Everything in the garden is not lovely……
Bad news – disease has taken root in the ancient sod that is the OK Towers back garden.
My humble crop of tomatoes are under a relentless attack from ‘brown blob’ disease. Look under the larger tomatoes and there it is – galloping ‘brown blob’. Great big blobby discs of brown – like Antarctica on the world…. Only brown.
Not good. What are they and can they cross onto other species? Would I want ‘brown blobs’? – As if by magic, I saw an article in a magazine by gardening guru Monty Don…. Which is a double coincidence, because I actually saw the great Monty man in the public bogs at last weeks flower show at Tatton in Cheshire …. Amazing really, a BBC celeb actually going to the bogs and having a slash …. I guess that must mean the Queen farts as well then does it?
Anyway…
As I said, I read Monty’s article on tomato diseases and apparently I am suffering from terminal ‘Blossom End Rot’…..
Anyone got a bell to ring then?
Monday, August 01, 2005
The last word in ‘lazzy bands…….
In view of the current vogue for elasicated wrist bands – started by Lance Armstrong’s yellow ‘Stay-Strong’ campaign, Alfie has decided to leap on the elastic bandwagon with his own tribute to an issue near to his heart…
It concerns the return of a long forgotten and much loved Hollywood superstar. Yes, ‘Lassie’ the wonder dog is making a long overdue comeback to our screens. A brand new series of films is planned. Screen tests for the lead role of the pointy nosed dog with the doggy breath and the shiny coat are being conducted. Indications are that the role will go to a canine – but Meryl Streep was reported to be making a late, desperate, last ditch bid to claim the coverted prize.
To commemorate Lassie’s return – and in the hope they will also bring My Friend Flicka, Old Yeller, Spotty Dog from the Woodentops and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo back from the taxidermy table, Alfie has brought out a hot new edition of elastic band – and everyone who’s anyone will want it……. It’s called the ‘Lassie-band’.
If you want to order one of these fantastically classy pieces of mechandise, log onto e-commerce web site at
elassie-band.com…..
I thank you.
In view of the current vogue for elasicated wrist bands – started by Lance Armstrong’s yellow ‘Stay-Strong’ campaign, Alfie has decided to leap on the elastic bandwagon with his own tribute to an issue near to his heart…
It concerns the return of a long forgotten and much loved Hollywood superstar. Yes, ‘Lassie’ the wonder dog is making a long overdue comeback to our screens. A brand new series of films is planned. Screen tests for the lead role of the pointy nosed dog with the doggy breath and the shiny coat are being conducted. Indications are that the role will go to a canine – but Meryl Streep was reported to be making a late, desperate, last ditch bid to claim the coverted prize.
To commemorate Lassie’s return – and in the hope they will also bring My Friend Flicka, Old Yeller, Spotty Dog from the Woodentops and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo back from the taxidermy table, Alfie has brought out a hot new edition of elastic band – and everyone who’s anyone will want it……. It’s called the ‘Lassie-band’.
If you want to order one of these fantastically classy pieces of mechandise, log onto e-commerce web site at
elassie-band.com…..
I thank you.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Cheapo Britain….Hospital car parks
Ever visited one of our gloriously efficient hospitals, either as a patient or visitor? If you have and you’ve driven there, then no doubt the hospital car park has ruined your day.
The bright, jolly black and yellow bar rises and you’re in. For the next 20 minutes you cruise around looking for a 5 foot wide space in a sea of metal. Of course, there are places, but only if you are a merc-driving consultant, they’ve got loads of room in their special enclave of executive tarmac.
You eventually find a space, park the car, see your Granny or have your lumps felt. Either way, you’re there because you have to be, not because you’re going shopping or whatever. You’re there because you’re seeing someone who is sick – or you yourself are sick.
So why charge people for the privilege of parking in hospitals anyway? It’s cheap, nasty and vindictive. It’s a tax on the sick and worried - and it’s a bloody disgrace.
Take a tip from me, I’ve never paid to get out of any hospital car park. I drive in, see who I have to, then nip round to the Administrators Office and explain to them that I’ve had to dash to the hospital as a matter of urgency. If they ask "Why?" – tell them to mind their own business. Quote patient confidentiality, then tell them in the rush to get to the hospital, you’ve come out without any money at all.
