Gobbin’ off …..
Footy players, chiselled athletes, fit as butchers dogs and packed full of skill. I mean, have you ever tried to do what they do as second nature?
I tried it once, and only once. I was playing a fairly low grade crunchie, aggro-packed match against some suppliers to our Company. They were dead, dead fit… I’ll rephrase that, they were extremely quick, had boundless energy and generally played us off the park. I suppose it was their licensed way of getting back at us, of turning the tables and wreaking a bit of revenge for all the nagging and moaning that we, as master clients did on a day to day basis.
Tackles were flying in. The pace was frantic, in an elderly pedestrian struggling along a street kind of way. Soon, my bloated, blubbery body began to react. I looked down to my thighs, marbled like a well slapped slice of corned beef, knees buckling under the strain, heart and lungs in danger of packing up forever.
My mouth began to flood with gob. I felt sick, the riptide within my throat was in full spate – and rising by the second. I must get rid of this stuff flooding into my mouth – no problem there then, I’ll just do what every footy player does as second nature and spew it out, onto the grass.
I ball. I masticate. I manoeuvre. I tongue the gobbette to the front of my mouth and ffffffttttthhhhhhuuuummmpppppphhh. It’s gone…… and oh my God it’s coming right back at me. The orb has just assumed poly-elastomic properties - I didn’t fully expunge the mass. It does a full 180 …… one end lands straight onto my chin and the other flops right down onto my nice shiny, sponsored shirt.
Have you ever tried to wipe sloppy white stuff from your front? I’ll rephrase that, have you ever tried to get magnetic gob off the front of your chin and footy shirt whilst making a fantastic last gasp tackle to save a certain goal?
No, neither have I. I was so preoccupied with trying to wipe sticky bile from my front, chin, hands and sleeves that their number 10 nipped round me and slotted home from 18 inches.
So how do the Pro’s do it? They ‘vent’ like a turbo thrusted jet engine – from every facial orifice. Nothing ever lands on them does it? That is until one of them scores a crucial goal – then does a 20 yard knee slide, lubricated by onerous cobs of ductile gob. Sometimes, it’s a wonder they can get up from the floor, such are the adhesive qualities of ‘GobStick’.
How did I cure my inability to yocker successfully? Every time I trotted out onto the green sward I would take a nice crisp ironed ‘kerchief with me. When I felt the need to ‘gob’ – I simply whipped it out of my pocket and pressed it to my mouth ……… civilised and stylish.
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Monday, December 01, 2003
A wamm bamm alluuma, awam bam bam….
Whilst watching ‘Pop Idol’ on the box on Saturday, Gareth Gates made a guest appearance. My 12 year old son reckoned that he would be able to beat him in a combative game of ‘Snap’……..
Talking about ‘Pop Idol’ – who the hell is voting for old ‘twitchy face boy’ - or indeed, the big boned Scottish lass?
I mean, in the last couple of weeks, 2 drop dead gorgeous and talented contestants (Roxy – grrrrr and Suzanne) have got the order of the Cowell – unbelievable!
Chris, the bespectacled blinky, twitchy warbler, somehow, somehow survives every week. Dr Fox reckons he looks a ‘tad’ too much like a Vicar. I think he looks several tads too much like an ostrich – and a whole lorry load of tads like a crap singer.
The word ‘key’ clearly does not register with Chris. Why use one - when several, both ‘on’ and ‘off’ (but mostly ‘off’) can be inserted at will.
Then there is Michelle, the Scottish mama – a good, competent ‘club circuit’ singer ….. but in a shallow, vacuous competition were image is everything, she’s no pop idol. Dr Fox reckons she looks a ‘tad’ out of place, and a ‘tad’ tattily dressed. I think by that he meant she was a few ‘tads’ too heavy – but was just a ‘tad’ too cute to say it out loud.
I reckon Simon Cowell has had a little bet to himself that he can get her to at least the last three – just to prove to himself how ‘svengallian’ he can be. I really do believe he likes manipulating an entire nation. Maybe he should become a politician.
All new, the all new spanking brand bloody newness that is the ‘All New Top of the Pops’
Talking about pop svengallii – Andi Peters has been brought in by the Beeb to vamp up Top of the Pops by kicking some arse, and ringing the changes.
Memo:-
To all those 40 something, balding, pony-tailed, open toed sandal wearing production people currently inhabiting the Top of the Pops office – start emptying your desks guys, you’re history. My new broom is sweeping clean the inertia and smug brained sameness that currently infests the show.
Regards,
TOTP Executive New Broom Meister - Andi Peters.
Andi’s ‘brave new world’ headliner for the second ‘All new TOTP’ show is……. ‘All pout, Posh Spice, Victoria Beckham’ …… "Whoopp, whoooop, whoooop."
