Footballers' Wives – utter crud…..
Last night, I watched my first ever episode of ‘Footballers' Wives’. It was a monster-long 90 minute episode - an everyday story of lust, more lust, sex, rape, debauchery, drugs, money, bribery, baby swapping, dodgy hair-dos, spray-on tan, big jewellery and really poor fashion sense. I viewed in vain for some good, clean footy action - liniment, jock straps, diving in the box, strained calf muscles and disputed offside decisions….. But all to no avail.
I think the main message emerging from last night’s show was that money doesn’t buy you happiness - or taste - or acting ability …. Or even a plausible story line.
I mean, for a start, the actors playing the actual footballers, quite often managed to string more than 3 words together at any one time.
And as for the ‘Wives’……. They didn’t seem to do much shopping at all. Not one of them expressed a desire to have a pop career…… and the weirdest kids name in last night’s show was ‘Troy’….
No ‘Cruz’, ‘Romeo’, ‘Brooklyn’, ‘Calligula’, ‘Stallion’ or ‘Colin’ was to be found in any of the dysfunctional footy households on show… I mean, where’s the reality in that?
It’s a little known fact that Alfreda could have been a ‘Footballer’s Sister in Law’. She was once engaged to the brother of former Spurs and England defensive stalwart, Graham Roberts. But she met me, love blossomed, she said a ‘sick as a parrot au revoir’ to the potential ‘Footballer’s Sister in Law lifestyle’ and embraced inadequacy and suburbia. She is now a ‘FatarsedBlogger’s Wife’…..
(I don’t think she has any regrets)….
Friday, April 01, 2005
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Anyone know where I can find a groin massage nurse?…..
Or maybe where I could buy a pair of those rupture trousers – the ones that used to be advertised next to the x-ray specs and army surplus parachutes in the Saturday Papers of yesteryear…..
I’m suffering. Really, really suffering.
I can hardly sit down – and when I am sat down, I can’t get up. Whilst all you lot were enjoying the Easter break – I was shovelling up 12 ton of stone chippings in my Brother in Law’s drive……. 12 bloody ton!
Shovelling them up, placing them in old plastic builder’s bags – lifting them into the boot of my car, driving to our house and spreading the stone back on our drive.
And isn’t it amazing, when you’re working as hard as God on the very first day, huffin’ and a puffin’, sweating bricks and dribbling from most orifices, isn’t it so bloody amazing just how many people stand there and gawp. Stand there and say "What yer doin’?"….. Stand there and don’t say, "D’ya want any help then mate?"…..
A crowd gathered – jeez don’t they have anything else to do on an Easter Bank Holiday than watch to see if a grumpy old sod will collapse into a blizzard of stone chippings from a massive coronary? Maybe they’re taking bets – a sort of ‘heart attack sweep’ And if I did collapse – not with a packed in ticker, but the far more likely ‘acute groinal failure’, would someone in the crowd shout…. Is there a ‘Rupture Trouser Tailor’ or ‘Groin Massage Nurse’ in the drive?
Easter egg count……
After much ado – and several recounts, Alfie’s total Easter Egg Cornucopia stands at bugger all.
That’s right, absolutely none, nil, zippo, zilcherooney, nuffin….. a totally ‘choccy and interesting board game on the back for hours of fun’ free zone. Looks like I’ll have to beat the kids up for theirs again then….
Oh God….
Down in the smoke tomorrow – at the Lloyds Building to be precise…… I’m already feeling fairly depressed about it.
Or maybe where I could buy a pair of those rupture trousers – the ones that used to be advertised next to the x-ray specs and army surplus parachutes in the Saturday Papers of yesteryear…..
I’m suffering. Really, really suffering.
I can hardly sit down – and when I am sat down, I can’t get up. Whilst all you lot were enjoying the Easter break – I was shovelling up 12 ton of stone chippings in my Brother in Law’s drive……. 12 bloody ton!
Shovelling them up, placing them in old plastic builder’s bags – lifting them into the boot of my car, driving to our house and spreading the stone back on our drive.
And isn’t it amazing, when you’re working as hard as God on the very first day, huffin’ and a puffin’, sweating bricks and dribbling from most orifices, isn’t it so bloody amazing just how many people stand there and gawp. Stand there and say "What yer doin’?"….. Stand there and don’t say, "D’ya want any help then mate?"…..
A crowd gathered – jeez don’t they have anything else to do on an Easter Bank Holiday than watch to see if a grumpy old sod will collapse into a blizzard of stone chippings from a massive coronary? Maybe they’re taking bets – a sort of ‘heart attack sweep’ And if I did collapse – not with a packed in ticker, but the far more likely ‘acute groinal failure’, would someone in the crowd shout…. Is there a ‘Rupture Trouser Tailor’ or ‘Groin Massage Nurse’ in the drive?
Easter egg count……
After much ado – and several recounts, Alfie’s total Easter Egg Cornucopia stands at bugger all.
That’s right, absolutely none, nil, zippo, zilcherooney, nuffin….. a totally ‘choccy and interesting board game on the back for hours of fun’ free zone. Looks like I’ll have to beat the kids up for theirs again then….
Oh God….
Down in the smoke tomorrow – at the Lloyds Building to be precise…… I’m already feeling fairly depressed about it.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Bandwagons on the run…..
Labour Central Office, in a mistaken and ultimately futile attempt to retain my loyalty (and my vote) has been bombarding me with emails. The latest arrived yesterday.
Weighty, passionate, analytical? Nah – it’s just another instalment in the ’Howard is a bogey-man’ campaign. It’s just pathetic, who the hell thinks up this drivel? Don’t quote me but I reckon it looks like young snotty Alan Milburn from 2nd year remedial has been sucking on the end of his pencil again.
It’s not quite as bad as Milburn’s original idea though – the catchy jingle, ‘Don’t vote for Michael Howard, coz he’s a spazzy mong’ was run up a few flagpoles before being consigned to the bin (possibly).
It’s no wonder the public think all politicians are tossers is it?
The premise of the latest email is that Michael Howard is an unprincipled politician – always on the lookout for the next opportunistic cause he can nail his right wing colours to, gain a whopping big set of red top headlines – then move on to the next big thing… They call it the ‘Michael Howard Bandwagon Watch’….
Well slap my thighs with a well-oiled kipper. A politician going for cheap headlines and bandwagon causes?….. What a shock, they’ll be admitting they’re all failed lawyers and power mad egomaniacs next.
Anyway, back to the email. Labour Central Office have helpfully given a top ten of Howard’s bandwagon causes. I’ll spare you the whole list, because honestly they’re as funny as a house brick in the nether regions ……. But not quite as funny as Jim Davison getting two house bricks in the nether regions…..
2. Howard to ban hosepipe bans.
4. Howard says Premiership abuse of referees has grown under Labour, and promises a new ‘Graham Poll’ Bill.
9. Howard pledges new bill to force pop stars to sing lyrics clearly.
Informative? Do my a favour.
Witty? Errrrr no.
Juvenile? Pathetically so…..
I reckon Milburn wrote this stuff during a dull Geoggers lesson or maybe he sagged off from Double Maths to tap them out on Uncle Tone’s big computery thing….
I tapped out a reply. I thanked them for their email – but pointed out that the Grand Master of Bandwagonery puts Michael Howard in Reception Class.
No finer example of the dark art of the Bandwagoneer can be better illustrated by Tony Blair jumping aboard Dubbya’s bullet-proofed Cadillac Bandwagon Sedan on the road to Iraq, could it?
Labour Central Office, in a mistaken and ultimately futile attempt to retain my loyalty (and my vote) has been bombarding me with emails. The latest arrived yesterday.
Weighty, passionate, analytical? Nah – it’s just another instalment in the ’Howard is a bogey-man’ campaign. It’s just pathetic, who the hell thinks up this drivel? Don’t quote me but I reckon it looks like young snotty Alan Milburn from 2nd year remedial has been sucking on the end of his pencil again.
It’s not quite as bad as Milburn’s original idea though – the catchy jingle, ‘Don’t vote for Michael Howard, coz he’s a spazzy mong’ was run up a few flagpoles before being consigned to the bin (possibly).
It’s no wonder the public think all politicians are tossers is it?
The premise of the latest email is that Michael Howard is an unprincipled politician – always on the lookout for the next opportunistic cause he can nail his right wing colours to, gain a whopping big set of red top headlines – then move on to the next big thing… They call it the ‘Michael Howard Bandwagon Watch’….
Well slap my thighs with a well-oiled kipper. A politician going for cheap headlines and bandwagon causes?….. What a shock, they’ll be admitting they’re all failed lawyers and power mad egomaniacs next.
Anyway, back to the email. Labour Central Office have helpfully given a top ten of Howard’s bandwagon causes. I’ll spare you the whole list, because honestly they’re as funny as a house brick in the nether regions ……. But not quite as funny as Jim Davison getting two house bricks in the nether regions…..
2. Howard to ban hosepipe bans.
4. Howard says Premiership abuse of referees has grown under Labour, and promises a new ‘Graham Poll’ Bill.
9. Howard pledges new bill to force pop stars to sing lyrics clearly.
Informative? Do my a favour.
Witty? Errrrr no.
Juvenile? Pathetically so…..
I reckon Milburn wrote this stuff during a dull Geoggers lesson or maybe he sagged off from Double Maths to tap them out on Uncle Tone’s big computery thing….
I tapped out a reply. I thanked them for their email – but pointed out that the Grand Master of Bandwagonery puts Michael Howard in Reception Class.
No finer example of the dark art of the Bandwagoneer can be better illustrated by Tony Blair jumping aboard Dubbya’s bullet-proofed Cadillac Bandwagon Sedan on the road to Iraq, could it?
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
The blue and yellow mist descends once again…….
Sort of a clue there, then.
It’s a recipe for a heart attack, or Viking GBH or even Scandinavian Genocide – and goes something like this…
Ingredients –
One phone.
One Broadband connected p.c.
One grumpy old man.
One goosed and dripping mixer tap – made in Sweden.
