Yatesy's not happy....

Despite living miles away in 'The Artist previously known as Prince's home town of Minneapolis, Andy's dander is up. The reason? The staggering comment this week from brewery boot boys, Interbrew (or more accurately, 'brewery brand asset strippers') that they are about to 'rationalise' their UK brewing operation.....

Interbrew(or 'Bastards' for short) want to close the Boddingtons Strangeways Brewery in Manchester. Andy wants to get a boycott going of all Interbrew's products - check his post out.

Boycott Interbrew

Even now,I'm chucking the Stella down the bog....

Windy Fillers …..

Bloody typical innit?
You wait ages for a hurricane….
Then 4 turn up one after the other.


Hurricane Names….

Boy, Girl, Boy, Girl.
‘Ivan’ has hit the coast and ‘Jean’ is brewing up nicely in the special Hurricane growing greenhouse off South America.

I reckon that calling hurricanes fluffy, cuddly names – sort of gives them a bit of a benign cloak of breeziness. What you need are names that will truly convey the terrible power of nature at its most terribly powerful.

Alfie the Weathergirl has thought up a few more realistic names that may offer yer actual Floridian a truer perspective of the impending tempest …..

If they still want to stick with peoples names….
Hurricane Hitler.
Hurricane Barbara Cartland.
Hurricane Thatcher.
Hurricane Beelzebub…
And the scariest…..
Hurricane Higgins.

General themes …..
Hurricane Apocalypse – soon.
Hurricane don’t bother planning for the weekend – there isn’t one.
Hurricane big blow job.

Sponsored storms…
Hurricane Beanz Meanz Bloody Windy.
Hurricane B & Q (you’ll need us after it’s been through).
Hurricane Stormy Weather (by Ella Fitzgerald – a compilation of 24 classic tracks on this stunning C.D.)….


Battening down the hatches….

Every time a hurricane is about to hit some unfortunate community, an enterprising local carpenter breaks out the 1 inch screws & quarter inch marine ply to cover the windows of clapperboard built wooden houses. Thus protecting them from 150 mile an hour winds carrying all manner of heavy metal detritus and the odd flying cow …..

That’ll do it then.

Toffs shock – they’re all oiks!

I don’t reckon that the Burberry clad renta-toff crowd in Parliament Square yesterday were posh bods at all. Much more likely to be trouble makers, vagabonds and ne’r do wells from city council estates….

And here’s the proof!



Note: If they were Toffs – then they would be bleeding blue blood, obviously. All I saw was common as muck red stuff, which is very, very vulgar.

To quote Oscar Wilde(ish) "Red is a common colour, used by Bolsheviks, Bounders, Knaves - and Manchester United fans"

Plastic Surgery ……. LIVE!

I did something last night I’ve very rarely done in my life. Something, I’m quite, quite ashamed of.
It was just a bit of weakness, - after all, I’m just a weak willed, easily led, man.
I haven’t been well you see…..it was a fit of madness, or something?

Yes, I must confess, I tuned into Channel 5. Not for long, obviously. Too much exposure could addle the brain. No, I just took a quick look to sample the cerebral delight of the night.

‘Plastic Surgery – LIVE’ was on, hosted by heavyweight Diva, Vanessa Feltz and some smartly dressed, gobby Yank – the expert in all things ‘plastic’.

They were talking about ‘penis enhancement’ and ‘penis normalisation’….. Roll V.T. sequence – Instantly, a picture flashed up behind them. Some blokes nob – with a 90 degree, right angle bend in it. I put my half-eaten scone back on the plate.

"Next we are going to meet ‘Darren", Vanessa bubbled.

Darren’s – a sad, skinny, paler shade of white ‘mid twentyish something’ who had just had some ‘Buttock Implants’ levered into his previously boney arse. Darren smiled, weakly…… Roll V.T. sequence – of Darren’s bum getting the up close and personal buttock leverage treatment. Some Doctor, recently recruited from ‘Kwik-Fit’ is forcing the finely honed implants into Darren’s arse using a set of chromium plated tyre levers (‘Arse-flangers’ – per set, a price of $5,500)

"How do you feel, Darren?"

"Really, really great" he said, between the tears….

The gobby Yank started to plax lyrical. He trumpeted away, about the hottest things going on in the field of creative plastic in L.A.

"Yoweee yup and a hot diggerdy, ‘Anal Bleaching’ and ‘Vaginal Tightening’ are the ‘must have done’ procedures for the foxiest laydees, on the other side of the pond"

I gave the scone to the dog.

"What’s ‘Anal Bleaching?" I asked Alfreda.