Abso-bloody-lutely all-new revolutionary… not
Whilst watching ‘Pop Idol’ on the box on Saturday, Gareth Gates made a guest appearance. My 12 year old son reckoned that he would be able to beat him in a combative game of ‘Snap’……..
Talking about ‘Pop Idol’ – who the hell is voting for old ‘twitchy face boy’ - or indeed, the big boned Scottish lass?
I mean, in the last couple of weeks, 2 drop dead gorgeous and talented contestants (Roxy – grrrrr and Suzanne) have got the order of the Cowell – unbelievable!
Chris, the bespectacled blinky, twitchy warbler, somehow, somehow survives every week. Dr Fox reckons he looks a ‘tad’ too much like a Vicar. I think he looks several tads too much like an ostrich – and a whole lorry load of tads like a crap singer.
The word ‘key’ clearly does not register with Chris. Why use one - when several, both ‘on’ and ‘off’ (but mostly ‘off’) can be inserted at will.
Then there is Michelle, the Scottish mama – a good, competent ‘club circuit’ singer ….. but in a shallow, vacuous competition were image is everything, she’s no pop idol. Dr Fox reckons she looks a ‘tad’ out of place, and a ‘tad’ tattily dressed. I think by that he meant she was a few ‘tads’ too heavy – but was just a ‘tad’ too cute to say it out loud.
I reckon Simon Cowell has had a little bet to himself that he can get her to at least the last three – just to prove to himself how ‘svengallian’ he can be. I really do believe he likes manipulating an entire nation. Maybe he should become a politician.
All new, the all new spanking brand bloody newness that is the ‘All New Top of the Pops’
Talking about pop svengallii – Andi Peters has been brought in by the Beeb to vamp up Top of the Pops by kicking some arse, and ringing the changes.
To all those 40 something, balding, pony-tailed, open toed sandal wearing production people currently inhabiting the Top of the Pops office – start emptying your desks guys, you’re history. My new broom is sweeping clean the inertia and smug brained sameness that currently infests the show.
Regards,
TOTP Executive New Broom Meister - Andi Peters.
Andi’s ‘brave new world’ headliner for the second ‘All new TOTP’ show is……. ‘All pout, Posh Spice, Victoria Beckham’ …… "Whoopp, whoooop, whoooop."
Abso-bloody-lutely all-new revolutionary… not
Sunday, November 30, 2003
A grouse, an elephant – and a little bit of bully......
So there we are, getting well pissed at a birthday party for my old college chum, Rodger.
To put it bluntly, Rog’ is simply brilliant. A consummate artist and sculptor – a master of watercolour, oils and acrylic. You can see his stuff in any supermarket or off-licence. Rodger painted the little game bird picture on the front of the ‘Famous Grouse’ whiskey box and bottle – as well as the big black and white bird newspaper adverts. His humour is offbeat and highly original and during the years, he has made many friends all over the globe.
Rog’ has done real well from his painty talent – he’s been everywhere, done everything and met everyone who is anyone. He’s even had tea with the Queen Mum - and when she was still alive! He exhibits his stuff in a Bond Street gallery, owned by one of Prince Chaz’s bezzy mates. He used to live just outside Chorley, but has moved to richer climes.
Basically, Rog’ is well connected and well heeled – so what can I, his old college mate, get the man who has everything - for his birthday? What can I get the geezer that has the weirdest sense of humour and the fattest wallet I know?
Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think …….
Alfreda comes to the rescue. Had I seen this advert? Did I think Rodger would have any of this?
I seriously doubted it. Why would anyone buy a bumper big tub-full of that?
Anyway, after a bit of thinking and umming and arring, I thought ‘what the hell – why not’. And within the hour, we are off to Chester.
"You want a ‘bumper big’ tub-full of ‘it’ – right?"
"Yeah – the biggest bumperiest tub–full you’ve got."
"Round the back"………
"Do you want me to put it in the boot"
"Please – and can you stick a bag or five around it?"
We get back, wrap it up and head for a small village in the Trough of Bowland for Rodger’s party.
"Here you go Rog’ – many happy returns"
"Great, thanks …… what can it be?"
"Well open it ….. and find out, you big softee!"
Rodger and his wife excitedly unwrap the bumper big parcel.
Several guests start to sniff the air…….
"Wow"
"Whoa"
"Errrrkkkk"
"Shit"
"Precisely"
"Shit?"
"Yup ……. 20 kilos of it"
"Of shit?"
"Absolutely, 20 kays of prime pachyderm poo"
"What"
"Elephant shit. Best manure from the biggest land animal in the world, courtesy of Chester Zoo".
"Chester Zoo … Poo?"
"Correct"
Rodger’s wife disappears in disgust clutching a whole bog roll to her mouth. Just then, one of Roger’s posh mates, some poncy Lord dude or other who had spent years on the African savannah saunters past…….
