Stop Press! Menage a trois explained….

Cast of 'Menage'
Kimberly Quinn - Rich, young American bint - quite fit.
Simon Hoggard - Witty columnist and author - pear shaped body, moon shaped boat.
David Blunkett - Former Secretary from Sheffield, choc full of self importance - bolshy.

Brace yourself…. one of these three people is completely blind.

Judging by the state of the two men, my money is on the bird.

What is wrong with wealthy young American, Kimberly Quinn?
Why have affairs with Blunkett and Hoggard?
Doesn’t she have any taste?
Maybe she just likes a bit of rough…..
But let’s be honest, there’s ‘a bit of rough’ – then there’s ‘dog rough, then ‘yikes’ then ‘scraping the barrel’…..

I reckon these 2 ‘ugly sisters’ live somewhere under the barrel…..

I wonder if she’d be interested in a sort of ‘OK’ guy, with GSOH, non smoker. Almost blind, with glasses resembling milk bottle bottoms, can sometimes be mistaken for ‘Plug’ from the Bash Street Kids. Loves power, was seen only this morning bullying an old lady in the M&S food counter…….

Move over Blunkett, Alfie’s pulled!

Anyway, Merry Christmas from me and Kimberly…..

Today’s the day….

Go and have a beer to celebrate, because today’s the day!
Seasonally Acquired Disorder (S.A.D.) gives way to ‘H.A.P.P.Y.’ as the big guy in the sky starts to work up a sweat and lightens up a bit.

From now on he’s getting higher up in the firmament and it’s downhill all the way, all the way to those long warm summery days of June, fluttery butterflies and chilled gee and tee’s.

For today is the Winter Solstice. Tomorrow, the daylight will last just a bit longer……… I’m feeling better already.



Outrageous discrimination…..



I thought overt discrimination was a thing of the past - but early evening telly has shaken me right down to my smug, pseudo liberal tree hugging, pc pandering Hush Puppies…..

An advert for the ‘OveGlove’ caught my eye. Coated in ‘Kevlar’ and purest ‘Nomex’ (whatever that is) you could plunge your OveGloved hand straight into the Sun itself and hardly break into a sweat…. Apparently, it’s great for the oven, BBQ and other hot surfaces. So far so good. The problem is, they come in packs of ‘one’ – which is just fine for all you one armed people. But what about all us bi-handers, we’re blessed with a full set of hands. One OveGlove just doesn’t cut the mustard. It only fulfils 50% of my total requirement……..

Solutions for this conundrum? Well, cut one hand off – or buy 2 separate ‘OveGloves’……..

I don’t know about you – but I reckon the manufacturers should have been a bit more even-handed……….




A joke for Christmas…..

I saw this on a message board today –

Two dyslexic blokes outside a cake shop. One says to the other – "Can you smell mince pies?"….

"Smell mince pies? I can’t even smell my own name"….

‘The Court Jester’
- that old fifties film starring Danny Kaye is on Sky Movies on Christmas Day.

A medieval tale given the typical Hollywood treatment, I saw it when I was a kid – and remember laughing my socks off when Kaye was trying to remember advice given to him on which cup had the poison in it – and which was safe to drink…..

Hawkins: I've got it! I've got it!
The pellet with the poison's in the vessel with the pestle;
the chalice from the palace has the brew that is true! Right?

Griselda: Right. But there's been a change:
they broke the chalice from the palace!

Hawkins: They broke the chalice from the palace?

Griselda: And replaced it with a flagon.

Hawkins: A flagon...?

Griselda: With the figure of a dragon.

Hawkins: A flagon with a dragon?

Griselda: Right.

Hawkins: But did you put the pellet with the poison in the vessel with the pestle?

Griselda: No!!! The pellet with the poison's in the flagon with the dragon!
The vessel with the pestle has the brew that is true!

Hawkins: The pellet with the poison's in the flagon with the dragon;
the vessel with the pestle has the brew that is true.

Griselda: Just remember that.

On the first day......

Alfie is on his Christmas shop for the next day or two.
I've been to Argos - but they're fresh out partridges in pear trees.....
So I'll just have to make do with getting Alfreda an alternative prezzy.

The problem is, I can't decide whether it should be the deep fat fryer, ironing board/iron combo, or Dyson vacuum cleaner.

I've asked her for a reinforced cricket box protector - I think I'll need it.


Fame is the spur.....

Bloody hell, I've just been listening to Simon Mayo on BBC FiveLive - and he's just read out my email about what a git Tony Blair is - and what a waste of time PMQs are. Guest political analyst, John Peenar in conversation with Mayo even nicked some of my email in his general commentary. He said "MPs were acting in a jokesy, matesy, end of termsy way because it was close to the Christmas recess".....

Look John, jokesy, matesy and end of termsy is all mine, OK?
My advice is to make up your own political invective, or employ me to do it for you....