Eight million Swedish sadists.
A dollop of fast-evaporating patience.
One big lump hammer.
Method –
Dial number of your local IKEA furniture store.
Wait for automated instructions.
Press button 1
Press button 3
Press button 1
Press button 2
Press button 1
Vait for operator.
Explain that your ‘Stockvik’ mixer tap is dribbling –and that you need a new tap washer.
Operator suggests you bring the mixer tap into the store for inspection.
Sprinkle liberal amounts of expletives throughout as you explain it is attached to 15 miles of copper plumbing in your house.
Carefully, ever so carefully take a firm hold of handset and smash it into hundreds and thousands of pieces courtesy of the big lump hammer..
Try p.c.
Log onto www.ikea.co.uk
Select oxymoronic ‘IKEA Help Centre’ tab from menu
Startlingly scary pop-up of scarily animated ‘Anna’ the virtual vonder viking pops up…
Oh God -
She's here to help me.
The first question from Anna zips onto the screen.
"Hello, can I help you?"
Well that is and easy one to start with....
'Of course you can't - you're IKEA'
I type 'Seals' into box
Anna replies "I know people love animals, but I'm here just to talk about IKEA. "
(She really does, honest! - try it yourself)
Type more expansive version of problem into box.
Wait.
Anna the techno-vonderkind from Svaden cannot help.
She advises that IKEA don’t do washers.
"Vee don’t haff any vashers…. Zee mixer unit ‘Stockvik’ cannot be taken apart – you vill haff to zrow it avay…
Maybe you cut try buying und new mixer tap at Bee und Kuuuw?
So there you have it, instead of spending 4 pence on a new rubber washer, Alfie is about to invest around £45 in a new mixer tap. Why? Because my favourite Swedish export insist there is no ‘eff’ in washers – and definitely none in IKEA.
Thanks Anna, thanks very, very much…..
UPDATE, UPDATE: What am I talking about?
Just got back from B'ndQ ..... Slightly underestimated budget for mixer taps..... £45 should in fact read £95 - and rising..... Good bloody grief.
Sort of a clue there, then.
It’s a recipe for a heart attack, or Viking GBH or even Scandinavian Genocide – and goes something like this…
Ingredients –
One phone.
One Broadband connected p.c.
One grumpy old man.
One goosed and dripping mixer tap – made in Sweden.
Eight million Swedish sadists.
A dollop of fast-evaporating patience.
One big lump hammer.
Method –
Dial number of your local IKEA furniture store.
Wait for automated instructions.
Press button 1
Press button 3
Press button 1
Press button 2
Press button 1
Vait for operator.
Explain that your ‘Stockvik’ mixer tap is dribbling –and that you need a new tap washer.
Operator suggests you bring the mixer tap into the store for inspection.
Sprinkle liberal amounts of expletives throughout as you explain it is attached to 15 miles of copper plumbing in your house.
Carefully, ever so carefully take a firm hold of handset and smash it into hundreds and thousands of pieces courtesy of the big lump hammer..
Try p.c.
Log onto www.ikea.co.uk
Select oxymoronic ‘IKEA Help Centre’ tab from menu
Startlingly scary pop-up of scarily animated ‘Anna’ the virtual vonder viking pops up…
Oh God -
She's here to help me.
The first question from Anna zips onto the screen.
"Hello, can I help you?"
Well that is and easy one to start with....
'Of course you can't - you're IKEA'
I type 'Seals' into box
Anna replies "I know people love animals, but I'm here just to talk about IKEA. "
(She really does, honest! - try it yourself)
Type more expansive version of problem into box.
Wait.
Anna the techno-vonderkind from Svaden cannot help.
She advises that IKEA don’t do washers.
"Vee don’t haff any vashers…. Zee mixer unit ‘Stockvik’ cannot be taken apart – you vill haff to zrow it avay…
Maybe you cut try buying und new mixer tap at Bee und Kuuuw?
So there you have it, instead of spending 4 pence on a new rubber washer, Alfie is about to invest around £45 in a new mixer tap. Why? Because my favourite Swedish export insist there is no ‘eff’ in washers – and definitely none in IKEA.
Thanks Anna, thanks very, very much…..
UPDATE, UPDATE: What am I talking about?
Just got back from B'ndQ ..... Slightly underestimated budget for mixer taps..... £45 should in fact read £95 - and rising..... Good bloody grief.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Saturday - A day of whines and poseurs….
Saturday dawned bright, warm and sunny – and it’s only mid March!
Is that normal? Surely not…..
I’m standing in the garden, resplendent in my Hawaiian shirt and shorts ensemble, bathing in the warm reflected glory of the big guy in the sky. Fantastic. One part of me – Mr Cerebral, is worried about the future, tut-tutting at yet more evidence of Global warming and potential environmental catastrophe. The other half of me – Mr Neanderthal with a liking for bacon butties, beer, lads mags, footy and more beer says "Sunny hot days in March? Bring it on baby – and while you’re bringing it on, get us a few ice cool beers…..
The thing is – which ‘Mr’ is out today? I look down to my podgy digits. They’re fastened round my breakfast, is it cerebral and croissants? Nah – it’s a big, thick bacon butty and a dollop of HP sauce. Mr Neanderthal is taking the air.
A suitably manual project for the day is sought out. I’m not thinking today – just doing. Block paving in the front garden fits the bill.
I mix cement, I mop my brow, I lay a course. I notice something. Every other car that roars past the front of Alfie Towers is an open top. Saturday is the first day of the year for chav-croozin’. "Hey, look at me, I’m cool, I’m so sexy, I’m driving a Cabreeeolay baby". Gangsta rap and Hip-hop is blastin’ outta the 120 watt boom boxes, pressure waves bounce off the crumbling ruin that is the Alfie pile. My brain is vibrating outta my ears as Doppler effect and 50 cent combine to give a performance to forget… Until the next opened topped boy racing tosser cruises into view.
I catch the eye of my next door neighbour. He’s in his front garden doing a bit of touch up work to the edifice that is ‘Immaculato Palace’.
We’ve never really indulged in any social intercourse. Mr Perfecto, the guy next door is everything I’m not. He always wears immaculate sporty gear. He always seems to be in his early thirties. He doesn’t walk, he sort of skippy-jigs around – like a boxer, on the balls of his feet. He always seems so damn happy for God’s sake. His eldest son, now aged about 8 has already been signed up by Manchester United. My 2 middle sons sign up every 2 weeks at the dole office…. The front of our house looks like a bag of spanners. His looks like something from Home and Garden… Just bloody perfect.
I ice-break… "Nice day eh"
He looks up. Mr Happy-Skip-Lightly doesn't look too pleased.
"Too bloody hot, if you ask me mate…. It’s too bloody hot – and there’s too many bugs about….. and don’t get me started on the weeds beginning to grow all over the place… bla, bla, bla"……
I couldn’t hear what else he was moaning about – possibly something about the Sun casting a rather sharp shadow on his drive or something…. Fortunately another geezer playing 50 cent cruised into earshot – so I guess I’ll never know…..
Saturday dawned bright, warm and sunny – and it’s only mid March!
Is that normal? Surely not…..
I’m standing in the garden, resplendent in my Hawaiian shirt and shorts ensemble, bathing in the warm reflected glory of the big guy in the sky. Fantastic. One part of me – Mr Cerebral, is worried about the future, tut-tutting at yet more evidence of Global warming and potential environmental catastrophe. The other half of me – Mr Neanderthal with a liking for bacon butties, beer, lads mags, footy and more beer says "Sunny hot days in March? Bring it on baby – and while you’re bringing it on, get us a few ice cool beers…..
The thing is – which ‘Mr’ is out today? I look down to my podgy digits. They’re fastened round my breakfast, is it cerebral and croissants? Nah – it’s a big, thick bacon butty and a dollop of HP sauce. Mr Neanderthal is taking the air.
A suitably manual project for the day is sought out. I’m not thinking today – just doing. Block paving in the front garden fits the bill.
I mix cement, I mop my brow, I lay a course. I notice something. Every other car that roars past the front of Alfie Towers is an open top. Saturday is the first day of the year for chav-croozin’. "Hey, look at me, I’m cool, I’m so sexy, I’m driving a Cabreeeolay baby". Gangsta rap and Hip-hop is blastin’ outta the 120 watt boom boxes, pressure waves bounce off the crumbling ruin that is the Alfie pile. My brain is vibrating outta my ears as Doppler effect and 50 cent combine to give a performance to forget… Until the next opened topped boy racing tosser cruises into view.
I catch the eye of my next door neighbour. He’s in his front garden doing a bit of touch up work to the edifice that is ‘Immaculato Palace’.
We’ve never really indulged in any social intercourse. Mr Perfecto, the guy next door is everything I’m not. He always wears immaculate sporty gear. He always seems to be in his early thirties. He doesn’t walk, he sort of skippy-jigs around – like a boxer, on the balls of his feet. He always seems so damn happy for God’s sake. His eldest son, now aged about 8 has already been signed up by Manchester United. My 2 middle sons sign up every 2 weeks at the dole office…. The front of our house looks like a bag of spanners. His looks like something from Home and Garden… Just bloody perfect.
I ice-break… "Nice day eh"
He looks up. Mr Happy-Skip-Lightly doesn't look too pleased.
"Too bloody hot, if you ask me mate…. It’s too bloody hot – and there’s too many bugs about….. and don’t get me started on the weeds beginning to grow all over the place… bla, bla, bla"……
I couldn’t hear what else he was moaning about – possibly something about the Sun casting a rather sharp shadow on his drive or something…. Fortunately another geezer playing 50 cent cruised into earshot – so I guess I’ll never know…..
Monday, March 14, 2005
The New Venture – Part 1…..
The first part of Operation ‘Make Alfie a Millionaire’ - www.kerching.com is virtually done. We had a bit of a head-honchos power meet today at the Thornton’s cafeteria in the Gateway Shopping Centre, Gretna Green and tied up the remaining loose ends. The mocha flowed, biccies dunked and the serviettes scribbled on.