"Ahhhhhh – Rhino shit"
"What?"
"Rhino shit. It’s Rhino shit, definitely"
"Definitely?"
"Weeeeeellllllllllllll. It could be buffalo….. or zebra – at a push"…. …… He grabs a bit between thumb and fore finger then thoughtfully massages it and sniffs it, like he’s Tonto or something.
"No. Definitely rhino"
"Sorry Roger" I blab – "I bought it in good faith – as Elephant Poo, I’ll take it back and change it if you like".
Roger refused – and saw the funny side, thank God. Because by now, big bumper tub is humming very, very hummily. And the joke, well the joke was, what do you get someone that has everything? – Why, Elephant shit of course. except that this may be elephant, or it may be rhino, or it may be bleeding zeb bloody ra.
Anyway, whatever it is, it stinks to the highest heaven. It really does smell – and the moment has passed, mainly because of Jungle Jim coming along and giving us the great white hunter ‘Daktari’ stuff…..
Rog’ dumps the dump into the garden.
Thankfully, there are lots and lots of old college mates to chat to and drink with. Pretty soon I’m well on the way to being pissed.
Then we see him…. Then we see some geezer we all recognise. He apparently lives in an old converted railway station, virtually right next to Rodger’s house.
I dig Ralph in the ribs.
"Is that?….."
"Yeah, I’ve already had a chat with him"
"Tone, have you seen who’s over there?"
"Wow, let’s go over and have a word"
"Hang on, hang on….. remember ‘West Side Story’ …. ‘Got a rocket in your pocket, stay cooly cool boy. Take it slow 'n' daddy-ohh don’t be a fool boy, just play it cool boy, real cool"
I try to click my fingers but I’m just too pissed.
We huddle.
"So that’s settled then, I’m saying this. Tone, you’re going to say that – and Ralph, you know what you are going to say?"
"Got it"
We saunter over, nonchalant like, as natch as 3 pissed, overweight saddos about to meet a ‘z’ list famous dude can be.
We stand, wobbly in front of the great man.
Finally, Ralph slurs "Alright Jim, how the bloody hell are you?"
Before our target can answer, we blurt out in turn…..
"I’m ‘Super"
"I’m Smashing"
"And I’m bloody Great!"
Cue hysterical laughter, made even funnier, (especially when you are pissed) by our target’s dead pan expression.
We giggle our way back towards the bar.
I mean, it’s not as if anyone would have ever said ‘Super, Smashing, Great’ to Jim Bowen before – is it?
So there we are, getting well pissed at a birthday party for my old college chum, Rodger.
To put it bluntly, Rog’ is simply brilliant. A consummate artist and sculptor – a master of watercolour, oils and acrylic. You can see his stuff in any supermarket or off-licence. Rodger painted the little game bird picture on the front of the ‘Famous Grouse’ whiskey box and bottle – as well as the big black and white bird newspaper adverts. His humour is offbeat and highly original and during the years, he has made many friends all over the globe.
Rog’ has done real well from his painty talent – he’s been everywhere, done everything and met everyone who is anyone. He’s even had tea with the Queen Mum - and when she was still alive! He exhibits his stuff in a Bond Street gallery, owned by one of Prince Chaz’s bezzy mates. He used to live just outside Chorley, but has moved to richer climes.
Basically, Rog’ is well connected and well heeled – so what can I, his old college mate, get the man who has everything - for his birthday? What can I get the geezer that has the weirdest sense of humour and the fattest wallet I know?
Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think, think …….
Alfreda comes to the rescue. Had I seen this advert? Did I think Rodger would have any of this?
I seriously doubted it. Why would anyone buy a bumper big tub-full of that?
Anyway, after a bit of thinking and umming and arring, I thought ‘what the hell – why not’. And within the hour, we are off to Chester.
"You want a ‘bumper big’ tub-full of ‘it’ – right?"
"Yeah – the biggest bumperiest tub–full you’ve got."
"Round the back"………
"Do you want me to put it in the boot"
"Please – and can you stick a bag or five around it?"
We get back, wrap it up and head for a small village in the Trough of Bowland for Rodger’s party.
"Here you go Rog’ – many happy returns"
"Great, thanks …… what can it be?"
"Well open it ….. and find out, you big softee!"
Rodger and his wife excitedly unwrap the bumper big parcel.
Several guests start to sniff the air…….
"Wow"
"Whoa"
"Errrrkkkk"
"Shit"
"Precisely"
"Shit?"
"Yup ……. 20 kilos of it"
"Of shit?"
"Absolutely, 20 kays of prime pachyderm poo"
"What"
"Elephant shit. Best manure from the biggest land animal in the world, courtesy of Chester Zoo".
"Chester Zoo … Poo?"
