The ‘E’ word has been elbowed – official…
Perusing the seats of power on the Parliament web site, I came across Welshman Alun Michael’s new portfolio. After ballsing up the countryside brief, Michael,MP for Cardiff South & Penarth has been given a job in ‘industry’. His official and pretty damn grand moniker is now – Rt hon Alun Michael, Minister of State for Industry and the Regions.
I thought it sounded a bit weird… ‘Industry and the Regions’. I mean, what does that mean then?
I decided to bang off an email to Ivory Towers Inc and find out…
Good afternoon,
I have a question and I wonder if you could clear it up for me.
The Rt. Hon. Alun Michael, MP for Cardiff South & Penarth is, I understand the
‘Minister of State for Industry and the Regions’.
Does his responsibilities include the regions of the whole of the UK?...
Or is it just the regions of England that Mr Michael has responsibility for?
And if it is the regions of England, then why not have ‘England’ in the title of his job?
Regards,
‘John’ from Alun Michael HQ got back to me quicker than you could say ‘Jobs for the boyos’ with the following reply…. (although, it might have been better if he had read ‘Eats, shoots and leaves’ by Lynne Truss before he’d done so).
Dear Steve,
Alun Michael has responsibility for the nine Regional Development Agencies (RDAs) throughout the UK.
There is no RDA in Scotland or Wales, I think any issues arising are handled within the assembly's.
Hope this helps.
John
Well John, it actually doesn’t help – at all. You didn’t answer my question did you? Because you couldn’t bring yourself to say ‘the word’ – the word that cannot be uttered - ever.
Yes, the ‘E’ word has been eradicated from Labour’s lexicon of waffle….. "period" (to quote Tony Blair).
So there you have it, when Gordon Brown, Alun Michael and even ‘John’ – the guy who doesn’t know his grammar from his grandma goes on about the Nations and Regions of the UK…. They really do mean ‘the Regions of the UK’….. I’m now a norf westerner of the UK apparently.
Alfie has resolved to reply to ‘John’ with a bit of Anglo Saxon advice on Geoggers and Eng’ Lang’ - and to also ask just why an MP with a Welsh constituency has an English only brief – I’ll keep you posted.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Free the Jackson 1…. Oh, they already have….
Whacko Jacko is: barmy, white, black, deluded, Diana Ross clone, mad, bad, sad, rad, a tad talented, innocent….
Hmmmm. Which of those boxes do you tick?
Maybe all of them? Probably not.
There’s no doubt about it, Jacko is a complex puzzle, wrapped in an ebony enigma, packaged in a white plastic bag.
He’s a middle-aged, cross-race, cross-gender, cross-wired man.
He’s 200 million dollars in debt – and he hasn’t had his invoice from his lawyers yet. (so make that 300 million in debt)
What’s left of his nose is slipping south, due to the melting point of wax being lower than the ambient Californian daytime temperature.
His relationships with women have been few and far between. Lisa Marie Presley was a passing trophy fad – and his second wife Debbie Rowe, appears to be little more than a convenient surrogate for his kids. Even their initial meeting was far from normal. He first met her in a hospital burns unit after he had been a bit too zealous slapping on the old skin whitening agent onto his scrotum. Result? 3rd degree burns to an intimate part of his body, wedding bells and a multimillion dollar pay off for Debbie.
So, after the trial and trib’ of the trial and fib, what’s Jacko going to do now?…..
Well, I don’t want anyone to panic, but the word on the streets is that the great man/boy/girl/saint/messiah is thinking of relocating to London, England.
I suggest you lock up your sons/daughters/plastic surgeons/scrotum burns specialists/and any blazers you may have with a coat of arms on the pocket. Jacko and his entourage are about to hit blighty.
Overheard on Richard ‘n’ Joody tonight…
The story: The conspiracy theory on the death of Princess Diana.
The guests: Two high powered ex Mi5 secret service people.
Joody: …"And to discuss whether Diana was killed by members of MFI, let me introduce to you our guests"….
I’m not surprised, it all makes sense now… those furniture flat pack instructions are just murder….
Whacko Jacko is: barmy, white, black, deluded, Diana Ross clone, mad, bad, sad, rad, a tad talented, innocent….
Hmmmm. Which of those boxes do you tick?
Maybe all of them? Probably not.
There’s no doubt about it, Jacko is a complex puzzle, wrapped in an ebony enigma, packaged in a white plastic bag.
He’s a middle-aged, cross-race, cross-gender, cross-wired man.
He’s 200 million dollars in debt – and he hasn’t had his invoice from his lawyers yet. (so make that 300 million in debt)
What’s left of his nose is slipping south, due to the melting point of wax being lower than the ambient Californian daytime temperature.
His relationships with women have been few and far between. Lisa Marie Presley was a passing trophy fad – and his second wife Debbie Rowe, appears to be little more than a convenient surrogate for his kids. Even their initial meeting was far from normal. He first met her in a hospital burns unit after he had been a bit too zealous slapping on the old skin whitening agent onto his scrotum. Result? 3rd degree burns to an intimate part of his body, wedding bells and a multimillion dollar pay off for Debbie.
So, after the trial and trib’ of the trial and fib, what’s Jacko going to do now?…..
Well, I don’t want anyone to panic, but the word on the streets is that the great man/boy/girl/saint/messiah is thinking of relocating to London, England.
I suggest you lock up your sons/daughters/plastic surgeons/scrotum burns specialists/and any blazers you may have with a coat of arms on the pocket. Jacko and his entourage are about to hit blighty.
Overheard on Richard ‘n’ Joody tonight…
The story: The conspiracy theory on the death of Princess Diana.
The guests: Two high powered ex Mi5 secret service people.
Joody: …"And to discuss whether Diana was killed by members of MFI, let me introduce to you our guests"….
I’m not surprised, it all makes sense now… those furniture flat pack instructions are just murder….
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Jimmy Page – short-changed again….
Jimmy Page, rock God and charity man has just been awarded an OBE by a grateful nation. He will shortly meet Queen Brenda, Phil the Greek, Chaz the human FA Cup, ‘Plug’ his wife and the rest of the Buck’ House chavs for the medal ceremony, in the very near future….
Well, whoopy do!
Better late than never I suppose? But I’d have thought a Knighthood would’ve been the very least he’d have got…..
After all, the King of the Gibson has a ton more talent than almost anyone else you can name. Plus, his charity foundation for homeless Brazilian kids has for years been quietly doing good works without the rock star hoopla of other celeb charity organisations….
But then again, if he had received a Knighthood, he’d be in the same ‘league’ as Sir Cliff Richard, Sir Elton John, Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Jimbo Saville…..
Suddenly, an OBE seems a bit of a result….
Jimmy Page, rock God and charity man has just been awarded an OBE by a grateful nation. He will shortly meet Queen Brenda, Phil the Greek, Chaz the human FA Cup, ‘Plug’ his wife and the rest of the Buck’ House chavs for the medal ceremony, in the very near future….
Well, whoopy do!
Better late than never I suppose? But I’d have thought a Knighthood would’ve been the very least he’d have got…..
After all, the King of the Gibson has a ton more talent than almost anyone else you can name. Plus, his charity foundation for homeless Brazilian kids has for years been quietly doing good works without the rock star hoopla of other celeb charity organisations….
But then again, if he had received a Knighthood, he’d be in the same ‘league’ as Sir Cliff Richard, Sir Elton John, Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Jimbo Saville…..
Suddenly, an OBE seems a bit of a result….
Monday, June 13, 2005
Conspiracy theory from the greyscale man’s recent transport initiative…..
Seems a bit funny, don’t it?
Repressed Transport Secretary and the greyest man in the country, Alistair Darling suddenly goes a bit ‘left field’, a bit expansive, a bit lateral in a dull and wholly ill thought through kind of way …
The Darling of dullness has initiated a brand new system for the road vehicles of blighty. Gone(ish) are the punitive road taxes, gone(ish) are the outrageously expensive petrol taxes….. Instead we’re going to have ‘PTTN-AYG’…which is short for ‘Pay Through The Nose - As You Go’.
The more you go, the more you pay. A bit draconian I think.
I don’t know about you, but it all seems a bit rushed, a bit ‘back o’ the fag packet’ - written in the Noo-Laber tradition against a battered and fed up nation.
In fact, if you ask me, something smells rotten in the state of Nomark.
I reckon Darling’s been to the Moon set in Hollywood to get inspiration for the biggest conspiracy theory this country has ever known. Jiggery pokery is definitely at work on the British public, courtesy of the monotone greyscale man and his acolytes.
The theory: A boffin has invented a car that runs on grass, or pigeon poo, or privet cuttings… something that’s cheap, readily available and more importantly impossible to control by HMG. The boffin reckons he can roll this out to market in about 8 years time……
"Yes dear, I’m just going to fill her up. I’ll get the lawn mower. See! …. HMG control totally buggered. How do you collect revenue duties from a bloke’s flymo?
You can just see the panic emanating from Gordon Brown’s fiscal fissures. Quick, control’s gone, invent summat else – like now!
"I know, what about ‘Pay as You Go?"……
"Oh Darling, that's brilliant".
"Oh Gordon, I didn’t know you cared"……
The parentage of Gordon Brown…..