Just a touch of data basing left to finish off – then all we have to do is upload, sit back and let the cash roll in. The rollout was agreed, we intend to ‘go live’ a week today…
Monday – www.kerching.com goes live.
Tuesday – www.kerching.com crashes due to punter overload.
Wednesday – Site back up – cash mountain forming in AlfieCorp offices.
Thursday - Alfie orders a big Merc’, a big yacht and a big sticky bun with double dollop of double cream to celebrate.
Friday – www.kerching.com floats……….
The meeting over, we drove back from Scotland ……
Speeding down the M6, we entered the county palatine of Lancashire. I knew we had, because one of those brown roadside signs told me so.
Someone with a bit of imagination – (and with last Friday’s events in mind) had done a bit of a makeover on the sign text. What was once an ‘R’ had been replaced with an ‘N’ stuck on top of it………
Welcome to Lancashire – the Red Nose County.
The first part of Operation ‘Make Alfie a Millionaire’ - www.kerching.com is virtually done. We had a bit of a head-honchos power meet today at the Thornton’s cafeteria in the Gateway Shopping Centre, Gretna Green and tied up the remaining loose ends. The mocha flowed, biccies dunked and the serviettes scribbled on.
Just a touch of data basing left to finish off – then all we have to do is upload, sit back and let the cash roll in. The rollout was agreed, we intend to ‘go live’ a week today…
Monday – www.kerching.com goes live.
Tuesday – www.kerching.com crashes due to punter overload.
Wednesday – Site back up – cash mountain forming in AlfieCorp offices.
Thursday - Alfie orders a big Merc’, a big yacht and a big sticky bun with double dollop of double cream to celebrate.
Friday – www.kerching.com floats……….
The meeting over, we drove back from Scotland ……
Speeding down the M6, we entered the county palatine of Lancashire. I knew we had, because one of those brown roadside signs told me so.
Someone with a bit of imagination – (and with last Friday’s events in mind) had done a bit of a makeover on the sign text. What was once an ‘R’ had been replaced with an ‘N’ stuck on top of it………
Welcome to Lancashire – the Red Nose County.
Friday, March 11, 2005
God save me......
Blimey O’Reilly. Is it 30 all, deuce, advantage to them or set point to me? It’s been going on so long, I’ve lost count. I just feel like I’m banging my head against a brick wall. Maybe I should start praying to St Jude - the patron saint for lost causes.
Alfie the little terrier is almost as sick as a parrot as he struggles to get any official answer from the blue blazer brigade at The Football Association. Whenever he tries to get them to talk – he gets blanked. They say sweet FA about anything.
When did the footy vendetta start?
About three years ago actually. A well meaning, but utterly ignorant TV commentator fanned Alfie’s glowing embers of irritation. Yes, Ron Cliché, ace TV anchor and interviewer of all things vegetable, summed up the scene. Becksy, StevieGeezie, Colesy, Scholesee, Riozee and the rest of the England footy team are all lined up on a corner of a far off foreign field. The opposition are belting out their own National Anthem, they are full of pride. Great gobs of glottal, are supersonically expressed to atmosphere as the high notes are hit – and the pride gets passionate.
Ron Cliché, chimes in. "Well, looks like the England boys are really going to show what real passion is all about as they proudly sing ‘God Save the Queen’ – the English National Anthem"…..
The cat got kicked.
The dinner got chucked.
The computer got plugged in.
I bang off an email to ron.cliché@rubbishtv.com…
I’m half way through, and then - I bin it. It’s not really Ron’s fault is it?
As far as he’s concerned, ‘God Save the Queen’ is the English National Anthem, because it’s always played before an English team event of virtually any sport you care to mention.
But why? It’s not England’s national anthem – it’s Great Britain’s. England doesn’t have one - but it should.
I felt a new cause coming on.
Better to target the blue blazers of the FA – to start off with.
My first email to FA HQ was fairly polite. So was the second.
By the time the sixth one was banged off, Alfie was losing his mind/marbles/mental faculties. All ignored. Consigned to the virtual bin labelled ‘Pain in the Bum, Barmpot’…..
Since then, every now and then, I have another go, renew the campaign to get the GStheQ CD chucked in the bin. A few weeks ago I thought, ‘bugger it, time to be a pain in the arse again’. Alfie is no longer playing with a straight bat. Alfie’s going to start diving in the area at the slightest of touches and writhing around like he’s just been shot with a sniper’s rifle. Alfie has declared war on the FA.
I log onto www.thefa.com
Oooooooohhh. The FA has gone all ‘customer luvee’. It’s all down to customer focus, in a customer-is-kingy kind of way. They’ve even got a hotline straight though to the grandly titled Customer Relations Unit on 0845 458 1966. I ring. Customer luvee interactivity hits the rocks. Because I’m not asking about David Beckham’s latest hair style, they cannot help me – but promise to get someone to email me…. No one does.
I trawl through the web site. The slick graphics seduce and mesmerise. David Beckham smiles at me from his virtual footy field, with his virtually footy foot resting on a virtual footy ball …… Is he saying "Look Alfie, don’t rock the boat, get behind the boys, none of them know the words anyway….. God Save the Queen – good. Fat old grumpy sod – bad, innit".
Becks gets deleted, I’ve no time for someone who names his kids Brooklyn, Romeo and Crud…….. I mean, isn’t Colin, Trevor and Cyril good enough then?…….
The current campaign is now a month old. It’s a two pronged attack, an email/phone strategy, every single day.
I’ve (rather helpfully I think) suggested some ready made English National Anthems that could be used. ‘I vow to thee my Country’, Jerusalem, etc, etc …… I’ve even volunteered to nip down to HMV to buy a few new cds as I understand the FA are a bit strapped for cash at the moment.
The trouble is that Jason, Steph, Tina and all the other luvees down at the ‘Customer Relations Unit’ do not want to know……
Just a warning to you, The FA.
Don’t think you can get away with it…..After all, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings (something else)….
Blimey O’Reilly. Is it 30 all, deuce, advantage to them or set point to me? It’s been going on so long, I’ve lost count. I just feel like I’m banging my head against a brick wall. Maybe I should start praying to St Jude - the patron saint for lost causes.
Alfie the little terrier is almost as sick as a parrot as he struggles to get any official answer from the blue blazer brigade at The Football Association. Whenever he tries to get them to talk – he gets blanked. They say sweet FA about anything.
When did the footy vendetta start?
About three years ago actually. A well meaning, but utterly ignorant TV commentator fanned Alfie’s glowing embers of irritation. Yes, Ron Cliché, ace TV anchor and interviewer of all things vegetable, summed up the scene. Becksy, StevieGeezie, Colesy, Scholesee, Riozee and the rest of the England footy team are all lined up on a corner of a far off foreign field. The opposition are belting out their own National Anthem, they are full of pride. Great gobs of glottal, are supersonically expressed to atmosphere as the high notes are hit – and the pride gets passionate.
Ron Cliché, chimes in. "Well, looks like the England boys are really going to show what real passion is all about as they proudly sing ‘God Save the Queen’ – the English National Anthem"…..
The cat got kicked.
The dinner got chucked.
The computer got plugged in.
I bang off an email to ron.cliché@rubbishtv.com…
I’m half way through, and then - I bin it. It’s not really Ron’s fault is it?
As far as he’s concerned, ‘God Save the Queen’ is the English National Anthem, because it’s always played before an English team event of virtually any sport you care to mention.
But why? It’s not England’s national anthem – it’s Great Britain’s. England doesn’t have one - but it should.
I felt a new cause coming on.
Better to target the blue blazers of the FA – to start off with.
My first email to FA HQ was fairly polite. So was the second.
By the time the sixth one was banged off, Alfie was losing his mind/marbles/mental faculties. All ignored. Consigned to the virtual bin labelled ‘Pain in the Bum, Barmpot’…..
Since then, every now and then, I have another go, renew the campaign to get the GStheQ CD chucked in the bin. A few weeks ago I thought, ‘bugger it, time to be a pain in the arse again’. Alfie is no longer playing with a straight bat. Alfie’s going to start diving in the area at the slightest of touches and writhing around like he’s just been shot with a sniper’s rifle. Alfie has declared war on the FA.
I log onto www.thefa.com
Oooooooohhh. The FA has gone all ‘customer luvee’. It’s all down to customer focus, in a customer-is-kingy kind of way. They’ve even got a hotline straight though to the grandly titled Customer Relations Unit on 0845 458 1966. I ring. Customer luvee interactivity hits the rocks. Because I’m not asking about David Beckham’s latest hair style, they cannot help me – but promise to get someone to email me…. No one does.
I trawl through the web site. The slick graphics seduce and mesmerise. David Beckham smiles at me from his virtual footy field, with his virtually footy foot resting on a virtual footy ball …… Is he saying "Look Alfie, don’t rock the boat, get behind the boys, none of them know the words anyway….. God Save the Queen – good. Fat old grumpy sod – bad, innit".
Becks gets deleted, I’ve no time for someone who names his kids Brooklyn, Romeo and Crud…….. I mean, isn’t Colin, Trevor and Cyril good enough then?…….
The current campaign is now a month old. It’s a two pronged attack, an email/phone strategy, every single day.
I’ve (rather helpfully I think) suggested some ready made English National Anthems that could be used. ‘I vow to thee my Country’, Jerusalem, etc, etc …… I’ve even volunteered to nip down to HMV to buy a few new cds as I understand the FA are a bit strapped for cash at the moment.
The trouble is that Jason, Steph, Tina and all the other luvees down at the ‘Customer Relations Unit’ do not want to know……
Just a warning to you, The FA.
Don’t think you can get away with it…..After all, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings (something else)….
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
A new word for my lexicon…..
And that word is ‘Astrakhan’…
That’s a nice word.
Sounds good.
Interesting – in a mysterious kind of way.
Sort of ‘exotic far eastern’
But what could ‘Astrakhan’ mean?
