking for sucker pubs and their quiz night prizes to exploit.
Last Wednesday we hit ‘The Bull and Dog’. We case the joint. "Fifteen quid first prize, easy, peasy, let’s do it!"
We saunter in, cocksure and cockily cerebral with it, we’re strangers in a strange pub. I feel like Alfie Eastwood in ‘A fistful of questions’. The pub hushes. Bar flies look us up and down. We get our drinks and find a table. A quick look round to ‘case’ the opposition confirms our suspicions that this is going to be like taking candy from a ……
Hang on….. I know that man. Just to the side of us, on the next table is a baldy geezer, aged about 55 with adoring entourage. He has a van dyke beatnik type beard … He’s a scouser and is waxing lyrical like a crazy man in a cool daddyo – oh so intelligent type way. His team is focused, they look like the biggest threat alright.
Cool Daddyo is chilling…… suddenly, he looks over and clocks me and our eyes meet – he recognises me. I met him about 15 years ago, when he brought his son in for a job in our studio. "And what University did you go to?" Cool Daddyo chips in… "Errr, Jimmy’s been to the University of Life" ….
"Has he got an art folder?"
"Not exactly, he has a ‘folder of opportunities’ - in his mind"…..
"In his mind? …….. Riiiiigggghhhhhttttt"
Not impressed, I show them the door. The door of ‘please sod off and stop wasting my time’…..
Back to the pub…..
Cool Daddyo is none other than ‘Redwall’ author Brian Jacques. I surreptitiously lean over and whisper to Mrs Alfie "There’s Brian Jacques"
"Who?"
"Brian Jacques, there’s Brian Jacques, sitting over there".
"Who?" She looks ‘round, craning her neck like a craney thing.
"Don’t look, don’t look, just don’t look"…..
I hiss, hissingly "It’s Brian Jacques – you know ….. the Author, Brian Jacques. He wrote the mousey saga – about mice"
"Who’s Brian Jacques?"
"AAGGGHHHHHH - You know, BRIAN bloody JACQUES!" I scream.. – "BRIAN Goddam-sodding JACQUES the author. It’s BRIAN fuckin’ JACQUES!"
"Ohh, that Brian Jacques……"
We got beaten by a team of Piltdown, missing link, inbred farmers at the end of the room.
Because we know who’s who and what’s what, Alfie the know-all, Alfreda, and two of his pals tour the locality looking for sucker pubs and their quiz night prizes to exploit.
Last Wednesday we hit ‘The Bull and Dog’. We case the joint. "Fifteen quid first prize, easy, peasy, let’s do it!"
We saunter in, cocksure and cockily cerebral with it, we’re strangers in a strange pub. I feel like Alfie Eastwood in ‘A fistful of questions’. The pub hushes. Bar flies look us up and down. We get our drinks and find a table. A quick look round to ‘case’ the opposition confirms our suspicions that this is going to be like taking candy from a ……
Hang on….. I know that man. Just to the side of us, on the next table is a baldy geezer, aged about 55 with adoring entourage. He has a van dyke beatnik type beard … He’s a scouser and is waxing lyrical like a crazy man in a cool daddyo – oh so intelligent type way. His team is focused, they look like the biggest threat alright.
Cool Daddyo is chilling…… suddenly, he looks over and clocks me and our eyes meet – he recognises me. I met him about 15 years ago, when he brought his son in for a job in our studio. "And what University did you go to?" Cool Daddyo chips in… "Errr, Jimmy’s been to the University of Life" ….
"Has he got an art folder?"
"Not exactly, he has a ‘folder of opportunities’ - in his mind"…..
"In his mind? …….. Riiiiigggghhhhhttttt"
Not impressed, I show them the door. The door of ‘please sod off and stop wasting my time’…..
Back to the pub…..
Cool Daddyo is none other than ‘Redwall’ author Brian Jacques. I surreptitiously lean over and whisper to Mrs Alfie "There’s Brian Jacques"
"Who?"
"Brian Jacques, there’s Brian Jacques, sitting over there".
"Who?" She looks ‘round, craning her neck like a craney thing.
"Don’t look, don’t look, just don’t look"…..
I hiss, hissingly "It’s Brian Jacques – you know ….. the Author, Brian Jacques. He wrote the mousey saga – about mice"
"Who’s Brian Jacques?"
"AAGGGHHHHHH - You know, BRIAN bloody JACQUES!" I scream.. – "BRIAN Goddam-sodding JACQUES the author. It’s BRIAN fuckin’ JACQUES!"
"Ohh, that Brian Jacques……"
We got beaten by a team of Piltdown, missing link, inbred farmers at the end of the room.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Bad day at ‘Hanging Rock’ today –
really, really bad day at the rocky, hanging place…..
Firstly, I have (rather condescendingly) been put down by some Government lackey on how to spell ‘QUANGO’ – I had applied to try and get my name on one and spelt it KWANGO – they’ve eeeed back ticking me off for misspelling the acronym. Big deal, arse boy! Do I not give an FCUK about that? I know that QUANGO stands for ‘Quasi Autonomous Non-Governmental Organisations’. I really do know that – and I really do know what they do for their hard-earned corn.
FCUK ALL.. That’s why I wanted to get on one in the first place!
Secondly? Well, after an in-depth 2 hour conversation with BT this morning, I came off reeling. I had originally rung them to ask why we haven’t had any bills for the last 6 months and also why our Standing Order repayments had soared to £270 per month.
"Because, Sir, you have racked up charges of two and a half thousand pounds since February".
"TWO AND A HALF THOUSAND POUNDS Geeeeezzzzusssss!!!!!!! Are you having a laugh or what!"
"But Sir, because you have been paying a monthly fee of £270 pounds, you now only owe £1,200"
"Whooooppppy fucking doo!"
BIG TIP: Adolescent lads, empty house, and small ads for chat lines just do not mix……
Alfie the Art Critic……
Another year, another Turner Competition.
I have decided to give the exhibits the once over and to impart onto each Artist the benefit of my not inconsiderable painty, painty experience.
This year, I have divided the exhibits into various categories, which I feel will best reflect the dynamic bravura of each piece – and how it optimally explores the juxtaposition between hard reality and soft soap. I will report tomorrow on each entry. I will be firm, but fair - rigid in a flopsy-whopsy sort of way and as outrageously posh as Brian Sewell at an elocution lesson.
The categories are as follows:
1) Utter shite (pretentious)
2) Utter, utter shite (actual. i.e. Elephant dung sculpture).
3) What the hell is that?
4) Skip sculpture.
5) Shock horror.
6) Pass me the sick bag.
7) Useless shapes from used bin bags.
8) Guts, nuts, butts and other offal offerings.
really, really bad day at the rocky, hanging place…..
Firstly, I have (rather condescendingly) been put down by some Government lackey on how to spell ‘QUANGO’ – I had applied to try and get my name on one and spelt it KWANGO – they’ve eeeed back ticking me off for misspelling the acronym. Big deal, arse boy! Do I not give an FCUK about that? I know that QUANGO stands for ‘Quasi Autonomous Non-Governmental Organisations’. I really do know that – and I really do know what they do for their hard-earned corn.
FCUK ALL.. That’s why I wanted to get on one in the first place!
Secondly? Well, after an in-depth 2 hour conversation with BT this morning, I came off reeling. I had originally rung them to ask why we haven’t had any bills for the last 6 months and also why our Standing Order repayments had soared to £270 per month.
"Because, Sir, you have racked up charges of two and a half thousand pounds since February".
"TWO AND A HALF THOUSAND POUNDS Geeeeezzzzusssss!!!!!!! Are you having a laugh or what!"
"But Sir, because you have been paying a monthly fee of £270 pounds, you now only owe £1,200"
"Whooooppppy fucking doo!"