Talking about Gordon Brown….. I know a man who knew Gordon’s dad. He was a man of Kirkcaldy and a fan of Raith Rovers. Gordon’s dad went to school with my very old mate, Bill Mac’…..
Bill told me all about our esteemed Chancellor about 5 years ago, in a Glasgow wine bar.
"Oh really, what was Gordon Brown’s dad’s name then?"
"Ebeneezer" came the reply……
‘Ebeneezer’ That sort of works I suppose. Is it Gaelic for ‘Tight-fisted sod’?….. Maybe his name could have been ‘Gullible’ or ‘Soft-touch’…
I wondered whether his mum’s name was ‘Prudence’?…….
Overheard on the radio…..
Apparently, dogs have owners, but cats have ‘staff’…
I concur.
Seen on the extremely fine David Dimbleby programme about the English landscape…..
That superb church in Norfolk I was going on about a couple of posts ago…. It was on the box last night - did you see it?
Seems a bit funny, don’t it?
Repressed Transport Secretary and the greyest man in the country, Alistair Darling suddenly goes a bit ‘left field’, a bit expansive, a bit lateral in a dull and wholly ill thought through kind of way …
The Darling of dullness has initiated a brand new system for the road vehicles of blighty. Gone(ish) are the punitive road taxes, gone(ish) are the outrageously expensive petrol taxes….. Instead we’re going to have ‘PTTN-AYG’…which is short for ‘Pay Through The Nose - As You Go’.
The more you go, the more you pay. A bit draconian I think.
I don’t know about you, but it all seems a bit rushed, a bit ‘back o’ the fag packet’ - written in the Noo-Laber tradition against a battered and fed up nation.
In fact, if you ask me, something smells rotten in the state of Nomark.
I reckon Darling’s been to the Moon set in Hollywood to get inspiration for the biggest conspiracy theory this country has ever known. Jiggery pokery is definitely at work on the British public, courtesy of the monotone greyscale man and his acolytes.
The theory: A boffin has invented a car that runs on grass, or pigeon poo, or privet cuttings… something that’s cheap, readily available and more importantly impossible to control by HMG. The boffin reckons he can roll this out to market in about 8 years time……
"Yes dear, I’m just going to fill her up. I’ll get the lawn mower. See! …. HMG control totally buggered. How do you collect revenue duties from a bloke’s flymo?
You can just see the panic emanating from Gordon Brown’s fiscal fissures. Quick, control’s gone, invent summat else – like now!
"I know, what about ‘Pay as You Go?"……
"Oh Darling, that's brilliant".
"Oh Gordon, I didn’t know you cared"……
The parentage of Gordon Brown…..
Talking about Gordon Brown….. I know a man who knew Gordon’s dad. He was a man of Kirkcaldy and a fan of Raith Rovers. Gordon’s dad went to school with my very old mate, Bill Mac’…..
Bill told me all about our esteemed Chancellor about 5 years ago, in a Glasgow wine bar.
"Oh really, what was Gordon Brown’s dad’s name then?"
"Ebeneezer" came the reply……
‘Ebeneezer’ That sort of works I suppose. Is it Gaelic for ‘Tight-fisted sod’?….. Maybe his name could have been ‘Gullible’ or ‘Soft-touch’…
I wondered whether his mum’s name was ‘Prudence’?…….
Overheard on the radio…..
Apparently, dogs have owners, but cats have ‘staff’…
I concur.
Seen on the extremely fine David Dimbleby programme about the English landscape…..
That superb church in Norfolk I was going on about a couple of posts ago…. It was on the box last night - did you see it?
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Shock horror. Alfie is accused of being 3 ‘pees’ short of a pod by Auntie BBC…..
Oh yes, Alfie has been well and truly mullered by some p.c. jobsworth-bod from the complaints department at FiveLive HQ, Ministry of Truth Department. He obviously had his dictionary open at a page of ‘pees’, as he used a devastating triple pammy to put Alfie firmly in his place. And that place is ‘purgatory’
Jonny BBC called me ‘Parochial’ - ‘Petty’ - ‘Prejudiced’
Why?
Well I love footy – even women’s footy, and last Sunday I was listening, courtesy of BBC FiveLive to the European Nations Women’s Football Championship match of England v Finland. I burst with pride as England grabbed the winner with about 15 nanoseconds to go…. Huzzah!! Revel in that national pride!
Well, not really. For a start, the commentary on the radio was courtesy of Conor McNamara a perfectly professional commentator from the Republic of Ireland. The summarising was done by an ex Scotland footballer called Kevin Gallagher… from Scotland.
Now it seemed to me that seeing an English team was playing, there should, oooh I don’t know, possibly be someone from this Country doing the broadcast….. You know, someone from good old Blighty, someone from England. I also thought that I couldn’t imagine say a Scottish match being commentated on by a bloke from Belgium and summarised by a guy from England… Alfie decided to put pen to paper and contact the Beeb.
Well that told me then. I’m a parochial, prejudiced and petty git for even daring to ask a question that must never be asked………
(Small mercies though, at least he didn’t call me a pranny, a prat….or a prick)…..
Oh yes, Alfie has been well and truly mullered by some p.c. jobsworth-bod from the complaints department at FiveLive HQ, Ministry of Truth Department. He obviously had his dictionary open at a page of ‘pees’, as he used a devastating triple pammy to put Alfie firmly in his place. And that place is ‘purgatory’
Jonny BBC called me ‘Parochial’ - ‘Petty’ - ‘Prejudiced’
Why?
Well I love footy – even women’s footy, and last Sunday I was listening, courtesy of BBC FiveLive to the European Nations Women’s Football Championship match of England v Finland. I burst with pride as England grabbed the winner with about 15 nanoseconds to go…. Huzzah!! Revel in that national pride!
Well, not really. For a start, the commentary on the radio was courtesy of Conor McNamara a perfectly professional commentator from the Republic of Ireland. The summarising was done by an ex Scotland footballer called Kevin Gallagher… from Scotland.
Now it seemed to me that seeing an English team was playing, there should, oooh I don’t know, possibly be someone from this Country doing the broadcast….. You know, someone from good old Blighty, someone from England. I also thought that I couldn’t imagine say a Scottish match being commentated on by a bloke from Belgium and summarised by a guy from England… Alfie decided to put pen to paper and contact the Beeb.
Well that told me then. I’m a parochial, prejudiced and petty git for even daring to ask a question that must never be asked………
(Small mercies though, at least he didn’t call me a pranny, a prat….or a prick)…..
Monday, June 06, 2005
Well you’ve got to have faith afaith afaith…….. bay-beeee!
Not often I start a post with a little ditty from former Wham man, George Michael, but it definitely does fit the bill for this one. Two highlights from the week in Norfolk. Both different, but both, in their very different way totally similar. Cynicism aside, I love the Broads. I love the pace of life there, the cleanliness of the pretty little villages and the polite manner of the locals. The immaculate countryside yet to be flooded with New Labour’s view of ‘sustainable’ development and the optimistic way the local councils are building dykes for all they’re worth in an effort to stop the grey and grizzled North Sea from making further inroads into the manicured Countryside.
After we had boarded the boat, it only took 20 minutes to see our first halcyon vision of the azurri – a Kingfisher, resplendent in a brilliant blue zoot suit sitting on a branch, smoking a dead fish. Five minutes later and a Marsh Harrier, a big, beefy Junkers of a bird of prey droned into view looking for unfortunate victims to flop onto…….
But these weren’t the highlights. No, the nature was great but what happened to me, a man with the word ‘cynicism’ tattooed onto my forehead – twice in two days was truly extraordinary….
We pulled into Ranworth Broad on Tuesday morning and moored at the jetty. In the distance, I could see St Helen’s parish church. I knew it was a medieval masterpiece, one of over 1,100 such ancient churches in the county of Norfolk. I’m not religious, I come from the school of thought that this life is no rehearsal. You’re born, you live, you die, you’re worm food – that all.
But I really do love the bravery of medieval architecture. The consummate confidence of building something amazing, something closer to God – and therefore guaranteeing you a first class cloud in the afterlife… Alfreda and I resolved to go over and explore.
We pushed open the 600 year-old great oak door, hard as bell metal with the patina of pilgrimage etched deep into its rough grain and stepped in.
Awesome…. what a space. What a fantastic space.
We’re all alone in this great perpendicular vault. I touched the ancient font, marble with a lining of lead. I wondered how many babies had been christened in its waters. We moved down the aisle towards the undoubted gem of the church. And there it was in all its glory. A rood screen. Not just any old rood screen – but probably the best rood screen in all of England. I was gazing down at a fantastic piece of work, made of oak with exquisite carving and utterly amazing medieval illustrations. On the other side of it were the choristers’ seats. Each one carved out of a huge hunk of oak. Each one, perfectly balanced, flipped down on hinges forged by a master blacksmith’s hand of long ago. They are all, like everything else in this architectural marvel completely original as the day they were put in. They must be 700 years old – the wood is obviously all heartwood. The trees they were hewn from were probably growing when William the Conquerer invaded in 1066 for God’s sake….