A body swerve at the near post…

Over the last few weeks, Alfie has most definitely been feeling it’s time for a change of direction in his life journey. A bit late probably. I mean, the crest of the hill is a faint shadow in the rear view mirror and the old careers officer has found a new occupation inspecting daisy roots from six feet under. Basically, Alfie’s well fed up with having to grind out a living in the whacky world of visual communications.

Amidst an atmosphere of ever shrinking budgets and ever more Scrooge like behaviour from God like clients always expecting something for nothing, Alfie reckons the design game is up sh1t creek without a paddle….. or a lifejacket….. or a jackpot winning lottery ticket.

Thanks to Bill Gates and Steve why don’t you take all our jobs, Jobs, the mystical art of design and creativity has been reduced to nothing more than buying a crappola art package for £49.99 from PC World and banging off your ‘bespoke’ brochure via a £90 quid printer…..

There have been no single straws – more a gross of wire bound bales weighing down and breaking asunder a once optimistic and enthusiastic camel’s back.

So, a new career beckons,
Maybe something on the internet?
Alfie the.co.ok

Or possibly a pugilist?
Alfie the KO.

I can do a pretty good Ned Flanders impression –
Alfie the Oakally Doakally

I’ve always fancied a bit of tree surgery,
Alfie the oak lay…

Matadoring might be an option,
Alfie the ole!

I could do a biography on camp Carry On star, Charles Hawtrey,
Alfie the Ohhh I say.

Although I could become a bit of an expert mentoring type…
Alfie the au fait…

I can but dream……..
Alfie the old’n’grey.

Sex, Lies and Videotape……

Sex….
Alfreda and I watched ‘The Sex Inspectors’ on Channel 4 last night. It was all about a couple from Brighton – they were having trouble ‘between the sheets’….

Basically the hubby was a bit of a ‘wham bam man’ ….. in a straight in, furious activity and fast asleep kind of way. His wife was to say the least, a bit frustrated.

The lady Sex Inspector interrogated the hubby. He confessed to the entire nation that he didn’t do foreplay. He wasn’t that bothered about sex at all really.

The lady Sex Inspector chastised him for being so selfish. "You simply must do foreplay" she shrilled.

Alfie the Sexpert suddenly felt all superior.
Alfie the Sexpert with his magic touch and his encyclopaedic knowledge of womanly erogenous zones. His instinctive awareness of the wants, needs and carnal desires of a woman gained through a lifetime of experience. That and taking surreptitious dips into 'The Joy of Sex' from the top shelf of W.H.Smith's adult book section during the 1980's...... is feeling well confident.
Alfie the Sexpert with smug countenance on his boat, turns to Alfreda and says "Goodness me, you’ve got to have foreplay haven’t you…. Fancy not bothering with foreplay, it’s no wonder she’s frustrated!"

Alfreda agrees "Yes, absolutely. I mean without the foreplay, sex would only last a few seconds"……

Women can be very, very cruel.

Lies…..
So, Obergruppenfuhrer Blair has come to rescue of one of his beleaguered Ministers.

The Very Rev’ has declared that David Blunkett was "an honest man of impeccable integrity"…….

Nah, I don’t think that’s right at all really.

A man who conducts an illicit affair and gets his lover twice up the duff in the process. A man that leaks the affair and the question of paternity to that rag of rags ‘The News of the World’ in order to put pressure on his former lover is not an honest man of impeccable integrity.

Blunkett, you are thoughtless, selfish, vacuous, arrogant, self obsessed, power mad and not in control of your trousers....

and Videotape……
So VHS is dead.
As dead as a Dodo.
As dead as David Blunkett’s political career.
As dead as Dubbya’s brain cells.
As dead as BetaMax……..

My bountiful collection of tapes include the entire series episodes of ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, the ‘Winter Olympics of 1992’ - some dodgy 'adult' vids of the '70's with curly-permed female babes and male mullet-haired Germans saying "Hmmm dat isss gut, ja?"... ‘Heartbeat, the early years’ with Nick Berry and Ian McShane’s ‘Lovejoy’… every single episode of it - plus the last ever broadcast that TV-AM made …. What the hell was I thinking of?

Suggestions please on what to do with 536 video cassettes..

I’ve got IBS – it’s official…..

It’s official - I’ve got it.
Perhaps I’ve always had it.
It could be terminal.
If I have to sit through another night of 'entertainment' like I just have, it definitely will be.
Final confirmation came when ITV’s mega ‘Cadgathon’ of a Saturday evening schedule finally registered ‘red’ on my irritometer.
Four programmes – one after another all asking for the viewers to ‘phone in and vote for their favourites.
6:55 The ‘X-Factor’ – phone in and vote for your favourite egomaniacal pub singer.
8:00 Millionaire – phone in and fund Chris Tarrant’s lavish lifestyle.
9:00 The ‘X-Factor’ again – phone in, forget the pub singers, they’re crap. – Simon Cowell needs a new Ferrari Spyder though.
9:45 to 11:15 I’m a celebrity, get me out of here – phone in and reinvent some Z-list nobody that you’ve never heard of – and couldn’t give a toss if they get rampant widgety willie or not.