BIG TIP: Adolescent lads, empty house, and small ads for chat lines just do not mix……
Alfie the Art Critic……
Another year, another Turner Competition.
I have decided to give the exhibits the once over and to impart onto each Artist the benefit of my not inconsiderable painty, painty experience.
This year, I have divided the exhibits into various categories, which I feel will best reflect the dynamic bravura of each piece – and how it optimally explores the juxtaposition between hard reality and soft soap. I will report tomorrow on each entry. I will be firm, but fair - rigid in a flopsy-whopsy sort of way and as outrageously posh as Brian Sewell at an elocution lesson.
The categories are as follows:
1) Utter shite (pretentious)
2) Utter, utter shite (actual. i.e. Elephant dung sculpture).
3) What the hell is that?
4) Skip sculpture.
5) Shock horror.
6) Pass me the sick bag.
7) Useless shapes from used bin bags.
8) Guts, nuts, butts and other offal offerings.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Alfie - a new third force in politics.....
Great news, I have received my form to apply to be a Lord (see Saturday's post) - I really, really have! I'm optimistic I can break the mould - and become the first 'joe average' to sit in the Upper Chamber. Maybe that could be my title - 'Lord Joe of Averageshire'.
But finding the right handle is not my only worry - I will need suitable accutrements - and I don't know where my local ermine shop is or where to order my crown from.
I'm also going to have to get used to being addressed as "Your Lordyness" - or in my case "Your Lardyness"
With this success, I have also applied to have a go at serving on a Government 'KWANGO'. So far no one has got back to me but as soon as I know, I'll post.
Isn't democracy wonderful?
Great news, I have received my form to apply to be a Lord (see Saturday's post) - I really, really have! I'm optimistic I can break the mould - and become the first 'joe average' to sit in the Upper Chamber. Maybe that could be my title - 'Lord Joe of Averageshire'.
But finding the right handle is not my only worry - I will need suitable accutrements - and I don't know where my local ermine shop is or where to order my crown from.
I'm also going to have to get used to being addressed as "Your Lordyness" - or in my case "Your Lardyness"
With this success, I have also applied to have a go at serving on a Government 'KWANGO'. So far no one has got back to me but as soon as I know, I'll post.
Isn't democracy wonderful?
Saturday, October 25, 2003
A wizard wheeze (and an early Chrizzy prezzy)…..
OK, I am going to share this with you – I’ve been doing it for years and it really does work!
The clocks go back on Saturday night – result? You get an extra hours sleep on Sunday morning. Absolutely no good at all.
What you want is an extra hour on Monday morning – when you really need it. Leave the clocks as they are, right the way through Sunday. OK, ‘Corry’ will be on an hour earlier but I can live with that. Go to bed as usual, set the clock as usual… then next morning when the alarm goes just turn over, and slap the ‘snooze’ button for another hour…… Serweeet. – you can then put the clocks back when you get up.
Democracy most definitely needs me……
After 30 years of working for a living, I have decided that I may, in the future like to take things a bit easier. With this in mind – and to embrace the first flush of democracy sweeping the upper chamber, I have decided to apply to work in the House of Lords - as a Lord, obviously.
It’s so easy, you log on to the HoL web site and ……… apply, nimps. I have sent my letter off, saying that I am of sound mind, have a clean driving licence etc. Now all I have to do is wait – meanwhile, I can practice painting eyeballs on my eyelids.
I suppose the other thing I have to consider is a suitably Lordly handle. I quite like Lord of the Rings. Second choice would be Lord a Leaping – or possibly Lord-a-lumpkins or even Lordy-Lordy-Lordy...
OK, I am going to share this with you – I’ve been doing it for years and it really does work!
The clocks go back on Saturday night – result? You get an extra hours sleep on Sunday morning. Absolutely no good at all.
What you want is an extra hour on Monday morning – when you really need it. Leave the clocks as they are, right the way through Sunday. OK, ‘Corry’ will be on an hour earlier but I can live with that. Go to bed as usual, set the clock as usual… then next morning when the alarm goes just turn over, and slap the ‘snooze’ button for another hour…… Serweeet. – you can then put the clocks back when you get up.
Democracy most definitely needs me……
After 30 years of working for a living, I have decided that I may, in the future like to take things a bit easier. With this in mind – and to embrace the first flush of democracy sweeping the upper chamber, I have decided to apply to work in the House of Lords - as a Lord, obviously.
It’s so easy, you log on to the HoL web site and ……… apply, nimps. I have sent my letter off, saying that I am of sound mind, have a clean driving licence etc. Now all I have to do is wait – meanwhile, I can practice painting eyeballs on my eyelids.
I suppose the other thing I have to consider is a suitably Lordly handle. I quite like Lord of the Rings. Second choice would be Lord a Leaping – or possibly Lord-a-lumpkins or even Lordy-Lordy-Lordy...
Friday, October 24, 2003
Out and about.........
I've been away all week, just got back from doing yet more art direction .…"Sorry, can we just try that again with a more genuine expression – oh, and can we please try to be less wooden, is that grin fixed?. "……
I’m totally knackered, massaging bruised photographer’s ego, liasing with client, general glad-handing and pushing cows around (we did some countryside shots)…
Don’t get me wrong, I really like this part of the job, it’s just so tiring – like Christmas shopping without the bags.
A few years ago we were doing a calendar for a bloody massive PetroChem Company. They had recently put down a gas pipeline running from Scotland to the North of England. In order to preserve the landscape, they built, then buried the pipe and re-instated the flora and fauna on top.
Our task was to show what a great job ‘OilyCo’ had done – and to be fair to them, they had! It was a really fab jolly, we stayed in some of the finest pubs in some of the finest countryside on offer. On one particularly fantastically ‘Turneresque’ day we found ourselves slap-bang on top of Shap Fell in the Lake District. Apparently, our brief was to meet up with a Professor of Botany and his assistant. They were conducting a survey on some reinstated moorland, making sure that everything was as it should have been. We were also told that they would be joined by a couple of students that were walking the route.
I met up with the photographer, a miserable, moaning rotund man, dressed head to foot in M & S beige casual gear. Pretty soon I find out he also has a ‘tact’ bypass and as his jaunty flat cap gets blown off and jauntily disappears over hill and dale, I notice a six inch wide centre parting on his head. "Ohhh ‘kin hell – me cap, that cost 15 quid!"
We espy the Prof’ & assistant in the distance and amble over to them. Bloody hell, what a great day, blue sky, fluffy clouds, wheeling scudding screaming skyborne birds – and us. We’re in God’s own photo’ studio – and he’s got the floods full on. The light is truly, truly amazing.
Dave, our photographer can be heard gently moaning…. "Bloody hell that Sun is bright ….moan, moan, moan … Christ, this heather’s soaking …. moan, moan, moan …. Jeeezzzusss – this sheep shit is everywhere! …. moan, moan …. God, I’ve got grass marks on me slacks …. moan, moan, moan."
Just then, on the far horizon, 2 figures can be seen striding towards us amongst the heather. Well, even at that distance, I can see that they are the young students. They are wearing tight T-shirts, jeans and wellies – and they both have clip-boards and a small shoulder bag.
In no time at all, they are almost upon us – they are both magnificent specimens of womanhood. I look over to Dave - photography is definitely not on his mind. Prof’ says to Dave, "Do you want to shoot us inspecting this particularly fine specimen of heather?"
Dave doesn’t answer. Dave is miles and miles away, locked up in his own Valhalla, stoically trying to disguise the mile wide parting, shooing away the viscous dribble oozing out from the corner of his mouth. Desperately trying to suck in his mile out gut and positioning his camera, (which has now sprouted a good 6 inch telephoto lens) somewhere near to his groinal accoutrements.
Dave’s in love with the students– and it’s serious. I watch, fascinated as I can see him searching, desperately searching, groping for the words. The perfect Keatsian phrase that will suitably sum up his new found love. Or maybe ‘The Bard’ – Shall I compare thee to a …..