We passed the ancient wooden Lectern. Some Monk had scribbled some copperplate on the back of it – a 500 year old graffito. Next to a wall, under a glass screen we found a great book – It’s an illuminated firmament of gold leaf and latin text. This great book used 27 sheepskins to make the vellum pages. It is in such good condition, it looks like it was made last week. We ambled back towards the far end of the church, and saw a sign next to a small door that looked like it had a spiral staircase spinning upwards and away into the gloom….
‘The stairs to the top of the tower, 89 uneven steps, two wobbly ladders, a trap door to the roof and a great view…. (Climbers do so at their own risk)’….
We both looked at each other and decided that today, the spirit of Sherpa Tensing was with us. We climbed. As we went higher and higher, the spiral staircase got tighter, rougher, darker, scarier. Eventually, the stairs ran out. We were in the belfry. Right in front of us, wobbly ladder 1 – an old rickety metal job, wobbled in the wind. We clung and climbed. Another ladder, this time of the wooden variety was negotiated, and at the top of that……. The trap door.
We scrambled out and stood up. It took our breath away. The glory that is the English countryside – at least how I used to remember it rolled out before us to infinity. We could see for miles across the flat Broadlands of Norfolk.
Eventually, we descended and left the church. I was troubled, I sort of felt ‘uplifted’. Kind of ‘happy-clappy’ – and warm all over, like I’d o-deed on Ready-Brek extra strong with lashings of Christianity syrup drizzled on top.
Had it got to me….. Religion?
Had big Gee singled me out that day to receive a Christianity makeover? Was it a miracle?
I walked away from the great church… Did God exist?… Is he an Englishman?……
I needed a drink.
The rest of the day saw us exploring the landscape of the area. As the hours passed, my theological musings faded, and anyway, I had a European Cup Final to look forward to…
The following day, all we could think about was ‘the match’. Every member of the family had brought a Liverpool shirt in their holiday luggage. At 6.45pm precisely, the whole damn lot of us donned our colours and left the boat. We’d already scouted out a decent pub with a big screen and a big selection of beers a couple of days previously..
Our hostelry of choice was The Kings Head at Luddham, a sleepy pub in a sleepy village, … but not that night. That night was a night for football fans. The place was packed. To get the evening off to a flyer, we started on Hoegarten – an absolute ‘bargain’ at £3.52p per pint. The tension built, the beer flowed. I talked to a few of the other people at the bar. Sprinkled amongst the Reds were Man City, Spurs, Norwich and Villa fans.
The kick off.
A minute later we’re 1 down.
Then 2.
Then 3.
Half time arrives and stops the slaughter. The pub is stunned. We’re stunned. Our gobs are smacked. Our glasses are empty. Our spirits are at rock bottom.
Alfreda mutters something along the lines of "Well, never mind, it’s only a game"…..
Note to brain, Alfreda’s a real sweety, but bloody hell she knows bugger all about football. Must get her interested in lace making or something……
We need a miracle. No we don’t, we need a shed full… make that several sheds….
I pray. A little silent prayer to anyone that’s listening.
Just make it so it isn’t so embarrassing – please.
The second half starts – and the rest is history. The Rossoneri forget the script, forget how to kick a football and for 6 minutes play like wusses in tight skirts and stilettos.
It’s 3-3…. We’re only going to go and bloody win it, that’s all!
I looked across to my eldest Son. He’s in his early 20’s and in total shock. He looks bloody awful – as pale as Michael Jackson after he’s just fallen into a tub of chalk dust….. Like all of us, he just cannot handle the fact we’re back on level terms.
I believe. We all believe. The City fan is going ballistic. Every couple of minutes, he’s downing another pint and screaming at the red men to hold firm.
They do.
Well, they do, until a minute from the end of extra time. A whipped centre comes in from the left. It curls over Hyppia’s head and Shevchenko, the European Footballer of the Year meets it perfectly with his forehead.
Oh bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger. This bullet header has got ‘goal’ written all over it. The ball arrows at the speed of light down to Dudek’s right.
That’s it then. I’m just waiting for the net to bulge.
Miracle – he’s saved it. Somehow the ball had rebounded off Dudek’s outstretched hand.
It bounces away, hopefully to safety.
Not a chance. Ukrainian ace Shev’ is first to react. He’s onto it in a flash and smashes the ball goalbound from all of 2 yards…..
Somehow….. somehow the ball goes straight up in the air from Dudek’s outstretched glove as if powered by a Saturn 5 rocket motor……
The whole pub gasps. Did we just see that, was it possible? We’ve just witnessed the laws of physics being chucked into the bin haven’t we? Had we just witnessed a corruption of the space time continuum? Maybe Dr Who is a Liverpool fan. Looking at Dudek, he can hardly believe it either.
The penalty shootout was a formality. We watched as successive Milan players, devoid of all pretensions of coolness and superiority bottled their spot kicks.
The final save was made, the City fan went into orbit.
We sat, shell-shocked. A banging headache and nausea were my companions as Stevie Gerrard collected the cup in a blizzard of red confetti and a chorus of ‘Champ-ion-eeee, ole, ole, ole’ from the pub.
Eventually, we left. In spite of watching something amazing, I was troubled, I sort of felt just too ‘uplifted’. Kind of ‘happy-clappy’ in a ‘You’ll never walk alone’ sort of way – and warm all over, like I’d o-deed on Hoegarten extra strong…… which I had.
Had it got to me…..
Had big Stevie Gee saved the day to receive a Champions Trophy and the medal he had craved. Was it a miracle?
I walked away from the pub… shattered, exhausted, pissed.
Did God exist?
Obviously. Just look at the miracle of Dudek’s glove…
Was he an Englishman?
Definitely. But not only that, I bet he’s also a Scouser…..
Not often I start a post with a little ditty from former Wham man, George Michael, but it definitely does fit the bill for this one. Two highlights from the week in Norfolk. Both different, but both, in their very different way totally similar. Cynicism aside, I love the Broads. I love the pace of life there, the cleanliness of the pretty little villages and the polite manner of the locals. The immaculate countryside yet to be flooded with New Labour’s view of ‘sustainable’ development and the optimistic way the local councils are building dykes for all they’re worth in an effort to stop the grey and grizzled North Sea from making further inroads into the manicured Countryside.
After we had boarded the boat, it only took 20 minutes to see our first halcyon vision of the azurri – a Kingfisher, resplendent in a brilliant blue zoot suit sitting on a branch, smoking a dead fish. Five minutes later and a Marsh Harrier, a big, beefy Junkers of a bird of prey droned into view looking for unfortunate victims to flop onto…….
But these weren’t the highlights. No, the nature was great but what happened to me, a man with the word ‘cynicism’ tattooed onto my forehead – twice in two days was truly extraordinary….
We pulled into Ranworth Broad on Tuesday morning and moored at the jetty. In the distance, I could see St Helen’s parish church. I knew it was a medieval masterpiece, one of over 1,100 such ancient churches in the county of Norfolk. I’m not religious, I come from the school of thought that this life is no rehearsal. You’re born, you live, you die, you’re worm food – that all.
But I really do love the bravery of medieval architecture. The consummate confidence of building something amazing, something closer to God – and therefore guaranteeing you a first class cloud in the afterlife… Alfreda and I resolved to go over and explore.
We pushed open the 600 year-old great oak door, hard as bell metal with the patina of pilgrimage etched deep into its rough grain and stepped in.
Awesome…. what a space. What a fantastic space.
We’re all alone in this great perpendicular vault. I touched the ancient font, marble with a lining of lead. I wondered how many babies had been christened in its waters. We moved down the aisle towards the undoubted gem of the church. And there it was in all its glory. A rood screen. Not just any old rood screen – but probably the best rood screen in all of England. I was gazing down at a fantastic piece of work, made of oak with exquisite carving and utterly amazing medieval illustrations. On the other side of it were the choristers’ seats. Each one carved out of a huge hunk of oak. Each one, perfectly balanced, flipped down on hinges forged by a master blacksmith’s hand of long ago. They are all, like everything else in this architectural marvel completely original as the day they were put in. They must be 700 years old – the wood is obviously all heartwood. The trees they were hewn from were probably growing when William the Conquerer invaded in 1066 for God’s sake….
We passed the ancient wooden Lectern. Some Monk had scribbled some copperplate on the back of it – a 500 year old graffito. Next to a wall, under a glass screen we found a great book – It’s an illuminated firmament of gold leaf and latin text. This great book used 27 sheepskins to make the vellum pages. It is in such good condition, it looks like it was made last week. We ambled back towards the far end of the church, and saw a sign next to a small door that looked like it had a spiral staircase spinning upwards and away into the gloom….
‘The stairs to the top of the tower, 89 uneven steps, two wobbly ladders, a trap door to the roof and a great view…. (Climbers do so at their own risk)’….
We both looked at each other and decided that today, the spirit of Sherpa Tensing was with us. We climbed. As we went higher and higher, the spiral staircase got tighter, rougher, darker, scarier. Eventually, the stairs ran out. We were in the belfry. Right in front of us, wobbly ladder 1 – an old rickety metal job, wobbled in the wind. We clung and climbed. Another ladder, this time of the wooden variety was negotiated, and at the top of that……. The trap door.
We scrambled out and stood up. It took our breath away. The glory that is the English countryside – at least how I used to remember it rolled out before us to infinity. We could see for miles across the flat Broadlands of Norfolk.