Before you can say ‘Health Executive’s BMW petrol fund’ – they’ll shove a car park exit token in your hand so you can drive out.
This country is unique in the way we just ‘accept stuff’. Hospital car park charges were brought in when they were given autonomy during the Thatcher era. We were told it was just for ‘administration’ purposes. Inevitably, ‘admin’ gave way to ‘cash-cow’ – charges rose rapidly and the rest is history. Pretty soon, to accompany the spiralling car park charges, exorbitant fees for watching bog standard TV programmes and breathtaking charges for phone calls made from wards followed.
If more people refused to pay, the whole ‘patient tax drive initiative’ would get binned. As a start, I suggest you all find out where your hospital admin’ office is as soon as possible….
Ever visited one of our gloriously efficient hospitals, either as a patient or visitor? If you have and you’ve driven there, then no doubt the hospital car park has ruined your day.
The bright, jolly black and yellow bar rises and you’re in. For the next 20 minutes you cruise around looking for a 5 foot wide space in a sea of metal. Of course, there are places, but only if you are a merc-driving consultant, they’ve got loads of room in their special enclave of executive tarmac.
You eventually find a space, park the car, see your Granny or have your lumps felt. Either way, you’re there because you have to be, not because you’re going shopping or whatever. You’re there because you’re seeing someone who is sick – or you yourself are sick.
So why charge people for the privilege of parking in hospitals anyway? It’s cheap, nasty and vindictive. It’s a tax on the sick and worried - and it’s a bloody disgrace.
Take a tip from me, I’ve never paid to get out of any hospital car park. I drive in, see who I have to, then nip round to the Administrators Office and explain to them that I’ve had to dash to the hospital as a matter of urgency. If they ask "Why?" – tell them to mind their own business. Quote patient confidentiality, then tell them in the rush to get to the hospital, you’ve come out without any money at all.
Before you can say ‘Health Executive’s BMW petrol fund’ – they’ll shove a car park exit token in your hand so you can drive out.
This country is unique in the way we just ‘accept stuff’. Hospital car park charges were brought in when they were given autonomy during the Thatcher era. We were told it was just for ‘administration’ purposes. Inevitably, ‘admin’ gave way to ‘cash-cow’ – charges rose rapidly and the rest is history. Pretty soon, to accompany the spiralling car park charges, exorbitant fees for watching bog standard TV programmes and breathtaking charges for phone calls made from wards followed.
If more people refused to pay, the whole ‘patient tax drive initiative’ would get binned. As a start, I suggest you all find out where your hospital admin’ office is as soon as possible….
Monday, July 25, 2005
We’re alll going on a Summer Holiday, no more working for 12 weeks or so……
No, not a tribute to Cliff Richard’s film career, this time it’s yet another post about our rubbishy MPs and their outrageous 12 week Summer junket. Easy targets I know, but it’s the pomposity of it all that I find so depressing. I mean, 12 whole weeks without Parliament sitting, 12 whole weeks without this right honourable and that learned friend poking about into the guts of our lives, interfering, lecturing, taxing.
How will we get by without all those fat baldy blue rinse busy bodies to guide us? Very well I should think. Somehow, Joe and Jane Public will just manage to survive without the help of 659 parliamentary life coaches.
But what happens to the Palace of Westminster while ‘school’s out’? Could it double up as a site for a car boot sale?…. maybe it could be opened up as a soup kitchen and take in the Capital’s homeless. The slogan to attract them could be ‘Doss where there was Dross’…..
And what of the MPs - where do you think they’ve all gone to? I shouldn’t think too many of them will be at Southport Pontins or doing B and B in Scarborough.. Most of them will be going to more exotic climes –Barbados, Kathmandu, Bangkok ……. And who knows, some of them may actually pay for their own holidays rather than going on a Parliament sponsored fact finding mission.
"Yes, I’d like to go on a most vitally important fact finding mission. It’s not for me – obviously. It’s to support a vitally important part of our manufacturing base. I’d like to take photographs of sea shells on Acapulco beach in Mexico – and compare them with the sea shells on Bridlington beach. We can learn important lessons on the making of little gaudy animals with shells, glue and nail varnish, but if we can raise Mexican sea shells then we can make bigger, better and more colourful animals. This can really help the 'gaudy animal made from shells industry'. To make the research fully optimal I may also want to compare them with the shells on Waikiki beach in Hawaii, so can you put me down for a trip to Honolulu for this time next year as well"………
No, not a tribute to Cliff Richard’s film career, this time it’s yet another post about our rubbishy MPs and their outrageous 12 week Summer junket. Easy targets I know, but it’s the pomposity of it all that I find so depressing. I mean, 12 whole weeks without Parliament sitting, 12 whole weeks without this right honourable and that learned friend poking about into the guts of our lives, interfering, lecturing, taxing.