Dave’s mind leaps out of neutral, and goes straight into turbo drive. Connection is made between brain and speech centre.
Dave opens his mouth points to the generously endowed chests and shouts ….. "Kin Hell, just look. JUST LOOK at the jiggerly joggerly jugaboos’ on those babeeezzzz!!"
The trouble with flat moorland is that there is just no where to look. No cover to hide in, no holes to swallow you up, and no AK 47’s lying about to blow away a gobby snapper.
I've been away all week, just got back from doing yet more art direction .…"Sorry, can we just try that again with a more genuine expression – oh, and can we please try to be less wooden, is that grin fixed?. "……
I’m totally knackered, massaging bruised photographer’s ego, liasing with client, general glad-handing and pushing cows around (we did some countryside shots)…
Don’t get me wrong, I really like this part of the job, it’s just so tiring – like Christmas shopping without the bags.
A few years ago we were doing a calendar for a bloody massive PetroChem Company. They had recently put down a gas pipeline running from Scotland to the North of England. In order to preserve the landscape, they built, then buried the pipe and re-instated the flora and fauna on top.
Our task was to show what a great job ‘OilyCo’ had done – and to be fair to them, they had! It was a really fab jolly, we stayed in some of the finest pubs in some of the finest countryside on offer. On one particularly fantastically ‘Turneresque’ day we found ourselves slap-bang on top of Shap Fell in the Lake District. Apparently, our brief was to meet up with a Professor of Botany and his assistant. They were conducting a survey on some reinstated moorland, making sure that everything was as it should have been. We were also told that they would be joined by a couple of students that were walking the route.
I met up with the photographer, a miserable, moaning rotund man, dressed head to foot in M & S beige casual gear. Pretty soon I find out he also has a ‘tact’ bypass and as his jaunty flat cap gets blown off and jauntily disappears over hill and dale, I notice a six inch wide centre parting on his head. "Ohhh ‘kin hell – me cap, that cost 15 quid!"
We espy the Prof’ & assistant in the distance and amble over to them. Bloody hell, what a great day, blue sky, fluffy clouds, wheeling scudding screaming skyborne birds – and us. We’re in God’s own photo’ studio – and he’s got the floods full on. The light is truly, truly amazing.
Dave, our photographer can be heard gently moaning…. "Bloody hell that Sun is bright ….moan, moan, moan … Christ, this heather’s soaking …. moan, moan, moan …. Jeeezzzusss – this sheep shit is everywhere! …. moan, moan …. God, I’ve got grass marks on me slacks …. moan, moan, moan."
Just then, on the far horizon, 2 figures can be seen striding towards us amongst the heather. Well, even at that distance, I can see that they are the young students. They are wearing tight T-shirts, jeans and wellies – and they both have clip-boards and a small shoulder bag.
In no time at all, they are almost upon us – they are both magnificent specimens of womanhood. I look over to Dave - photography is definitely not on his mind. Prof’ says to Dave, "Do you want to shoot us inspecting this particularly fine specimen of heather?"
Dave doesn’t answer. Dave is miles and miles away, locked up in his own Valhalla, stoically trying to disguise the mile wide parting, shooing away the viscous dribble oozing out from the corner of his mouth. Desperately trying to suck in his mile out gut and positioning his camera, (which has now sprouted a good 6 inch telephoto lens) somewhere near to his groinal accoutrements.
Dave’s in love with the students– and it’s serious. I watch, fascinated as I can see him searching, desperately searching, groping for the words. The perfect Keatsian phrase that will suitably sum up his new found love. Or maybe ‘The Bard’ – Shall I compare thee to a …..
Dave’s mind leaps out of neutral, and goes straight into turbo drive. Connection is made between brain and speech centre.
Dave opens his mouth points to the generously endowed chests and shouts ….. "Kin Hell, just look. JUST LOOK at the jiggerly joggerly jugaboos’ on those babeeezzzz!!"
The trouble with flat moorland is that there is just no where to look. No cover to hide in, no holes to swallow you up, and no AK 47’s lying about to blow away a gobby snapper.
Friday, October 17, 2003
The ‘X’ files………
I’m not always ‘Alfie the OK.’ I have another persona – occasionally I am ‘Alfie the politician worrier.’
I write reams to them – I like to think they are pithy, witty, punchy letters that unfortunate politicians read with trepidation and awe. Once read, they immediately change Government policy as a consequence.
"Oh my God, it’s pithily witty Alfie – again showing us the error of our ways….. Thank goodness for Alfie and his wise words of waffle. If only he could be PM…."
The reality is that they are stamped ‘sod off you sad Meldrew git’ then shoved straight into the recycling bin. The old girl (Old mother Alfie) has been warning me – "I’m warning you, you’ll have ‘em-fifteen’ building a file on you."
"Em-eye-five" I wearily gesticulate. "It’s M-I-5…."
"AND they’ll be buggering your ‘phone"
Now I’d like to see that trick…..
Two weeks later, middle son rings me…. Apparently, there is a BT engineer fiddling with our wall box. Apparently, he says that there is a ‘fault’ on the line. Apparently, no one has reported it, but "there just is"
How’s that for efficiency? Bloody suspicious I think.
I rush home. It’s only 5 minutes from our office and knowing the inefficiency of BT, I reckoned he wouldn’t even have got his coat off and enquired about our tea stocks by the time I got there.
I get home fully expecting to see a man buggering a ‘phone but shadowy engineering dude has already gone. Tyre tracks are all that’s left of the BT Bug-mobile…
I rush in – "Was he a ‘smoking man’?"
"No, he wasn’t even a tea drinking man"
The box has been tampered with alright.
He’s disconnected our upstairs extension and has been fiddling around within.
"What are you looking for?"
"Bugs – I’m looking for bugs"
"What’s a bug look like Dad?"
I don’t know…….. I just don’t know what the bloody hell I’m looking for. Within the box is a passable impression of 3 plates of tangled up spaghetti – then there is some little boxy things with spikes sticking out. By this time, all 3 of the younger kids are standing in a line looking at me desperately fumbling about.
"Has a spy been here Dad?"
In desperation, I grab a bit of scratty earthing wire – attached to nothing in the bottom of the box.
"Ahhhh. Got it!"
I triumphantly hold aloft my very, very tightly closed fist.
"Well let’s see it then – the bug, let’s see the bug"
With that, I rush upstairs…
"Sorry, too dangerous – much, much too dangerous – must neutralise with bog water"
Upstairs to toilet, shut door, flush toilet, slip wire into pocket.
Emerge hero…
Hurrah, Big Brother foiled again!!
The power of advertising, so time to conduct an experiment …...
Call me ‘Thicky McTavish’ from the village ‘Densegit’ or whatever, but I’ve just noticed something. Sometimes the little blue adverts on the top of blogspot pages have a definite link with stuff that has been written a few days previously on the blog. So if you’re banging on about games and pastimes – a couple of days later you get ads for snooker tables and chess sets etc.
The server thingee must scan the blog for key words that link to its ad’ pool and bingo! – ‘warm’ advertising……
Anyway, have you been watching the Rugby? That DIRTY Aussie HOOKER, what a disgrace. And what about the motorways – traffic jams all the way! I travelled South the other day, there I was, tootling along in my Ford ESCORT, going nowhere fast….. I eventually turned up in MiddleSEX.
‘ Thinking of going to AMSTERDAM for a short break. I do LOVE going away. It’s going to be a coach TOUR. Must go now, a man is delivering our new SHAG pile carpet.
Subtle, it aint ….
I’m not always ‘Alfie the OK.’ I have another persona – occasionally I am ‘Alfie the politician worrier.’
I write reams to them – I like to think they are pithy, witty, punchy letters that unfortunate politicians read with trepidation and awe. Once read, they immediately change Government policy as a consequence.