"Correct"
Rodger’s wife disappears in disgust clutching a whole bog roll to her mouth. Just then, one of Roger’s posh mates, some poncy Lord dude or other who had spent years on the African savannah saunters past…….
"Ahhhhhh – Rhino shit"
"What?"
"Rhino shit. It’s Rhino shit, definitely"
"Definitely?"
"Weeeeeellllllllllllll. It could be buffalo….. or zebra – at a push"…. …… He grabs a bit between thumb and fore finger then thoughtfully massages it and sniffs it, like he’s Tonto or something.
"No. Definitely rhino"
"Sorry Roger" I blab – "I bought it in good faith – as Elephant Poo, I’ll take it back and change it if you like".
Roger refused – and saw the funny side, thank God. Because by now, big bumper tub is humming very, very hummily. And the joke, well the joke was, what do you get someone that has everything? – Why, Elephant shit of course. except that this may be elephant, or it may be rhino, or it may be bleeding zeb bloody ra.
Anyway, whatever it is, it stinks to the highest heaven. It really does smell – and the moment has passed, mainly because of Jungle Jim coming along and giving us the great white hunter ‘Daktari’ stuff…..
Rog’ dumps the dump into the garden.
Thankfully, there are lots and lots of old college mates to chat to and drink with. Pretty soon I’m well on the way to being pissed.
Then we see him…. Then we see some geezer we all recognise. He apparently lives in an old converted railway station, virtually right next to Rodger’s house.
I dig Ralph in the ribs.
"Is that?….."
"Yeah, I’ve already had a chat with him"
"Tone, have you seen who’s over there?"
"Wow, let’s go over and have a word"
"Hang on, hang on….. remember ‘West Side Story’ …. ‘Got a rocket in your pocket, stay cooly cool boy. Take it slow 'n' daddy-ohh don’t be a fool boy, just play it cool boy, real cool"
I try to click my fingers but I’m just too pissed.
We huddle.
"So that’s settled then, I’m saying this. Tone, you’re going to say that – and Ralph, you know what you are going to say?"
"Got it"
We saunter over, nonchalant like, as natch as 3 pissed, overweight saddos about to meet a ‘z’ list famous dude can be.
We stand, wobbly in front of the great man.
Finally, Ralph slurs "Alright Jim, how the bloody hell are you?"
Before our target can answer, we blurt out in turn…..
"I’m ‘Super"
"I’m Smashing"
"And I’m bloody Great!"
Cue hysterical laughter, made even funnier, (especially when you are pissed) by our target’s dead pan expression.
We giggle our way back towards the bar.
I mean, it’s not as if anyone would have ever said ‘Super, Smashing, Great’ to Jim Bowen before – is it?
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Supermarket Trolleys – WMD.
Today, I am off to the cash and carry to do a bit of shopping for the office. Pretty damn mundane – boring even. BUT I have been with this mega-shop for the past 10 years and have yet to find a trolley that went the way I pushed it. The wheels go in all directions and the more you push it one way, it goes the other, then off on some other tangent. Keeping the trolley on the straight and narrow is a truly ‘fly by wire experience’. The strain, as a punter tries to manoeuvre a fully laden trolley around the end of an aisle is just colossal.
Once, during a seasonal visit to the store, I watched as a little man struggled with a leviathan of a trolley, stuffed to the gunnels with drink, box after box of it. This thing had the turning circle of a super-tanker – and he was trying to get it docked into the check out.
There he is, pushing and pulling, heaving and shoving, back and forth, hither and thither. Everyone behind him is waiting, sort of patiently. By now, this guy is sweating briquettes as the pull/push operetta continues – one final, big effort is all that is required to effect the successful docking at the till. The man took up a position, braced himself all rigid like - and heaved…..
Phaaarrrrrrrrrppppphhhhh!! Stunned silence, then uncontrolled laughter from the waiting multitude. The Captain of the good ship booze cruise had just let go the loudest fart I had ever heard. Our little area positively trembled – just like one of those Japanese security cameras taking pictures of an earth quake.
He cracked on that nothing had happened. He blanked everyone, paid and left, eventually - in a ziggy-zaggy-trumpy sort of way.
No matter how carefully I select the trolley, I always get one with no sense of direction. And even if I manage to find a ‘smooth runner’ – the more I load it, the less manageable it becomes. A Basil Fawlty moment invariably follows – "Right, that’s-blood-dy-well-it.
I’m-go-ing-to-thrash-you-to-with-in-an-inch-of-your-wire-bound-life. Don’t-mess-me-a-round-you-wob-bly-heap-of-in-effi-ci-ent-rub-bish".
There - man, does that feel good.
Of course …….. all this pales into macro insignificance when compared to ‘The Dark Place.’ For no place on Earth can compete with the hell hole that is ‘The Dark Place’. Where all trolleys positively go out of their way to take revenge on shopping Saxons. Where no items bought within the shop ever fits on a trolley. Where all trolleys are extra-specially constructed to ‘shin’ the pusher and to whip out ankle bones from fellow shoppers.