That’s over 4 hours solid of people on ITV imploring the viewing public to phone in - at costs of up to £1.50 a call.

By 9:00 I’d had enough and turned it off – before I shoved my size fourteens through the cathode. The bile had risen, the ire had metamorphosed to steam and was venting to atmosphere via my earholes.

Thanks ITV. Thanks very much for my IBS.
But I don’t think I’m alone.
Thanks to ITV, I reckon Irritable Bastard Syndrome has reached epidemic proportions.

I need to phone someone.

.

The numbers game…..

This morning, that earhole of power and Murdoch’s udderly rubbish cash cow – The supa-dupa-soaraway Sun had a rather interesting headline. They seem to think that the next General Election is going to be on the 5th of May, 2005.

Interesting numbers I think …. The fifth day of the fifth month in the fifth year of the century. Numerically speaking, that’s 5 – 5 – 5.

Alfie, the wizard of the copy line, has come up with a suitably cogent strapline to go with a Labour campaign, Something to sum up St Tony, our gloriously supreme leader. His personality, purity of thought and whiter than white objectivity …..

On 555, vote for 666

There you go Tone, the invoice is in the post….



Chips off the old block…
Last night, one of my sons was doing a bit of homework. A design for a book jacket about the life story of one of the world’s greatest ever civil rights leaders.

He carefully penned out ‘The Life and Times of Martian Luther King’……..

I’m not really sure which world my son imagines ‘Martian’ came from…


And then…..
One of the others trotted over to me to ask if I could get him one of those trendy yellow plastic Nike charidee bracelets, currently being worn by all the beautiful footy and athletic stars.

"Can you get me one? You know, the guy who got Cancer, beat it, then won the Tour de France 6 times for good measure has brought them out……. Louis Armstrong, that’s the guy. The bike racer, Louis Armstrong"….

I’d like to see the bike that could carry old Satchmo to 6 Tour de France bike race victories….

And the award for the crappiest film of the century so far goes to …..

‘The Core’ A hideous drama about some hippie scientists, a megalomaniac American General and a mad, arrogant power obsessed fruit-cake. The improbable plot concerns our band of dysfunctional heroes building a ship capable of travelling straight through solid rock to ‘the core’ of the planet. Once there, the crew light the blue touch paper to several thermo-nooclear devices, thereby starting up the Earth’s stalled Electro-magnetic field….. and thus save mankind.

Well that was the plan. The only fun in the film was working out who was going to die – and in which order. The fruit-cake gets it obviously - but discovers a bit of nobility on the way out. Predictably, the young, chisel-jawed hero survives – along with the sexy babe navigator. The best character in the film is the geeky computer nerd, parked at a desk in Mission Control. His role is ….. look suitably nerdy, whilst eating lots of ‘Pop-Tarts.’ And because he is a geek, they made him up to look just like Alfred E. Neuman, star of ‘Mad’ Comics.

Alfie the Barry Norman’s in depth critique has pulled out this gem from a dire script.

Scene synopsis: The ship is breaking up under the huge pressure of Earth’s core. The ever-diminishing crew suddenly discover that the nukes on board just will not do the job. The hero decides he can build a separate H-bomb with a bit of sticky tape, some matches and a can of petrol. He checks his bomb making ingredients list – just to make sure he’s got everything he needs.
Hero to heroine "Christ it’s no good! We need 8 pounds of weapons grade plooooootonium to make the bomb"

Well there you go, you should’ve nipped into Spar to stock up before you left, shouldn’t you? They’ve got a wide range of plutonium enriched goods for the discerning savers of mankind to buy. You’ll find them on aisle B, just underneath the bags of botulism cultures, cunningly disguised as packs of faggots in gravy.

Talking about Electro-magnetic fields…..
Last week, whilst watching a programme about a supposed tour of the Planets by a crew of virtual space people, I was amazed to learn that Jupiter’s EMF is the biggest thing in the Solar System by miles. It far outstrips the size of the Sun, This fact has now been stored on the back burner of my brain, to be brought out at a suitably appropriate time in the future. The Christmas day trip to the pub seems favourite.

Talking about thick Divas…..
Rod Liddle’s column in yesterday’s Sunday Times, quotes Mariah Carey’s bleeding heart outburst about all the poor children starving to death in Africa…..
"Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the World, I can’t help but cry. I mean, I’d love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff"….