"Oh my God, it’s pithily witty Alfie – again showing us the error of our ways….. Thank goodness for Alfie and his wise words of waffle. If only he could be PM…."
The reality is that they are stamped ‘sod off you sad Meldrew git’ then shoved straight into the recycling bin. The old girl (Old mother Alfie) has been warning me – "I’m warning you, you’ll have ‘em-fifteen’ building a file on you."
"Em-eye-five" I wearily gesticulate. "It’s M-I-5…."
"AND they’ll be buggering your ‘phone"
Now I’d like to see that trick…..
Two weeks later, middle son rings me…. Apparently, there is a BT engineer fiddling with our wall box. Apparently, he says that there is a ‘fault’ on the line. Apparently, no one has reported it, but "there just is"
How’s that for efficiency? Bloody suspicious I think.
I rush home. It’s only 5 minutes from our office and knowing the inefficiency of BT, I reckoned he wouldn’t even have got his coat off and enquired about our tea stocks by the time I got there.
I get home fully expecting to see a man buggering a ‘phone but shadowy engineering dude has already gone. Tyre tracks are all that’s left of the BT Bug-mobile…
I rush in – "Was he a ‘smoking man’?"
"No, he wasn’t even a tea drinking man"
The box has been tampered with alright.
He’s disconnected our upstairs extension and has been fiddling around within.
"What are you looking for?"
"Bugs – I’m looking for bugs"
"What’s a bug look like Dad?"
I don’t know…….. I just don’t know what the bloody hell I’m looking for. Within the box is a passable impression of 3 plates of tangled up spaghetti – then there is some little boxy things with spikes sticking out. By this time, all 3 of the younger kids are standing in a line looking at me desperately fumbling about.
"Has a spy been here Dad?"
In desperation, I grab a bit of scratty earthing wire – attached to nothing in the bottom of the box.
"Ahhhh. Got it!"
I triumphantly hold aloft my very, very tightly closed fist.
"Well let’s see it then – the bug, let’s see the bug"
With that, I rush upstairs…
"Sorry, too dangerous – much, much too dangerous – must neutralise with bog water"
Upstairs to toilet, shut door, flush toilet, slip wire into pocket.
Emerge hero…
Hurrah, Big Brother foiled again!!
The power of advertising, so time to conduct an experiment …...
Call me ‘Thicky McTavish’ from the village ‘Densegit’ or whatever, but I’ve just noticed something. Sometimes the little blue adverts on the top of blogspot pages have a definite link with stuff that has been written a few days previously on the blog. So if you’re banging on about games and pastimes – a couple of days later you get ads for snooker tables and chess sets etc.
The server thingee must scan the blog for key words that link to its ad’ pool and bingo! – ‘warm’ advertising……
Anyway, have you been watching the Rugby? That DIRTY Aussie HOOKER, what a disgrace. And what about the motorways – traffic jams all the way! I travelled South the other day, there I was, tootling along in my Ford ESCORT, going nowhere fast….. I eventually turned up in MiddleSEX.
‘ Thinking of going to AMSTERDAM for a short break. I do LOVE going away. It’s going to be a coach TOUR. Must go now, a man is delivering our new SHAG pile carpet.
Subtle, it aint ….
Thursday, October 16, 2003
In Space, no one can hear you scleam…
So the Chinese have thought of a new word for their ‘star sailors’. The Yanks have ‘Astronaut’ the Russians, ‘Cosmonaut’ – and the Chinese now have ‘taikonaut’ – (after ‘taikong,’ the Chinese word for space).
It’s got me thinking – what would we name our own explorers of space? Imagine the scene, plucky Tommy Atkins is blasted off into space aboard the lottery-funded, coal-fired, built from recycled bits of the Millennium dome – GB1 Rocket.
Raymond Baxter could do the commentary, "The blue touch paper has been lit ….. and there she goes, orf to the stars – GB 1. This great symbol of British ingenuity climbs majestically into the sky, speeding to its escape velocity of 68 miles per hour. Aboard is squadron leader ‘plucky’ Tommy Atkins. We salute you plucky Tommy, and no doubt you’ll be back in time to have kippers for breakfast".
So what could we call him? After all, GB 1 has been built in Britain by British workers using the very latest cutting edge steam driven technology. Backed by our dynamic Prime Minister & his competent Cabinet and funded by a leading edge, focused, Government backed scientific agency…….
Well we have to call him a ‘Fearnaut’ – obviously.
You never see these two in the same place…….
Hands up all those who think that the prodigiously talented footy wunderkind, Wayne Rooney and the three legged potato headed Coca Cola striker in the trailer for ITV’s ‘The Premiership’ are one and the same person…..
Stating the bleeding obvious.....
This is a really real ad' in our local red top.
(Thanks to Mrs Alfie - (Alfreda) for pointing this one out to me).
IRONER REQUIRED -
15-35 hours per week,
Ormskirk area,
MUST BE ABLE TO IRON......
So the Chinese have thought of a new word for their ‘star sailors’. The Yanks have ‘Astronaut’ the Russians, ‘Cosmonaut’ – and the Chinese now have ‘taikonaut’ – (after ‘taikong,’ the Chinese word for space).
It’s got me thinking – what would we name our own explorers of space? Imagine the scene, plucky Tommy Atkins is blasted off into space aboard the lottery-funded, coal-fired, built from recycled bits of the Millennium dome – GB1 Rocket.
Raymond Baxter could do the commentary, "The blue touch paper has been lit ….. and there she goes, orf to the stars – GB 1. This great symbol of British ingenuity climbs majestically into the sky, speeding to its escape velocity of 68 miles per hour. Aboard is squadron leader ‘plucky’ Tommy Atkins. We salute you plucky Tommy, and no doubt you’ll be back in time to have kippers for breakfast".
So what could we call him? After all, GB 1 has been built in Britain by British workers using the very latest cutting edge steam driven technology. Backed by our dynamic Prime Minister & his competent Cabinet and funded by a leading edge, focused, Government backed scientific agency…….
Well we have to call him a ‘Fearnaut’ – obviously.
You never see these two in the same place…….
Hands up all those who think that the prodigiously talented footy wunderkind, Wayne Rooney and the three legged potato headed Coca Cola striker in the trailer for ITV’s ‘The Premiership’ are one and the same person…..
Stating the bleeding obvious.....
This is a really real ad' in our local red top.
(Thanks to Mrs Alfie - (Alfreda) for pointing this one out to me).
IRONER REQUIRED -
15-35 hours per week,
Ormskirk area,
MUST BE ABLE TO IRON......
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Job Advert......
Wanted, Woman with twin set, to work in a vibrant, 'hair free' office environment. Must be able to compile copious amounts of Christmas card lists - in alphabetical order. Must have moist tongue (for licking stamps) and a merry Yuletide disposition for writing the greetings within.
Other duties, organising Bazaars, Jumble Sales and Summer Fairs.
The successful applicant will be required to have an HNC in 'pencil sharpening' and a focused and relentless pursuit of maximising sales of 'Bring and Buy' tickets to friends and relations.
Idiots need not apply, we don't want a Patsy - or even a Betsy.
Salary: !5k p.a.
Perks: Use of a black limo' and unlimited supplies of blue hair dye.
Hours: Possibly, but not essential.
Holidays: One long one.
Boring, boring Clint.....
Did anyone see Clint Eastwood being interviewed by Parky last Saturday? Boring or what - especially as Ben Elton and Jennifer Saunders were the other previous guests.
Parky would ask a question, monotone Clint would drone back some banal answer. Parky would then retort his standard code response for 'Christ, this is boring' .... "Ohh really? How extraordinary."
Pretty soon, I was ruminating "Go on Clint, make my day - GIVE US A REASON TO CARRY ON LIVING!"