As if by magic – and to spare Alfreda’s blushes - because I bet she didn't know, Gobby Yank Junior and Van’ the Man filled in the cracks of my knowledge.

They started talking about ‘Anal Bleaching’…. Roll V.T. sequence – a view of some young woman’s backside and crackside being liberally douched in bleach in a frothy, bleachy sort of way, with a paint brush (anal bleach applicator, price $800) and what looked like a bottle of ‘Domestos’ (special anal bleaching mixture, price $2,500 per litre).

Vanessa, a good enough reason for not having plastic surgery, looked gobsmacked.

The gobby Yank started on ‘Vaginal Tightening’…. Roll V.T. sequence. Another young woman, legs akimbo was having a little bit of tightening done to her front bottom.

The dog left the scone and wandered off.

I turned over. Suddenly, ‘Most Haunted – the bits we couldn’t include in the first showing coz they were too boring’ looked really, really interesting……..

Pretty vacant…..

Been a little bit bland, a little bit grey…..a little bit neutral all last week. Creative juicery has been running on empty in Alfie’s vacant cranium as he struggled to land another client to the ever growing(ish) OK portfolio.

I’ve been staring at a blank screen for most of that time, trying to write a stunning report on how to make the workforce of a leading food manufacturer more…… ‘enthusiastic’.

Enthusiastic about working harder, working smarter, being more considerate…… I’ve got to try and persuade yer average cynical, British worker to bin the habits of a lifetime and start to think ‘Japanese’.

Not much of a problem brief there then?

I reckon turning base metal into Gold, Emile Heskey into a skilful professional footballer and persuading Tony Blair that he is not God Almighty after all, would be a hell of a lot easier…. But maybe not.

The work’s worth a hell of a lot of cash – and we’re basically being promised a 2 year contract. It could be ‘clover fields united', 'kerrrching city' and ‘I’ll have that Merc’ – but in black, nirvana’, if we get it right……. (some hope).

And then there’s the blog……

‘Vacancy’ has spread. I couldn’t think of anything to write about all last week. I was only at home to Mr Void.
All I could think about was slogans and ideas for my ‘Considerate Worker’ campaign.

‘Hey workers, be more considerate – or we’ll squash your bollocks between 2 house bricks’

That might work, maybe…..

‘Hey workers, how about working a bit smarter, you thick twats’…..

Pithy became pitiful. ‘Words’ and ‘thoughts’ became ‘non’ and ‘existent’. I’d got rampant ‘Blog-block’ to go with ‘I can’t think of any idea whatsoever to land all that lovely money’ block.

I’m sure inspiration will creep up behind me and slap me right in the face with a wet, freshly gutted haddock, real soon….

Hey workers, start producing more – or we’ll get the Blowtorch, Pliers and the Nipple Clamps out.…..


Talking about Nipple Clamps…..

Some git owes 'AlfieCorp' 20 grand – and we can’t get it. Cash flow is becoming a bit of an elastic concept - in a taut ‘n’ twangy kind of way. The Anti-Christ – in the form of Vincent Arthur Trumpton, (or Mr VAT, for short) is circling with menaces and destraint orders. Do I dig out the baseball bats, become ’Alfie the Enforcer’ and confront the git? – Do I stick a blue striped tea towel on my head and become ’Alfie the Mother Teresa’ for the VAT man?

Hey workers, don’t behave like gits – stick a blue striped tea towel on your head instead…..

Sure fire winner….

"Hello, my name is Chalky Blair – and I claim my free 5 star holiday in your luxury villa in Tuscany"……

Tone’s back from his 5 week holibob cadgathon …… Phew, thank bloody God for that. We can all uncross our fingers and stop praying quite so hard now that the Father of the Nation and his mad wife are back at the tiller of Steamship ‘Busted Flush’ How on earth did we survive on our own with the ‘Great Smiley One’ in abstentia? ( Abstentia is an exclusive private estate in Tuscany)

Their holiday snaps were a bit of a laugh. We had Cap’n Tone with a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum on board somebody else’s dreamily expensive yacht in the Caribbean.

Four square and square jawed Tony peering peerlessly out on the vast emptiness of the ocean – whilst behind him servile, not so jolly Jack Tars scurry around actually sailing it. The trouble with being on a boat though is that just occasionally, a bit of a wind can whip up from nowhere. A few pictures escaped ‘Blair-censor-corp’ and revealed the Blair Barnet to not be in such a healthily hirsute state as it should be…. Tone’s getting a bit thin on top….

Then there was ‘Bandanna Gate’ The pictures of Tone and ‘MadCherie’ strolling around with a bandanned Berlusconi was real weird. I mean, it was like a capped teeth convention for 3 self-delusional psychos.