Eventually, we descended and left the church. I was troubled, I sort of felt ‘uplifted’. Kind of ‘happy-clappy’ – and warm all over, like I’d o-deed on Ready-Brek extra strong with lashings of Christianity syrup drizzled on top.
Had it got to me….. Religion?
Had big Gee singled me out that day to receive a Christianity makeover? Was it a miracle?
I walked away from the great church… Did God exist?… Is he an Englishman?……
I needed a drink.
The rest of the day saw us exploring the landscape of the area. As the hours passed, my theological musings faded, and anyway, I had a European Cup Final to look forward to…
The following day, all we could think about was ‘the match’. Every member of the family had brought a Liverpool shirt in their holiday luggage. At 6.45pm precisely, the whole damn lot of us donned our colours and left the boat. We’d already scouted out a decent pub with a big screen and a big selection of beers a couple of days previously..
Our hostelry of choice was The Kings Head at Luddham, a sleepy pub in a sleepy village, … but not that night. That night was a night for football fans. The place was packed. To get the evening off to a flyer, we started on Hoegarten – an absolute ‘bargain’ at £3.52p per pint. The tension built, the beer flowed. I talked to a few of the other people at the bar. Sprinkled amongst the Reds were Man City, Spurs, Norwich and Villa fans.
The kick off.
A minute later we’re 1 down.
Then 2.
Then 3.
Half time arrives and stops the slaughter. The pub is stunned. We’re stunned. Our gobs are smacked. Our glasses are empty. Our spirits are at rock bottom.
Alfreda mutters something along the lines of "Well, never mind, it’s only a game"…..
Note to brain, Alfreda’s a real sweety, but bloody hell she knows bugger all about football. Must get her interested in lace making or something……
We need a miracle. No we don’t, we need a shed full… make that several sheds….
I pray. A little silent prayer to anyone that’s listening.
Just make it so it isn’t so embarrassing – please.
The second half starts – and the rest is history. The Rossoneri forget the script, forget how to kick a football and for 6 minutes play like wusses in tight skirts and stilettos.
It’s 3-3…. We’re only going to go and bloody win it, that’s all!
I looked across to my eldest Son. He’s in his early 20’s and in total shock. He looks bloody awful – as pale as Michael Jackson after he’s just fallen into a tub of chalk dust….. Like all of us, he just cannot handle the fact we’re back on level terms.
I believe. We all believe. The City fan is going ballistic. Every couple of minutes, he’s downing another pint and screaming at the red men to hold firm.
They do.
Well, they do, until a minute from the end of extra time. A whipped centre comes in from the left. It curls over Hyppia’s head and Shevchenko, the European Footballer of the Year meets it perfectly with his forehead.
Oh bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger. This bullet header has got ‘goal’ written all over it. The ball arrows at the speed of light down to Dudek’s right.
That’s it then. I’m just waiting for the net to bulge.
Miracle – he’s saved it. Somehow the ball had rebounded off Dudek’s outstretched hand.
It bounces away, hopefully to safety.
Not a chance. Ukrainian ace Shev’ is first to react. He’s onto it in a flash and smashes the ball goalbound from all of 2 yards…..
Somehow….. somehow the ball goes straight up in the air from Dudek’s outstretched glove as if powered by a Saturn 5 rocket motor……
The whole pub gasps. Did we just see that, was it possible? We’ve just witnessed the laws of physics being chucked into the bin haven’t we? Had we just witnessed a corruption of the space time continuum? Maybe Dr Who is a Liverpool fan. Looking at Dudek, he can hardly believe it either.
The penalty shootout was a formality. We watched as successive Milan players, devoid of all pretensions of coolness and superiority bottled their spot kicks.
The final save was made, the City fan went into orbit.
We sat, shell-shocked. A banging headache and nausea were my companions as Stevie Gerrard collected the cup in a blizzard of red confetti and a chorus of ‘Champ-ion-eeee, ole, ole, ole’ from the pub.
Eventually, we left. In spite of watching something amazing, I was troubled, I sort of felt just too ‘uplifted’. Kind of ‘happy-clappy’ in a ‘You’ll never walk alone’ sort of way – and warm all over, like I’d o-deed on Hoegarten extra strong…… which I had.
Had it got to me…..
Had big Stevie Gee saved the day to receive a Champions Trophy and the medal he had craved. Was it a miracle?
I walked away from the pub… shattered, exhausted, pissed.
Did God exist?
Obviously. Just look at the miracle of Dudek’s glove…
Was he an Englishman?
Definitely. But not only that, I bet he’s also a Scouser…..
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Back from the booze-crooze….
Well, I’m back from darkest, dankest Norfolkshire – and what a week that was. A life on the broadland wave for the OK crew along with a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of gin, a case of medium-rough red wine and a brewery load of beer.
10 adults, one hyperactively bouncy-bouncy dog, two chemical residual karzis and a 1970’s retro-crap cruiser that wouldn’t look out of place in an early Cliff Richard movie. I can almost hear the song as Cliff, still in denial, still in the closet, serenades a young British starlet…. "We’re all a goin’ on a Summer boatin’ holiday"…..
Our boat, improbably called the ‘Majestic Gem 2’ was a Tardis in reverse. Big on the outside, mini-me with a liberal sprinkling of umpa-lumperage on the inside.
It was certainly cosy, especially in the corridor – lemon squeezy without the easy peasey – I don’t know, but everyone but me seemed to have piled on the pounds. Cupboards and drawers had creatively been renamed ‘Bedrooms’ - and the bijou kitchen or ‘galley’ as us nautical jonnies like to call it was a cast off from Barbie and Ken’s divorce settlement.
Our contingent of five plus the dog were inevitably the last to arrive at the boat yard - so all the best rooms had been taken. Worse than that, someone was wearing a Captain’s hat.
Well that’s it then. I’m completely outranked….
First and Second Mate had already been baggsied as well for God’s sake. Rope Coiler-in-Chief was history, as was Crow’s Nest Lad, Cook and Bin-Bag Wanger. Bugger! That just left Bilge Rat, Chemical Toilet Aspirator and Powder Monkey…. Not much of a choice for a man whose Dad was nicknamed ‘Matt Low’…..
I surveyed the jolly jack tarring of it all – everyone was really getting into the lifestyle on the ocean wave. Stripey jumpers, grog, ahoying their very own mateys, and everything….
The Cap’n held sway, well it was pretty damn choppy. With the wearing of that hat, he could marry us, he could bury us at sea, he could hang us from the yard arm, he could even get first use of the chemical karzi every morning….. In short, the Cap’n was God…. He could do anything he liked.
Obviously the Cap’n shouted "Avast behind", "Get back you scurvy dogs" and "Cast off aft, cast off forrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrad" alot….
Obviously, the Cap’n did all the driving.
Obviously, the Cap’n shouted a lot and was never wrong, even when he was.
It couldn’t go on.
Alfie resolved to buy an even bigger and even more gold braidier Captain’s hat than the encumbent Skip. I’ll outrank him with purest plastic bling.
Alfie resolved a name change. ‘Fletcher Christian’ seemed to fit the bill.
Alfie plotted….. Mutiny!
The first souvenir shop we hit in Wroxham had a fine stock of naval, power hats. I put one on my head. Immediately, I felt anointed. I felt Horatio Nelson himself coursing through my frame. A mirror, I must find a mirror.
And there I am, in all my salty glory.
Boy, I’m looking mighty sharp – jaunty almost. My hand sort of began to creep up to the peak of the hat – I felt a salute coming on…
"Yaaaaaa it’s Cap’n Birdseye"…..
Some gobby kid had just ruined the mood…. Twat! Crestfallen, I replaced the hat on the shelf, all shiny black peak, gleaming white cap and goldy-bling-bling badge of it. I shuffled away, wondering where the Bilge Rat calipers were kept……
Well, I’m back from darkest, dankest Norfolkshire – and what a week that was. A life on the broadland wave for the OK crew along with a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of gin, a case of medium-rough red wine and a brewery load of beer.
10 adults, one hyperactively bouncy-bouncy dog, two chemical residual karzis and a 1970’s retro-crap cruiser that wouldn’t look out of place in an early Cliff Richard movie. I can almost hear the song as Cliff, still in denial, still in the closet, serenades a young British starlet…. "We’re all a goin’ on a Summer boatin’ holiday"…..
Our boat, improbably called the ‘Majestic Gem 2’ was a Tardis in reverse. Big on the outside, mini-me with a liberal sprinkling of umpa-lumperage on the inside.
It was certainly cosy, especially in the corridor – lemon squeezy without the easy peasey – I don’t know, but everyone but me seemed to have piled on the pounds. Cupboards and drawers had creatively been renamed ‘Bedrooms’ - and the bijou kitchen or ‘galley’ as us nautical jonnies like to call it was a cast off from Barbie and Ken’s divorce settlement.
Our contingent of five plus the dog were inevitably the last to arrive at the boat yard - so all the best rooms had been taken. Worse than that, someone was wearing a Captain’s hat.
Well that’s it then. I’m completely outranked….
First and Second Mate had already been baggsied as well for God’s sake. Rope Coiler-in-Chief was history, as was Crow’s Nest Lad, Cook and Bin-Bag Wanger. Bugger! That just left Bilge Rat, Chemical Toilet Aspirator and Powder Monkey…. Not much of a choice for a man whose Dad was nicknamed ‘Matt Low’…..