"I know what you're thinking, have I shot five questions at you, or have I shot six?" "Do you feel lucky, punk? Well do ya?
You're damn right I do Clint baby, I've just found the Remote!
Wanted, Woman with twin set, to work in a vibrant, 'hair free' office environment. Must be able to compile copious amounts of Christmas card lists - in alphabetical order. Must have moist tongue (for licking stamps) and a merry Yuletide disposition for writing the greetings within.
Other duties, organising Bazaars, Jumble Sales and Summer Fairs.
The successful applicant will be required to have an HNC in 'pencil sharpening' and a focused and relentless pursuit of maximising sales of 'Bring and Buy' tickets to friends and relations.
Idiots need not apply, we don't want a Patsy - or even a Betsy.
Salary: !5k p.a.
Perks: Use of a black limo' and unlimited supplies of blue hair dye.
Hours: Possibly, but not essential.
Holidays: One long one.
Boring, boring Clint.....
Did anyone see Clint Eastwood being interviewed by Parky last Saturday? Boring or what - especially as Ben Elton and Jennifer Saunders were the other previous guests.
Parky would ask a question, monotone Clint would drone back some banal answer. Parky would then retort his standard code response for 'Christ, this is boring' .... "Ohh really? How extraordinary."
Pretty soon, I was ruminating "Go on Clint, make my day - GIVE US A REASON TO CARRY ON LIVING!"
"I know what you're thinking, have I shot five questions at you, or have I shot six?" "Do you feel lucky, punk? Well do ya?
You're damn right I do Clint baby, I've just found the Remote!
Monday, October 13, 2003
Grey matters....... but green matters more .....
09068 444444 ….. "Thanks for calling ‘Who wants to be a millionaire….." So starts the Chris Tarrant auto phone response for the TV show, ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire?’ (Well, I do, obviously)
I’ve rung that number so many times my index digit can do it on air ‘phone. Ever since the very first trailer came on our screens I’ve been obsessed with the power and glory that the show promises – oh, and the cash ….. always the cash.
It got to such a pitch, I even used to practice my ‘I’ve won a million quid celebration’, now to do a grass splash dive – or maybe a ‘strongman pointing to the sky’ pose……. Or even sticking my shirt over my head and revealing the message on my vest – ‘I hate you Tarrant, you smug tosser – now gizz the cash".
I reckon that over the years, I must have ‘phoned to get on the show at least 500 times – probably nearer to 800. That’s a hell of a lot of Tarrant to listen to. I’ve tried answering the phone prompt questions and registering my details in various regional and ethnic accents to try to take advantage of any positive discrimination policy they may have. I’ve also done posh, common, spivvy, divvy and jaunty. All to no avail, the ‘Tarrantino’ has never rung me back.
I know a couple of people that have got on the show "Ohh yes Alfie, I just rang a few times, they rang back, I got the qualifying question correct and ‘bingo’, I was on." Then I ask them why didn’t they ask me to be one of their ‘phone a friend,’ friends?
"Sorry, never thought"
"But I knew the 4 grand question you went out on. I knew that the first British woman to climb ‘Everest’ was Rachel Stevens……. I bloody well knew it. I could have got you up to 8 grand at least …… TOSSER!"
"A tosser with 4 grand in my pocket!"……
I don’t ring quite so much now, not since I was perusing the printout on my ‘phone bill a few months ago. "Geez, what the bloody hell is all this then? There must be 80 quids worth of premium number call fees here". As any dutiful, pissed off father would, I lined my kids up and asked them which one had been making the calls. Everyone swore their innocence. "Paaa!" I scoffed, scoffily…
"I scoff at your pathetic efforts at any feeble minded attempt at weedling out from your guilt. Someone has made those calls – and I intend to find out EXACTLY who it is. Then I will deduct it from your pocket money. Do you think I was born yesterday? Do you think you could get away with it? …….. I am going to ring the number – and if the voice at the end of the line is giving out advice on computer game cheats, how to get girls or advice about pimples – there will be hell to pay"…..
And so I tap, theatrically tapping the number out on the hand set – funny but it does seem vaguely familiar……
I wait for the connection, the tension is barely bearable ……. "Thanks for calling Who wants to"…. I ring off.
"Right, this time, THIS TIME I will let you off"….
"Well, who was it?"
"Never mind, it doesn’t matter – just sod off, all of you"
I thought I had got away with it, unfortunately, my youngest son knows all about the redial facility on the handset ……
09068 444444 ….. "Thanks for calling ‘Who wants to be a millionaire….." So starts the Chris Tarrant auto phone response for the TV show, ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire?’ (Well, I do, obviously)
I’ve rung that number so many times my index digit can do it on air ‘phone. Ever since the very first trailer came on our screens I’ve been obsessed with the power and glory that the show promises – oh, and the cash ….. always the cash.
It got to such a pitch, I even used to practice my ‘I’ve won a million quid celebration’, now to do a grass splash dive – or maybe a ‘strongman pointing to the sky’ pose……. Or even sticking my shirt over my head and revealing the message on my vest – ‘I hate you Tarrant, you smug tosser – now gizz the cash".
I reckon that over the years, I must have ‘phoned to get on the show at least 500 times – probably nearer to 800. That’s a hell of a lot of Tarrant to listen to. I’ve tried answering the phone prompt questions and registering my details in various regional and ethnic accents to try to take advantage of any positive discrimination policy they may have. I’ve also done posh, common, spivvy, divvy and jaunty. All to no avail, the ‘Tarrantino’ has never rung me back.
I know a couple of people that have got on the show "Ohh yes Alfie, I just rang a few times, they rang back, I got the qualifying question correct and ‘bingo’, I was on." Then I ask them why didn’t they ask me to be one of their ‘phone a friend,’ friends?
"Sorry, never thought"
"But I knew the 4 grand question you went out on. I knew that the first British woman to climb ‘Everest’ was Rachel Stevens……. I bloody well knew it. I could have got you up to 8 grand at least …… TOSSER!"
"A tosser with 4 grand in my pocket!"……
I don’t ring quite so much now, not since I was perusing the printout on my ‘phone bill a few months ago. "Geez, what the bloody hell is all this then? There must be 80 quids worth of premium number call fees here". As any dutiful, pissed off father would, I lined my kids up and asked them which one had been making the calls. Everyone swore their innocence. "Paaa!" I scoffed, scoffily…
"I scoff at your pathetic efforts at any feeble minded attempt at weedling out from your guilt. Someone has made those calls – and I intend to find out EXACTLY who it is. Then I will deduct it from your pocket money. Do you think I was born yesterday? Do you think you could get away with it? …….. I am going to ring the number – and if the voice at the end of the line is giving out advice on computer game cheats, how to get girls or advice about pimples – there will be hell to pay"…..
And so I tap, theatrically tapping the number out on the hand set – funny but it does seem vaguely familiar……
I wait for the connection, the tension is barely bearable ……. "Thanks for calling Who wants to"…. I ring off.
"Right, this time, THIS TIME I will let you off"….
"Well, who was it?"
"Never mind, it doesn’t matter – just sod off, all of you"
I thought I had got away with it, unfortunately, my youngest son knows all about the redial facility on the handset ……
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Chess – showing its age …..
I was thinking the other day, it’s about time that Chess, the greatest game in the world – ever; should have a makeover. Not a Linda Barker or (God help us) an Anna Ryder Richardson job… "Oooohhh yes Carol, just got to drape this fantastic velour off the Rook, sprinkle some glitter on this gambit – and we’ll be finished".
I was thinking about being a bit more radical…..
It’s been around for thousands of years – unchanged. So how about freshening it up? After all, ‘Monopoly’ has been updated - and that’s only 65 years old.