You could almost see Blair’s angst through sparklingly clenched gnashers… "Listen Cherie, just smile, let him and his bandanna go a few steps in front - and people will think he’s not with us.

Meanwhile, inside the head of ‘Bandanna world’ …. "Mama mia, if I canna just walka a bitta quicka – I thinka I canna loosa King and Queen Cadge in da crowda"……

Of course, the reason why Berlusconi was sporting a bandanna at all is open to a bit of conjecture. Apparently, the Italian Prem’ has just had a hair transplant to try to disguise his 8 inch wide centre parting. God knows exactly where on his body the donor follicles were taken – I mean, he didn’t have much left on the sides of his head did he? I fully expect that when Silvio dispenses with the bandanna, he will sport a fine thatch of tight curly hair – almost pubescent in appearance.

Maybe, the reason Tony cadged his way into Silvio’s Summerhouse was to ask him exactly where he should get his hair apparent from?


Cherie indulges in the ancient Italian sport of 'Wasp Gobbling’

Did I really hear that?…..

On Friday, we took Stuey, our 3rd alfalfa to the excellent 'Fox' pub in Roby Mill for a celebratory meal. He had done very well in his GSCE exams - so we decided to indulge in a bit of family 'very well done-ery'.

When we got there - you could hardly move for proud parents treating their brilliant offspring to a pub meal as reward for doing very well in their exams. Looks like everyone's brilliant and everyone's done really well …… Hoorah!

We elbowed our way to a table and a 'waiter on-erer' came over to take our order. Alfreda was having 'beef'.

Did the waiter on-erer then say "What about the Yorkshire Pudding?"

Did Alfreda reply "I don't know what he wants - and anyway, he's not from Yorkshire, he comes from Liverpool"

I just don't know - but there was a hell of a lot of giggling going on amongst the littleuns…..

Now this made me laugh.....

Q.How many Labour MPs does it take to change a light bulb?

A.None. But it takes 15 of them to produce a Report - 'Coping with Darkness'...

(Courtesy of the Peterborough Column in the Daily Mail).


The Scream......



Oh my God,
'The Scream' by Edvard Munch
Is still missing.
Good.
It's crap.....
I mean, what's the matter with the guy on the bridge?
He needs to lighten up a bit - it can't be that bad, surely?
Unless of course....
His ears have dropped off?

Or maybe,
The picture was originally called,
'A stroll along the bridge'
Maybe Edvard Munch couldn't draw 'ears'?
Maybe, 'A stroll along the bridge' became
'A stroll along the bridge with two crumpets stapled to the side of my head'
Maybe Edvard Munch thought, "Bugger - I can just about draw 'hands covering ears"
Maybe it was originally called 'Ear-ache' - who knows?

I don't know about you though,
I wouldn't give it house room.
I reckon the geezer what nicked it,
Was either an utter nutter,
Or spotted a bit of card in the Gallery that exactly matched,
The hole in his smashed window back home.
Possibly.

God gets hands dirty…….



‘God’ got up close and tactile with a block of wet cement on Monday this week as he left his dab prints to harden for prosperity and the wonderment of all.

‘God’ – under his nom de plume of Jimmy Page, lead guitarist, genuine gentleman genius - and all round top geezer from Led Zeppelin is the first, the very first Rock Star to have his hand prints immortalised in Britain’s inaugural ‘Walk of Fame’ outside the Virgin shop in Piccadilly Circus.

With typical humility, 60 year old Jimmy declared "It's a real privilege and a great honour to be the first. I'm really chuffed. A Walk of Fame is a fantastic idea, and it's high time we had one in London. If you started putting in all the people I think are deserving, you could cover the whole of London with hand prints".

I mean – how many demi-Gods do you know who use the word ‘chuffed’?
What a man.

Someone’s got something right at last……

And if anyone’s under any illusions that Jimmy isn’t the greatest guitarist ever in the world – ever… I suggest you invest in the Led Zeppelin double DVD and watch (& listen) the Page-Meister at work. Utter Genius.

Joneses, Joneses everywhere and not a hope of keeping up…

I am under siege at the moment – from aspirational family syndrome. Myself, Alfreda and the little tribe of Alfalfas are beginning to feel like the poor family that no one wants to live next door to.