I surveyed the jolly jack tarring of it all – everyone was really getting into the lifestyle on the ocean wave. Stripey jumpers, grog, ahoying their very own mateys, and everything….
The Cap’n held sway, well it was pretty damn choppy. With the wearing of that hat, he could marry us, he could bury us at sea, he could hang us from the yard arm, he could even get first use of the chemical karzi every morning….. In short, the Cap’n was God…. He could do anything he liked.
Obviously the Cap’n shouted "Avast behind", "Get back you scurvy dogs" and "Cast off aft, cast off forrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrad" alot….
Obviously, the Cap’n did all the driving.
Obviously, the Cap’n shouted a lot and was never wrong, even when he was.
It couldn’t go on.
Alfie resolved to buy an even bigger and even more gold braidier Captain’s hat than the encumbent Skip. I’ll outrank him with purest plastic bling.
Alfie resolved a name change. ‘Fletcher Christian’ seemed to fit the bill.
Alfie plotted….. Mutiny!
The first souvenir shop we hit in Wroxham had a fine stock of naval, power hats. I put one on my head. Immediately, I felt anointed. I felt Horatio Nelson himself coursing through my frame. A mirror, I must find a mirror.
And there I am, in all my salty glory.
Boy, I’m looking mighty sharp – jaunty almost. My hand sort of began to creep up to the peak of the hat – I felt a salute coming on…
"Yaaaaaa it’s Cap’n Birdseye"…..
Some gobby kid had just ruined the mood…. Twat! Crestfallen, I replaced the hat on the shelf, all shiny black peak, gleaming white cap and goldy-bling-bling badge of it. I shuffled away, wondering where the Bilge Rat calipers were kept……
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
A new contraceptive…
I’ve just discovered a new one.
More effective than ‘the pill’….
More reliable than the ‘rhythm method’…
Not as messy as a condom…..
This is a scientific breakthrough – 100% reliable and a real passion killer…
Since Alfreda started doing field trials with this new device, I’ve hardly had a chance at doing anything remotely resembling rumpy pumpy…..
She didn’t get it in a Chemist’s shop or a Family Planning clinic. She didn’t need to, she’s found an inexhaustible supply in our local Newspaper shop.
And the name of this, the ultimate killer of passion?
‘Sudoku’ apparently.
I’ve just discovered a new one.
More effective than ‘the pill’….
More reliable than the ‘rhythm method’…
Not as messy as a condom…..
This is a scientific breakthrough – 100% reliable and a real passion killer…
Since Alfreda started doing field trials with this new device, I’ve hardly had a chance at doing anything remotely resembling rumpy pumpy…..
She didn’t get it in a Chemist’s shop or a Family Planning clinic. She didn’t need to, she’s found an inexhaustible supply in our local Newspaper shop.
And the name of this, the ultimate killer of passion?
‘Sudoku’ apparently.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Fashion Statements…..
Alfie decided to do a bit of power shopping on Saturday. Well, Summer is on the way – and that can only mean polo shirts and baggy shorts draped around a cool dude countenance.
Unfortunately, ‘cool dude countenancery’ does not come cheap. Not even in my local branch of 70’s banality that is known locally as ‘Gone for A’…..I didn’t get any change from a hundred quid. The guy behind the counter asked me if I wanted the hangers.
"Are they freemans?"
He nodded.
"Then I’ll have ‘em"
He packed them away in the big plazzy bags and smiled and nodded an imaginary football to me. I nodded it back. I’ve known this guy for years. Whenever I bump into him we sort of nod to each other, like we’re in a nodding dog competition. I don’t know his name – but I’m 54 – 28 up in the imaginary game of imaginary footy we’ve been having over the years. He nods it to me, I feign to go right, but at the last moment I give him the old Stanley Matthews body swerve and bullet it to the left.He falls for it every time.
I noticed that he has begun to grow his hair. Suddenly, he’s got long flowing locks cascading over his collar and onto his shoulders. It’s sad, very sad to see. He’s trying to over compensate for the stuff he’s losing on top of his bonce…. I bet next time I go into that shop, he’ll have it in a middle aged pom-pom pony tail.
I digress.
We got the bag of style back home and reviewed. Yes, it’s fashion week down at Alfie Towers as yours truly slinked up and down the cat walk in baggy shorts and XXXXXXL shirts.
Pink appears to be ‘in’ this year, draped around a no style hulk with dodgy knees. Just as well then that I tick all those boxes! Trinny and Suze would be proud.
All went well until I tried on the last polo shirt. This little number is pink and light blue stripes. It looks cool and Summery, but something is wrong. Very, very wrong. At intervals of around 2 inches there is fraying all along the edges of the collar and sleeves. It looks like there has been a fault in the manufacture, or else some div has been stabbing it with a knife.
We march back to remonstrate with man-in-denial man at Gone for A…
He flicks his curly locks around his shiny, seen better days collar and tie – As if tired of constantly, constantly repeating himself.
"Sir, that’s the style. It’s distressed, it’s meant to be like that……. Look, they’re all the same"
With that, he wafts his wafty hand, with sovereign ring accompaniment towards a veritable infestation of racked pink and blue striped polo shirts. Every single one of them is ‘distressed’
His triumph is complete. Game set and polo match. We make a feeble excuse – and leave. I passed my frustration onto Alfreda.
"We’re so in a rut, we don’t know style and hipness, even when it comes up and slaps us right in the jallops – We're stuck here in Squaresville, in the heart of Nowhereshire…… a little tiny spot on the bum that is Blairland"…
"Yeah" she confirmed. "It’s all Tony Blair’s fault"….
On location…..
Alfie will be off on a bit of a jolly for the next few days. I shall be on a boat, never too far from a pub, a pint and a pie.
Norfolk and its Broads are the object of my desire…. Although I’ve heard they are a bit rough in the more seedier parts of the County…
I will attempt to get the odd report from the boat - watch this space.....
Alfie decided to do a bit of power shopping on Saturday. Well, Summer is on the way – and that can only mean polo shirts and baggy shorts draped around a cool dude countenance.
Unfortunately, ‘cool dude countenancery’ does not come cheap. Not even in my local branch of 70’s banality that is known locally as ‘Gone for A’…..I didn’t get any change from a hundred quid. The guy behind the counter asked me if I wanted the hangers.
"Are they freemans?"
He nodded.
"Then I’ll have ‘em"
He packed them away in the big plazzy bags and smiled and nodded an imaginary football to me. I nodded it back. I’ve known this guy for years. Whenever I bump into him we sort of nod to each other, like we’re in a nodding dog competition. I don’t know his name – but I’m 54 – 28 up in the imaginary game of imaginary footy we’ve been having over the years. He nods it to me, I feign to go right, but at the last moment I give him the old Stanley Matthews body swerve and bullet it to the left.He falls for it every time.
I noticed that he has begun to grow his hair. Suddenly, he’s got long flowing locks cascading over his collar and onto his shoulders. It’s sad, very sad to see. He’s trying to over compensate for the stuff he’s losing on top of his bonce…. I bet next time I go into that shop, he’ll have it in a middle aged pom-pom pony tail.
I digress.
We got the bag of style back home and reviewed. Yes, it’s fashion week down at Alfie Towers as yours truly slinked up and down the cat walk in baggy shorts and XXXXXXL shirts.
Pink appears to be ‘in’ this year, draped around a no style hulk with dodgy knees. Just as well then that I tick all those boxes! Trinny and Suze would be proud.
All went well until I tried on the last polo shirt. This little number is pink and light blue stripes. It looks cool and Summery, but something is wrong. Very, very wrong. At intervals of around 2 inches there is fraying all along the edges of the collar and sleeves. It looks like there has been a fault in the manufacture, or else some div has been stabbing it with a knife.
We march back to remonstrate with man-in-denial man at Gone for A…
He flicks his curly locks around his shiny, seen better days collar and tie – As if tired of constantly, constantly repeating himself.
"Sir, that’s the style. It’s distressed, it’s meant to be like that……. Look, they’re all the same"
With that, he wafts his wafty hand, with sovereign ring accompaniment towards a veritable infestation of racked pink and blue striped polo shirts. Every single one of them is ‘distressed’
His triumph is complete. Game set and polo match. We make a feeble excuse – and leave. I passed my frustration onto Alfreda.
"We’re so in a rut, we don’t know style and hipness, even when it comes up and slaps us right in the jallops – We're stuck here in Squaresville, in the heart of Nowhereshire…… a little tiny spot on the bum that is Blairland"…
"Yeah" she confirmed. "It’s all Tony Blair’s fault"….
On location…..
Alfie will be off on a bit of a jolly for the next few days. I shall be on a boat, never too far from a pub, a pint and a pie.
Norfolk and its Broads are the object of my desire…. Although I’ve heard they are a bit rough in the more seedier parts of the County…
I will attempt to get the odd report from the boat - watch this space.....
Monday, May 16, 2005
I’ve been thinking……. Again.
I’ve been thinking about how I could waste 4 million quid. Blow it, in one gloriously pointless exercise of pointless excess. Shouldn’t be too difficult to do should it? It’s sort a recipe of madcap disposal. I’ll get the ingredients together – I’ll need a pad - check, a pencil – check …. And four million quid – cheque.