I don’t mean changing the pawns into wearing Star Wars garb, giving the Bishop a ‘power mitre’ or dressing the Queen in a Quentin Crisp outfit. I was thinking about a whole new team member. A new man or two that would compliment the existing crew.
You’ve got your Bishop, Castley thing and Horsey gee-gee, I though that we could get rid of a couple of pawns and bring in ‘Omega’ and ‘Politician’
Omega would be in the shape of a button and would be in 2 parts. Part 1 would sit on top of the board, the second part would be hidden somewhere underneath the board, known only to each player.
And that second part would consist of a little bit of plastic explosive and have wires connected to part 1 – the button. The explosive would be just enough to take out 10 squares.
Each player would attempt to lure the opposing pieces towards the area that the volatile bit of the Omega piece was hidden. Once the player was satisfied that he had gathered enough opposing pieces into the Omega or ‘Death Zone’ he would reach for his Omega button.
Imagine how a match between Gary Kasparov and our own plucky loser Nigel Short might be really spiced up…
"Oh my God, Kasparov’s about to deploy the Omega gambit"
"DUCK!!!"
The ‘Politician’ is an altogether different affair. This piece would be a stiletto shape, cast in 100% Machiavellian ore – with a specially hardened two-faced tip. When a player is in a particularly difficult and tricky situation he very slyly and very coldly picks up ‘The Politician’.
The opposing player, referee and audience all fail to notice.. Everyone is distracted by a manifesto given out by the player holding the ‘Politician’ "Hmmmm lower taxes and better healthcare – sounds good"…
The player with the piece in his hand excuses himself to go to the toilet – as he is passing his opponent, he makes his move and stabs him in the back - with the Politician, right between the shoulder blades.
"Ohh my God, he’s used the ‘spinal tap’ gambit! Brilliant, quite, quite brilliant…"
Talking about Chess……
Ever tried to do the trick where you start at the first square of a chess board with 1 grain of rice? The next square has 2 grains and the one after that 4, and so on, doubling up on every square. Has anyone ever got to the end? I tried once, ended up nearly halfway across with a ton of paper and 86 gazziollion zeros.
And finally…..
On the chess front – My most favourite, chess-related quote from dour, mashed-in Blackpool fighter Brian London. The time – the mid ‘60’s and Brian is bitterly reflecting on the way he has been manipulated throughout his pugilistic career.
Brian declared "Me? I’m just a prawn in the game"……..
‘Nuff said.
I was thinking the other day, it’s about time that Chess, the greatest game in the world – ever; should have a makeover. Not a Linda Barker or (God help us) an Anna Ryder Richardson job… "Oooohhh yes Carol, just got to drape this fantastic velour off the Rook, sprinkle some glitter on this gambit – and we’ll be finished".
I was thinking about being a bit more radical…..
It’s been around for thousands of years – unchanged. So how about freshening it up? After all, ‘Monopoly’ has been updated - and that’s only 65 years old.
I don’t mean changing the pawns into wearing Star Wars garb, giving the Bishop a ‘power mitre’ or dressing the Queen in a Quentin Crisp outfit. I was thinking about a whole new team member. A new man or two that would compliment the existing crew.
You’ve got your Bishop, Castley thing and Horsey gee-gee, I though that we could get rid of a couple of pawns and bring in ‘Omega’ and ‘Politician’
Omega would be in the shape of a button and would be in 2 parts. Part 1 would sit on top of the board, the second part would be hidden somewhere underneath the board, known only to each player.
And that second part would consist of a little bit of plastic explosive and have wires connected to part 1 – the button. The explosive would be just enough to take out 10 squares.
Each player would attempt to lure the opposing pieces towards the area that the volatile bit of the Omega piece was hidden. Once the player was satisfied that he had gathered enough opposing pieces into the Omega or ‘Death Zone’ he would reach for his Omega button.
Imagine how a match between Gary Kasparov and our own plucky loser Nigel Short might be really spiced up…
"Oh my God, Kasparov’s about to deploy the Omega gambit"
"DUCK!!!"
The ‘Politician’ is an altogether different affair. This piece would be a stiletto shape, cast in 100% Machiavellian ore – with a specially hardened two-faced tip. When a player is in a particularly difficult and tricky situation he very slyly and very coldly picks up ‘The Politician’.
The opposing player, referee and audience all fail to notice.. Everyone is distracted by a manifesto given out by the player holding the ‘Politician’ "Hmmmm lower taxes and better healthcare – sounds good"…
The player with the piece in his hand excuses himself to go to the toilet – as he is passing his opponent, he makes his move and stabs him in the back - with the Politician, right between the shoulder blades.
"Ohh my God, he’s used the ‘spinal tap’ gambit! Brilliant, quite, quite brilliant…"
Talking about Chess……
Ever tried to do the trick where you start at the first square of a chess board with 1 grain of rice? The next square has 2 grains and the one after that 4, and so on, doubling up on every square. Has anyone ever got to the end? I tried once, ended up nearly halfway across with a ton of paper and 86 gazziollion zeros.
And finally…..
On the chess front – My most favourite, chess-related quote from dour, mashed-in Blackpool fighter Brian London. The time – the mid ‘60’s and Brian is bitterly reflecting on the way he has been manipulated throughout his pugilistic career.
Brian declared "Me? I’m just a prawn in the game"……..
‘Nuff said.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Smoking gun…..
So, another widow is taking tobacco companies to court – suing them for killing her husband. Sorry, widow woman, but you just can’t do it, it just won’t wash, it just aint right. – Your hubby knew exactly what he was doing – basically committing suicide in a long winded and short of breathless sort of way. Shoving a cocktail of poisons down your lungs every few minutes is going to kill – eventually. Ignorance was a defence in the early part of the last century – but since the ‘50’s ciggies have had the bad press they deserve.
‘Alfie the abstainer’ used to be ‘Alfie the chain smoker’ – regularly going through 5 packs of 20 a day. I was so weed dependent that at night I would brush my stained, yellowing teeth in the bathroom – then light up for my walk to the bedroom. At work, I had a glass fruit bowl for an ash tray – its capacity was about 600 stumps, easy. I gave up 20 years ago when my first son was born. He was born, I held him in my arms, had a celebratory fag and stopped dead. It was easy; the alternative was halitosis, leg ulcers, cancer, emphysema, heart disease and death. The only complication was going from ‘Alfie the slim jim’ to ‘Alfie the big boned’
Arnie’s Army…..
Arnold Schwarzenegger pumped up body-builder, wooden actor, political clone of ‘dubbya’ - and a man with more skeletons in his locker than Bobby the bone collector has been on the news a lot lately. Always anxious to capitalise on our fiscal potential I was a bit disappointed when I asked my wife if Arnie had ever attempted to grope her. "No" Came the firm reply. "For God’s sake, THINK! Arnie used to live in Blackpool you know – you might have run into him there"
"Definitely not"
"I’ll throw Max Clifford’s ‘phone number away then"…..
Why doesn’t he stick to ‘actoring’? A few years ago we were taking our youngest son to see one of his more family friendly movies. "And it stars Arnold Schwarzenegger" I said enthusiastically.
He turned and looked at me "Who’s Arnold Sports-Mega then?"
Deggsy’s back…..
It’s great to see scouse medium Derek Acorah back on the box. For those who haven’t seen his programmes, Derek, along with ex Blue Peter presenter Yvette Fielding fronts a show on Living TV called ‘Most Haunted’.
The format of the show is to visit haunted locations all over the Country. The crew arrive during the day, set up experiments and camera equipment, wait until dark then SWITCH ALL THE LIGHTS OFF!!
Deggsy then goes around each spooky room with his little torch and tells us about the spirits that ‘live’ there. Sometimes it’s a wonder there is any room left for the furniture - there are so many spirits in one place.
