Oh yes! - It’s the Slob Olympics again…..

Superb! Another 4 years gone and another 2 weeks of total horizontality in front of the box coming up.

I’ve been doing a lot of training – building up gradually, starting off on just a few cans per night, building to my maximum capacity. I’ve got to be responsible – it’s a marathon not a sprint after all.

Yeah, 2 weeks of cheating, crying, whinging, tantrums …….. and ‘sport’ (obviously). 2 weeks of peanuts, pizza, beer, raw cabbage …. And more beer (obviously). And all from the comfort of my own arm chair. Brillo.

Even though I’m just watching, I’m living it. Every jump, every dip, every last gasp effort from our plucky British team of losers is played as if by ‘synchronisation’ in the great hall of OK Towers. For instance, in Sydney during the 2000 Olympics, I was watching Jonathan Edwards, ace triple-jumper to some - ‘hop, skip and jumpy guy’ to most, preparing for his first effort.

There he is, at the end of the runway, preparing, psyching, wobbling thighs, flexing fingers, loosening up, imagining his jump, imaging he’s going to jump right out of the stadium.

There I am, at the end of the couch, preparing, psynking beer, wobbling gut, flexing fat fingers around another piece of pizza, imagining I’m going to have to go to the toilet if he doesn’t hurry up an get a move on!!

EDWARDS – HURRY UP AND BLEEDING JUMP, YOU GEORDIE DRAMA QUEEN!!!!

As if mentally prodded by a million overfull bladders, Jonathan starts, he gathers pace, pumping sinews, eyes bulging, he’s really motoring now. He hits the board….. HOP, SKIP a n d JUMP. Jonathan lands in an explosion of silica. His very short, very baggy shorts bite into the sand. Grains enter every lower body orifice of the Edwards torso. I bet it really chaffs.

Bloody hell, never mind the state of Jonathan’s undies – I’ve got my own problems to sort out. For as he was pounding, I was twitching, as he was ‘hopping’ so was I. Unfortunately, one of us was hopping with a beer and pizza in hand – and it wasn’t Jonathan. By the time Edwards splashed down, I’m covered in runny pizza and beer. I look like some drunk’s puke up on me….

During the 2000 Olympics, I decided to do a bit of TV surfing to find out about other sports. "Sailing looks interesting…. And hey, guess what? Team GB are pretty bloody good at it as well!"

Ben Ainsley, apparently a nailed on favourite for the Gold in the ‘Park Lake Little Boaty Class’ is having a real tussle with his arch rival and nemesis from Brazil - Robert Scheidt. (How is that pronounced?)

Ben won – and Robert didn’t. Ben was about to be awarded his Gold medal and the BBC was there to record the ceremony in all its patriotic glory…..

The Olympic diatribe crackled out of the loud speaker system with as much gravitas as could be mustered. First in French (obviously) then into English….. "And in first place and winner of the Gold medal, from Great Britain - Ben Ainsley. In second place, from Brazil, Robert Shite…"

The kids laughed and revelled in this legitimate excuse to say "Shite, Shite, Shite" a lot.

"Well", observed Alfreda, "I know he didn’t win but I wouldn’t call him ‘Shite’ – ‘Crap’ would have been descriptive enough"….

If that’s who I think it is, I’m not in….

I’m expecting a phone call any day now.

A grovelling, snivelling conniving phone call from a suitably low-life, slime-ball jobsworth.

He won’t be selling double glazing.
He won’t be asking me to participate in a survey "that’ll only take 35 minutes of my time".
He won’t be asking me to invest in the U.S stock market, or to change my electricity supplier.

No, this phone call, this phone call will be an awful lot worse than that.

And when Mr Snivelling-Conniverer does ring me, the answer will be the same as last year.

"No, the Blairs’ cannot – repeat cannot stay at our house for a few days at the end of August. They are a bunch of freeloading cretins dedicated to bumming around the villas of Europe and the Caribbean, pushing themselves onto unsuspecting hosts, eating them out of house and home, using up all their bog paper, then moving on.

"Just because Tony ’the weasel’ is Prime Minister and ‘mad as a mad March mare’ Cherie is scary, doesn’t give them carte blanche to squat wherever they feel like.

"Sorry, ‘worm-tongue’ – chez Alfie is absolutely out of bounds to the Glorious Leader……. Not for any price, not even if they offer me The Lord Chancellorship, with a £2.5 million pension and free access to posh wallpaper. Not even if they offer me The Commissioner of Europe (Gravy Train Ministry) and give me Peter Mandelson as my ‘goffer’……

"Alfie cannot be bought – and anyway, I’ve already got Michael Howard in the attic, Charles Kennedy in the airing cupboard, John Major is doubling as a water feature and Robin Cook’s fraternising with the gnomes by the pond"……

The day after tomorrow – today……

Weird weather or what?