I could buy Emile Heskey – mind you, I’d still have nearly 3.75 million left.
I could buy a seat in the House of Lords – but the going rate is apparently only around 100 grand - deposited into Labour Party coffers of course…
Hmmmmm.
Phew, getting rid of 4 million is certainly harder than I thought. I really must try and think a bit more expansively…… I know, I could buy some Man Utd shares, or invest in Rover Cars?……
Maybe not.
Hmmmmm. I’m obviously an amateur in the genre of excessive fiscal blow-outery – I haven’t really had that much practice. Not too many 4 million pound wads have fallen into my lap lately. The nearest I’ve got to holding that much money in my mitt is courtesy of the Bank of Toytown….
I need to consult an expert, someone with the appropriate amount of largesse – the right mix of style and panache to do it almost without thinking….
Step forward, Philip Green – plutocrat, retailocrat and now, a right old pratocrat…
Phil has just spent an estimated 4 million sobs on his son’s bar mitzvah party. He flew out over 300 guests to stay at the Grand Hotel du Cap-Ferrat in the South of France. They were entertained by the blind Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli and Destiny’s Child featuring Beyonce.
OTT or what?
You can just imagine the chit-chat as the guests hand over their prezzies to little Brandon, the 13 year old bar mitzvah boy.
"Wow – a 15 quid book token, thanks Auntie"…
"Excellent, a PlayStation game"
"Glad you like it, I’ve got the receipt in case you want to change it"…
"Great! A Destiny’s Child cd"…..
I don’t know. What do you get the kid who doesn’t have Balloon Artist, Zippo the Clown, but does have Beyonce and pals at his birthday bash?
Answer: A sense of perspective, all wrapped up in a sheet of humility….
Suggestions for presents for Brandon Green, aged 13 years.
1) Fund a tiger survival project.
2) Sponsor an African village/district/country.
3) Purchase vast swathes of Amazonia and sell the lot to the indigenous peoples of the area for the grand total of 27 glass beads (well, it’s been done before, hasn’t it?).
4) Replant and restore the ancient and fast disappearing woodland environments of England.
5) Start a charity, dedicated to stopping works of art from being lost to the nation….
Brandon, tell your billionaire Dad to get his gold-fingered digits out of his very deep pockets. Don’t blow obscene amounts of cash on facile acts of wastefulness that would put even Elton John, Marie Antoinette and Posh Spice to shame.
Do something constructive with it!
I’ve been thinking about how I could waste 4 million quid. Blow it, in one gloriously pointless exercise of pointless excess. Shouldn’t be too difficult to do should it? It’s sort a recipe of madcap disposal. I’ll get the ingredients together – I’ll need a pad - check, a pencil – check …. And four million quid – cheque.
I could buy Emile Heskey – mind you, I’d still have nearly 3.75 million left.
I could buy a seat in the House of Lords – but the going rate is apparently only around 100 grand - deposited into Labour Party coffers of course…
Hmmmmm.
Phew, getting rid of 4 million is certainly harder than I thought. I really must try and think a bit more expansively…… I know, I could buy some Man Utd shares, or invest in Rover Cars?……
Maybe not.
Hmmmmm. I’m obviously an amateur in the genre of excessive fiscal blow-outery – I haven’t really had that much practice. Not too many 4 million pound wads have fallen into my lap lately. The nearest I’ve got to holding that much money in my mitt is courtesy of the Bank of Toytown….
I need to consult an expert, someone with the appropriate amount of largesse – the right mix of style and panache to do it almost without thinking….
Step forward, Philip Green – plutocrat, retailocrat and now, a right old pratocrat…
Phil has just spent an estimated 4 million sobs on his son’s bar mitzvah party. He flew out over 300 guests to stay at the Grand Hotel du Cap-Ferrat in the South of France. They were entertained by the blind Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli and Destiny’s Child featuring Beyonce.
OTT or what?
You can just imagine the chit-chat as the guests hand over their prezzies to little Brandon, the 13 year old bar mitzvah boy.
"Wow – a 15 quid book token, thanks Auntie"…
"Excellent, a PlayStation game"
"Glad you like it, I’ve got the receipt in case you want to change it"…
"Great! A Destiny’s Child cd"…..
I don’t know. What do you get the kid who doesn’t have Balloon Artist, Zippo the Clown, but does have Beyonce and pals at his birthday bash?
Answer: A sense of perspective, all wrapped up in a sheet of humility….
Suggestions for presents for Brandon Green, aged 13 years.
1) Fund a tiger survival project.
2) Sponsor an African village/district/country.
3) Purchase vast swathes of Amazonia and sell the lot to the indigenous peoples of the area for the grand total of 27 glass beads (well, it’s been done before, hasn’t it?).
4) Replant and restore the ancient and fast disappearing woodland environments of England.
5) Start a charity, dedicated to stopping works of art from being lost to the nation….
Brandon, tell your billionaire Dad to get his gold-fingered digits out of his very deep pockets. Don’t blow obscene amounts of cash on facile acts of wastefulness that would put even Elton John, Marie Antoinette and Posh Spice to shame.
Do something constructive with it!
Thursday, May 12, 2005
A night to remember……
The big night came. Thursday the fifth of May. Me and the Missus get all togged up in our best election winning gear, slap on the old red and white rosettes, do a double clench fist pose in front of the mirror whilst shouting "Come and get my seat if you think you’re hard enough"….. and we’re off. We have a date with destiny.
And then we’re not.
Because I thought this might be a night to remember – I reckon I’ll need my camera to record the great event, the very moment I’m declared a Member of Parliament.
Fantasy over. I’ll be made up to get 50 votes.
We arrive at the Civic Hall in Ormskirk. The main players are already in. The Labour crew look like mafia hoods and molls – all grey hair, badly fitting dark suits and chin stubble. The men looked pretty rough as well.
The Tory cadre are typically posh. Tweed, tatty hair-cuts, lots of comb-overs, ruddy cheeks, red fleshy ears and the most enormous blue velour rosettes abound. Amongst the old fogies and blue rinses are a couple of well fit posh totties. I fantasise, riding crops, rounded vowels and shapely, well filled blouses, tiffin, Ferraris’……
Suddenly, a big neon, yellow-coated plod ushers us towards the interior of the hall, proper. The Lib Dems flounce around in their Hush Puppies, aged slacks and round, penny-collar lemon shirts. They’ve all got clip-boards and LibDem-yellow pens – and are trying to outdo each other in officious speed-walking around the hall. They all appear to be called Jeremy, Barry and Isabel….
We stroll in. It’s just like the Ringo kid and Mrs Ringo Kid gallooting their way into Dodge City’s most notorious Saloon…
We ain’t looking for trouble, we’ve just come in off the trail. We mosie on in.
The entire Hall goes quiet.
The Hum stops. The Drum is silenced. Two hundred pairs of politically biased eyes look us over. Think, think think!!!
What would Blair or Howard do in a situation like this?
I check my flies and give a weak as water wavette.
We seek sanctuary in the form of the nearest pair of seats. The spell is broken and counters, tellers, Mafia bosses, Barry, Jeremy and posh totty get back to the business of checking votes.
We survey the activity – and it’s frantic. Voting slips are being dumped onto desks and sorted into bundles - It’s 11 o’clock at night. It’s pretty clear that we are the Electoral Virgins here because we’ve rather over judged the dress code - and appear to be the only ones to have bothered to get togged up at all. It looks like tat-central in that place – almost as if a jumble sale is about to start, and the customers are wearing the stuff on sale.
In the middle of the Hall, rising like a big, black risey thing with white lettering on the sides, are the ballot boxes. They are stacked higher than a stack of corrupt politicians – and that’s high. Now and again, a student is sent over to get another box and tips the contents all over the desks. The counters count. After an absolute age, I check with Alfreda. "What’s the time then?"
"5 past 11".
It’s going to be a very, very long night.
The UKIP Candidate saunters over to us. "What a bloody crap night we’re having" he says. "D’you know what, I should have voted for you lot, our only policy is to get out of Europe….. we’re bloody crap".
His agent nodded in agreement "Yeah, UKIP’s finished - I reckon you’ll be pushing us pretty close tonight, mate. It’s a bit of a bummer – we’ve had a full time crew out canvassing, full time in this constituency for a month now".
I inwardly smirk, smug in the knowledge that these guys are actually worried about little old me and not admitting that since the great ego that is RKS left them, they’ve been withering away.
The Labour Don, the boss of bosses cruises past with his little flotilla of fags. They are handing out real red roses to their team. Righteous indignation takes hold of me. I wanted to say – "Hey Don-Bollocks, what the bloody hell are you guys hijacking my country’s emblem for – got a bloody cheek haven’t you?"
Instead, I seethe and decide to twiddle with my rosette flanges. It helps to calm me down.
I think it’s about time I strolled around the tables to check that fair play and democracy is being served. I stroll like a Statesman, stiff-legged and hands behind my back I really do look the bizz – Lord of all I survey.