I really do need to send Mariah something through the post – I’ve got some sticky tape, matches and some petrol – I’m just nipping down to Spar to buy some faggots and a couple of pounds of weapons grade……

Update.....

Alfie had left the building for a few days.

Stuff, fluff, bluff and dandruff have all conspired to lay the OK low.
I've been completely blog free over the last week, I don't know why - I just didn't have any bloggin urges.

However, blog sap is rising - I can feel it coursing onwards and upwards.

Normal blogging will be resumed on Monday....... (Hopefully).

Thanks,
AtOK.

Living History….
Today, I’m off to Yorkie-world to see my ailing Dad. His name is Albert, but he is known to everyone as ‘Matty’ – which is short for ‘Matelot’ – another word for ‘Able Seaman’

My Dad comes from a seafaring family. His father, George served on the ‘Mauretania’ one of those sexy big Edwardian ocean going jobs that didn’t do a Titanic. When the ship was about to be decommissioned and eventually broken up, my Granddad, faithfully following the tradition of scally scousers robbed one of the nicely carved state room mahogany tables and plonked it in his front room. Apparently, you could hardly move around this carved leviathan – proudly residing in ‘the parlour’ for the favoured invited few to drool over….

Unfortunately, its demise was assured via an axe when hard times, cold weather and no coal conspired to seal its fate…..

My Granddad was a bit of a lad. He ran away from home aged 15, stowed away on a ship and ended up in South America…… Eventually he became a Gaucho on the Pampas….. How cool is that then - My Granddad, the South American Cowboy.
He then went up to the U.S. to work along the Eastern Seaboard and even found time to do a bit of acting on Broadway.

He found Communism, became a Marxist and a sailor and came back to Blighty to do some agitating. He became mates with George Orwell and other bohemian types of a left leaning persuasion. In his spare time he wrote plays under the pseudonym of ‘Matt Lowe’ – mostly about the degradations of the recession hit ‘30’s……

My Dad, joined the senior service before the war started – and saw action on the Atlantic & Russian Convoys – and in the relief of Malta. He was the Royal Navy Heavweight Boxing Champion – a man who was generally reckoned to be as hard as nails. He once beat up George Kelly and one of his henchmen to stop them slapping a couple of girls around in a city centre pub. Kelly was a nasty piece of work – a Liverpool gangster, eventually hung for the murder of two employees at the Cameo Cinema.

So that’s why I’m going over today to Dronfield - a rather drab suburb of Sheffield to see him. I’m taking with me a big pad of paper and a pen. I want him to write all the stuff he can remember about his early exploits and wartime experiences. It seems the appropriate thing to do today.

Election Reprise….

USA Presidential Elections…..
When one floating voter was asked last week just why he’d decided to put his cross next to George W Bush he replied "Well, you don’t change a horseman in the middle of an apocalypse"….

’Pies Prescott’…..
What a result. Prescott along with his rubbish ideas has been banished back to the Ministry of Meddling. to lick his wounds – and do a lot of comfort eating.

Alfie stayed up last Thursday night to witness the historical result. Just to see political heavyweight, Prezza at the press conference with a face like a smacked arse was a vision to behold.

It doesn’t take long does it?….
My kid got home from school yesterday and told me a playground joke currently doing the rounds …
Yasser Arafat has requested that someone buy him a number 8 Newcastle United shirt, shorts and socks…….. He wants to be buried in a Gazza Strip.

And the prize for most nauseating speech of the year goes to…..

Tony Blair. Who else but good ol’ Tone, our fundamentally flawed fundamentalist leader.
He won it last year, he’ll win it next.
He’s completely cornered the market in gutless, no guilt, holier than God, watery puppy-dogged-eyed, verbola.

To watch his watery eyed ‘tribute speech’ to the three fallen Black Watch soldiers was as consummate a piece of acting as I’ve ever seen - or heard.

The word spaces, the hand gestures, the tilted head, the furrowed brow, the anxious manipulation of his wedding ring in a fingered fandango of tortured angst was just the pits. The pits of insensitivity – and an affront to those three young lads, blown to pieces on a desert road in the middle of nowhere.

Blair, you should be bleeding well ashamed of yourself.
I believe you are a psychopath – you are mad, bad and dangerous to know.
You should be sectioned forever.

Pedometers, a walk on the wild side….

In a bid to keep the European fat mountain safely ensconced within his reinforced ’mid life crisis’ Levi’s. Alfie Corp has decided to invest in a few ‘pedometers’ and thus aid his single-minded efforts to be able to see his toes again without bending double. Yes, it's the start of the 'TOE-VIEW-2004' campaign..
(The 'WILLY-VIEW' campaign will have to wait until 2005....... or possibly 2006)

We actually bought them in early Summer – but it’s taken 4 months for us to get them out of the brown paper bag and onto our belts.