It is amazing just how many times he is spot on, he names people, dates, tragedies etc that no one in the house has heard of before. Occasionally, he will meet up with a real bad ‘un. During an episode in an old Methodist church in Manchester last year he was completely taken over by a malevolent spirit who used to be a minister there. Christ, it was scary….. there was Derek strutting about and shouting his head off telling everyone to get out of his church. Then all of a sudden, he collapses, sweats buckets and whimpers "Get me out of here"
It’s great TV – last night they were all at a really spooky WW2 airfield. It was probably one of the best episodes yet. Lots of spooked panicky people, lots of girlies screaming, lots of crew members kacking their pants – and the sceptical psychologist scratching his head at the end of the show.
I don’t know if I believe – but I think that Derek really does think that he communicates with dead people.
Most Haunted, Living TV, Tuesdays @ 9.00pm.
So, another widow is taking tobacco companies to court – suing them for killing her husband. Sorry, widow woman, but you just can’t do it, it just won’t wash, it just aint right. – Your hubby knew exactly what he was doing – basically committing suicide in a long winded and short of breathless sort of way. Shoving a cocktail of poisons down your lungs every few minutes is going to kill – eventually. Ignorance was a defence in the early part of the last century – but since the ‘50’s ciggies have had the bad press they deserve.
‘Alfie the abstainer’ used to be ‘Alfie the chain smoker’ – regularly going through 5 packs of 20 a day. I was so weed dependent that at night I would brush my stained, yellowing teeth in the bathroom – then light up for my walk to the bedroom. At work, I had a glass fruit bowl for an ash tray – its capacity was about 600 stumps, easy. I gave up 20 years ago when my first son was born. He was born, I held him in my arms, had a celebratory fag and stopped dead. It was easy; the alternative was halitosis, leg ulcers, cancer, emphysema, heart disease and death. The only complication was going from ‘Alfie the slim jim’ to ‘Alfie the big boned’
Arnie’s Army…..
Arnold Schwarzenegger pumped up body-builder, wooden actor, political clone of ‘dubbya’ - and a man with more skeletons in his locker than Bobby the bone collector has been on the news a lot lately. Always anxious to capitalise on our fiscal potential I was a bit disappointed when I asked my wife if Arnie had ever attempted to grope her. "No" Came the firm reply. "For God’s sake, THINK! Arnie used to live in Blackpool you know – you might have run into him there"
"Definitely not"
"I’ll throw Max Clifford’s ‘phone number away then"…..
Why doesn’t he stick to ‘actoring’? A few years ago we were taking our youngest son to see one of his more family friendly movies. "And it stars Arnold Schwarzenegger" I said enthusiastically.
He turned and looked at me "Who’s Arnold Sports-Mega then?"
Deggsy’s back…..
It’s great to see scouse medium Derek Acorah back on the box. For those who haven’t seen his programmes, Derek, along with ex Blue Peter presenter Yvette Fielding fronts a show on Living TV called ‘Most Haunted’.
The format of the show is to visit haunted locations all over the Country. The crew arrive during the day, set up experiments and camera equipment, wait until dark then SWITCH ALL THE LIGHTS OFF!!
Deggsy then goes around each spooky room with his little torch and tells us about the spirits that ‘live’ there. Sometimes it’s a wonder there is any room left for the furniture - there are so many spirits in one place.
It is amazing just how many times he is spot on, he names people, dates, tragedies etc that no one in the house has heard of before. Occasionally, he will meet up with a real bad ‘un. During an episode in an old Methodist church in Manchester last year he was completely taken over by a malevolent spirit who used to be a minister there. Christ, it was scary….. there was Derek strutting about and shouting his head off telling everyone to get out of his church. Then all of a sudden, he collapses, sweats buckets and whimpers "Get me out of here"
It’s great TV – last night they were all at a really spooky WW2 airfield. It was probably one of the best episodes yet. Lots of spooked panicky people, lots of girlies screaming, lots of crew members kacking their pants – and the sceptical psychologist scratching his head at the end of the show.
I don’t know if I believe – but I think that Derek really does think that he communicates with dead people.
Most Haunted, Living TV, Tuesdays @ 9.00pm.
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Magic – the new black….
Well, first it was St David Blaine of Pretentia – then ‘Roy’ from the poptastic 70’s throwback magic duo ‘Siegfried and Roy’ got half of his neck seriously sucked by a well pissed off white tiger. Now - mind maestro Derren Brown of Dementia crops up with his ballistic bravado. The Russian-Rouletter extraordinary sticks his Smith and Wesson to his temple and ‘click’ the tension rises. Will he blow his brains out, (click) will he put us off our Sunday supper? (click) It’s taken magic to a whole new level.
Kaboom! – "Christ, what a mess. Who’d have thought it – a magician cocking up a trick like that"
"Just turn over, Heartbeat’s on the other side"………
Gone are the tuxedos, white doves, endless knotted hankies and dull background xylophone music. Gone are the inane card tricks, the cheesy smiles and the frilly assistants. In, are contrived life-threatening operettas played in front of our very eyes – for our minimal and transient entertainment.
Whatever happened to Jonny Hart, Ali Bongo, The Great Soprendo, Paul Daniels and Sooty? The magic wand has now been swapped for instruments of death and destruction. The magic cabinet has changed into a transparent dungeon were we are invited to see a man doing irreparable damage to himself.
It’s only a matter of time then, before someone croaks in the name of light entertainment in this Country. A few years ago in the Philippines there was a magician whose stage act revolved around his unlikely ability to catch bullets in his teeth. There he is, catching bullet after bullet from his stage gun. Suddenly, some prat gets up from the audience, revolver in hand and shouts " Catch this then!" Needless to say, the magician’s brains end up plastered all over the scenery. The guy that shot him got off –his plea was that he honestly believed the magician could catch bullets.
I do wonder however, if it was Paul Daniels that was doing the Russian Roulette trick, would the punter that put the bullet in the chamber be bothered as to whether the diminutive trickster got it right or not?
Would we, as watchers be sitting there all saying to ourselves "Go on Paul, get it wrong, and while you’re at it, get Debbie Magee to position her head right next to yours" – it’s a 2 for 1 deal…..
Also on the box on Channel 4 last Sunday, was the 50 greatest magic tricks – ever. Top of the pile was David Copperfield, not for the fact that he managed to get off with Claudia Schiffer (I suspect sleight of hand in that magic trick) but for the amazing ‘saw through the body’ trick. Brilliant, who’d have thought that after a fledgling career in a comedy show with Lenny Henry and Tracy Ulman - Dave would end up being the toast of Vegas.
Well, first it was St David Blaine of Pretentia – then ‘Roy’ from the poptastic 70’s throwback magic duo ‘Siegfried and Roy’ got half of his neck seriously sucked by a well pissed off white tiger. Now - mind maestro Derren Brown of Dementia crops up with his ballistic bravado. The Russian-Rouletter extraordinary sticks his Smith and Wesson to his temple and ‘click’ the tension rises. Will he blow his brains out, (click) will he put us off our Sunday supper? (click) It’s taken magic to a whole new level.
Kaboom! – "Christ, what a mess. Who’d have thought it – a magician cocking up a trick like that"
"Just turn over, Heartbeat’s on the other side"………
Gone are the tuxedos, white doves, endless knotted hankies and dull background xylophone music. Gone are the inane card tricks, the cheesy smiles and the frilly assistants. In, are contrived life-threatening operettas played in front of our very eyes – for our minimal and transient entertainment.
Whatever happened to Jonny Hart, Ali Bongo, The Great Soprendo, Paul Daniels and Sooty? The magic wand has now been swapped for instruments of death and destruction. The magic cabinet has changed into a transparent dungeon were we are invited to see a man doing irreparable damage to himself.