In spite of my very best efforts I can’t find one, not one voting slip that has a cross next to my name. It’s very depressing. And then – I see it. Result, hat trick, loss of virginity and passing driving test all in one gloriously orgasmic moment. And I know it’s not the one that I filled in, this one’s got a ‘tick’ next to my name. A tick for God’s sake – will they say it’s legal? Of course they do! My pile is off and growing! I am a Statesman after all. I glide over to Alfreda.
"Why are you walking like a twat?"
"Sorry, I thought I was walking like Prince Charles"
"Exactly!"
It’s now 2 am in the bloody morning. With 200 people in one airless room it’s getting hot and stale and manky. Still the counting goes on. I compare piles of votes. The Labour woman has millions, an entire forest worth of paper has been shovelled into the corner called ‘winner’. Next is the Tory – he’s a decent guy really – and almost local to boot. The Lib Dem is clearly disappointed – he was pretty arrogant throughout this keenly fought contest and this looks like the final straw. His pile wouldn’t even start a boy scout’s fire. Suddenly, the entire Lib Dem contingent flounce out. Suddenly, there’s a lot less yellow around the room. Suddenly, Hush Puppies are silent….. Ladies and Gentlemen - Barry, Jeremy and Isabel have left the building.
I catch the eye of the Returning Officer. "When do you reckon then – the declaration?"
"Oh we should have everything ready for 4ish"…..
Well they weren’t ready for 4 ‘ish’ - more like gone 5’ish’ actually. We are called over – the Labour manikin wins by miles. Tory second, Lib Dem third, UKIP fourth just – bugger!…
And me with 525 voteroonies. I didn’t even come last – some indy brought up the rear a good 300 votes behind me.
By the time the Labour manikin finishes her speech of thanks, the audience have obviously had enough – it’s light outside and the birds are tweeting. I nervously finger my well-crafted, 4 page speech in my pocket. Everyone else is giving short ‘n’ sharp speechettes. The UKIP guy can’t be bothered to say anything he’s so pissed off, so it’s my turn. I pull out the wad of A4, the crowd sigh.
What would Mel Gibson say at a time like this? Easy, He’d chuck the speech away, thank the Returning Officer, Jane and Anne Marie, his assistants, the counters and his agent. Then he’d shout "Freedom" at the top of his voice….. Ohhh, and "We demand an English Parliament Tony - or else"…
Everyone claps. I don’t know whether it was the message in my speech or the relief at its brevity. I punch the air, hoping against hope that just at that moment, Tony Blair had somehow fallen through the ceiling above to meet my well clenched fist.
The winning Labour candidate, or ‘cardboard box’ as she is known in this area looked at the floor. Bloody hell, I’m no Reg Keys but she looked just a little embarrassed there I think. I walk over to her to shake her hand….
"Hi Rosie, congratulations….. Oh, and you’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the future"…
She looked worried. She obviously didn’t know that I am a fully paid up member of the awkward squad….. But she does now!
Triumphant. I link arms with my agent, my soul mate, my wife Alfreda. We deftly avoid all the no-mark local hacks trying to interview anyone wearing a rosette and saunter past the guard of plod at the door. We stroll out into the weak, watery wet morning light and go home.
The deposit was lost – but it just didn’t matter. By standing I had given people in the constituency an opportunity to express their dissatisfaction at the current political system – all 525 of them.
What was it Bill Shankly once said? "First is first and second is nowhere"…..
Well you were wrong Billy boy. Great footy manager you might have been, but you knew bugger all about elections.
First is first is a cardboard box, but 525 is a bloody miracle mate…..
The big night came. Thursday the fifth of May. Me and the Missus get all togged up in our best election winning gear, slap on the old red and white rosettes, do a double clench fist pose in front of the mirror whilst shouting "Come and get my seat if you think you’re hard enough"….. and we’re off. We have a date with destiny.
And then we’re not.
Because I thought this might be a night to remember – I reckon I’ll need my camera to record the great event, the very moment I’m declared a Member of Parliament.
Fantasy over. I’ll be made up to get 50 votes.
We arrive at the Civic Hall in Ormskirk. The main players are already in. The Labour crew look like mafia hoods and molls – all grey hair, badly fitting dark suits and chin stubble. The men looked pretty rough as well.
The Tory cadre are typically posh. Tweed, tatty hair-cuts, lots of comb-overs, ruddy cheeks, red fleshy ears and the most enormous blue velour rosettes abound. Amongst the old fogies and blue rinses are a couple of well fit posh totties. I fantasise, riding crops, rounded vowels and shapely, well filled blouses, tiffin, Ferraris’……
Suddenly, a big neon, yellow-coated plod ushers us towards the interior of the hall, proper. The Lib Dems flounce around in their Hush Puppies, aged slacks and round, penny-collar lemon shirts. They’ve all got clip-boards and LibDem-yellow pens – and are trying to outdo each other in officious speed-walking around the hall. They all appear to be called Jeremy, Barry and Isabel….
We stroll in. It’s just like the Ringo kid and Mrs Ringo Kid gallooting their way into Dodge City’s most notorious Saloon…
We ain’t looking for trouble, we’ve just come in off the trail. We mosie on in.
The entire Hall goes quiet.
The Hum stops. The Drum is silenced. Two hundred pairs of politically biased eyes look us over. Think, think think!!!
What would Blair or Howard do in a situation like this?
I check my flies and give a weak as water wavette.
We seek sanctuary in the form of the nearest pair of seats. The spell is broken and counters, tellers, Mafia bosses, Barry, Jeremy and posh totty get back to the business of checking votes.
We survey the activity – and it’s frantic. Voting slips are being dumped onto desks and sorted into bundles - It’s 11 o’clock at night. It’s pretty clear that we are the Electoral Virgins here because we’ve rather over judged the dress code - and appear to be the only ones to have bothered to get togged up at all. It looks like tat-central in that place – almost as if a jumble sale is about to start, and the customers are wearing the stuff on sale.
In the middle of the Hall, rising like a big, black risey thing with white lettering on the sides, are the ballot boxes. They are stacked higher than a stack of corrupt politicians – and that’s high. Now and again, a student is sent over to get another box and tips the contents all over the desks. The counters count. After an absolute age, I check with Alfreda. "What’s the time then?"
"5 past 11".
It’s going to be a very, very long night.
The UKIP Candidate saunters over to us. "What a bloody crap night we’re having" he says. "D’you know what, I should have voted for you lot, our only policy is to get out of Europe….. we’re bloody crap".
His agent nodded in agreement "Yeah, UKIP’s finished - I reckon you’ll be pushing us pretty close tonight, mate. It’s a bit of a bummer – we’ve had a full time crew out canvassing, full time in this constituency for a month now".
I inwardly smirk, smug in the knowledge that these guys are actually worried about little old me and not admitting that since the great ego that is RKS left them, they’ve been withering away.
The Labour Don, the boss of bosses cruises past with his little flotilla of fags. They are handing out real red roses to their team. Righteous indignation takes hold of me. I wanted to say – "Hey Don-Bollocks, what the bloody hell are you guys hijacking my country’s emblem for – got a bloody cheek haven’t you?"
Instead, I seethe and decide to twiddle with my rosette flanges. It helps to calm me down.
I think it’s about time I strolled around the tables to check that fair play and democracy is being served. I stroll like a Statesman, stiff-legged and hands behind my back I really do look the bizz – Lord of all I survey.
In spite of my very best efforts I can’t find one, not one voting slip that has a cross next to my name. It’s very depressing. And then – I see it. Result, hat trick, loss of virginity and passing driving test all in one gloriously orgasmic moment. And I know it’s not the one that I filled in, this one’s got a ‘tick’ next to my name. A tick for God’s sake – will they say it’s legal? Of course they do! My pile is off and growing! I am a Statesman after all. I glide over to Alfreda.
"Why are you walking like a twat?"
"Sorry, I thought I was walking like Prince Charles"
"Exactly!"
It’s now 2 am in the bloody morning. With 200 people in one airless room it’s getting hot and stale and manky. Still the counting goes on. I compare piles of votes. The Labour woman has millions, an entire forest worth of paper has been shovelled into the corner called ‘winner’. Next is the Tory – he’s a decent guy really – and almost local to boot. The Lib Dem is clearly disappointed – he was pretty arrogant throughout this keenly fought contest and this looks like the final straw. His pile wouldn’t even start a boy scout’s fire. Suddenly, the entire Lib Dem contingent flounce out. Suddenly, there’s a lot less yellow around the room. Suddenly, Hush Puppies are silent….. Ladies and Gentlemen - Barry, Jeremy and Isabel have left the building.
I catch the eye of the Returning Officer. "When do you reckon then – the declaration?"
"Oh we should have everything ready for 4ish"…..
Well they weren’t ready for 4 ‘ish’ - more like gone 5’ish’ actually. We are called over – the Labour manikin wins by miles. Tory second, Lib Dem third, UKIP fourth just – bugger!…
And me with 525 voteroonies. I didn’t even come last – some indy brought up the rear a good 300 votes behind me.
By the time the Labour manikin finishes her speech of thanks, the audience have obviously had enough – it’s light outside and the birds are tweeting. I nervously finger my well-crafted, 4 page speech in my pocket. Everyone else is giving short ‘n’ sharp speechettes. The UKIP guy can’t be bothered to say anything he’s so pissed off, so it’s my turn. I pull out the wad of A4, the crowd sigh.