The leaflet recommends we walk 10,000 steps a day to ensure a healthy cardio vascular workout. Well, that doesn’t seem to be too difficult does it? I mean, how hard is that then – it’s only walking for God’s sake! And anyway, I reckon I’ll probably do around 15, 000 a day – just to ‘put something back’ into the column marked ‘sedentary bastard’… Yep, it must be said, the bit of Alfie’s body under the most duress has been his bum plateau. 8 hours a day of unrelenting bum-on-chair pressure just cannot be good for you can it?

But that’s all in the past, thanks to my pedometer – and last Monday morning was ‘p-day’.

8:00 am. Strap this little baby of super pedometric dynamics to my belt. Set the controls for the start of my run …. (Walk).

9:00 am. My first check on just how many steps I’ve done in the first hour. What do you reckon? 800…1,500, … 2,000? Unfortunately, I’ve put my pedometer on my belt, right under my relaxed stomach muscles. After much huffing and puffing, I manage to heave the living blob that is Alfie’s one-man tribute to the brewing industry, to one side and view the screen. It registers a bland, almost deceased 87 steps. That’s just under one and a half steps per minute. A slow, almost stationary start, I think.

I resolve to walk to the local Spar to get a paper - and bag a scintillating 240 steps. I know that, because I’ve counted them out – and I’ve counted them in…. Back in the office, warm, slightly sweating from the after glow of honest toil, I recover from my workout. I check with my ‘Pedo-Mate’… It’s only registered 150 steps for God’s sake. Obviously, there is a fault. Obviously, I’m not receiving my true step balance quota.
I road test.
Different types of walking.
‘Bouncy’ is good.
‘Swaggering’ is best. But I’m walking like a Liam Gallagher – without having access to his women, money or swearing vocabulary.
I swagger, virtually every step registers… sorted.

By 12 noon, in spite of my most earnest ‘walkaboutalot’ efforts, and suppressing the desire to smack any passing paparazzi, my tally is only up to 658….. Just 9,342 steps to go.

The rest of the day doesn’t really do it, by the time 6pm comes around, I’m 9,000 steps short.

It’s at times like these, inspiration tends to strike the moribund. I decide to do a ‘power-walk’ to ‘who knows where’ and get that steps total to a more impressive level…

8.30pm: Alfie starts ‘power-walking’

9.30pm: Alfie stops ‘power-walking’

9.31pm: Alfie buys his first, well deserved pint of Pendle Witch.

9.32pm: Alfie starts ‘power-drinking’

11.20pm: Alfie blags a lift home through his gift of ‘power-cadging’…….

Tally for day one – 6,500 steps and two strained thighs.
Walking is a lot harder than I thought it would be.

Vote, vote, vote!

Unless you’ve been holidaying on Saturn for the past 3 months, you’ll no doubt be aware that an incredibly important peoples vote is imminent.

A vote, that if it goes the wrong way will have far reaching ramifications for this Country – and the way it is perceived by the rest of the world.

Kerry or Bush? No, much more important than them.

I’m talking about the North East Regional Referendum – as concocted by John Prescott and his Ministry of the Absurd. If a vote ‘for’ the proposition is carried then the area from Darlington up to Berwick will become one big ‘Super County’ – and yet another talking shop for Politicians coming in at the ‘talent’ equivalent of the Beazer Homes Footy League, Division 2.

Cue expense accounts, cue gold plated pensions, cue life peerages….. Oh, and cue a brand new spanking Regional Assembly Building with regulation ‘thinking pods’, mermaids in Koi pools and Busby Berkeley Musicals staged every lunch hour for the entertainment of the one Regional Assembly Member that bothers to turn up.

Prescott has helpfully deemed it ‘OK’ that the good folk of the North East should pay for this pumped up Parish Council through their Community Charge. If this proposition is passed, these no power non-entities will only have control for about 3% of the total budget as already allocated to the North East through Central Government.

Celebrities, wheeled in to bolster the flagging and increasingly desperate Government ‘Yes’ Campaign previously known as ‘Geordies’ or ‘Maccams’ are now telling us that they’ve always been proud to call themselves ‘North Easterners’…… Well, ‘always’ since about a week ago….

Don’t get me wrong, I too want political reform in this Country. I see Westminster and its enormous amount of freeloaders as being less and less relevant to me. The only answer is to have an English Parliament – with at least the same levels of power as has the Scottish Parliament… Mind you, if that did happen, what do you think the Westminster crowd would do? Probably fill in even more expense forms…..

I’m fairly confident, the latest attempt to break up England into bite sized Euro bits is doomed to failure. I expect and fervently hope for a ‘NO’ vote – and that Prescott will be defeated and possibly sacked….
Why am I confident? The people of the North East are far too intelligent to be fooled by a Jag’-driving bloater.