Where is ‘The Dark Place’ then? You know, don't you? Skin beginning to crawl is it? Hot sweats creeping over your body..... Yeah, you know all right. You'll find these all over the Country and always near a motorway.
Answer, (well my local branch of) 'The Dark Place' is 666 Beelzebub Avenue, Warrington. Yes, that's right, it’s the Vikings revenge, founded by Eric the total bastard – IKEA.
COMING SOON - my 5 visits to IKEA to try and get a tap cutter and my threat to take the entire night shift hostage if I didn't get my tap cutter.
ALSO – How I narrowly avoid murdering a Scandinavian Manager when he says to me "Allo, ve at IKEA hope you haf had a ferry, ferry gud shoppink trip"
"AAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHH"
Today, I am off to the cash and carry to do a bit of shopping for the office. Pretty damn mundane – boring even. BUT I have been with this mega-shop for the past 10 years and have yet to find a trolley that went the way I pushed it. The wheels go in all directions and the more you push it one way, it goes the other, then off on some other tangent. Keeping the trolley on the straight and narrow is a truly ‘fly by wire experience’. The strain, as a punter tries to manoeuvre a fully laden trolley around the end of an aisle is just colossal.
Once, during a seasonal visit to the store, I watched as a little man struggled with a leviathan of a trolley, stuffed to the gunnels with drink, box after box of it. This thing had the turning circle of a super-tanker – and he was trying to get it docked into the check out.
There he is, pushing and pulling, heaving and shoving, back and forth, hither and thither. Everyone behind him is waiting, sort of patiently. By now, this guy is sweating briquettes as the pull/push operetta continues – one final, big effort is all that is required to effect the successful docking at the till. The man took up a position, braced himself all rigid like - and heaved…..
Phaaarrrrrrrrrppppphhhhh!! Stunned silence, then uncontrolled laughter from the waiting multitude. The Captain of the good ship booze cruise had just let go the loudest fart I had ever heard. Our little area positively trembled – just like one of those Japanese security cameras taking pictures of an earth quake.
He cracked on that nothing had happened. He blanked everyone, paid and left, eventually - in a ziggy-zaggy-trumpy sort of way.
No matter how carefully I select the trolley, I always get one with no sense of direction. And even if I manage to find a ‘smooth runner’ – the more I load it, the less manageable it becomes. A Basil Fawlty moment invariably follows – "Right, that’s-blood-dy-well-it.
I’m-go-ing-to-thrash-you-to-with-in-an-inch-of-your-wire-bound-life. Don’t-mess-me-a-round-you-wob-bly-heap-of-in-effi-ci-ent-rub-bish".
There - man, does that feel good.
Of course …….. all this pales into macro insignificance when compared to ‘The Dark Place.’ For no place on Earth can compete with the hell hole that is ‘The Dark Place’. Where all trolleys positively go out of their way to take revenge on shopping Saxons. Where no items bought within the shop ever fits on a trolley. Where all trolleys are extra-specially constructed to ‘shin’ the pusher and to whip out ankle bones from fellow shoppers.
Where is ‘The Dark Place’ then? You know, don't you? Skin beginning to crawl is it? Hot sweats creeping over your body..... Yeah, you know all right. You'll find these all over the Country and always near a motorway.
Answer, (well my local branch of) 'The Dark Place' is 666 Beelzebub Avenue, Warrington. Yes, that's right, it’s the Vikings revenge, founded by Eric the total bastard – IKEA.
COMING SOON - my 5 visits to IKEA to try and get a tap cutter and my threat to take the entire night shift hostage if I didn't get my tap cutter.
ALSO – How I narrowly avoid murdering a Scandinavian Manager when he says to me "Allo, ve at IKEA hope you haf had a ferry, ferry gud shoppink trip"
"AAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHH"
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Christmas is coming ……
Alfreda thoughtfully bought some seasonal goodies home on Friday. You know, it’s the sort of stuff, (big tins of biccies, dates and cakes etc) that you buy "To put away for the big day." One of which was a bumper big bag of roasted peanuts.
Anyway, due to the extremely tense nature of the Rugby Final, I needed something to nibble. The Christmas caboodle got raided, I settled back with the big bag of roasted peanuts.
But wait, what’s this? A massive missive on the side of the bag …… ‘WARNING- This product contains nuts’……..
Replica shirts for Greek Gods …….
After Jonno’s boys did the bizz on Saturday, I’ve felt inspired to go and get an England replica rugby shirt. I’m sure my love handles, beer gut and gravity enhanced man tits will be well hidden under the skin tight dermo-technological marvel that is the current outfit of the new World Champs.