Thursday saw one hell of a storm and the entire contents of the Northern Atlantic being dumped on our little area of Lancashire. Alfie had not dressed for the occasion. Seeing that it was the second day of our Summer, (the first day was in early June), Alfie forgot to prepare for the inevitable thunder storm that marks the beginning of Autumn.

Alfie, looking rather sharp in his baggy shorts, summer shirt, open toed Jesus boots and shades a go-go, cuts a fine figure in a rotundly roundabout sort of way, as he sachets and saunters down the high street.

Unfortunately, Alfie was doing his sauntering with his back to the impending Tempest fast advancing from the west.

Hot ‘n sunny became wet ‘n wetter as ‘Hurricane WTFDTCF’ did its worst. Pretty soon, the street became the Amazon. Hot hatches became stationary, steaming, hulking wrecks – as suicidal boy racers flooded their engines as they cut pretty arcs of H2O to give soggy pedestrians a sewer shower.

I’m so wet, my man tits are showing through my sodden shirt. I’m so wet, hermit crabs are setting up home in between my toes and I’m growing gills. Water cascades up through the overwhelmed grids. Some saddo starts plonking sandbags outside his front door – where did he get them from? He’s probably got a nuclear bunker in his back garden – just behind the rockery, just in case. I hate those ‘prepared guys’ don’t you?

Was the world coming to an end or what?

Fortunately not – for Friday dawned hot, humid & humid some more with added humidity just for good measure – and guess what, I’ve got to visit a chocolate factory.

Alfie, ably assisted by his work pal Phil, arrives at the chocolate factory for an important job. It’s as hot as hell in there.

We are inducted into ‘choccy world’ – this means donning an overall made for someone a bit short in the arms department and a crotch about a foot from the floor. A rather voluminously natty hairnet is plonked on the OK barnet - plus a ‘beard net’ – It’s like a little dolly hammock and fits around your ears – it’s an elegance bypass. The look is complete – if I wanted to look a complete and utter arse. Phil has a digital camera with him. He takes note of the threat to his sphincteral cavity and the final resting place of the camera if he takes a picture of me. We limp round, crotch-crippled and crusty, with the smell of chocolate oozing out of our pores.

Saturday – fan-bloody-tastic day.
Sun, light, brilliance… just brilliant.
The sort of day that’s so bloody good you just wish you’d actually built that Eazzy-build Bar-B-Q kit that’s been kicking around the shed for God knows how long….

"Awwww Dad, can we have a Bar-B-Q today?"

"No"

"Why not – after all, you’ve got that ‘Eazzy-build Bar-B-Q kit?"

"Coz it’s not that easy"…..

Sunday – Windy.
As windy (but not as smelly) as the aftermath of a baked bean eating contest. But it’s still hot. That wind feels like its come straight out of an oven. Seeing that Alfred Towers has just invested in a rather stylish outdoor table and chairs set, Alfie thought it would be a chic and cosmopolitan idea to partake his toast and tea in the garden. He also took out The Sunday Times to complete the picture of urbane sophistication.

The Sunday Times, being a broadsheet does in fact catch the wind as well as any kite. I’m sure it was a very interesting read, I wonder where it is now?

A mistake, obviously…..

This morning, beloved Alfreda gathered my post, then thoughtfully opened it, then started to giggle like a schoolgirl.

I fall for it hook line and sinker.

"What you laughing at?"

"It’s better you don’t see it"
She proceeds to theatrically stuff the letter inside her pocket.

Cue playful royster – doystering of the let me have that bloody letter or I’ll break your legs in several places variety.

I win. I’ve got the crumpled letter in my hand.
She’s won. She’s let me get the letter.

I read.
She laughs.

The day I’ve been dreading has finally arrived.

Alfie the young turk, the dude, the ‘cool hand Luke’ is crestfallen.
Alfie – he of the six pack that’s only slightly buried under a 25 year old beer gut is suddenly feeling his age.
Alfie – still full of hair that only occasionally requires a bit of touching up with Grecian 2000 has just suddenly gone a whiter shade of pale……..

I’ve reached that certain age – and they know it. That certain age were they think I’ve suddenly flopped into sensible shoes, tweedy jackets, M&S jockey jobs and grey holidays…..

It’s a SAGA promo offering me "Peace of mind car insurance for just 75p a week"

"Peace of mind?"

‘Alfie the still mad, bad and dangerous to know’ is not a happy bunny. Alfie is still a guy that likes to walk on the wild side. Is still a guy that gives a middle finger to The Establishment and is not afraid to do a bit of cock snooking to anyone that fancies a bit.

I feel a snotty email coming on – delivered straight into the vacillating heart of SAGA CORP….

I’ll just get comfy in my finest easy-comf armchair , a nice cup of tea, a favourite old cardy and my best pair of slippers to ease my aching feet. ‘Alfie the vengeful’ is tooled up and ready to write!