Talking about intelligent electorates – did anyone see that depressing programme on Channel 4 last night, about the targeting of American voters by the two Presidential candidates and their clacks.

The watchwords were ‘simple messaging’ and ‘rubbishing’ by each camp. Because they are both after similarly thick and impressionable people the TV ads amount to nothing more that playground insults …. ‘In 1983, John Kerry farted in public – and blamed it on an old blind lady in a wheel chair with a kitten on her lap and a Bible in her hand.. What you have to ask yourself is 'Can you really trust this man to run the Country?"

"George W Bush is a cretinous asshole - period... "

To illustrate how cerebrally challenged these people were, our intrepid man from Blighty whipped out a world map, randomly stopped people on a city street and asked them were different Continents and Countries were…..

Well now I know, ‘Africa’ is now where Asia is. Afghanistan is where Russia used to be, the Middle East is in central Africa, ‘Eyerack’ is over by North Korea……. And Great Britain? Well, Great Britain is a mixture of blank stares and somewhere near Capetown, South Africa apparently…..
Our man didn't bother to ask them where the North East of England was......

Maybe the land of the free, should become the land of reading the geography book - and possibly realise that they are not the only people in this world.

You just couldn’t make it up….

Middle of the road...

God Almighty, first she's trying to get me to go and watch 'Starlight Express' .... and now I've found out Alfreda's been trying to win a competition currently running on a local radio station. If she wins, she wants me to accompany her on the big night.

First prize? 2 tickets to see Will Young in concert plus a couple of back stage passes.
I wonder if second prize is '4 tickets'?.......

'Alfie the lifelong Zep' /Floyd fan' is mortified - and is even now trying on suitable brown paper bags in a bid to keep cred' and anonymity intact if the unthinkable happens and she actually wins. Listening to Will Young singing 'schlop' is not his idea of a good night out - just a very, very bad one. He wants everyone to pray and pray that we do not win this prize and that it goes to someone more deserving. Possibly Cherie Blair or Vanessa Feltz for example....

Oh dear, oh dear, the Musical.

Alfreda has seen an advert for that mechanical stage musical, ‘Starlight Express’ in the local rag. It’s doing a run in Manchester. She wants me to go and see it with her.

Apparently, it’s an everyday story of how a tribe of trains, dressed as extras for a recycling ad’ take over a theatre to practice their roller skating skills - they also sing, plus lots and lots more singing. And then more singing still. Seems fair enough, singing trains. The plot’s a bit thin though – but that’s more than made up for by the singing.

We’ve been married for 24 years – so you’d think she’d know by now I’d rather rub me bare bum with a couple of hedgehogs named ‘Spikey’ and ‘Pointy’ than go and see a musical. I just find it difficult to do the suspension of belief bit…… Oh, and the crappy songs don’t help either.

I’ve only ever been to a few stage musicals in my whole life. ‘Alfie the New York Times Theee-ater Critic’ gives his in-depth verdict on two of the more well known ones he has been dragged along to …

The first musical I ever went to see was ‘Hair’- the musical. The reason I went to see it? Tits and Bum research.

Verdict – Too many songs and not enough tits and bums. And not enough lighting - so a fog of darkness negated any tits and bums that might have been on show. Alfie also fails to see the relevance of the big, wobbly ‘happening’ curtain at the end of the show. This especially obscured the ensemble of tits and bums encompassed therein.

Advice – If it’s ever on again, be sure to take one of those million candle power torches with you.

The last stage musical I’ve seen was ‘Grease’ at the Manchester Opera House and starred Shane Ritchie as fifties greasy-haired, duck’s arse Teddy boy, Danny Zucho.

Shane brilliantly portrays Zucho, the bad boy leader of the T-Birds gang, as a tortured cockney soul who can’t sing, can’t dance and can’t act.

Verdict - That night, Alfie’s theatrical pen and pad used up the entire year’s supply of words from the lexicon marked ‘Banal’, sub-section ‘crap’.

Advice - If Shane Ritchie ever gets another lead in a musical, avoid it like the plague. In fact, go and catch the plague, thus ensuring you are too ill to be tempted to go and see it.

Musicals on film aren’t much better are they? I mean ‘West Side Story’ – a modern New York gangland take on Romeo and Juliet was superb up to the point where the Sharks and Jets start doing combative ‘pas de deux’ down the main street. – About 30 seconds after the film started.

"When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way from your first cigarette to your last dying day"…… (Unless, of course you join ballet school).

You can almost hear the leader of the Sharks saying "Jeeez, dat tough guy from the Jets means business – don’t go near him, he pirouettes"….

Anyway, Alfreda will no doubt be going to see the everyday tale of railway engines at Manchester. I, on the other hand will be doing a night school class on ‘how to watch paint dry’…

Hmmmm, could be an idea there. ‘Watching Paint Dry – the Musical’…….. Hey, Lloyd-Webber, nick my idea, and I’ll nut yer, you ugly twat.