Chiselled?. Well yeah (in a Michelin Man sort of way).
Latin – I love it (amo, amas, amat)…….
Tidying up in the garage the other day, I came across a very old Billy Connolly audio tape. For nostalgia’s sake I shoved it on. His accent then was so Glaswegian thick, you can hardly understand what he’s saying.
The tape was full of the very best non p.c. bile. Best sketch of the lot was ‘The Last Supper’ set in a modern day wine bar in Glasgow. Billy used to do this sketch regularly until the God police forced him to call time on it. What a laugh it is. Full of great lines such as "One of yooz guys is going to shop me te’ the Roman pol-lice. JUDAS! Have ye’ nicked ma drink? – Christ, Judas, I’m watching you, ye’re getting’ right up ma tits"
And "Go on Big Yin, dae one o’ those yonder miracles"
"Yeah, we're gettin' short o' wine over here Big Yin, can ye miracle us some more wine up?"
"Paaa! Miracles….. What miracles, he cann’e do any miracles – it’s all tricks"….
"Thomas, are yae doubting me again?"
"I’m just sayin….."
"Well don’t – In fact, Thomas you can just shut yer face!"…
And lo - verily, his face, it was shut
Anyway Billy – playing Jesus, tells the story whilst having his ‘last supper’ in the wine bar, how he was going to get betrayed, judged and crucified. Cut to the scene where Jesus is on the Cross and sees a Roman soldier approaching him.
Billy shouts to the soldier "Mercy, mercy"
The soldier replies "Mercium? My arsium"
Brillium.......
Alfreda thoughtfully bought some seasonal goodies home on Friday. You know, it’s the sort of stuff, (big tins of biccies, dates and cakes etc) that you buy "To put away for the big day." One of which was a bumper big bag of roasted peanuts.
Anyway, due to the extremely tense nature of the Rugby Final, I needed something to nibble. The Christmas caboodle got raided, I settled back with the big bag of roasted peanuts.
But wait, what’s this? A massive missive on the side of the bag …… ‘WARNING- This product contains nuts’……..
Replica shirts for Greek Gods …….
After Jonno’s boys did the bizz on Saturday, I’ve felt inspired to go and get an England replica rugby shirt. I’m sure my love handles, beer gut and gravity enhanced man tits will be well hidden under the skin tight dermo-technological marvel that is the current outfit of the new World Champs.
Chiselled?. Well yeah (in a Michelin Man sort of way).
Latin – I love it (amo, amas, amat)…….
Tidying up in the garage the other day, I came across a very old Billy Connolly audio tape. For nostalgia’s sake I shoved it on. His accent then was so Glaswegian thick, you can hardly understand what he’s saying.
The tape was full of the very best non p.c. bile. Best sketch of the lot was ‘The Last Supper’ set in a modern day wine bar in Glasgow. Billy used to do this sketch regularly until the God police forced him to call time on it. What a laugh it is. Full of great lines such as "One of yooz guys is going to shop me te’ the Roman pol-lice. JUDAS! Have ye’ nicked ma drink? – Christ, Judas, I’m watching you, ye’re getting’ right up ma tits"
And "Go on Big Yin, dae one o’ those yonder miracles"
"Yeah, we're gettin' short o' wine over here Big Yin, can ye miracle us some more wine up?"
"Paaa! Miracles….. What miracles, he cann’e do any miracles – it’s all tricks"….
"Thomas, are yae doubting me again?"
"I’m just sayin….."
"Well don’t – In fact, Thomas you can just shut yer face!"…
And lo - verily, his face, it was shut
Anyway Billy – playing Jesus, tells the story whilst having his ‘last supper’ in the wine bar, how he was going to get betrayed, judged and crucified. Cut to the scene where Jesus is on the Cross and sees a Roman soldier approaching him.
Billy shouts to the soldier "Mercy, mercy"
The soldier replies "Mercium? My arsium"
Brillium.......
Friday, November 21, 2003
An 'Anti-podean' agenda.....
Sorry, can't post - too busy, much, much too busy sending lots and lots of 'whining aussie' newspaper reporters lots of emails about the one eyed drivel they have been peddling on the English Rugby Union Team.
I have been introducing the 'whining ones' to such words and phrases as 'prat' 'pranny' 'racist' 'divvies' and 'like a toddler, footstamping and scweaming 'til we're sick, sick sick if the aussies don't win!'
The way they have been whining it has sort of redefined my image of the big, manly, tough Australian.
Australian? - A load of powder-puff softies, definitely.
And if any Aussie wants to talk to me about it, then I suggest they come and see me. Unfortunately, I will not be in, I have had to go away - but Alfreda will see ya, she's 5 foot 6 inches tall, weighs 8 stone - SO COME ON you Diggers....... if you think you're hard enough........