It’s only a matter of time then, before someone croaks in the name of light entertainment in this Country. A few years ago in the Philippines there was a magician whose stage act revolved around his unlikely ability to catch bullets in his teeth. There he is, catching bullet after bullet from his stage gun. Suddenly, some prat gets up from the audience, revolver in hand and shouts " Catch this then!" Needless to say, the magician’s brains end up plastered all over the scenery. The guy that shot him got off –his plea was that he honestly believed the magician could catch bullets.
I do wonder however, if it was Paul Daniels that was doing the Russian Roulette trick, would the punter that put the bullet in the chamber be bothered as to whether the diminutive trickster got it right or not?
Would we, as watchers be sitting there all saying to ourselves "Go on Paul, get it wrong, and while you’re at it, get Debbie Magee to position her head right next to yours" – it’s a 2 for 1 deal…..
Also on the box on Channel 4 last Sunday, was the 50 greatest magic tricks – ever. Top of the pile was David Copperfield, not for the fact that he managed to get off with Claudia Schiffer (I suspect sleight of hand in that magic trick) but for the amazing ‘saw through the body’ trick. Brilliant, who’d have thought that after a fledgling career in a comedy show with Lenny Henry and Tracy Ulman - Dave would end up being the toast of Vegas.
Friday, October 03, 2003
Homage to the Blainster
"Yeah, the great man, the boy Blaine is over the bridge"
"Thanks very much". And with that I’m off across Tower Bridge accompanied by a whole raft of expectant gawperatti. Half way over and I see him, well not strictly true, I first see the crane, then the tiny, tiny bit of clear plastic dangling from it - and within that there appears to be a gently undulating bin bag lying on the bottom.
Closer still and the pushing and shoving intensifies, I’m over the bridge now and wending my way down the stairs towards the tatty bit of waste ground underneath the plastic box. The place is humming, and all manner of seedy low-life is here….
"Sprig of lavender dearie?…. Or how about one of these beautifully designed light-flashing necklaces?"
"Begone, ancient wizened old hag!" …..
Tyburn obviously doesn’t have a show today…
So here it is ….’Above the Below’ – so not too pretentious a title there then. Channel 4 have erected naff pvc banners all over the place – ‘David Blaine, Above the Below’
He is ‘above’ – and the ground, plebs, chancers, gawpy people and winos are all below. All below with cricks in our necks and wonder in our hearts that we are here in the presence of the great St Davieness. I feel blessed, anointed even, or is that just condensation or body fluids dribbling from the box joints above?
God, this place is tatty. I look around and there are lots of young dolly birds shouting "David, David, DAVID…. Give us a wave!"
The bin-bag clad shape in the box duly obliges.
"OOOOOOhhhhhhh, he waved at me!" One of the dolly’s squealed.
I queue to get into the compound directly underneath the box… everyone is getting searched by big, ugly, bulky, baldy blokes with ear-pieces. Well I can understand that, after all, Dave’s a Yank so he’ll have enemies all over the place. They’ll have to check that none are bringing in weapons and stuff. One of Dave’s crew approaches me. Christ, he’s massive.
"Looking for weapons?" I enquired as my hands shoot skywards. He doesn’t answer.
"Got any eggs, fresh, rotten, hard boiled or raw, golf balls, satsumas, tennis balls, sprouts, hamburgers or equivalent?"
"Err no, the only thing I have in my pocket is this"
"Best keep it there" he says. I readily agree.
Satisfied, the gate opens and I’m in. I gaze up to the egg-stained, food-spattered plastic box…….. and there he is – isn’t he? A podgy face peers out from the bag he is residing in. David is not in, but his fat, pie-loving, pizza-hugging twin brother is.
Geez, whatever they are putting in the water, it’s keeping old lardy arse up to his bouncing weight all right.
"Hi Dave, how are you doing, been anywhere interesting lately? Do you want a sweety? Are you keeping regular?"
He looked at me like I was the Prince of Titheads. "Miserable sod." I muttered. I circle the box and put on my most menacing countenance – like I’m from the magic fraud squad…. I’m looking for smoke and mirrors. Is he really in the box – or is it just a projected image? Is he actually in L.A. and eating a pie, The Big Apple and eating a pizza or sunning himself on a beach somewhere and eating a seafood banquet?
But what’s it all about, what’s the point of it all? World peace, saving the rain forests, inflating David Blaine’s ego, inflating David Blaine?………
Are there any loaves and fishes here – or do we have to get our own meals? Is Dave gesticulating to us telling everyone to go forth and multiply? Is he thinking outside the box – is the box an envelope? Is it a window on the World or a box of delights? Is Dave mad, bad, sad and pretentious to know?
Who knows …. who cares?
"Yeah, the great man, the boy Blaine is over the bridge"
"Thanks very much". And with that I’m off across Tower Bridge accompanied by a whole raft of expectant gawperatti. Half way over and I see him, well not strictly true, I first see the crane, then the tiny, tiny bit of clear plastic dangling from it - and within that there appears to be a gently undulating bin bag lying on the bottom.
Closer still and the pushing and shoving intensifies, I’m over the bridge now and wending my way down the stairs towards the tatty bit of waste ground underneath the plastic box. The place is humming, and all manner of seedy low-life is here….
"Sprig of lavender dearie?…. Or how about one of these beautifully designed light-flashing necklaces?"
"Begone, ancient wizened old hag!" …..
Tyburn obviously doesn’t have a show today…
So here it is ….’Above the Below’ – so not too pretentious a title there then. Channel 4 have erected naff pvc banners all over the place – ‘David Blaine, Above the Below’
He is ‘above’ – and the ground, plebs, chancers, gawpy people and winos are all below. All below with cricks in our necks and wonder in our hearts that we are here in the presence of the great St Davieness. I feel blessed, anointed even, or is that just condensation or body fluids dribbling from the box joints above?
God, this place is tatty. I look around and there are lots of young dolly birds shouting "David, David, DAVID…. Give us a wave!"
The bin-bag clad shape in the box duly obliges.
"OOOOOOhhhhhhh, he waved at me!" One of the dolly’s squealed.
I queue to get into the compound directly underneath the box… everyone is getting searched by big, ugly, bulky, baldy blokes with ear-pieces. Well I can understand that, after all, Dave’s a Yank so he’ll have enemies all over the place. They’ll have to check that none are bringing in weapons and stuff. One of Dave’s crew approaches me. Christ, he’s massive.
"Looking for weapons?" I enquired as my hands shoot skywards. He doesn’t answer.
"Got any eggs, fresh, rotten, hard boiled or raw, golf balls, satsumas, tennis balls, sprouts, hamburgers or equivalent?"
"Err no, the only thing I have in my pocket is this"
"Best keep it there" he says. I readily agree.
Satisfied, the gate opens and I’m in. I gaze up to the egg-stained, food-spattered plastic box…….. and there he is – isn’t he? A podgy face peers out from the bag he is residing in. David is not in, but his fat, pie-loving, pizza-hugging twin brother is.
Geez, whatever they are putting in the water, it’s keeping old lardy arse up to his bouncing weight all right.
"Hi Dave, how are you doing, been anywhere interesting lately? Do you want a sweety? Are you keeping regular?"
He looked at me like I was the Prince of Titheads. "Miserable sod." I muttered. I circle the box and put on my most menacing countenance – like I’m from the magic fraud squad…. I’m looking for smoke and mirrors. Is he really in the box – or is it just a projected image? Is he actually in L.A. and eating a pie, The Big Apple and eating a pizza or sunning himself on a beach somewhere and eating a seafood banquet?
But what’s it all about, what’s the point of it all? World peace, saving the rain forests, inflating David Blaine’s ego, inflating David Blaine?………
Are there any loaves and fishes here – or do we have to get our own meals? Is Dave gesticulating to us telling everyone to go forth and multiply? Is he thinking outside the box – is the box an envelope? Is it a window on the World or a box of delights? Is Dave mad, bad, sad and pretentious to know?
Who knows …. who cares?