Well, for all you fashionistas out there,
Astrakhan is a type of highly prized pelt,
It’s very fine, very smooth – like crushed velvet.
It’s worn by slinky 7 foot tall, pencil thin models.
Gurus of the fashion world, with their balding heads,
Tied back greying pony tails, fawning underlings, thick black dark glasses and kissy-kissy greetings, insist that Astrakhan is a must have for their clients.
Victoria Beckham, Madonna, J-Lo, Colleen McCollough and every other new money chav will surely rejoice.
The Silver Fox and Coyote skin-mix body warmers were looking just a bit passé, just a bit ‘last week’, just a bit worn in…..
And anyway, Astrakhan goes a lot better with neon yellow chav jump suits, and Rabbit-skin moon boots.
It sets off designer shopping bags a treat.
And is worn by people who know the price of stuff,
But not the cost.
So just what is this wonder stuff called Astrakhan?
How is it so soft to the touch – so fine, so smooth?
Well Astrakhan is a sort of brand name for ‘Lambs foetus skin’
Astrakhan farmers, cut the throats of pregnant sheep, slit open their wombs and pull out the soon-to-be born living lamb.
And skin it.
Voila – Astrakhan!
Astrakhan – Farmed by butchers, fashioned by cretins, worn by morons, funded by a craven celeb’ culture.
And that word is ‘Astrakhan’…
That’s a nice word.
Sounds good.
Interesting – in a mysterious kind of way.
Sort of ‘exotic far eastern’
But what could ‘Astrakhan’ mean?
Well, for all you fashionistas out there,
Astrakhan is a type of highly prized pelt,
It’s very fine, very smooth – like crushed velvet.
It’s worn by slinky 7 foot tall, pencil thin models.
Gurus of the fashion world, with their balding heads,
Tied back greying pony tails, fawning underlings, thick black dark glasses and kissy-kissy greetings, insist that Astrakhan is a must have for their clients.
Victoria Beckham, Madonna, J-Lo, Colleen McCollough and every other new money chav will surely rejoice.
The Silver Fox and Coyote skin-mix body warmers were looking just a bit passé, just a bit ‘last week’, just a bit worn in…..
And anyway, Astrakhan goes a lot better with neon yellow chav jump suits, and Rabbit-skin moon boots.
It sets off designer shopping bags a treat.
And is worn by people who know the price of stuff,
But not the cost.
So just what is this wonder stuff called Astrakhan?
How is it so soft to the touch – so fine, so smooth?
Well Astrakhan is a sort of brand name for ‘Lambs foetus skin’
Astrakhan farmers, cut the throats of pregnant sheep, slit open their wombs and pull out the soon-to-be born living lamb.
And skin it.
Voila – Astrakhan!
Astrakhan – Farmed by butchers, fashioned by cretins, worn by morons, funded by a craven celeb’ culture.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
It’s an age thing…..
Well.
I’ve started writing ‘it’
‘The list’…..
Everyone in my age group starts one.
It goes with the mid life territory –
Stop worrying about the testicles – start worrying about the prostate. Stop worrying about the pension – it’s too late now anyway. Realise some equity in the house and get a buy-to-let property. Start ironing your jeans, so you get a really sharp crease down each leg…..
And -
Compile the list of 100 things to do before you die.
(Well, 50 things just ain’t enough is it?)
I was sort of inspired to make one whilst having a pleasant evening meal with a couple of pals recently. They’re married, he’s retired, she’s coming up to it and they’ve already on the second page of their listo-rama.
"Great, you’ve started your list, what’s number one then?"
They look ‘knowingly’ at each other. They’re smug. They know something that I don’t – but I want to find out. And they know it.
They couldn’t possibly tell me.
I go a bit teutonic. "Vot isss ze secret? You vill tell me vot your number von isssss
Gestapo 1 – Pensioner 0. He cracks. He folds. He blabs. He’s singing like Dame Nellie Melba competing on ‘Popstars, The Rivals’….
"Go to an auction"…..
Blimey, living fast and dangerous there then.
Not very Rock and Roll is it? –
More Val Doonican in a nice cardy, on a finely honed rocking chair…
Driving back home, I resolve to start my list – and to be just a little more radical than ‘going to an auction’.
I muse.
OK, my number 1 would have to be pretty damn memorable. Something amazing. Something I’ve always wanted to do. Something so damn good that everyone I tell will think "God, I wish I’d thought of that"….
I look for some inspiration. If he were still alive, what would Sid Vicious have on his list? Regrets-a, he’d have a fer-yew, but then againa, too fer-yew ta mention-er…..
Hmmmmm.
I’ve got to be practical.
The list – will be my very own Magna Carta.
My declaration of independence to greater fulfilment.
My very own rights of passage to a more action packed life - before I pop me clogs.
I’ll need to display it in a really conspicuous place, so all my friends can read it and drool. The kitchen, I think, will be a good place to display my huge list – maybe on the fridge?
Got it! My number 1 resolution on the list ….. Buy a really strong fridge magnet and some radically stout paper.
Well.
I’ve started writing ‘it’
‘The list’…..
Everyone in my age group starts one.
It goes with the mid life territory –
Stop worrying about the testicles – start worrying about the prostate. Stop worrying about the pension – it’s too late now anyway. Realise some equity in the house and get a buy-to-let property. Start ironing your jeans, so you get a really sharp crease down each leg…..
And -
Compile the list of 100 things to do before you die.
(Well, 50 things just ain’t enough is it?)
I was sort of inspired to make one whilst having a pleasant evening meal with a couple of pals recently. They’re married, he’s retired, she’s coming up to it and they’ve already on the second page of their listo-rama.
"Great, you’ve started your list, what’s number one then?"
They look ‘knowingly’ at each other. They’re smug. They know something that I don’t – but I want to find out. And they know it.
They couldn’t possibly tell me.
I go a bit teutonic. "Vot isss ze secret? You vill tell me vot your number von isssss
Gestapo 1 – Pensioner 0. He cracks. He folds. He blabs. He’s singing like Dame Nellie Melba competing on ‘Popstars, The Rivals’….
"Go to an auction"…..
Blimey, living fast and dangerous there then.
Not very Rock and Roll is it? –
More Val Doonican in a nice cardy, on a finely honed rocking chair…
Driving back home, I resolve to start my list – and to be just a little more radical than ‘going to an auction’.
I muse.
OK, my number 1 would have to be pretty damn memorable. Something amazing. Something I’ve always wanted to do. Something so damn good that everyone I tell will think "God, I wish I’d thought of that"….
I look for some inspiration. If he were still alive, what would Sid Vicious have on his list? Regrets-a, he’d have a fer-yew, but then againa, too fer-yew ta mention-er…..
Hmmmmm.
I’ve got to be practical.
The list – will be my very own Magna Carta.
My declaration of independence to greater fulfilment.
My very own rights of passage to a more action packed life - before I pop me clogs.
I’ll need to display it in a really conspicuous place, so all my friends can read it and drool. The kitchen, I think, will be a good place to display my huge list – maybe on the fridge?
Got it! My number 1 resolution on the list ….. Buy a really strong fridge magnet and some radically stout paper.
Friday, March 04, 2005
‘N’ is for ……..
‘Nottinghamshire’ apparently.
Except when you’ve got a cold – and then it’s
‘D’ for Dottinghamshire.
The hip, go-getting County Council of Nottinghamshire have revamped, made over and rebranded their homeland. Robin Hood has been outlawed – he’s old hat. Apparently, they reckon they’re going to rival Barcelona and Dublin in the weekend break market. Cool café culture comes to the murky banks of the River Trent.
They’ve joined the current vogue for shortening everything, txt style. They’ve followed in the steps of NY, FCUK, GSOH and FSH - and gone all minimal. ‘Nottinghamshire’ was passé, old fashioned and boring. But not any more. The ‘Ottinghamshire’ part of Nottinghamshire has been slung out, chucked into the bin labelled ‘chinz’ – leaving just the cool trendy moniker of ‘N’
‘N’spiring eh?
What a coup by the marketeers. They say ‘N’ stands for sexy, young, vital and sophisticated. Well they would, wouldn’t they. They’ve just trousered a fee of 125 grand for the use of their creative juices. Northumbria, Northamptonshire and Norfolk are reported to be livid. They just wish they’d have thought of it first.
What do I think? Utter rubbish. It’s old fashioned and crude. It’s dated - in a Seventies Kojak, flared trousers sort of way. It’s bound to fail. Cynical council tax payers are already pillorying beleaguered jobsworths for wasting their cash.
Alfie has been doing a bit of creative thinking – in an attempt to calm tempers – and offer the good people of Nottinghamshire an alternative brand to the big ‘N’…..
Got it!
Nottinghamshire – Nott too dull there then.
‘Nottinghamshire’ apparently.
Except when you’ve got a cold – and then it’s
‘D’ for Dottinghamshire.
The hip, go-getting County Council of Nottinghamshire have revamped, made over and rebranded their homeland. Robin Hood has been outlawed – he’s old hat. Apparently, they reckon they’re going to rival Barcelona and Dublin in the weekend break market. Cool café culture comes to the murky banks of the River Trent.
They’ve joined the current vogue for shortening everything, txt style. They’ve followed in the steps of NY, FCUK, GSOH and FSH - and gone all minimal. ‘Nottinghamshire’ was passé, old fashioned and boring. But not any more. The ‘Ottinghamshire’ part of Nottinghamshire has been slung out, chucked into the bin labelled ‘chinz’ – leaving just the cool trendy moniker of ‘N’
‘N’spiring eh?
What a coup by the marketeers. They say ‘N’ stands for sexy, young, vital and sophisticated. Well they would, wouldn’t they. They’ve just trousered a fee of 125 grand for the use of their creative juices. Northumbria, Northamptonshire and Norfolk are reported to be livid. They just wish they’d have thought of it first.
What do I think? Utter rubbish. It’s old fashioned and crude. It’s dated - in a Seventies Kojak, flared trousers sort of way. It’s bound to fail. Cynical council tax payers are already pillorying beleaguered jobsworths for wasting their cash.