Teenage Mutant Heroes…….

Boffins have just isolated and identified the detested acne gene. A bit late really. A bit late for all those self-conscious 16 year olds of the past with their pizza flan faces.

I always felt dead, dead sorry for the one kid in every class that suffered with the dreaded acne virus.

We were especially blessed with 2 such individuals. ‘Gobbo’ Jones was one – he had a face like a flock of angry volcanoes. (What is the collective noun for volcanoes?)

A relief map of the world’s vulcanicity was there for all to see on his boat. Stromboli, Etna, Vesuvius – and always, always an especially big growler on the end of his nose. We called that one ‘Krakatoa’ Every few weeks, great tectonic plates started to grind away below the surface of Gobbo’s ample, fleshy snozzer.

‘Krakatoa’ was brewing up again.
And then the great day came.
Eruption.
Spewing forth great gobs of Gobbo, swathes of bloody turmoil down the slopes of his angry, swollen proboscis.
Not a pretty sight.

The other guy in our class to suffer was a very quiet, studious middle class kid. His surname was ‘Hunt’ – so he was unfortunate twice over really. His acne was almost exclusively confined to his back. – A veritable oilfield.

McQueen, the school bully, invented a whole new sport. He would wait for Hunt to wear a newly laundered white shirt (which was every day - I told you, he was a posh kid!)

McQueen would creep up and slap Hunt as hard as he could on his white cotton shirted back.

Hunt went down, as if poleaxed. We watched with morbid fascination. As he’s struggling to his feet, a blood red & creamy hand print stigmata gradually seeps through his shirt.

It really did put me off strawberry and cream - forever….

Maybe it had a bit of an effect on this quiet lad – I met him years later, with plastic bag in hand. "Hi Dave, what you doing now then?" He reached into his plazzy bag and pulled out a load of revolutionary stuff …. "Trotskyist agitator" he replied.

A bit of a conversation killer, really.

SuperGlue from Siam

We had a very intellectual little discussion with our extended family last weekend. The gin flowed. The subject was 'Pets in the Home' - and the responsibilities of the pet owner. The dangers of keeping exotics, those sad people that keep 15 million little dogs in their end terrace house and other cruelty issues......

The intellectual mood was somewhat blown out of the water when our 19 year old year old niece who had said nothing, suddenly blurted out how disgusting she thought it was that some people, "Some people breed Siamese Cats"......

Everyone looked a bit puzzled.

"You know, they breed Siamese Cats ......... Ones that are joined together".....

I just couldn't make it up.

Make over…..

Yesterday, I visited a client who is putting on a Gay Festival this Autumn. He wants me to produce appropriate logo, poster and programme designs – he wants the colour ‘pink’, feather boas and more pink – with pink highlights to figure prominently in anything we do. 'Alfie the broadminded and at ease with his feminine side' is confident that he can pull it off. (However, 'Alfie the double-entendre' cannot believe he just said that).

It sort of all went swimmingly during the meeting, I had produced some striking initial ideas for discussion. Unforrtunately, my idea of 'striking' didn't tally with the client's perspective and they were consigned to the file called 'waste paper' – Goodbye to style and celebration, hello to nipple chains, black leather sequined jockstraps and pink boas – he wants it as camp as a jamboree…….

I got the brief and made a move to leave – just as I got to the door, the client called me back. He thought I could do with some background reference material – and thrust several copies of ‘Bent’ - ‘a specialist magazine for the gay man’ into my hand. I casually thumbed through – guys with bright neon trunks, guys with washboard stomachs, guys with fetishes and guys with other guys adorned the glossy pages. "Hmmmmmn, great" I said, "Very helpful"…..

Alfie the ‘these aren’t my magazines, I’ve got them purely for research purposes only' drove back to the office very, very carefully.



Leg over

In view of the latest sex revelations regarding that Scandinavian stud muffin, Shagging Sven Goran Eriksson, I thought it prudent to check with Alfreda that the England Manager with the roving briefs hadn’t practised his wizard dribbling all over her. She had after all, visited IKEA last week.

Phew, that’s a relief, she doesn’t like men with heads as shiny as an eight ball – but I bet Dave Beckham’s a worried man……




Lego over

Monster losses have just been announced by Lego, the Danish Toy Conglomerate – they’re blaming the more sexy computer and video games producers for the massive loss of market share. Apparently, little Tommy just isn’t interested in the mind-expanding toy any more – he’d rather waste aliens or whatever on his computer.

Lego bosses are worried, wringing their plazzy brick-laden hands as sales plummet.

Alfie the think tank guru to the rescue here I think….. Lego should bring out a whole new kit ‘Build your own Lego Computer’

Can’t you just picture it – a keyboard and screen with knobbly bits all over it? Colours? Optional as long as they are yellow or red.

Suggested Lego computer game titles include:

Make my day punk, build a digital building.

