Hello from the stump!…..

My God, little no mark Alfie reporting here from the coal face of democracy – no, not in Basra, Southern Iraq… but Ormskirk, West Lancashire.

Life’s certainly a bit tough when you’re up against the big Party machines…. And you’ve got to hold down a job…… And you’ve had no media training….. And you feel a bit of a pranny swanning round in your big fluffy rosette…… And as you catch the eye of a potential voter – how their face crumples into resignation as another glad handing guy with a message does a bit of quarry cornering.

That wasn’t the worse part of it though. The very worse thing was getting the leaflet out. The leaflet that will define the message to the electorate…..

Should I have a slogan?

‘Vote for me, or I’ll come round and nut yer’

‘Vote for me, coz I’m bloody fab - no I really am’

‘Vote for me – you know you want to' …..

I need a photo. Unfortunately, the only photographer in town is Alfreda (or Box Brownie Brenda as we like to call her). We dig out the ultra cheap, ultra plastic ‘digicol’ camera.

I pose. I explore the environs of the office…. It’s pretty damn uninspiring though. Do I want to be shot against an urban chic background? Or possibly metropolitan tat? Maybe a football manager’s pose – courtesy of a sheepskin coat, a telephone to my ear and a big fat cigar in my hand?

We experiment.

Against some venetian blinds – light and dark stripey.

Fly on the wall, reportage style – pretentious grainy.

Informal and all friendly like – Colin Montgomerie cloney.

We eventually decide a brick wall background will look best – Inspirational or what? The bricks depict stability and order, the mortar - the glue of society binding the whole structure together. Thus creating one strong regular object from many disparate pieces…… (Yawn)

Alfreda lines me up.

She zooms.

I posture.

I’m trying for serious with a bit of humanity, a dollop of gravitas with just a hint of humour.

I’m thinking Brad Pitt and Jonny Depp, with a liberal sprinkling of Orlando Bloom. All cunningly wrapped around a Bill Clinton countenance.

Can I pull it off? (as Bill Clinton once said)….

Alfreda’s on motorised overdrive as she furiously clicks away…

"Oh baby, give me ‘humility"….. "great"….. now four square determination. Love it, just love it"…..

The pics are in the can.

Alfreda assures me she’ll pick out the best one and send it to the printers…..

Fast forward to delivery day.

I get a couple of courtesy copies – the rest, 35,000 have been sent to the Royal Mail for distribution.

I open my leaflet.

Geezzzzzzzzzzus.

H.

Kerrrrrrist.

What happened to Brad, Jonny, Orlando and Bill?

They’ve been replaced by Harold Shipman, David Bellamy, Rolf Harris and Santa Claus that’s what…

I’ve become jowl-boy meets Jabba the Hutt with a beard and glasses.

Somehow, somehow the picture has put about 4 stone on my boat. My beard looks like something Moses would have been proud of and my eyes have disappeared into 2 slits on my moon shaped smirking face……… Not to worry then – there’s only 35, 000 of the damn things….

Great, great news. Alfie’s ‘plus’ column is off and running. My eldest son has committed his precious vote to his old man. It makes you proud don’t it?

Anyway, I must keep my part of the bargain and return all his back issues of FHM and other ‘art’ mags…..

Tomorrow – I do a ‘Question Time’ style event and one of the candidates gets caught ‘resting his eyes’ Then I do a few radio interviews – and manage to string 4 words together without saying "you know"……… Also – The big, big day is looming, it’s all so exciting! (ish)……..

Keir Hardie’s flat cap and John Henry’s cut throat razors……

So there I was, counting out 500 quid in twenty pound notes to Jane, a once sexy, now middle aged Returning Officer. They don’t accept cheques, or credit cards – just cold hard cash. Jane stuffed the wad into a brown envelope. I handed over my bit of paper with 10 signatories – all people of sound mind from the said constituency. Jane cross checks the names with the electoral roll and confirms they are all ‘OK’. – She declares that I have been accepted to kiss babies, knock on doors and generally annoy people for the next 4 weeks.

I’m a candidate for the General Election.

It’s been a bumpy old road though. Alfreda almost scuppered the great adventure by declaring I didn’t qualify. "Oh really, why is that then?" I asked.