Alfie has been doing a bit of creative thinking – in an attempt to calm tempers – and offer the good people of Nottinghamshire an alternative brand to the big ‘N’…..
Got it!
Nottinghamshire – Nott too dull there then.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
The people versus Alan Milburn…..
Most politicians get right up my thrupenny bits.
A select few qualify for a blindfold, a cigarette and nice white wall. And then there are the ones that defy the imagination – despots all, morally bankrupt to a man – and woman. It’s not too hard to find them - Blair, Dubbya, Thatcher, Mandelson and Prescott come to mind. There are however, quite a few knocking on the door of this ‘Club Noir Politick’ - and fifties quiff boy, Alan Milburn, geordie bosom buddy to the Rev’ Blair and no-talent ‘organiser’ of all things ‘Governmental’ is first in the queue.
I really do not like this guy. A man who jacked in his Cabinet post not 18 months ago supposedly because he wanted to spend more time with his young family is back in the political maelstrom – presumably because his kids have all sufficiently grown up now they’ve reached their nearly nines.
More likely Milburn has been lured back to the corridors of connivance by promises of a shed full of power and a mountain of cash by the right Royal Rev’ himself. Milburn has been awarded the ‘Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster’ and a salary-package of one hundred and thirty grand a year plus a ton of perks. Well I come from Lancashire – and I haven’t seen much of Milburn’s handiwork to justify the wad.
I rang his office to find exactly what being a Chancellor of a County actually entails. The creep on the other end of the line rather condescendingly told me that Chancellors of Lancaster don’t actually do any ‘chancelling’ in Lancashire – or anywhere else for that matter. Apparently, it’s just a way of getting no-talent, brown nosed toady mates back into positions of power.
Milburn’s raison d’être seems to be to get Labour returned to Governance – at the cost of a 130 grand salary courtesy of our taxes. We, the people are funding this guy for one job for the Country (whatever that is) – whilst he is doing another one for the Labour Party – full time!
’Alfie, the man in the white suit’ has decided to make this man’s life an utter misery. ‘Alfie the vengeful, make my day – I know what you’re thinking you punk’ has written a caustic letter to Sir Philip Mawer, The Commissioner for Standards at the Palace of Westminster, demanding that Milburn be forced to repay the salary drawn under a bogus job description.
Sir Phil’ wrote back to me. Words to the effect ……
"Dear Alfie, all aquiver with righteous indignation, I’m afraid there’s bugger all I can do for you sonny. It’s a right old stitch-up and no mistake, matey boy. You needs to take it up with his Boss – His Imperial Praetorian, Emperor Tonius Blairium-Caesar, Lord of all he invades"……..
So that’s it then.
Alfie’s got to go straight ‘to the top’ and do battle with ‘the dark one’.
Straight to the main man, the big banana, the head-honcho, the top ‘tater, the only 'honest-john' in town….. the great Blairzebub.
I just need to get some holy water, garlic and a very sharp wooden stake….
Most politicians get right up my thrupenny bits.
A select few qualify for a blindfold, a cigarette and nice white wall. And then there are the ones that defy the imagination – despots all, morally bankrupt to a man – and woman. It’s not too hard to find them - Blair, Dubbya, Thatcher, Mandelson and Prescott come to mind. There are however, quite a few knocking on the door of this ‘Club Noir Politick’ - and fifties quiff boy, Alan Milburn, geordie bosom buddy to the Rev’ Blair and no-talent ‘organiser’ of all things ‘Governmental’ is first in the queue.
I really do not like this guy. A man who jacked in his Cabinet post not 18 months ago supposedly because he wanted to spend more time with his young family is back in the political maelstrom – presumably because his kids have all sufficiently grown up now they’ve reached their nearly nines.
More likely Milburn has been lured back to the corridors of connivance by promises of a shed full of power and a mountain of cash by the right Royal Rev’ himself. Milburn has been awarded the ‘Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster’ and a salary-package of one hundred and thirty grand a year plus a ton of perks. Well I come from Lancashire – and I haven’t seen much of Milburn’s handiwork to justify the wad.
I rang his office to find exactly what being a Chancellor of a County actually entails. The creep on the other end of the line rather condescendingly told me that Chancellors of Lancaster don’t actually do any ‘chancelling’ in Lancashire – or anywhere else for that matter. Apparently, it’s just a way of getting no-talent, brown nosed toady mates back into positions of power.
Milburn’s raison d’être seems to be to get Labour returned to Governance – at the cost of a 130 grand salary courtesy of our taxes. We, the people are funding this guy for one job for the Country (whatever that is) – whilst he is doing another one for the Labour Party – full time!
’Alfie, the man in the white suit’ has decided to make this man’s life an utter misery. ‘Alfie the vengeful, make my day – I know what you’re thinking you punk’ has written a caustic letter to Sir Philip Mawer, The Commissioner for Standards at the Palace of Westminster, demanding that Milburn be forced to repay the salary drawn under a bogus job description.
Sir Phil’ wrote back to me. Words to the effect ……
"Dear Alfie, all aquiver with righteous indignation, I’m afraid there’s bugger all I can do for you sonny. It’s a right old stitch-up and no mistake, matey boy. You needs to take it up with his Boss – His Imperial Praetorian, Emperor Tonius Blairium-Caesar, Lord of all he invades"……..
So that’s it then.
Alfie’s got to go straight ‘to the top’ and do battle with ‘the dark one’.
Straight to the main man, the big banana, the head-honcho, the top ‘tater, the only 'honest-john' in town….. the great Blairzebub.
I just need to get some holy water, garlic and a very sharp wooden stake….
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
I’ve got a great idea….
What do you think?
I reckon it’s a winner – sure-fire.
It hit me, just like that.
A real eureka moment.
Now I know how Edison, Whittle, Logie-Baird and Geoff Hurst must all have felt….
Or-bloody-gasmico…..
I’m confident I can trust every single one of you – and anyway, I know where you all live. So I’m willing to share this little gem. And remember, ‘envy’ is a terrible and destructive emotion..
How did I think of it?
I dunno, genius is a weird attribute to have I suppose.
And I didn’t even know I was a genius until last night at 7:45pm….
There I was, watching the adverts on the telly. "You too can build a beautiful working model of a Spitfire in 46 weekly parts"… It was one of those bloody annoying ‘build something crap, week by week' adverts. There are loads of them being advertised on the box at the moment – all useless, all naff.
You get a little bit of plastic taped to a very thin mag - Build your own HMS Victory, build your own Radio-controlled car, build your own this, that and the other. By the time you’ve finished, the model has cost 10 times what it would have cost if you’d just gone to a shop and bought a finished one……… and that’s when the bolt of light hit me. I was touched, blessed by the Hallelujah man with a quiver full of idea arrows aimed straight at the creative void in my brain.
"Build your own house in 560,000,000 weekly parts. Part 1 at newsagents now with Brick 1 plus special bonus Brick 2 at the introductory price of £2.75p."….
Brilliant eh?
Like I said, envy – a terribly destructive emotion.
STOP PRESS – Another brillo idea from Alfie’s think tank factory.
"Build your own St James’ Bible in 2,510 weekly parts. Part 1 at newsagents now with ‘Page 1 – Genesis, in the beginning’ plus special piece of sellotape to attach it to page 2 – which you’ll get next week at the special introductory price of £2.50p……
That’s the trouble with us geniuses ….. once you start……
What do you think?
I reckon it’s a winner – sure-fire.
It hit me, just like that.
A real eureka moment.
Now I know how Edison, Whittle, Logie-Baird and Geoff Hurst must all have felt….
Or-bloody-gasmico…..
I’m confident I can trust every single one of you – and anyway, I know where you all live. So I’m willing to share this little gem. And remember, ‘envy’ is a terrible and destructive emotion..
How did I think of it?
I dunno, genius is a weird attribute to have I suppose.
And I didn’t even know I was a genius until last night at 7:45pm….
There I was, watching the adverts on the telly. "You too can build a beautiful working model of a Spitfire in 46 weekly parts"… It was one of those bloody annoying ‘build something crap, week by week' adverts. There are loads of them being advertised on the box at the moment – all useless, all naff.
You get a little bit of plastic taped to a very thin mag - Build your own HMS Victory, build your own Radio-controlled car, build your own this, that and the other. By the time you’ve finished, the model has cost 10 times what it would have cost if you’d just gone to a shop and bought a finished one……… and that’s when the bolt of light hit me. I was touched, blessed by the Hallelujah man with a quiver full of idea arrows aimed straight at the creative void in my brain.
"Build your own house in 560,000,000 weekly parts. Part 1 at newsagents now with Brick 1 plus special bonus Brick 2 at the introductory price of £2.75p."….
Brilliant eh?
Like I said, envy – a terribly destructive emotion.
STOP PRESS – Another brillo idea from Alfie’s think tank factory.
"Build your own St James’ Bible in 2,510 weekly parts. Part 1 at newsagents now with ‘Page 1 – Genesis, in the beginning’ plus special piece of sellotape to attach it to page 2 – which you’ll get next week at the special introductory price of £2.50p……
That’s the trouble with us geniuses ….. once you start……
Monday, February 28, 2005
Time lines……
I got a book for Christmas, I’ve just started to read it - ‘Trafalgar - Anatomy of an epic battle’.
I’m into Horatio Nelson at the moment. To be honest, I always have been – a great English hero who kept on getting body parts blown off – but carried on waving two of his five remaining digits to the French…. "come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough". Just like the Black Knight in Monty Python’s ‘Holy Grail’.
His finest moment – and his last, was at Trafalgar in 1805 and the consummate defeat of Napoleon’s naval forces. The bicentennial anniversary of the battle is coming up later this year, be sure to take a measure of grog and toast Horatio Nelson on the day of the battle – October 21st. But for him, we'd all be talking French today - rather than the current vogue for chav-estuary English.