Grand thrift, Lego.

One million uses for one million digital bricks.

Alien attack – and you’ve only got time to knock up a brightly coloured digital defensive brick wall….

Tony Blair’s Smirk Watch

Well, during yesterday’s futile Commons debate on the Butler Report – and Tone’s wizard of the dribble performance, Alfie the Saddo counted 35 self satisfied, self congratulatory "Aren’t I fucking brilliant in a Harry Houdini sort of way" smirks from the Great Leader.

That’s 1.71 smirks per disembowelled, blown apart and hacked to death British Soldier – victim of the Iraqi War.

Or, 1 smirk per 400 innocent Iraqi victims.

The price of smirking has just gone up – official.




Laptop Corn Fly Watch
One corn fly has disappeared from my screen, the other is dead – immortalised forever in the top right of my screen. I started the computer this morning – and there it was – il morte.

Corn fly, I salute you – but not your sense of direction.




It’s a Twilight Zone moment……

So there I am on Monday, strolling about on Blackpool Prom (diddly om, pom, pom) shortly after stumbling out of the very grand Winter Gardens Ballroom. I had just seen my Son awarded his degree in 3-D computer illustration. I was as proud as punch. And when he went to collect his honour - rigged up in his mortar board, gown and colours, he didn’t fall over, he didn’t drop his scroll, he didn’t say "Gizz me scroll, you crusty old bastard" to the Vice Chancellor – that was the upside….. the downside was that he was 8th in line to go up and get his scroll – out of a roll-call of 800. It was about 150 degrees Centigrade in there – and rising. There was nowhere to sit – so a Winter Gardens Pillar was my lean-to buddy….. for about 4 hours.

I was wearing a suitably inappropriate wool mix suit, perfect for basting in my own body fluids and of course I sported, for the very first time my brand new black shiny, non bendy chaff-a-plenty, cripplo-shoes….. throb, throb,throb.

It’s funny – but I always thought at degree presentation ceremonies, they only presented degree certificates. Well, not so in the one I was at on Monday. Oh no. The first 250 people collected degrees, then came HNDs’, followed by HNCs’ then I began to lose the will to live. Were they going to award cycling proficiency certificates? Would I be dead when they did?

Because I was standing, I couldn’t have a doze. I just had to stand there, sweating bricks and cultivating varicose veinage by the mile up my legs.

Eventually, we staggered out. Thinner - a lot thinner, dripping with mucous and mushroom growths - and with feet on throb regulo 10. In spite of my plates of meat agony – I just had to have a bit of a walk. To cool down, however limpily to get a bit of fresh Blackpool air.

Which brings me back to where I came in. There, walking toward me is non other than former world snooker champ, Joe Johnson. I told everyone in our party that was willing to listen, in my best very loud whisper. Most people said "Who?"

I mean, Joe has done nothing since winning the Embassy World Championship, beating Steve Davis in the final in 1986. Most people now have never heard of him, much less what he looks like.

He walked away into the distance. I limped back to the car.

Anyway I got home, had a bath to get rid of the aches and strains and decided to head out to ‘The Ship’ in Lathom for their excellent Monday Night Quiz.

And here is the Twilight Zone bit coming up – first question, "Who beat Steve Davis in the 1986 Embassy World Snooker Final?"

I mean, how scary is that?
(not very scary, really)……….

Something's watching me – and so is his mate.....

My machine of choice is the PowerMac G3 laptop. It's fast and fruity (in an appley kind of way). And of course, it’s free from the viruses and bugs that affect its P.C. cousins as a matter of routine. (Cue smug Tony Blair type smirk).

The screen is big – but has a bit of a tendency to attract a lot of dust and is generally a bit of a detritus magnet. Yesterday I was tapping away, tap, tap, tap, tap…….. when I noticed a couple of those very little corn flies meandering across the screen. I watched them for a bit, then decided that I didn’t want them there. Being a sort of big softy Buddhist, I carefully tried to persuade them to hop onto a corner of some paper, but somehow they didn’t seem to hook up – they seemed to walk underneath it – but how so? It began to get irritating.

Forgetting the Buddhist mantra for a mo’ I turned into Alfie the corn fly killer. My hand wafted across the screen, striking them both a fatal blow…….. or did I? I didn’t seem to have any effect on them at all. They continued their meandering as if I wasn't there.

Either I needed to go up to 3 Weetabix a day and onto a quick body-building course - or I had come across Super Corn Fly Man – and his mate, The Corn Fly Boy Wonder.

Then it struck me, my 2 little mates were under the screen. Somehow, they had found their way into the computer. It’s pretty disconcerting when you are tapping away, to suddenly see a comma get up and relocate on the letter, on screen.

They're still there now, laughing at me, safe beneath the screen, causing God knows what damage to the innards - and playing havoc with my punctuation.