Sorry, can't post - too busy, much, much too busy sending lots and lots of 'whining aussie' newspaper reporters lots of emails about the one eyed drivel they have been peddling on the English Rugby Union Team.
I have been introducing the 'whining ones' to such words and phrases as 'prat' 'pranny' 'racist' 'divvies' and 'like a toddler, footstamping and scweaming 'til we're sick, sick sick if the aussies don't win!'
The way they have been whining it has sort of redefined my image of the big, manly, tough Australian.
Australian? - A load of powder-puff softies, definitely.
And if any Aussie wants to talk to me about it, then I suggest they come and see me. Unfortunately, I will not be in, I have had to go away - but Alfreda will see ya, she's 5 foot 6 inches tall, weighs 8 stone - SO COME ON you Diggers....... if you think you're hard enough........
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
On the shoulders of giants…..
Martin Johnson, Richard Hill, Jonny Wilkinson et al, I salute you.
To all those (you know who you are) miserable, well balanced, (chip on each shoulder) myopic ‘anyone but the English’ brigade – did you see the way the boys did the job against France?
The final whistle went ……. the boys shook hands with the French and officials, then walked off as dignified as you like. Arrogant? Triumphalist? Snooty? – That was reserved for the previous day and the Australian team’s winning celebrations. You would have thought they had solved the meaning of life, the Universe and everything (42), the way they were cavorting.
Roll on Saturday……
Foibles and other fables…..
What’s your foible? Do you have any? Eating meal components in strict order of size…. Counting magpies, fluffing cushions again and again, or endlessly checking your fly-hole is done up…….
I have lots of them – half the time I’m on planet ‘Barmy’ – the rest, I’m orbiting it. All my life it’s been one long series of obsessive routinery. Avoiding cracks on pavements, arranging books in ABC order and the weirdest of my adolescent life – walking the mile long trip to school using the very same number of steps to get there - every day. God, the pressure! Sometimes, I would mess it up "Oh my God, I’m 15 yards away and I’ve only got 4 steps to get there"…
Pretty fatal really, just outside the School gates, doing a monster ‘Ministry of Silly Walks’ combo. Worse still, banging in some small mincey steplets in order to hit the necessary step quota as I nonce past the School bully....
Once home from school, try a new challenge – how about getting down the stairs in our house in as few steps as possible. I’m going for a World record, doing it in 2 – can I do it? Stay calm, control breathing, grip banister and wall ….. and go, go ,go!!!
This attempt failed. Abandoned after my Dad had to dig me out of the electricity cupboard at the bottom of the stairs…..
Earliest foible? When I was a kid, every evening, before I got into bed, I would have to
1) make sure my door was shut, to keep maniacs out (check) –
2) look in the cupboard in the wall, for hidden, knife-wielding maniacs (check) –
3) then look under the bed, for sleeping maniacs (check) –
4) get into bed, and safety (check) –
5) then turn over the pillow (check) –
6) then cover my head with the eiderdown (check)…… and drift into sle….…
"Wait just a minute…… did I really check under the bed? Did I really do that? Because, if I didn’t, then this is the night, this is the night when Mr Stiletto and his very sharp knife is hiding there, waiting, ready to stab me through the mattress….. best check – just in case"
Of course, that doesn’t mean just checking under the bed – oh no…. the entire sequence has to start again, from the beginning…. Door shut (check) – look in cupboard (check)….
And what’s this rubbish about the amazing protective properties of an eiderdown. Outsmarting maniacs by employing the eiderdown gambit? …….. 1st maniac to 2nd maniac "I couldn’t touch him, he was too smart for me"
"My God, he didn’t cover himself from head to toe in eiderfluff did he? One day, one day we’ll crack that defence, and when we do"….
Nowadays, I’m much more sophisticated …… or am I?
My current obsession is making sure that things are square – like buildings. For instance, I’ll be talking to someone – and I notice a window frame behind them, unconsciously, I will manoeuvre myself so the frame lines up with the edge of a building outside - PHEW both are square, so that's all right then….
Hang on though, just bloody well hang on right there matey boy..... they could both be wonky? Sometimes, I even squint to give myself a more focused channel to look through. And all this whilst maintaining a mature conversation with ‘Johnny VIP’……….. plot-loss.
And when I do find out that either window frame or building is not square, I actually tell someone about it .......... basket case.
I’ve decided never to go to Pisa…….
Martin Johnson, Richard Hill, Jonny Wilkinson et al, I salute you.
To all those (you know who you are) miserable, well balanced, (chip on each shoulder) myopic ‘anyone but the English’ brigade – did you see the way the boys did the job against France?
The final whistle went ……. the boys shook hands with the French and officials, then walked off as dignified as you like. Arrogant? Triumphalist? Snooty? – That was reserved for the previous day and the Australian team’s winning celebrations. You would have thought they had solved the meaning of life, the Universe and everything (42), the way they were cavorting.