Alfreda has a weighty tome from the Electoral Commission in her mitt… "Well, it says here ‘People who are ‘idiots’ are disqualified from standing"…..

"Vereee funeeee"… I wittily reposte – well it’s good training for when I get into the House isn’t it? "And does the Speaker agree with me that the Right Honourable Member for Sedgefield is a complete and utter twat"….

"Hear hear"….

But she’s got a point though. It’s a sort of Catch 22 deal isn’t it? You’d have to be an idiot or a narcissistic arse to stand for Parliament in the first place wouldn’t you?

Well I’m not a narcissistic arse am I? A big arse maybe, definitely a big arse, but not a narssy-arse. I don’t even like my big arse – it’s too big and arsey…. So that must make me an idiot – ergo I am disqualified from standing….. I need some lateral thinking. Someone to clear the whole conundrum up for me. Where’s Edward De Bono when you need him?….

Yes, ordinary bloke Alfie has decided to get it on and mix it up with the giants of oratory and spin, fight toe to toe with the slipperiest of characters known to man… the British politician. It’s not exactly ‘Mr Smith goes to Washington’ – more Mr Grumpy crosses number 23 off his list of 50 things to do before he snuffs it…. I’m following in a family tradition though, – my old Granddad – George Albert stood twice as an independent in between the two wars.

I decided to have a bit of a root into the Alfie archive. Eventually, I found this picture taken in the mid 1920’s – at first glance it appears to be a Keir Hardie flat cap convention, but it was in fact, the Liverpool section of the mass hunger march to London. My Granddad is the big geezer with the really big and really floppy flat cap just to the left of the banner and next to the little kid. Please note his square jawed countenance.



George was a seaman, a writer and a Communist, active in the docklands of Liverpool. His first electoral slogan above a picture of him as if chiselled out of purest foursquarium was ‘Vote for George Albert – the man that cannot be bought’…… His second, aimed at the jaunty nautical vote was ‘Put it there, sailor’…. The graphic showed a big hand holding a pencil about to draw a big cross on the ballot paper.

He didn’t get very far. He lost both times, but I can’t help thinking that if he’d stood in Brighton he might have been a bit more successful…..

Campaigning then was a bit tougher than it is now, so tough in fact that George Albert employed a bodyguard. His name was John Henry, a mountain of a man, granite jawed, sporting a flat cap made of the ear lobes of his victims - and as tough as a three-week old flame grilled ‘whopper’ beef burger (and that’s really tough). – He was so hard - he had two little pockets sewn into the end of his coat sleeves…. And in those little pockets he hid two razor sharp, cut-throat razors. When danger threatened, as quick as a flash, John Henry would whip them out, wave them about a bit like a demon Sweeney Todd - Whirling Dervish ensemble and ask who’s up for it then….

I don’t have a ‘John Henry’ to protect me, I don’t need him, I’ve got somebody much, much scarier. Alfreda is my newly appointed agent and hired muscle. She’s five and a half foot tall in her very pointy-sharp pointy boots. She’s 100% of feline wildcat savagery…… I just hope we don’t run into John Prescott on the campaign trail, I don’t think having his head shoved up his backside will look very nice – for a start, it’ll stop him speaking the usual drivel and make him look silly to boot. Hmmmm,a win-win situation if ever there was one.

Next instalment – On the stump, on the high horse, on the doorstep, on the ale….

Hi everybody....

Apologies all round for neglecting the blogging bizz.
I've been dead busy.
A million things whizzing round my head.
It's just too much to cope with.
However, all will be revealed tomorrow as to what I've been up to......

But for now, I'll just say that I think everyone should have a go at it.
Like jury service.
Or scuba diving.
Or eating a whole Victoria sponge all by yourself.
Or losing your virginity.
Or going to Glasto......

Hats off to Clinton Cards……

Strolling around that there London yesterday, just by Bank underground station and not a Pearly King’s jig away from the grand old lady of Fred Needle Street, we happened upon a Clinton Card shop. As is customary with us oop-northerners when passing a shop, we had a right good gawp in – to see if there was anything interesting therein.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a well slimy, jellied eel and no mistake guv’nor.

For there, in all its red ‘n’ whiteyness was the biggest display of St George’s Day cards I’ve ever seen. Well, let me clarify – it’s the only display of St George’s cards
I’ve ever seen.