A Galaxy of Ghouls, a colostomy of soiled underwear……

All Souls Eve is rapidly approaching. Duck apple night, Halloween, "Give us a treat, or we’ll burn your house down" night …. call it what you want – it’s supposed to be the night when spirits get mischievous and the dead rise to have a laugh. Anyway, it got me thinking – my Mum and Dad’s old house, an unremarkable bog standard post war semi was stuffed to the brim with poltergeists, bogglin’ men, boggarts, and horrible creepy things lurking in dark corners of long forgotten cupboards.

The worst and most mischievous of all was the bony old hag that used to lie in wait for me on the upstairs landing. She wasn’t just there on Halloween night – she was there every night … Especially on dark, inky black winter ones. There she’d sit – waiting, on her bony haunches for the opportunity to shove her horrible bony wizened, warty old hand through the gaps between the banister spindles and ruffle your hair or grab your nuts as you’re walking upstairs. ‘Haggy Baggy Jabby Hob’ was a real evil bitch all right.

The only way to combat her? Stand at the bottom of the stairs, take a deep, deep breath. Focus. Get in the zone. 3-2-1-go, go, go!!!….Just got to get from bottom to top in three gigantic bounds, four steps at a time – and of course, keep your head real low, so even if ’Haggy Baggy Bitch’ did manage to get her arm out in time, she’d miss your tousled locks – and your jangly nuts.

She couldn’t touch you once you’d got to the top of the landing, obviously. She was absolutely helpless – and anyway, I was safely in the bog by then.

The return journey was no less traumatic – except that the downward journey was achieved in only 2 monster bounds…. With the occasional broken ankle at the bottom – courtesy of the unforgiving newel post.

But hey, at least it worked… she never did get me.

But wait, did I say she was by far the most evil? I got that wrong….
By far the most evil entity in our old house was the guy that looked like a cross between an ‘Archie Andrews’ ventriloquist dummy – and a 1950’s shop window mannequin – all slicked down hair, rouged cheeks, red shiny lips and gleaming white teeth. He hid in my built-in bedroom cupboard… in my bedroom ….the room that I slept in … at night …all on my own.

When I was very, very small, I had this God-awful dream. There I was just nodding off to sleep. All of a sudden, the door of the cupboard in the wall burst open and Waxy, Plastic Smiley, Smirking, Brylcream Mannequin Monster-Man stood there in all his moody, brooding malevolence. Slowly, he raised his waxy head and fixed me with his glassy eyes. Slowly, he raised his wooden hands and started to totter towards me. In the nick of time, I woke up, jumped up and slammed the cupboard door shut.

The big mistake….. The big mistake I made was to leave the cupboard door slightly ajar. As long as I made sure every night that the door was shut, Mannequin-Monster-Man couldn’t get out and do his worst….

But hey, at least it worked… he never did get me.

But wait, did I say he was by far the most evil? I got that wrong….

By far the most evil… by far the most evil were the terrifying pair of ‘Harpy-Hagged-Haggy-Hags’ that would occasionally be found chewing on my legs whilst I slumbered away in my bed.

I don’t know where they came from, or where they hid during the day. But now and again, I’d wake up to see 2 little dark shapes with little flappy wings gouging at my legs. Two little imps with their vicious little talons stabbing away for all they’re worth. Now that was scary.

Fortunately, I had a strategy to hand to outsmart those little devils ….. Head under the bed sheets obviously.

So why where there so many evil dudes in our post war semi? Much too much ‘white powder’ hitting the base of my brain generating obscene, hell hound images I reckon.

Sherbet Dabs have a lot to answer for.



Coming soon – my real and really strange meetings with ‘the other side’ (well, the ones I’ve met when I’ve have been sober).

The special relationship takes a battering….

Is it an equal partnership of 50-50 between Blighty and BurgerWorld?
Nah.
More like 98-2 in their favour, I think.
We kid ourselves don’t we that ‘they’ are as aware of ‘us’ as we are aware of ‘them’?…. But they’re most definitely not – I think most of them have never heard of us.

And if they have, don’t we all come from ‘London, England’?….
"Glasgow, London, England"…
"Great Britain, London, England"…
"God knows where, London, England"…..

I once introduced myself to a guy from Chicago, Illinois as coming from "Liverpool, Edinburgh, Lancashire, London, England"… He didn’t get the irony – just the bizarre address.

The special relationship is a somewhat one sided state of affairs, imagined by British politicians in the virtual world of self-delusion and self-importance. Unknown to U.S. Presidents – until they want something from us.