Roll on Saturday……
Foibles and other fables…..
What’s your foible? Do you have any? Eating meal components in strict order of size…. Counting magpies, fluffing cushions again and again, or endlessly checking your fly-hole is done up…….
I have lots of them – half the time I’m on planet ‘Barmy’ – the rest, I’m orbiting it. All my life it’s been one long series of obsessive routinery. Avoiding cracks on pavements, arranging books in ABC order and the weirdest of my adolescent life – walking the mile long trip to school using the very same number of steps to get there - every day. God, the pressure! Sometimes, I would mess it up "Oh my God, I’m 15 yards away and I’ve only got 4 steps to get there"…
Pretty fatal really, just outside the School gates, doing a monster ‘Ministry of Silly Walks’ combo. Worse still, banging in some small mincey steplets in order to hit the necessary step quota as I nonce past the School bully....
Once home from school, try a new challenge – how about getting down the stairs in our house in as few steps as possible. I’m going for a World record, doing it in 2 – can I do it? Stay calm, control breathing, grip banister and wall ….. and go, go ,go!!!
This attempt failed. Abandoned after my Dad had to dig me out of the electricity cupboard at the bottom of the stairs…..
Earliest foible? When I was a kid, every evening, before I got into bed, I would have to
1) make sure my door was shut, to keep maniacs out (check) –
2) look in the cupboard in the wall, for hidden, knife-wielding maniacs (check) –
3) then look under the bed, for sleeping maniacs (check) –
4) get into bed, and safety (check) –
5) then turn over the pillow (check) –
6) then cover my head with the eiderdown (check)…… and drift into sle….…
"Wait just a minute…… did I really check under the bed? Did I really do that? Because, if I didn’t, then this is the night, this is the night when Mr Stiletto and his very sharp knife is hiding there, waiting, ready to stab me through the mattress….. best check – just in case"
Of course, that doesn’t mean just checking under the bed – oh no…. the entire sequence has to start again, from the beginning…. Door shut (check) – look in cupboard (check)….
And what’s this rubbish about the amazing protective properties of an eiderdown. Outsmarting maniacs by employing the eiderdown gambit? …….. 1st maniac to 2nd maniac "I couldn’t touch him, he was too smart for me"
"My God, he didn’t cover himself from head to toe in eiderfluff did he? One day, one day we’ll crack that defence, and when we do"….
Nowadays, I’m much more sophisticated …… or am I?
My current obsession is making sure that things are square – like buildings. For instance, I’ll be talking to someone – and I notice a window frame behind them, unconsciously, I will manoeuvre myself so the frame lines up with the edge of a building outside - PHEW both are square, so that's all right then….
Hang on though, just bloody well hang on right there matey boy..... they could both be wonky? Sometimes, I even squint to give myself a more focused channel to look through. And all this whilst maintaining a mature conversation with ‘Johnny VIP’……….. plot-loss.
And when I do find out that either window frame or building is not square, I actually tell someone about it .......... basket case.
I’ve decided never to go to Pisa…….
Monday, November 17, 2003
Fijian Missionary Hot Pot.
A sumptuous dish, best served with humble pie.
Ingredients
One Missionary.
Salt to taste.
Cooking Instructions
'Ere, darlin' - take your missionary and shav ‘im in a very, very large pot wiv a pinch o’ salt. An' dawnt forget the wet stuff - you muffin! Be sure to remove the dog collar ‘cos this can get caught in the frawt. Cor! Jules’l lav this!!
Bring the water to the boil – laverly, stirring with aplomb – or if you haven’t got a plomb – use a spatula. Simmer for abawt the lenf of a Sunday Sermon (zzzz) and then slam it on a plate – wicked!.
Please Nawt: Don’t forget to say ‘Grace’ before shawtin' "Grub up!"
The humble pie is eaten 140 years later when you have to apologise to the Missionary’s relatives for eating their ancestor……… pukka!
A sumptuous dish, best served with humble pie.
Ingredients
One Missionary.
Salt to taste.
Cooking Instructions
'Ere, darlin' - take your missionary and shav ‘im in a very, very large pot wiv a pinch o’ salt. An' dawnt forget the wet stuff - you muffin! Be sure to remove the dog collar ‘cos this can get caught in the frawt. Cor! Jules’l lav this!!
Bring the water to the boil – laverly, stirring with aplomb – or if you haven’t got a plomb – use a spatula. Simmer for abawt the lenf of a Sunday Sermon (zzzz) and then slam it on a plate – wicked!.
Please Nawt: Don’t forget to say ‘Grace’ before shawtin' "Grub up!"
The humble pie is eaten 140 years later when you have to apologise to the Missionary’s relatives for eating their ancestor……… pukka!
Thursday, November 13, 2003
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………
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………
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.