We’re surrounded by families of ‘Joneses’ …. And I can’t keep up. To the right of us, the young, go-ahead dynamic couple with a kid that is only 5 but is already signed up to play for Liverpool F.C. have just had their entire front garden block paved. A huge area, that I bet can be seen from space, it’s a burnt umber and sienna mix with an attractive pattern in the centre. It hits just the right note of suburbian upward mobility….. *yawn*. Unfortunately, the company that did the block-paving – one ‘Jesse James and Co’ have made a bit of a pigs ear of it. The golden rule of block paving is to make sure that the gradient goes away from the house. Unfortunately, the cowboys didn’t know their arse from their slope, so when it rains an attractive moat gathers around the house. ‘Mr and Mrs Go-getter’ have mostly been ‘Mr and Mrs flooded out’ as Mother Nature, gravity, H2O and the ignored ‘golden rule’ conspire to bugger up their investment.

To the left is an aged silver duo – with loads of retirement cash and matching dark olive green Volvo estates. We rarely see them. They bought the house about a year ago and every couple of weeks some delivery van arrives with yet another bit of house kit. Double Glazing, double sofas, double garages…… and now a bloody monster big Conservatory that will no doubt include a couple of those twirly ceiling fans, and some posh wickerwork furniture.

In the middle is Alfie Manor. A bit of a ruin and generally not a pretty sight compared to ‘Left’ and ‘Right Fork’. Our garden can best be described as ‘rustic’. The most striking feature is the clump of ‘Great Willow Herb’ in the corner – just behind the pile of old faded block paving bricks that someone gave me a long, long time ago. I love this plant because it is the food for the caterpillar of Britain’s largest moth – The Elephant Hawk Moth – so I’m doing my bit for the environment aren’t I?. Over the years the pile of bricks has sagged and flopped into the long grass. It’s become ‘creepy-crawlie’ central, colonised by spiders and their many legged friends. Unfortunately, my flora and fauna enthusiasm is not shared with the ‘Silver Duo’, possibly because 5 billion Great Willow Herb germinated seeds dump themselves onto their immaculate lawn every autumn. Honestly, some people are so small minded aren't they?

A minor international incident has just been avoided as young Mr and Mrs ‘Go-getter’ have just installed a 6 foot high lapped fence to go with the block paving. It’s a Berlin Wall made of wood – the only things missing are watch-towers and slavering alsasians. Do you think they are trying to tell me something?

The fence had pinched a full 12 inches from our natural oasis. ‘Alfie the Beserker’ showed them the error of their ways - and the border has been redefined back to what it was. They've had the cowboys back to try to fix the 'gradient going the wrong way' problem - and have also built a grand brick wall to the front, with columns and concrete balls to boot. The problem with the border has left a nasty taste at Castle Alfie - and whilst there isn't outright hostility, an uneasy truce has broken out.

(But when their kid kicks over one of his footballs into our garden, I just don’t think he’s going to get it back)….

Olympic notebook…..

Janet and Jonny Junkets…….

Question: How many BBC commentators does it take to present the Olympic Games Programmes direct from Athens?

Answer: Lots and lots and lots and lots of them. So many, in fact that there’s no one left to change the blown light bulb in the Gents bogs at Broadcasting House in London.

And the first prize for the most banal question (so far) goes to…….

Sharon Davies at the Olympic swimming pool to Britain’s Steven Parry after he’d just won a bronze medal in the 100 metres Butterfly…..

"Well Steven, it looks like your tactics on the race worked out then?"

"Well obviously, Sharon, I thought I’d not ‘Go for Gold’…. ‘Going for Bronze’ just seems to have more of a savoir faire ring to it. I mean ‘Gold’ is so vulgar isn’t it? So Bling, Bling, so American don’t you think?

"Don’t you think Bronze’ is so this season?"….

Most ‘cheatingest’ Nation…..

Well, lots of nations to choose from here, but on balance I reckon it’s got to go to China.

Quite apart from the outrageous gamesmanship during the final of the Badminton Mixed Doubles. Moaning, carping and winning…… Have you seen the Chinese woman in the ‘Ladees’ Weight Lifting…. Good God Almighty, as sexy as a bag of nutty slack that’s let itself go a bit….

The Germans run them a close second though. I was made up when Alfreda told me they’d been kicked out of the Gold Medal position in the 3-day Equestrian.

"We’ve got the Silver, coz Germany have been disqualified"

"What for - invading Poland?…..

Most amateurish Nation….

Well that’s easy – it’s us, isn’t it? We take the Corinthian ideal to whole new depths of crapness. Big team, big National Lottery backing – and a measly couple of bronzes in the bag to show for it…. And the BBC going on and on, repeat after repeat ad nausiem – filling wall to wall Olympic Specials.

The Greeks show us how to……

Make a decent ‘Diana Fountain’ and find a proper use for it. Yes, have you seen their ‘circle of water’ bloody awesome – and no kids paddling in it either! No, no, the Greeks have stuck a load of butch canoeists to paddle up and down on it.

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.