What would Mel Gibson say at a time like this? Easy, He’d chuck the speech away, thank the Returning Officer, Jane and Anne Marie, his assistants, the counters and his agent. Then he’d shout "Freedom" at the top of his voice….. Ohhh, and "We demand an English Parliament Tony - or else"…
Everyone claps. I don’t know whether it was the message in my speech or the relief at its brevity. I punch the air, hoping against hope that just at that moment, Tony Blair had somehow fallen through the ceiling above to meet my well clenched fist.
The winning Labour candidate, or ‘cardboard box’ as she is known in this area looked at the floor. Bloody hell, I’m no Reg Keys but she looked just a little embarrassed there I think. I walk over to her to shake her hand….
"Hi Rosie, congratulations….. Oh, and you’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the future"…
She looked worried. She obviously didn’t know that I am a fully paid up member of the awkward squad….. But she does now!
Triumphant. I link arms with my agent, my soul mate, my wife Alfreda. We deftly avoid all the no-mark local hacks trying to interview anyone wearing a rosette and saunter past the guard of plod at the door. We stroll out into the weak, watery wet morning light and go home.
The deposit was lost – but it just didn’t matter. By standing I had given people in the constituency an opportunity to express their dissatisfaction at the current political system – all 525 of them.
What was it Bill Shankly once said? "First is first and second is nowhere"…..
Well you were wrong Billy boy. Great footy manager you might have been, but you knew bugger all about elections.
First is first is a cardboard box, but 525 is a bloody miracle mate…..
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
A question
Question: Just what does anyone have to do to be permanently excluded from Emperor Blair’s Praetorian Clack?
Answer: Nobody knows yet!
Judging by David Blunkett (pensions) and Beverley Hughes’ (children) reinstatement into power, it’s not lying, duplicity, skulduggery, lust, debauchery or incompetence….
Maybe it’s selective memory loss? Nah, that’s not right – Mandelson, the Queen of tarts in the pack of New Labour arses made a Lazarus-like return after forgetting about the 370 grand ‘loan’ from his mate Geoffrey Robinson (the knave of money lenders).
I know, what about doing a deal for a couple of passports? Sorry, there’s that man Mandelson again….
It’s no good, there must be something someone has done in this cabinet to warrant permanent exile…. I’ve got to plumb the depths of depravity…….. got it!
Invasion and genocide – you can’t get worse than that can you? Invasion and Genocide should certainly disqualify anyone from public office shouldn’t it? Unless of course you are Joe Stalin, or Calligula, or Ghengis Khan ……….
Bugger me, that’s no good either. Tony Blair (the ace of a smirking grin that you just want to smack with a well seasoned cricket bat) is still there……
Question: Just what does anyone have to do to be permanently excluded from Emperor Blair’s Praetorian Clack?
Answer: Nobody knows yet!
Judging by David Blunkett (pensions) and Beverley Hughes’ (children) reinstatement into power, it’s not lying, duplicity, skulduggery, lust, debauchery or incompetence….
Maybe it’s selective memory loss? Nah, that’s not right – Mandelson, the Queen of tarts in the pack of New Labour arses made a Lazarus-like return after forgetting about the 370 grand ‘loan’ from his mate Geoffrey Robinson (the knave of money lenders).
I know, what about doing a deal for a couple of passports? Sorry, there’s that man Mandelson again….
It’s no good, there must be something someone has done in this cabinet to warrant permanent exile…. I’ve got to plumb the depths of depravity…….. got it!
Invasion and genocide – you can’t get worse than that can you? Invasion and Genocide should certainly disqualify anyone from public office shouldn’t it? Unless of course you are Joe Stalin, or Calligula, or Ghengis Khan ……….
Bugger me, that’s no good either. Tony Blair (the ace of a smirking grin that you just want to smack with a well seasoned cricket bat) is still there……
Monday, May 09, 2005
Sustainability on the planet Prescott and other fairy stories…..
It’s another shocker. John Prescott, the Jack of Pies in the pack of New Labour Lying Arseholes is at it again. His grass police have found a previously overlooked piece of Southern England to dump another load of concrete on – and all in the name of ‘sustainability’.
You know how the Prescott sustainability equation goes don’t you?.
Green grass = no Labour voters.
Therefore get building – there’s a Knighthood in it for you.
So another few hundred thousand houses on a fast disappearing piece of verdant Blighty is all set to go ahead. It’s a place I know well – the coastal area between Portsmouth and Southampton.
Prescott has had a report done by some sustainability moron. It recommends that those two great south coast cities be joined up. A sexy name has been thought up – ‘The Solent Gateway’....... Nice.
Even now, I can already see the tailor sizing up the ermine cloak as another New Labour ‘Lordship’ flunky is about to be conferred. Lord Sustainability of Urbania.
As per usual, the local busy bodies with building-supply vested interests declare just how vital this sustainable growth is. As per usual, the opponents to the scheme are the vast majority of the local population. As per usual their ‘very real concerns’ will be fully taken into account, before being consigned to the bin labelled ‘local losers’ ….. as per usual.
Along with the houses for the Solent Gateway will come the schools, hospitals, roads, prisons and all the other sustainable detritus of city living. Where’s the power and the water coming from? The growth isn’t organic – it’s completely manic. The South East is glowing white hot on an altar of self obsessed egomania on the part of Prescott – and simpering brown nosed sycophantasy, courtesy of the army of civil servants currently trying their very best to get a knighthood via Prescott’s back passage.
Prescott is the Adolf Hitler of the English countryside. It’s nothing less than a concrete blitzkrieg on our green belt. And all in the name of ‘sustainability’..
God, I really hate that man and his meddling ways. Just answer me this Prezza or is it now Milliband? – if all the land gets built on, what happens to the sustainability plan then? What about the land to the north? What about your ‘plan’ to knock down 400,000 perfectly sound (mainly stone built) houses in the North of England? What about Scotland? It’s currently depopulating at a McScary rate in the head long rush to get down to the South East……
After Thursday, in spite of pious Tony’s declaration that he will listen in future, nothing’s going to change, nothing’s going to alter – just the same old Stalinist dictats from Blairyworld and his brain dead flunkies. Just the same old dogma, the same old invective from people with as much imagination as can be written on the back of a packet of Woodbines….
I wish I could leave this once fantastic country. It has become such a God awful place, governed by toadies and penpushers and led by a preening, self obsessed flawed fantasist. (Five times a night? Pass me the sick bag, Alistair)......
Note - I really am trying to finish off the election night thing - it should be posted tomorrow.....
It’s another shocker. John Prescott, the Jack of Pies in the pack of New Labour Lying Arseholes is at it again. His grass police have found a previously overlooked piece of Southern England to dump another load of concrete on – and all in the name of ‘sustainability’.
You know how the Prescott sustainability equation goes don’t you?.
Green grass = no Labour voters.
Therefore get building – there’s a Knighthood in it for you.
So another few hundred thousand houses on a fast disappearing piece of verdant Blighty is all set to go ahead. It’s a place I know well – the coastal area between Portsmouth and Southampton.
Prescott has had a report done by some sustainability moron. It recommends that those two great south coast cities be joined up. A sexy name has been thought up – ‘The Solent Gateway’....... Nice.
Even now, I can already see the tailor sizing up the ermine cloak as another New Labour ‘Lordship’ flunky is about to be conferred. Lord Sustainability of Urbania.
As per usual, the local busy bodies with building-supply vested interests declare just how vital this sustainable growth is. As per usual, the opponents to the scheme are the vast majority of the local population. As per usual their ‘very real concerns’ will be fully taken into account, before being consigned to the bin labelled ‘local losers’ ….. as per usual.
Along with the houses for the Solent Gateway will come the schools, hospitals, roads, prisons and all the other sustainable detritus of city living. Where’s the power and the water coming from? The growth isn’t organic – it’s completely manic. The South East is glowing white hot on an altar of self obsessed egomania on the part of Prescott – and simpering brown nosed sycophantasy, courtesy of the army of civil servants currently trying their very best to get a knighthood via Prescott’s back passage.
Prescott is the Adolf Hitler of the English countryside. It’s nothing less than a concrete blitzkrieg on our green belt. And all in the name of ‘sustainability’..
God, I really hate that man and his meddling ways. Just answer me this Prezza or is it now Milliband? – if all the land gets built on, what happens to the sustainability plan then? What about the land to the north? What about your ‘plan’ to knock down 400,000 perfectly sound (mainly stone built) houses in the North of England? What about Scotland? It’s currently depopulating at a McScary rate in the head long rush to get down to the South East……
After Thursday, in spite of pious Tony’s declaration that he will listen in future, nothing’s going to change, nothing’s going to alter – just the same old Stalinist dictats from Blairyworld and his brain dead flunkies. Just the same old dogma, the same old invective from people with as much imagination as can be written on the back of a packet of Woodbines….
I wish I could leave this once fantastic country. It has become such a God awful place, governed by toadies and penpushers and led by a preening, self obsessed flawed fantasist. (Five times a night? Pass me the sick bag, Alistair)......
Note - I really am trying to finish off the election night thing - it should be posted tomorrow.....
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
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)……..
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)……..
Thursday, April 28, 2005
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….
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….
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
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......
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......
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, April 08, 2005
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
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)
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)