So much for being bug free……. (cue a Tony Blair 'look of real concern') .... maybe not.

Chickens coming home to roost…….

The other day I was having a bit of a do at my old blogging files. I started out at the beginning – to see my very first entry. I remember being real angry. Michael Carroll a yob from the County of Norfolk, with an offenders tag to boot and ‘form’ to the Moon & back had bought his very first lottery ticket – and won.

Not a tenner, not a hundred quid …… no, much, much more - he won £9.5 million.

It was strange though, no sooner had I picked thrrough old blog files and looked at my first ever entry… and there he was, there was Mr Carroll himself on the telly. Already serving porridge for white powder offences, he is reported to be the target of ruthless gangsters that he's managed to upset… Not a smart move.

Mr Carroll appears to have frittered most of his fortune away on white powder, gold sovereign rings and takaway pizza deliveries. He made the lives of his neighbours utterly miserable as his mates went tearing up the back garden with 4x4 races and torching battered old caravans at regular intervals – and now he’s getting some just desserts to go with the porridge.

Now he’s inside – and terrified – and skint (comparatively speaking) – and his house has been trashed - and all his mates have left behind the 4 by 4 by now.

But if it hadn’t been for him, I’d never have started blogging, thanks Mike.

First entry of AtOK, 3rd November, 2002.

So it goes …….

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

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

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

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

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

The buck stops where Lord Butler says it doesn't.......

I was going to write something witty and pithy today - or at least try to. But after yesterday's episode of 'What the Butler saw' - (which was bugger all really) I just didn't feel like.


Obergruppenfuhrer Blair,
hail to the Chief,
land of the free,
Stig of the dump

My faith in our leader has quite simply hit rock bottom. I want to gob Tony Blair, to get up close and serious with his set of flashy capped 'sincerity' incisors - and demolish them, I really, really do. - I just cannot stand the man. The religious zeal, the skewed view of his importance in the world, his simpering brown nosing to Bush, the failure to offer any sort of apology, for anything, ever.

The contempt with which he treats the electorate. The mates rates freebee holidays he manages to blag for his family, every year. The fantastically salaried mates jobs he gives to his failed lawyer buddies. The gongs and Knighthood’s given out like cheap sweeties to his adoring clack of Party cash donators...

The two dimensional 'I'm Tony Blair - trust me' smile, the over sincere hand movements, the really irritating way he says "I say to you...", the emails to his Ministers demanding that they give him some good news to announce. The vacuous way he announces everything and anything to the public - then moves away as yet another major initiative goes tits up.

His horrible wife and her horrible lawyer friends from the Matrix Chambers - all now safely ensconced into cushy Government jobs with pensions to die for, his failure to censure or punish anyone under him for anything, ever - even Peter Mandelson.

His moronic and power mad Ministers - John Prescott, Charles Clark, John Reid and Alistair Darling, especially. His pathetic management of the Country's infrastructure, the concreting over of the South East as the rest of Country becomes ever more victims to the 'Southern Drift'.....

The appointment of 'homers' for his back of a fag packet inquiries and reports, the way he says how 'brave' he is sending our soldiers and countless civilians to their deaths on the say-so reports from sycophantic yes men......

The way that his rash and gung-ho expeditions have effected security measures to be installed in Westminster costing £6.5 million quid to protect MPs - whilst the rest of us will have to make do with putting on an extra cardy and wearing a stout hat for bomb blast protection.

Maybe I'm being too critical on Tone - after all, as the learned Lord Butler said yesterday, "No one is to blame"....

Michael Schumacher – a grand prick ……

I watched the British Grand Prix on Sunday on the telly.

It was OK I suppose – in a eeeeeeeeeooooooowwwwww – mad-Murray Walker, Mansell-Mansell sort of way.

It was OK I suppose – in a "Oh bugger, has that German twat won again?"

I mean, watching it on the telly, you can follow all the action can’t you? Slo-mo’s, fast Germans, prancing ponies, faster women… It’s all there for the telly punter to view from the comfort of his armchair. With dynamic camera angles from tiny cameras stuffed into every orifice of Jensen Button’s anatomy, interest was kept to a fairly high level – even though you just knew what the end result was going to be.

But what’s it like to actually be there – at Silverstone? What’s it like to be stuck up in the stands as red, blue, green and yellow blurs career past you at the speed of Superman with a severe case of the Lex Luthor’s desperately searching for a bog.….

"Who was that?"………
"Who’s winning?"………
"Where’s Jensen?"……..
"I hate that German twat"……..

I mean it strikes me that you see about 5% of the race for the ticket that’s cost the same as a small semi-detached house. My advice is to save your cash – if you want all the thrills of Grand Prix racing, but on a budget, get your Scalextric out and shove your face right next to the track. It’s just phenomenal – and you get the added ‘danger’ bonus of the possibility of the car spilling off the track and smacking you full on the snozz.