How will we get by without all those fat baldy blue rinse busy bodies to guide us? Very well I should think. Somehow, Joe and Jane Public will just manage to survive without the help of 659 parliamentary life coaches.
But what happens to the Palace of Westminster while ‘school’s out’? Could it double up as a site for a car boot sale?…. maybe it could be opened up as a soup kitchen and take in the Capital’s homeless. The slogan to attract them could be ‘Doss where there was Dross’…..
And what of the MPs - where do you think they’ve all gone to? I shouldn’t think too many of them will be at Southport Pontins or doing B and B in Scarborough.. Most of them will be going to more exotic climes –Barbados, Kathmandu, Bangkok ……. And who knows, some of them may actually pay for their own holidays rather than going on a Parliament sponsored fact finding mission.
"Yes, I’d like to go on a most vitally important fact finding mission. It’s not for me – obviously. It’s to support a vitally important part of our manufacturing base. I’d like to take photographs of sea shells on Acapulco beach in Mexico – and compare them with the sea shells on Bridlington beach. We can learn important lessons on the making of little gaudy animals with shells, glue and nail varnish, but if we can raise Mexican sea shells then we can make bigger, better and more colourful animals. This can really help the 'gaudy animal made from shells industry'. To make the research fully optimal I may also want to compare them with the shells on Waikiki beach in Hawaii, so can you put me down for a trip to Honolulu for this time next year as well"………
Monday, July 18, 2005
Well, surprise, surprise. The BBC is not decentralising after all……
In a dramatic U turn, the BBC – slavish Government mouthpiece and ultra London-centric employer of the liberal elite, sushi eaters, the tosserati and John Motson, has decided not to relocate the Sports Department way, way, way, way ‘oop North’ to Manchester, England. Apparently this very difficult and absolutely predictable decision came about after much soul searching, navel gazing and pontificating.
The BBC commissioned a special relocation focus group with a view of finding ways to weasel out of the commitment to move - with a suitably feeble excuse. Titled ‘Operation Going through the Motions’ (or ‘Operation Dysentery’ for short) the group composed several implausible excuses before the Governors decided on the one being circulated to a gullible and fed up public.
Although the excuse proffered is about as convincing as a Tony Blair smile, it still beats some of the more fanciful meanderings that were run up the think tank flagpole.
Rejected excuses include:
1) Not enough Sushi Bars in Manchester.
2) Manchester is not in London.
3) No one at the BBC in London has a road map – and so do not know exactly where Manchester is.
4) Not sure if Manchester has got electricity yet…..
5) London sports journos not keen on tripe, black pudding, pigs trotters or Betty’s ‘Hot-Pot’ down at t’Rovers.
6) ‘Manchester’ does not sound too politically correct. It should be renamed ‘Personchester’ to reflect the equal and significant contribution that women have made to the prosperity of the city.
A bit fanciful? Maybe…..
But take a look at the one they have actually rolled out …..
Press Release:
From BBC HQ / London.
The totally crap excuse for not relocating the BBC Sports Department to Manchester is…….
"The BBC cannot move the Sports Department to Manchester because London has been awarded the 2012 Olympic Games – and the costs involved in getting journalists and researchers down to London for the whole 2 weeks that the Games are on will be absolutely prohibitive"….
Amazing – a whole 200 miles down the motorway…. it looks like it will financially cripple old Aunty for good if they move to Manchester and have to report on the Games in London from there. .
I just wonder how the Beeb survived the Commonwealth Games in Manchester a few years ago, didn’t they have to traipse up to cover it – or did they tune into ITV?…… On the other hand, what would have happened if Twenty-Twelve had been awarded to Paris, or Madrid…… or even New York for God’s sake….
Are they seriously trying to say that covering the Games from Manchester would be more expensive that going half way around the world?