I just could not believe it. A whole aisle devoted to St Gee. Not only lots of different reasonably priced cards (5 for £2.55p), but also flags, patriotic pens, key-rings and badges.

It was great to see, not only because they were on show – but the mere fact that Clinton Cards reckon there is such a big market out there in England-land in the first place. And thus translating that into such a large commitment to space within the shop.

Earth to Tone, Mike and Chas – get your manifestoed fingers out of your pontificating celtic backsides and recognise the nation – before it comes back to bite you.

Note, if you go onto the Clinton Card web site - http://www.clintoncards.co.uk/ASP/front/default.asp
You will find St Gee’s is the card of the month.

Final Pope comment...

During ITV's magisterial coverage of all things papal last Friday; the anchorman got a tad carried away with the occasion. It might have been because of the presence of His High Highness, Tony Blair, his windy-wafted locks and his wife, the virgin Cherie. It might have been Robert Mugabe's handshake to Charlie Windsor "Yo, Chaz, you and your lovely new wife, Cammy must come over to our house sometime".........

But most probably, it's because the anchor man is a total, non bible-reading wally.

For those of you that missed it, he said "This must surely be the biggest day in Christianity - ever"...

Hmmmmm.... bigger than the virgin birth, bigger than loaves and fishes, bigger than the resurrection?

Obviously.

Why didn’t I think of that?

If I was a really switched on business-type geezer I might have seen the marketing possibilities just a bit sooner.

I might have set up a stall selling stuff.

I would have made a fortune.

And all in a matter of little more than 4 hours.

I wonder who got it though?

The franchise.

The licence to print money.

And sanctioned by the big guy in the sky no less.

He’s one lucky – and very rich entrepreneur.

What am I talking about?

A one day franchise for a black tie sales booth in St Peter’s Square, Rome – of course!

On the warpath yet again…….

Letter to The BIG Lottery Fund concerning their pathetic cave in. Allowing HMG to raid the BLF piggy bank of another 45 million quid to fund their Schools food quango. A pathetic fop to the shame that pukka Jamie Oliver heaped on the Ministry of Education…..

Sir/Madam,
Is it true that us lottery punters are now expected to bankroll yet ANOTHER Big Government initiative?

It appears to be another BIG quango bonanza as more BIG money cash is pumped into areas that should by rights be funded direct from our taxes.

The BIG money figure quoted is £45 million.
This is utterly appalling.
This is NOT why I, and millions of other jaundiced punters play the lottery every week.

When John Major initiated the Lottery, he put safeguards in place to stop Government filching the cash. These appear to have been taken down and discarded - BIG brick by BIG brick.
The Government seem to view the BIG Lottery Fund as a sort of BIG piggy bank - to dip in at will, with no one from the Big Lottery Management Team (or 'flock' for short) saying anything about it.

There seems to be absolutely no time at all between a Government request for BIG cash and the granting of even bigger cash. Can you people only say 'NO' to the little groups and organisations - the very people that the BLF was set up to service.

I am absolutely disgusted. Your granting of this and other BIG money to our mendacious Government is little short of criminal.

Tell me - HAVE YOU EVER SAID 'NO' TO THE GOVERNMENT FOR A REQUEST FOR MONEY?

You should rename yourself - I suggest the BIG POODLE GOVERNMENT FUND.
Sirs, you are an utter joke.

Yours, etc, etc.

Tomorrow, the Big Lottery Flock hit back with half a ton of Alfie hating invective….. (And I’m still trying to work out what the hell they’re talking about)

Pontifications on a Sunday afternoon

My number 3 son, still reeling at the untimely croakedness of JP2, asked me what exactly the Pope did…

"What exactly does the Pope do for his money then Dad?"

"Oh, you know, he sort of wears a dress, does a lot of blessings and can’t have any sex at all"

"How much does a Pope get paid then?"

"You know, I don’t think they actually get paid anything – but they do have free unfettered use of the Popemobile"…

"So, the Pope, doesn’t actually get paid, drives a car that looks like a greenhouse, wears a dress and never has sex – ever?"..

"Apparently so"

"You know, being a Pope sounds like a pretty crap job all round, really"

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)….

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.

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?

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.

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…..

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.

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)….

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.

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.

‘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.

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….

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……