The most controversial part of the race was Jensen Button’s decision to have a St George’s flag on his helmet – and not a Union Jack. Shock horror. The interviewer demanded to know exactly why Jensen had dumped Jack for George.

"So Jensen, why no Union Jack?"

Jensen stammered, and blustered.

"Just tell him Jense, matey. Tell him you’re bleeding English. You’re English and you’ve nothing to be ashamed of" I screamed. "Tell him to go and ask David Coulthard exactly why he has a Saltire on his helmet and not a Union Jack"…..

Jensen mumbled something about supporting the football team. Fortunately, just then, racing’s own little and large strolled into view. Bernie ‘the hobbit’ Ecclestone and his stratospheric wife, Amazonia gave a short – and long interview. The guy from ITV asked all the usual questions. Yawn. Why don’t they ask some real questions?

"Well Bernie, what’s it like earning over 100 mill’ a year, you smug bastard?

"Amazonia, are you really attracted to this old and short, but very, very rich guy?

"Bernie, can you fix it for me to be a racing driver?"……

I’d like to be a racing driver – the money, the women, the Monaco apartment, the women, more women. Until I do get spotted doing a racing start from the high street traffic lights, I’ll just have to content myself with the Scalextric. Eeeeeeeeeoooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

The ‘Typhoid Mary’ of the blogging world…..

Last night I updated my ‘blogging list. ‘Pasted in some new contacts – and deleted the ones that have become as dead as dodo.blogspot…. ’A blogged drain’…… ‘Just pop it in then’……. ‘The blogging bard’ ……. ‘Hidden ranting’ …. These, amongst many, many others have all ceased to be. And as the legendary Norwegian Blue Parrot, they are no more, deceased, kicked the bucket, expired, pushing up daisies, croaked, snuffed-it ex-blogs.

Whilst doing this little exercise, it occurred to me that an awful lot of the people I originally had on my list have jacked it in, or gone to the great bloggerama in the sky… Just like Typhoid Mary in New York in the 1920’s – all those around her dropped dead from the virus Mary carried within, whilst she probably thought she only had a bit of a personal hygiene problem…..

Judging by my deletions list, I seem to be a bit like that – a bit of a Jonah. A bit of a bad luck, black spot, bad karma dude. What all you new linkees have to ask yourselves is "Do you really feel lucky?" – and if you do, will I put the evil-eyed curse of closure onto your blog?

STOP PRESS:

World’s first ‘Pooh-sticks’ circuit opened by the Queen in Hyde Park this morning.

"Simply astonishing", said Christopher Robin. "This’ll really put ‘Pooh-stickery’ on the map. For too long now, ‘Pooh-sticks has been associated with fat-arsed bears, bouncy tigers and sad donkeys….. This is just the sort of thing that’ll sex up our sport for the good. The circuit's really tricky - rapids, bubbly bits and gravity - it's all there for the trooh-pooh enthusiast".

The first ‘Pooh-stick’ Grand Prix is scheduled for next month.


For Sale: Good franchising opportunity

Ever thought of franchising? It’s profitable, cost effective and fun to do! Unique opportunity to invest in ‘Pooh-stick’ stalls, ‘Pooh-stick stick-pins, ‘Pooh-stick’ plastic poo and ‘Pooh-stick pogo sticks –

Apply to Christopher Robin, Hundred Acre Wood.

Confessions of a King and a jolly birthday party with 2 Toms, Ken and Frank………

Tomorrow is my birthday.
And that’s very, very nice.
Prezzies and jellies and trifles …… and alcohol galore, hurrah.

Looking through my bumper ‘Have a look at who you share your birthday with’ book, and I’m praying that Bernard Manning, Jim Davidson and Tony Blair were not born on the same date that I was. It would be real nice if I shared my special day with some people that are a bit more intelligent than three crap comedians……

Well, that is a stroke of luck, it must be my birthday or something! I share my special day with some real intellectual luminaries –Lisztomaniac director Ken Russell, Metamorphic author Franz Kafka, former Czech and prolific playwright Tom Stoppard and errrr, that crap American actor, Tom ‘pleasure’ Cruise. Oh well, you can’t have everything can you?

I wonder if Tom will be naming me as his birthday buddy on his web site tomorrow? Or will he be sticking with Ken and Franz?

Anyway, I bet the Croozster doesn’t get a prezzie half as good as what I’m getting. I know I’m getting a good ‘un because I chose it – via the 3 dubbyas.

He’ll probably be getting another Ferrari or something (yawn). I mean, how passe is that? How very power-shouldered eighties. Maybe it’s some sort of substitute for something – maybe he’s lacking down there in the trouser department? Who knows?

What’s my prezzie then, I hear you ask?
It’s only an Anglo-Saxon, Edward the Confessor Silver penny – that’s bloody all!