This was brought home to us last Friday night as we tried to order stuff over the virtual super highway. Virtually super impossible. My nephew is engaged to ‘April’ - a Southern Belle from Dallas, Texas. He’s over there teaching kids ‘n’ Moms how to play ‘Saacca’ – I think he actually does his keepy uppy on the grassy knoll…. but that’s another story. They are getting married over there in mid December – then coming over here with ‘Randy and Tammy’ (the in-laws) for a right good pissup just after Christmas.

Their wedding list is with Macy’s, the biggest retail store in the world – and the idea is, you log onto the site, access the wedding list, select the prezzy you want to buy – and pay for it be card. The gift is then wrapped was sparkly stuff and delivered to the apartment near the grassy knoll, Dallas, Texas. ….. Nimps.

Unfortunately, all the cheap prezzies had gone. No fondue sets, no toasters, no towels. We did, however notice that they had a ‘Playstation 2’ plus an assortment of games still up for grabs….. Some chance.

We settled on a mundane (and cheapish) set of pans. Simple and elegant, in a Soviet-Stalinist sort of way, form and function fused to provide the discerning pan user with years of happy panning…….. apparently.

We set about the ‘simple’ procedure to buy them via plastic.
Once, twice, three times we tried. Each time knocked back by the auto refuse message that sprung up every time we pressed ‘send’. Frustrated, we decided to ring Macy’s HQ, Noo Yawk.

I mean, how bloody hard can it be to order ‘The Breznev Range’ of pans - and send them to an apartment just by the grassy knoll in Dallas, Texas?

We rang. Someone called ‘Hubert’ answered the ‘phone.
Hubert in telesales gave us the spiel, how we were today, how he could help us, were we having a nice day, if we should find anything wrong or discourteous ……..

We interrupt the diatribe.

"We just want to buy some bloody panza!"

Hubert has our undivided attention. We have his virtual balls in our rapidly tightening virtual hand – and he knowses it alright.

We order – no problemo. Just the card details then.

Hubert asks which State we are calling from.

"Oh, we’re not calling from America. We’re calling from ‘Britain’…….. B-R-I-T-A-I-N ….. You know, the Country?"

Hubert didn’t know. He’d never heard of us. He’d barely heard of Europe.

Hubert’s entire orbit of consciousness started at Alabama and finished at Wyoming. Everywhere else was No-where’s-ville….
Frustrated and insulted, we, the entire OK nation broke off diplomatic relations with the U.S.A.- there and then.
We told Hubert where to stick his pan-handle. He confirmed it was in Texas.

The OK household are now buying the happy couple a nuptial edition of a Playstation 2 - plus games, bought from Blighty’s own Argos catalogue. Well - it’ll give Randy and Tammy something to do when they visit the apartment near the grassy knoll…..

And as for cooking food via ‘The Breznev Range of pans’? They’ll just have to buy TV meals instead…..

Pigs in muck….

Later today, MPs at Westminster will (reluctantly) publish their ‘expenses’. Filed under ‘Fantasy’ – sub-section ‘Cornucopia’, I reckon they’ll have a right old problem trying to persuade Jonny Voter that they are not screwing the system.

Never let it be said that Alfie the politician-hater is not objective and fair minded in his criticism of the mother of Parliaments and its incumbents. I’m sure, that 50 grand claim for Gold leaf Post-It notes is entirely valid…..

Ever searching for fountain of even handedness, Alfie the nosey sod has had a sneaky dip into the most creative work of fiction this year.

I didn’t have much time – so I obviously went to the top…. Under ‘B’ for ‘B’stard’ and ‘Blair’ (same thing really)..

‘Tony Blair’ – to the purchase of books –
‘You too walk can like a Texan’ £95
‘How to find out if you really are the second-coming’ £30
‘Blagging holidays from the rich, famous & gullible’ £145

To the purchase of Postal correspondence courses –
‘Making the most of your pregnant pauses’ £5,540
‘Sincerity – made easy’ (Advanced Course) £3,500
‘You too can fool all of the people all of the time’ £4,000

Pension contributions – Nil (no need to as job comes with index linked £110k p.a.)

Toupee Allowance – Pending

Smoke and Mirrors Allowance – Overspent by several billion

Plastic Surgery - £35,000 (injury caused by too much self satisfied smirking wore out facial muscles)

Lottery Syndicate expenditure – Nil (already won jackpot twice, in 1997 and 2001)

Bung, sorry 'Donation' – To one, Pope John Paul for the beautification of 'St Tony of Iraqia' – plus 10,000 ‘Hail Marys’- £15,000,000

Clothing Allowance – Tee-shirts with the moniker "Hello, I’m Tony Blair – and you really can trust me" - £3,400

Spouse Allowance – pending, one bed space @ home for the insane.

Personally, I’m wondering just how much Boris Johnson paid on e-Bay for the gross of grovelling apologies he’s been using like there’s no tomorrow…..