I used to do some work for a guy called Malcolm during the early 80’s – and one day we sort of got chatting about Nelson. He then told me something really weird. Malcolm was coming up to retirement – and he started to tell me about his family. His Dad was born in 1857 – which I was a bit surprised about, to say the least. He married in his sixties to a young girl – and Malcolm came along in 1924 when his Dad was 72 years old.
His Granddad married fairly late in life also – again to a much younger woman – some 20 years his junior. His Granddad was 52 years old when Malcolm’s Dad was born. This of course meant that his Granddad was born in 1805 – the year of the Battle of Trafalgar.
I was amazed, three generations of family stretching back not far off two hundred years. His Granddad was born when George III was on the throne and William Pitt the Younger was in his second stint as Prime Minister, shortly before becoming ‘William Pitt the dead’ the following year.
The USA was barely 30 years independent and the dark continent was still a romantic mystery. Railways had 25 years to go before making an appearance and the first fatality, courtesy of an automobile was 100 years away. I sort of got to thinking that if there was any way that Malcolm could have met his Granddad – just how the two would have got on – and how they might have viewed each others world.
I got a book for Christmas, I’ve just started to read it - ‘Trafalgar - Anatomy of an epic battle’.
I’m into Horatio Nelson at the moment. To be honest, I always have been – a great English hero who kept on getting body parts blown off – but carried on waving two of his five remaining digits to the French…. "come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough". Just like the Black Knight in Monty Python’s ‘Holy Grail’.
His finest moment – and his last, was at Trafalgar in 1805 and the consummate defeat of Napoleon’s naval forces. The bicentennial anniversary of the battle is coming up later this year, be sure to take a measure of grog and toast Horatio Nelson on the day of the battle – October 21st. But for him, we'd all be talking French today - rather than the current vogue for chav-estuary English.
I used to do some work for a guy called Malcolm during the early 80’s – and one day we sort of got chatting about Nelson. He then told me something really weird. Malcolm was coming up to retirement – and he started to tell me about his family. His Dad was born in 1857 – which I was a bit surprised about, to say the least. He married in his sixties to a young girl – and Malcolm came along in 1924 when his Dad was 72 years old.
His Granddad married fairly late in life also – again to a much younger woman – some 20 years his junior. His Granddad was 52 years old when Malcolm’s Dad was born. This of course meant that his Granddad was born in 1805 – the year of the Battle of Trafalgar.
I was amazed, three generations of family stretching back not far off two hundred years. His Granddad was born when George III was on the throne and William Pitt the Younger was in his second stint as Prime Minister, shortly before becoming ‘William Pitt the dead’ the following year.
The USA was barely 30 years independent and the dark continent was still a romantic mystery. Railways had 25 years to go before making an appearance and the first fatality, courtesy of an automobile was 100 years away. I sort of got to thinking that if there was any way that Malcolm could have met his Granddad – just how the two would have got on – and how they might have viewed each others world.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Sudan 1 – FSA Academicals 0
(after a lot of extra time)
Looks like another cock up on the jobsworth front – courtesy of the Food Standards Agency. ‘Toxic food shock – Sudan 1 - a vile and evil cancer-causing additive found in virtually everything you shove in your gob, shock....... Every day, the list gets ever longer as more and more products hit the Sudan fan.
‘Toxic food shock – Sudan 1 found in furniture polish. Whatever you do, don’t eat your dining table – because you’ll die and get a splinter, shock’
The story broke to the public last Friday. The FSA had known about it since the previous Monday. Unfortunately, Alfie was in a pub in Port Sunlight on Thursday filling his not inconsiderable hamster cheek pouches with a ton of ‘farmhouse’ chilli…..
A ton of chilli with lashings of Sudan 1 on top - a side salad of chemical residual masquerading as chips, off a very old block and a pint of frothy, foaming ale to wash it all down…. I remember, ruminating while I was ruminating, ‘you know what, I reckon that this chilli has a hint of furniture polish essence, with a whiff of engine oil additive and a hefty dollop of a known carcinogen subtly infused into this purest offering of top grade slop-de-chilli’…….. Or was it all in my imagination?
‘Toxic food shock – Pot Noodle actually found on food shelves – rather than with the disinfectant stock, shock’
The point is, if I’d have known about ‘the scare’ – I might have given the chilli a miss. I might have gone for the ‘farmhouse’ ploughman’s with polystyrene cheese, luminous green salad and genetically mortified tomatoes – the whole ensemble liberally drizzled with agent orange dressing…..
‘Toxic food shock – Beef stock knock in block, shock. No Sudan 1 and no beef ingredients found in the beef stock, shock
Anyway, as ‘the list’ gets longer and longer, it suddenly struck me it might be quicker and easier to publish a ‘short list’ – a very short list of stuff that doesn’t have as an essential ingredient, Sudan 1. To save the Food Crap-Standards Agency any further angst, Alfie the Whistleblower publishes the list of foodstuff stuff which does not contain the evil antichrist that is Sudan 1.
Stuff declared absolutely free of Sudan 1 (probably)
Raspberry Jam,
Arsenic,
Tripe,
Babycham,
Bazooka Joe Bubble-gum,
Tapioca,
Brillo Pads.
Oy! - Jamie Oliver – you call yourself a chef, get off your bum and rustle up something creative from that lot…..
And just in ….‘Toxic food shock – Sudan 1 found in Iceland (the shop) – but not in Sudan (the Country) shock’
(after a lot of extra time)
Looks like another cock up on the jobsworth front – courtesy of the Food Standards Agency. ‘Toxic food shock – Sudan 1 - a vile and evil cancer-causing additive found in virtually everything you shove in your gob, shock....... Every day, the list gets ever longer as more and more products hit the Sudan fan.
‘Toxic food shock – Sudan 1 found in furniture polish. Whatever you do, don’t eat your dining table – because you’ll die and get a splinter, shock’
The story broke to the public last Friday. The FSA had known about it since the previous Monday. Unfortunately, Alfie was in a pub in Port Sunlight on Thursday filling his not inconsiderable hamster cheek pouches with a ton of ‘farmhouse’ chilli…..
A ton of chilli with lashings of Sudan 1 on top - a side salad of chemical residual masquerading as chips, off a very old block and a pint of frothy, foaming ale to wash it all down…. I remember, ruminating while I was ruminating, ‘you know what, I reckon that this chilli has a hint of furniture polish essence, with a whiff of engine oil additive and a hefty dollop of a known carcinogen subtly infused into this purest offering of top grade slop-de-chilli’…….. Or was it all in my imagination?
‘Toxic food shock – Pot Noodle actually found on food shelves – rather than with the disinfectant stock, shock’
The point is, if I’d have known about ‘the scare’ – I might have given the chilli a miss. I might have gone for the ‘farmhouse’ ploughman’s with polystyrene cheese, luminous green salad and genetically mortified tomatoes – the whole ensemble liberally drizzled with agent orange dressing…..
‘Toxic food shock – Beef stock knock in block, shock. No Sudan 1 and no beef ingredients found in the beef stock, shock
Anyway, as ‘the list’ gets longer and longer, it suddenly struck me it might be quicker and easier to publish a ‘short list’ – a very short list of stuff that doesn’t have as an essential ingredient, Sudan 1. To save the Food Crap-Standards Agency any further angst, Alfie the Whistleblower publishes the list of foodstuff stuff which does not contain the evil antichrist that is Sudan 1.
Stuff declared absolutely free of Sudan 1 (probably)
Raspberry Jam,
Arsenic,
Tripe,
Babycham,
Bazooka Joe Bubble-gum,
Tapioca,
Brillo Pads.
Oy! - Jamie Oliver – you call yourself a chef, get off your bum and rustle up something creative from that lot…..
And just in ….‘Toxic food shock – Sudan 1 found in Iceland (the shop) – but not in Sudan (the Country) shock’
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Hmmmmmm, decisions,decisions, decisions.....
Not been posting lately - too busy thinking about my future.
I've been asked to do something that's going to weigh very heavily on my time for the next few months.
if I accept, the work will start slowly and build and build until possibly around the 5th of May - when it will stop abruptly - probably (almost definitely).
I have to decide by Friday at high noon............
What to do, what to do, what to do.
Not been posting lately - too busy thinking about my future.
I've been asked to do something that's going to weigh very heavily on my time for the next few months.
if I accept, the work will start slowly and build and build until possibly around the 5th of May - when it will stop abruptly - probably (almost definitely).
I have to decide by Friday at high noon............
What to do, what to do, what to do.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Gold-digging? It’s a Trumped up charge……
Strolling passed the newsagents the other day, I noticed on the front of ‘Hello’ magazine a pic of their ‘event of the week’. That well-known big head, control freak and comb-over king, Donald Trump beamed out with all the light reflective value of the finest porcelain caps money can buy. There he is, looking slightly baggy with his latest gold digging drapeage, Melania Knauss on his arm, just after successfully negotiating their wedding day nuptials.
She looked young, vital, pert, drop-dead-gorgeous and as happy as a lottery winner. Well she would, wouldn’t she… she’s just hit the jackpot - and looking at her baggy, flabby, hold the gut in hubby Donald, she doesn’t have too much time to collect on the really big payout. If I were he, I wouldn’t make too many long-term investments. Judging by the photo – he’s a busted flush – even accounting for what looks like the colossal amount of nip and tuck stuff done on his boat. The photos also look like they’ve had a lot of stuff done to them before publication – and judicious PhotoShop eradication of lines, blemishes, imperfections, double chins and zits are evident for all to see.
He looks like a member of an eighties Soviet politburo – all shiny, like alabaster, all stretched out like a freshly inflated balloon. And then there’s the legendary coiffure hair job. It starts somewhere near his right ear, drops down a bit then flops up and over and over, like a breaking wave… right over the top of his head to finish up somewhere near his other ear.
Somehow, it defies gravity. Somehow, it defies breezes and sneezes. Somehow, for all Trump’s billions of dollars, he still looks an utter arse with a really bad comb-over. I wonder how many times he’s been to Chicago – the ‘windy’ city? Does he get a weather report on the strength of the wind before stepping out of Trump Towers in New York? What does his hair look like in the morning – does it just hang down one side of his head all the way down to his knees?