I mean, how cool is that then, it’s over a thousand years old and it’s all mine - I bet Tom Cruise hasn’t got one. A coin from the reign of Edward the Confessor, a man who totally screwed up our history, because he couldn’t decide just who would succeed him. "William or Harold, which one, which one to choose? I mean, Harold is big and strong and Wessexy, but William’s an utter, utter bastard ….. and French of course."

So just why was he called Edward the Confessor? Maybe Edward the Vacillator, Edward the Fence Sitter or Edward the Special Needs King would have been more appropriate?

I reckon he should have tossed for it – maybe he did? Maybe that was his problem, too much tossing. Too much tossing so he forgot exactly why he was tossing in the first place – but what the hell, he was enjoying it much too much to care. Take a look on the Bayeaux tapestry if you get the chance – is he tossing? It looks bloody suspicious alright….Or is he just going eeny, meeny, miney, mo….. Come to think of it, the portrait of him on my silver penny looks a bit odd. What’s he doing with his regal right hand?

I’ve been to Edward the Confessor’s tomb in Westminster Abbey, very grand and very old, in a dust to dust sort of way. A bit disappointing though, there’s no witty inscription on it… Nothing like "See, I told you I was ill" courtesy of Spike Milligan. Maybe he should have one, something like ‘My name is King Edward Creosote – I was always sitting on the fence’…..

Happy Birthday to me,
Happy Birthday to me,
Haaaaappy Birthday to meeeeeeeeeeee - eeeee,
Happy Birthday to me,
(Anyone got an iron lung to help me blow out this forest of candles?)

Stating the bleedin’ obvious…….

Tube strike in ‘The Smoke’ today. A London Transport spokesman said "I advise workers to walk to work, because the buses are all going to be full".

That’s the trouble with Government spokespeople – no bloody imagination whatsoever. Where’s the left field thinking? – doesn’t anyone in power read any of Edward de Bono’s stuff?

Maybe they could ‘space hop’ to work. Or handstand, perhaps? Cart-wheeling could be quite creative – and giving not very nimble people piggy back rides could be pretty profitable. Just get a meter riveted to your head, stick a ‘No Smoking’ sign to your bum and you’re off. But remember, don’t take anyone with a snotty nose or obvious weight problem. ‘Light is alright, heavy is "Do me a favour, luv - there's a bus following in a minute - honest"

Or you could go the vengeful route. Round up a striking tube train driver, whack a bridle on him, don some very, very sharp pointy spurs - and ride him apace down Regents Street – Lone Ranger fashion. Only problem is, you’ll probably arrive just this side of Christmas.

Real creative thinking however may have been to avoid the strike at all costs. Or failing that, laying on a few extra buses or coaches and relaxing the congestion charge to cope with the rush…….. Nah, maybe not, The Ministry of the Bleeding Obvious will never take on board such radical ideas.

My advice to all you Larnderners though is to just throw a sickie – and watch day-time TV instead. I hear Dale Winton is on at 9.30 this morning, then there’s Fern and Phil and Richard and Carol after lunch ……. Pure, pure quality.

How gutted am I?...

Am I as gutted as a freshly gutted bloater, slapped on a marble slab in a fish shop window in Grimsby high street?

No, much, much more gutted than that - by some considerable margin, I'm afraid.

When will we stop being heroic failures?
It's at times like these I remember what Noel Coward once said (possibly) - "My dear, dear boy, it could be a lot worse, you could support Scotland"

That's true. By gum, I feel better all ready.
p.s. - Anyone want to buy 500 small car window St George's flags?



Did he really see that?…….

My brother-in-law insists that whilst driving around in North London last week he saw a van with a sign on the side of it that said - Patel & Patel, Plumbers. You’ve been let down by the cowboys, so why not try the Indians!

Is that an urban myth?



Welcome to my very worst of……
(an occasional series)

Worst ad’ currently on the telly – The very, very fat man with oversized strap on jingly-jangly jowlingtons, advertising his ambulance-chasing services from PA helpline. Always on during the daytime, it’s cheap nasty and very jowly.

Actor’s budget – Bugger all. Just the big guy, who obviously owns the gaff.

Props budget - less than bugger all. An old beach ball with some dodgy felt-tip writing on – and a ‘70’s phone. Plus, the strap on jowls (jumbo size).

Father’s Day pressies – getting what you really want…..

Yesterday I got a really, really fab pressie. It was a great day all round really.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do the ironing.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do the washing up.
Because it was Father’s Day I didn’t do any cooking.
Because it was Father’s Day, I mostly sat on my arse, drinking beer and watching the footy on the telly.

Come to think of it, most days are Father’s Days…..

Back to my pressie. I hinted, I coughed, I left post it notes around – ‘Must remember to buy Dad ‘Who murdered Geoffrey Chaucer’ by Terry Jones’ for Father’s Day’

It’s a brilliant book, not least giving a superb account of the malevolent murky medieval machinations that I love reading about.