And it’s a bit rich that the BBC should offer ‘expense’ as the reason for calling off the move to Manchester. Have a guess just how many BBC personnel managed to wangle a jolly for the last Olympic Games at Athens, Greece…..
Answer: 628.
Six bloody hundred and twenty bleeding eight people sunning themselves in Athens at our expense!….
(That’s around 62 people per Gold medal)……
Blair’s world of fraud….
Just a thought, our glorious and infallible leader Emporio Blair has spent the last week desperately trying to disassociate the London bomb outrages from the Iraq debacle. There’s been loads of stiff upper lipped posturing from the great man. Lots of trembling voice commitment to solidarity, determination and an implacable British spirit. It was almost as if Churchill himself had risen from the dead and dusted himself off in our hour of greatest need….
But consider the suicidal bomb attacks in Iraq over the last 48 hours. 30 kids blown to pieces in one incident, over 100 innocents burned to death on Saturday night, over 30 more killed in other attacks.
It’s bloody carnage on a daily basis – and a direct result of Bush and Blair’s mad gung-ho adventure in the land of the second largest oil producer.
Not one word from Blair, not one.
Not one word from Defence Minister John Reid.
Not one word from Foreign Secretary, the man of Straw. Nothing from anyone.
How does Blair sleep at night?
Silence is damning and talk is cheap. Does Blair think lives in Iraq are as well?
In a dramatic U turn, the BBC – slavish Government mouthpiece and ultra London-centric employer of the liberal elite, sushi eaters, the tosserati and John Motson, has decided not to relocate the Sports Department way, way, way, way ‘oop North’ to Manchester, England. Apparently this very difficult and absolutely predictable decision came about after much soul searching, navel gazing and pontificating.
The BBC commissioned a special relocation focus group with a view of finding ways to weasel out of the commitment to move - with a suitably feeble excuse. Titled ‘Operation Going through the Motions’ (or ‘Operation Dysentery’ for short) the group composed several implausible excuses before the Governors decided on the one being circulated to a gullible and fed up public.
Although the excuse proffered is about as convincing as a Tony Blair smile, it still beats some of the more fanciful meanderings that were run up the think tank flagpole.
Rejected excuses include:
1) Not enough Sushi Bars in Manchester.
2) Manchester is not in London.
3) No one at the BBC in London has a road map – and so do not know exactly where Manchester is.
4) Not sure if Manchester has got electricity yet…..
5) London sports journos not keen on tripe, black pudding, pigs trotters or Betty’s ‘Hot-Pot’ down at t’Rovers.
6) ‘Manchester’ does not sound too politically correct. It should be renamed ‘Personchester’ to reflect the equal and significant contribution that women have made to the prosperity of the city.
A bit fanciful? Maybe…..
But take a look at the one they have actually rolled out …..
Press Release:
From BBC HQ / London.
The totally crap excuse for not relocating the BBC Sports Department to Manchester is…….
"The BBC cannot move the Sports Department to Manchester because London has been awarded the 2012 Olympic Games – and the costs involved in getting journalists and researchers down to London for the whole 2 weeks that the Games are on will be absolutely prohibitive"….
Amazing – a whole 200 miles down the motorway…. it looks like it will financially cripple old Aunty for good if they move to Manchester and have to report on the Games in London from there. .
I just wonder how the Beeb survived the Commonwealth Games in Manchester a few years ago, didn’t they have to traipse up to cover it – or did they tune into ITV?…… On the other hand, what would have happened if Twenty-Twelve had been awarded to Paris, or Madrid…… or even New York for God’s sake….
Are they seriously trying to say that covering the Games from Manchester would be more expensive that going half way around the world?
And it’s a bit rich that the BBC should offer ‘expense’ as the reason for calling off the move to Manchester. Have a guess just how many BBC personnel managed to wangle a jolly for the last Olympic Games at Athens, Greece…..
Answer: 628.
Six bloody hundred and twenty bleeding eight people sunning themselves in Athens at our expense!….
(That’s around 62 people per Gold medal)……
Blair’s world of fraud….
Just a thought, our glorious and infallible leader Emporio Blair has spent the last week desperately trying to disassociate the London bomb outrages from the Iraq debacle. There’s been loads of stiff upper lipped posturing from the great man. Lots of trembling voice commitment to solidarity, determination and an implacable British spirit. It was almost as if Churchill himself had risen from the dead and dusted himself off in our hour of greatest need….