It really must by some sight to see – I hope the newly crowned Mrs Trump has got a strong stomach ….. but it can’t last, can it?
I reckon, sooner rather than later, she will echo the spirit of Trump’s recent TV success in ‘The Apprentice’ by saying "Donald – you’re fired!"
Strolling passed the newsagents the other day, I noticed on the front of ‘Hello’ magazine a pic of their ‘event of the week’. That well-known big head, control freak and comb-over king, Donald Trump beamed out with all the light reflective value of the finest porcelain caps money can buy. There he is, looking slightly baggy with his latest gold digging drapeage, Melania Knauss on his arm, just after successfully negotiating their wedding day nuptials.
She looked young, vital, pert, drop-dead-gorgeous and as happy as a lottery winner. Well she would, wouldn’t she… she’s just hit the jackpot - and looking at her baggy, flabby, hold the gut in hubby Donald, she doesn’t have too much time to collect on the really big payout. If I were he, I wouldn’t make too many long-term investments. Judging by the photo – he’s a busted flush – even accounting for what looks like the colossal amount of nip and tuck stuff done on his boat. The photos also look like they’ve had a lot of stuff done to them before publication – and judicious PhotoShop eradication of lines, blemishes, imperfections, double chins and zits are evident for all to see.
He looks like a member of an eighties Soviet politburo – all shiny, like alabaster, all stretched out like a freshly inflated balloon. And then there’s the legendary coiffure hair job. It starts somewhere near his right ear, drops down a bit then flops up and over and over, like a breaking wave… right over the top of his head to finish up somewhere near his other ear.
Somehow, it defies gravity. Somehow, it defies breezes and sneezes. Somehow, for all Trump’s billions of dollars, he still looks an utter arse with a really bad comb-over. I wonder how many times he’s been to Chicago – the ‘windy’ city? Does he get a weather report on the strength of the wind before stepping out of Trump Towers in New York? What does his hair look like in the morning – does it just hang down one side of his head all the way down to his knees?
It really must by some sight to see – I hope the newly crowned Mrs Trump has got a strong stomach ….. but it can’t last, can it?
I reckon, sooner rather than later, she will echo the spirit of Trump’s recent TV success in ‘The Apprentice’ by saying "Donald – you’re fired!"
Monday, February 14, 2005
Arthur Miller – a dead man……..
Arthur Miller died last Friday. America’s greatest 20th Century playwright has parked his pen forever, in the little slot at the top of his desk.
Arthur was a bit of a genius apparently. Why? Because uber theatre critic Sheridan Morley says so, as well as virtually every other theatre tribute in Saturday’s papers.
Miller was ‘great’ because he wrote ‘The Crucible’ and ‘Death of a Salesman’ and ……………. not much else really. I’ve combed every other obit’ I could find – including the one in The Times, trying to find other plays in the Miller portfolio – all to very little avail. If Art’ had any nouse at all – he’d have done some follow up stuff, ‘Death of a Salesman – the Resurrection’ – ‘Death of a Salesman – but the Afterlife is a Whole New Selling Opportunity’ and ‘The Crucible Snooker Final’ comes to mind …..
I just don’t think he achieved his full potential. If you’re a genius – stuff comes easy. If you’re Mozart, you bang off The Marriage of Figaro before a lunchtime pint in a Saltzberg tavern. If you’re Shakespeare, Hamlet is knocked out on the back of a fag packet while Christopher Marlowe is at the bar ordering another foaming round of foaming ale and picking a fight with a local….
If you’re Arthur Miller however, you’re too busy shagging Marilyn Munroe to bother….
Maybe the obit headline should have read Arthur Miller – ‘Death of Failed (but Jammy) Man’
Arthur Miller died last Friday. America’s greatest 20th Century playwright has parked his pen forever, in the little slot at the top of his desk.
Arthur was a bit of a genius apparently. Why? Because uber theatre critic Sheridan Morley says so, as well as virtually every other theatre tribute in Saturday’s papers.
Miller was ‘great’ because he wrote ‘The Crucible’ and ‘Death of a Salesman’ and ……………. not much else really. I’ve combed every other obit’ I could find – including the one in The Times, trying to find other plays in the Miller portfolio – all to very little avail. If Art’ had any nouse at all – he’d have done some follow up stuff, ‘Death of a Salesman – the Resurrection’ – ‘Death of a Salesman – but the Afterlife is a Whole New Selling Opportunity’ and ‘The Crucible Snooker Final’ comes to mind …..
I just don’t think he achieved his full potential. If you’re a genius – stuff comes easy. If you’re Mozart, you bang off The Marriage of Figaro before a lunchtime pint in a Saltzberg tavern. If you’re Shakespeare, Hamlet is knocked out on the back of a fag packet while Christopher Marlowe is at the bar ordering another foaming round of foaming ale and picking a fight with a local….
If you’re Arthur Miller however, you’re too busy shagging Marilyn Munroe to bother….
Maybe the obit headline should have read Arthur Miller – ‘Death of Failed (but Jammy) Man’
Thursday, February 10, 2005
There just aint enough sick bags around when you need several thousand……
His Imperial Omnipotence, the leader of all things ‘bleary’, Tony don’t mess with me or I’ll get Prezza to send some gypsies to live next door to you Blair was on Channel 4’s Richard and Judy show tonight.
Ooooooh, Missus, I don’t half feel queasy…
Our loveable Tone, playing the role of ‘a kinda straight kinda guy'… (kind of) – soon had the King and Queen of Banality eating out of his kinda slightly greasy hands.
The toughest question of the night came from Richard - "Can we swap phone numbers Tone?" Judy contented herself with a silent adoring drool as she wondered whether she could back-heel Richard and rename the programme 'The Tony and Judy Show’ in the not to distant future…..
Muummpphh, I’m retching my guts up…
The mutual backslapping continued apace as Tone revealed his caring, sharing side "Yes, Judy, I really do feel the pain of our fallen soldiers in Iraq and of their grieving families"…
Oh God, here comes – and there goes yesterday’s breakfast….
Suddenly, Tony had to don a whole new persona – and quick, as Richard collapses in agony, with a little help from Judy’s right boot into his left testicle - and volunteers his place in the exciting game ‘You Say, We Pay’……
Tone suddenly becomes a kinda straight, kinda thick as piggy-plop, sort of game-host guy….
You Say, We Pay is the exciting game where a member of the public describes a series of pictures of objects behind R & J’s backs – and they have to guess what they are. Every correct answer is worth a thousand pounds… The contestants usually accrue about 7 grand over the one-minute the game lasts.
Tone sat on his kinda straight, kinda Perry Como stool and smiled with a ‘trust me - I’m an ordinary kinda guy’ countenance.
Gagggghhh, I’m down to bile…….
Judy answered five questions correctly -Tone answered just the one. Appropriately enough, the answer was ‘Guinea Pig’…
By the end of the show, you can hardly hear what Richard and Judy are saying - they are too busy licking the great man’s shoes….they finally expire, courtesy of Kiwi Black poisoning...
Like the consummate pro he is, Tone closes the show with the words "Thanks for tuning into the first edition of ‘BlairWorld – a Kinda Straight Kinda Show’ – and don’t forget to tune in on Friday when Cherie will be introducing her very own show - ‘Quick Look Away, it's Scary-Blairie"…..
The final credit rolls up ‘This programme is produced by ‘BlairCorp’ – a subsidiary of ‘BushCrusade Inc’ – both wholly owned by ‘News International’……..
His Imperial Omnipotence, the leader of all things ‘bleary’, Tony don’t mess with me or I’ll get Prezza to send some gypsies to live next door to you Blair was on Channel 4’s Richard and Judy show tonight.
Ooooooh, Missus, I don’t half feel queasy…
Our loveable Tone, playing the role of ‘a kinda straight kinda guy'… (kind of) – soon had the King and Queen of Banality eating out of his kinda slightly greasy hands.
The toughest question of the night came from Richard - "Can we swap phone numbers Tone?" Judy contented herself with a silent adoring drool as she wondered whether she could back-heel Richard and rename the programme 'The Tony and Judy Show’ in the not to distant future…..
Muummpphh, I’m retching my guts up…
The mutual backslapping continued apace as Tone revealed his caring, sharing side "Yes, Judy, I really do feel the pain of our fallen soldiers in Iraq and of their grieving families"…
Oh God, here comes – and there goes yesterday’s breakfast….
Suddenly, Tony had to don a whole new persona – and quick, as Richard collapses in agony, with a little help from Judy’s right boot into his left testicle - and volunteers his place in the exciting game ‘You Say, We Pay’……
Tone suddenly becomes a kinda straight, kinda thick as piggy-plop, sort of game-host guy….
You Say, We Pay is the exciting game where a member of the public describes a series of pictures of objects behind R & J’s backs – and they have to guess what they are. Every correct answer is worth a thousand pounds… The contestants usually accrue about 7 grand over the one-minute the game lasts.
Tone sat on his kinda straight, kinda Perry Como stool and smiled with a ‘trust me - I’m an ordinary kinda guy’ countenance.
Gagggghhh, I’m down to bile…….
Judy answered five questions correctly -Tone answered just the one. Appropriately enough, the answer was ‘Guinea Pig’…
By the end of the show, you can hardly hear what Richard and Judy are saying - they are too busy licking the great man’s shoes….they finally expire, courtesy of Kiwi Black poisoning...
Like the consummate pro he is, Tone closes the show with the words "Thanks for tuning into the first edition of ‘BlairWorld – a Kinda Straight Kinda Show’ – and don’t forget to tune in on Friday when Cherie will be introducing her very own show - ‘Quick Look Away, it's Scary-Blairie"…..
The final credit rolls up ‘This programme is produced by ‘BlairCorp’ – a subsidiary of ‘BushCrusade Inc’ – both wholly owned by ‘News International’……..
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Now, now, Rhodri……
Nobody likes a smug, gloating winner.