No hints were taken up – only one thing to do, buy it myself – and raid offspring’s piggy banks to pay for it. Magic, dictatorship is alive and well and living in OK Mansions – and you could tell, they were really, really happy for me – honest!




The strange case of the one legged policeman – (does ‘P.C.’ stand for Police Constable anymore)……

West Midlands police have taken on a one-legged police recruit – a career traditionally taken up in the past by bipeds. I just don’t understand it at all – can a one legged man be as active as someone with twice as many legs? It reminded me of that great sketch by Dudley Moore and Peter Cook.

Cook plays a theatrical agent, auditioning for the role of ‘Tarzan’. In hops little Dud’ – he’s only got one leg…
Cook eyes him up and says "Let me get this straight, you’ve come to audition for the role of Tarzan? You, a one legged man is going for a role traditionally undertaken where the minimum requirement in the leg department is two"….

"Correct"

"As soon as you hopped in I looked straight at your right leg and thought to myself, now that’s a lovely leg. That’s a lovely leg for the role of Tarzan. I have nothing against your right leg …. Unfortunately, neither have you".

Slow on the uptake in gender realignment…..

Dave works for a company in Leeds and is a big guy. We talk to him now and again, he sorts stuff out for us, he’s a ‘no nonsense’ type of man – early 40’s, quiet - and hairy, in a hairy-hirsute sort of way. His beard and chest hair both look like they’ve all had the baby bio treatment.

Dave has a big, deep, booming gruff voice – that sounds like he gargles with gravel every single morning.

Dave is a man’s man alright …….. sort of - ish

Yesterday morning, Dave’s answerphone was a bit different though. Something not quite right there, I thought. Same gruff voice, same apology for not being at his desk at the moment but please leave a message….

But, I don’t know..... something’s just not right……. I replace the receiver and dial again.

"Hi, Davina here, sorry I’m not at my desk at the moment…."

Davina has a big, deep, booming gruff voice – that sounds like she gargles with gravel every single morning……

Davina is still probably as hirsute as ever – but I bet Immac sales in Leeds have gone through the roof.

Davina is a woman’s man alright …….. definitely. .

Dave is dead,
long live Davina……
It’s all a bit of a shock.

Searching for solace in the Solstice ……..

This is my favourite time of the year. I love it. The light, the warmth, the booze, the greeny stuff, the flowery colours and the burst of life – everywhere. How does the rhyme go? Oh to be in England now that strong lager is here…. (or something like that). I’m at my most optimistic, most sagely, willing to give anyone and everyone, pearls of pearly wisdom – whether they want any or not.

It’s all building to the Summer Solstice on June 21st. I love sitting outside at half eleven at night watching the sky go a deep inky azure blue, gazing at bats as they chase Britain’s biggest moth, the gi-normous and bright-orange coloured Elephant Hawk moth.

Then the great day dawns – sometimes I stay up all night, sit outside (with a few scoops obviously) and see just how short the time of complete darkness is – which is very short indeed.

I’m not a druid or anything – or a tree hugger, it’s just the atmosphere that gets to me. I’d like to go down to Stonehenge – just to see it happen, the Sun rising over the heel stone and central Trilithon – it must be a really awesome event. Of course, modern ‘Druids’ and ‘New age travellers’ have ruined it for everyone – who the hell gave those tossers in white hats and gowns the right to have control of the ceremony for most of the 20th Century anyway? Every ‘Midsummer News Report’ would show yer actual troop of local Druids doing the business at Stonehenge. Once in the ‘80’s, Corry’s most overrated and over wooden actor – William ‘Woody’ Roche was there, dressed in his floppy white, flopsum and whitesum gear, inspecting entrails, waving his sticky stick in great comical cosmic circles, casting spells and swinging crystally things about.

That’ll do it then, the Sun will come up again for the next year – it will bathe the planet in life giving warmth – it will sustain billions of life-forms for the next 12 months …. All because Ken Barlow and his magic crystal from Coronation Street in Weatherfield says so.

I’ve been to Stonehenge a couple of times – and have been truly humbled. There's a rope around it now, courtesy of English Heritage. The last time I was there, a young American dude took exception to the fact that this barrier was impeding his progress and stepped over it. He made his short-baggy trousered, tasteless Hawaiian shirted way towards the great stones. All of a sudden, out of the very depths of the monument a little wiry man jumped out waving his hands about a lot. The goblin of the monument was making a statement to this New World traveller…. "Go on, bugger off out of it, yer bloody bugger" And he did.

Then it’s over. Post June the 22nd means that the nights start drawing in – it’s down hill all the way until those damp, dreary days of darkest December, when the Winter Solstice is reached.

June 22nd also means that my eldest Son starts to pack for Glasto’ – and the inevitable annual assault on my wallet that goes with it…. Ho hum.