I like them even less, when someone who should know better starts leaping about – pogo fashion, in the poshest of posh seats at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.
I refer to the Leader of the Welsh Assembly, Rhodri Morgan going off on one as his beloved rugby boys deservedly beat a below par England side last Saturday.
As the final whistle blew, a roving BBC camera picked him out. He jigged about, punched the air, clenched his fists to every true-blooded Welshman that cared to look. Hardly the behaviour of a statesman, I thought. To be honest, I thought it looked….. well, a bit racist really.
Whilst watching this quite awful exhibition of gratuitous grandstanding – I started thinking. I started thinking about the stink there would have been if it had been an English victory – and the cameras had zoomed into the face of an English Parliamentary Leader leaping about in similar fashion to Mr Morgan.
But then reality hit me in the face like a big sack of welsh nutty-slack. Why? Because it couldn’t happen could it? No danger of an English Leader gloating at Cardiff or anywhere else for that matter, because we don’t have an English Parliamentary Leader do we – after all, to get one of those, you’ve got to have an English Parliament. And that – as we all know is pure fantasy.
A note of thanks…….
Just a note of thanks to all you blog-blokes and blog-babes for the messages of support regarding my Dad’s death – it is greatly appreciated. The funeral is on Friday and we’ve sort of arranged everything – I hope.
Things got a bit fraught and testy towards the end of last week as family politics started to cloud the main issue – and at one stage we tried to get Condoleezza Rice in to do some mediation.
All is settled now – and everyone is calm.
Nobody likes a smug, gloating winner.
I like them even less, when someone who should know better starts leaping about – pogo fashion, in the poshest of posh seats at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.
I refer to the Leader of the Welsh Assembly, Rhodri Morgan going off on one as his beloved rugby boys deservedly beat a below par England side last Saturday.
As the final whistle blew, a roving BBC camera picked him out. He jigged about, punched the air, clenched his fists to every true-blooded Welshman that cared to look. Hardly the behaviour of a statesman, I thought. To be honest, I thought it looked….. well, a bit racist really.
Whilst watching this quite awful exhibition of gratuitous grandstanding – I started thinking. I started thinking about the stink there would have been if it had been an English victory – and the cameras had zoomed into the face of an English Parliamentary Leader leaping about in similar fashion to Mr Morgan.
But then reality hit me in the face like a big sack of welsh nutty-slack. Why? Because it couldn’t happen could it? No danger of an English Leader gloating at Cardiff or anywhere else for that matter, because we don’t have an English Parliamentary Leader do we – after all, to get one of those, you’ve got to have an English Parliament. And that – as we all know is pure fantasy.
A note of thanks…….
Just a note of thanks to all you blog-blokes and blog-babes for the messages of support regarding my Dad’s death – it is greatly appreciated. The funeral is on Friday and we’ve sort of arranged everything – I hope.
Things got a bit fraught and testy towards the end of last week as family politics started to cloud the main issue – and at one stage we tried to get Condoleezza Rice in to do some mediation.
All is settled now – and everyone is calm.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Ex, ex, ex, eye, ex……..
Yes, it’s that time of year again, and Superbowl XXXIX, American football’s greatest day of the season ‘evented’ in Jacksonville, Florida on Sunday night….
What a game?…… I don’t know, I didn’t see it – I went to bed. I tried to give it a go, I really did – but an hour in and I’d had enough. Not even the razzle, the dazzle the double burger and frazzle, the ra-ra girls with their pom-poms, high kick-kicks and great jiggling jugga-jugs could keep me up….
Was it sport or utter rubbish?
Was it ‘Theatre of Suspense’ or ‘Carry on up The Touchdown’?
I couldn’t possibly say.
But I thought I should give it a go - and try and watch it. My mind is open - ready to welcome some unique culture from across the pond. I swig from my bottle of Bud, I'm so into it that I almost stand for the star spangled banner...... It starts, the event of events gets going... Hubba, hubba, hubba..........
The crescendo builds – like a soufflé fashioned from purest hype with a double dollop of hyperbole thrown in for good measure. On come the gladiators – as slow as can be – so they can bung a few extra adverts in between. The Noo England Patriots and The Philadelphia Gonads troop out – packed full of brooding malevolent testosterone and clad in the tightest Spandex known to man.
Yeowweee! High octane, high fives and high voices – the Spandex is taking its toll. We’re half an hour into the ‘game’ – and still not a ‘football’ kicked in anger. More ra-ra, more bla-bla and loads more adverts follow.
It’s advert infinitum – and then some moretium.
In order to pad out the time – especially as the U.S. are taking in the latest set of adverts, Sky cuts to the London studio. Three big blokes talking utter bollox. Tactics, craptics, waffle and even more bollox – then it’s back to the action in Jacksonville.
Anchormen Dan and Larry gravel in with an introduction "Hi I’m Dan – and this is Larry – welcome to Sooopabowel 39! Are we in for some action tooonite! We’ll be back right after these messages fram our spansars"….
Back from the ads – and then it happens. Well a whooppy do and a hey nonny nonny, the game is about to start ……………. And stop.
Time to shove in some more adverts.
In no time at all, we’re back again. Action a go-go all over the place. It’s as tense as a tense nervous headache with a side salad of sciatica thrown in for good measure. We cut to the touchline and a big fat jaffa with a big fat retro-headset earpiece ensemble clamped to the side of his head. This is ‘The Coach’ – and he is as big as a double decker. He’s like the Dook of Wellington at Waterloo. There he is, a General committing his troops to even more selfless sacrifice. Has he got his offf-fence out there or is he making do with his deee-fence? He starts jabbering – and pointing – and swearing in a Goddam mutha sort of way down his retro mouthpiece.
Just then, one of the 800 stripey shirted referees on the pitch blows up. The gridiron action grinds – to a halt. The stripey refs 'huddle'. It looks like a load of Newcastle supporters at a zebra convention...... Chief ref' utters something totally mundane. The crowd gasps - more double burgers are ordered to offset the shock.....
Actions speak louder than words. Unfortunately there is no action – just a ton of words courtesy of even more advertising.
The first quarter finishes – and the score is two religious ladies …. Nun – Nun.
The second quarter starts – at this point I’m suffering to advertising overload…. Touchdown! At bloody last – someone has done something and scored. Even more experts, plans, campaign examples and chicken entrails are all rolled out to explain the ‘play’….
That takes up another 10 minutes.
Suddenly. I’ve had eeeee-bloody-nuff. I went to bed.
Who won – well, it’s obvious isn’t it? The ad men from Madison Avenue of course!
Yes, it’s that time of year again, and Superbowl XXXIX, American football’s greatest day of the season ‘evented’ in Jacksonville, Florida on Sunday night….
What a game?…… I don’t know, I didn’t see it – I went to bed. I tried to give it a go, I really did – but an hour in and I’d had enough. Not even the razzle, the dazzle the double burger and frazzle, the ra-ra girls with their pom-poms, high kick-kicks and great jiggling jugga-jugs could keep me up….
Was it sport or utter rubbish?
Was it ‘Theatre of Suspense’ or ‘Carry on up The Touchdown’?
I couldn’t possibly say.
But I thought I should give it a go - and try and watch it. My mind is open - ready to welcome some unique culture from across the pond. I swig from my bottle of Bud, I'm so into it that I almost stand for the star spangled banner...... It starts, the event of events gets going... Hubba, hubba, hubba..........
The crescendo builds – like a soufflé fashioned from purest hype with a double dollop of hyperbole thrown in for good measure. On come the gladiators – as slow as can be – so they can bung a few extra adverts in between. The Noo England Patriots and The Philadelphia Gonads troop out – packed full of brooding malevolent testosterone and clad in the tightest Spandex known to man.
Yeowweee! High octane, high fives and high voices – the Spandex is taking its toll. We’re half an hour into the ‘game’ – and still not a ‘football’ kicked in anger. More ra-ra, more bla-bla and loads more adverts follow.
It’s advert infinitum – and then some moretium.
In order to pad out the time – especially as the U.S. are taking in the latest set of adverts, Sky cuts to the London studio. Three big blokes talking utter bollox. Tactics, craptics, waffle and even more bollox – then it’s back to the action in Jacksonville.
Anchormen Dan and Larry gravel in with an introduction "Hi I’m Dan – and this is Larry – welcome to Sooopabowel 39! Are we in for some action tooonite! We’ll be back right after these messages fram our spansars"….
Back from the ads – and then it happens. Well a whooppy do and a hey nonny nonny, the game is about to start ……………. And stop.
Time to shove in some more adverts.
In no time at all, we’re back again. Action a go-go all over the place. It’s as tense as a tense nervous headache with a side salad of sciatica thrown in for good measure. We cut to the touchline and a big fat jaffa with a big fat retro-headset earpiece ensemble clamped to the side of his head. This is ‘The Coach’ – and he is as big as a double decker. He’s like the Dook of Wellington at Waterloo. There he is, a General committing his troops to even more selfless sacrifice. Has he got his offf-fence out there or is he making do with his deee-fence? He starts jabbering – and pointing – and swearing in a Goddam mutha sort of way down his retro mouthpiece.
Just then, one of the 800 stripey shirted referees on the pitch blows up. The gridiron action grinds – to a halt. The stripey refs 'huddle'. It looks like a load of Newcastle supporters at a zebra convention...... Chief ref' utters something totally mundane. The crowd gasps - more double burgers are ordered to offset the shock.....
Actions speak louder than words. Unfortunately there is no action – just a ton of words courtesy of even more advertising.
The first quarter finishes – and the score is two religious ladies …. Nun – Nun.
The second quarter starts – at this point I’m suffering to advertising overload…. Touchdown! At bloody last – someone has done something and scored. Even more experts, plans, campaign examples and chicken entrails are all rolled out to explain the ‘play’….
That takes up another 10 minutes.
Suddenly. I’ve had eeeee-bloody-nuff. I went to bed.
Who won – well, it’s obvious isn’t it? The ad men from Madison Avenue of course!