But consider the suicidal bomb attacks in Iraq over the last 48 hours. 30 kids blown to pieces in one incident, over 100 innocents burned to death on Saturday night, over 30 more killed in other attacks.
It’s bloody carnage on a daily basis – and a direct result of Bush and Blair’s mad gung-ho adventure in the land of the second largest oil producer.
Not one word from Blair, not one.
Not one word from Defence Minister John Reid.
Not one word from Foreign Secretary, the man of Straw. Nothing from anyone.
How does Blair sleep at night?
Silence is damning and talk is cheap. Does Blair think lives in Iraq are as well?
Thursday, July 14, 2005
The price of things and the value of them……
(It’s important to know the difference)
The Mersey millpond, the red duster and the waterfront…
We committed the old man’s ashes to the care of Davie Jones’ lock-up on Monday morning. The day was fine, clear and most importantly, ‘still’ as we gathered at the Liverpool landing stage and waited to board the good ship ‘SS Royal Iris’ for the committal.
The River Mersey was as flat as a millpond – which was very, very good news. Windy days and the committal of ashes do not mix…. The threat of ‘blow back’ & ‘white face’ are very real ones when there’s a force ten gale blowing. And the thought of getting an atomised gob-full of my old man did not appeal.
We huddled in the only bit of shadow we could find – shading us from the fierce Sun. It was weird, but because it was so hot, we were all dressed like we were going to the beach – everyone was wearing ‘Hawaiian-tragic’… I think my Dad would have approved. Just then, my eldest sister turned up with the urn under her arm. My Mum said "What’s that you’re carrying under your arm then?"
"It’s your husband" came the reply……
The Royal Iris steamed into view. It’s one of the Mersey Ferries fleet and takes passengers ‘across the water’ between Liverpool, Birkenhead and Seacombe. The vicar from the local Seaman’s Mission briefed us on the ceremony.
The ferry would steam straight up river at full speed. After about 10 minutes, we would gather at the stern, the engines would be cut and the service would commence. The Rev’ reckoned it would take about seven minutes from start to finish.
"Don’t they mind?" I asked. "You know, the Captain and the ferry company - won’t they mind that the ferry will be late because of the service?"…
"No, they do it all the time…..and they do it for nothing. They don’t charge a cent – except the fare, of course"…
"But what about the passengers?…. The ferry’s absolutely packed with people"…..
"They’ll have to wait – it’s a mariner thing"…
And so it was. My Dad, wartime sailor with the Atlantic and Russian convoys, was given a suitably nautical farewell into the murky depths of the River Mersey. The service was very touching, the engines died, a little reminisce, a prayer or two. A sailor then got out the board that would slide my Dad into a watery oblivion. The ashes were sprinkled onto its inclined plane. Gravity and the super-slick varnish smooth finish of the board did the job and the reconstituted bits of my Dad slid majestically into the water. "Just add water"I thought….
The engines kicked, full throttle into life and the ashes, bouquets and single roses boiled on regulo 10.in the foam below.
And that was it. A Company that knows the value of something – and recognises its marine obligations had just done something special, as a matter of course for the community – as part of its operating philosophy…. And it was all free!
Contrast that with the telecom vultures that set up the 0870 emergency help number for worried relatives of the missing victims of the London bombings. Hazel Blears, one of Tony Blair’s ‘Babe Ministers’ sought to justify the 50 pence a minute charges in the most grotesque way…… a pity really, for at the very moment she was telling the world the charges would stay, the back stabbing boys at ‘Back-Stab HQ’ were appointing Tessa Jowell, the former ‘Minister for the Olympic bid’ to be the new ‘Minister for free disaster phone calling’…
Like I said, ‘the price and worth of things’……..
(It’s important to know the difference)
The Mersey millpond, the red duster and the waterfront…
We committed the old man’s ashes to the care of Davie Jones’ lock-up on Monday morning. The day was fine, clear and most importantly, ‘still’ as we gathered at the Liverpool landing stage and waited to board the good ship ‘SS Royal Iris’ for the committal.
The River Mersey was as flat as a millpond – which was very, very good news. Windy days and the committal of ashes do not mix…. The threat of ‘blow back’ & ‘white face’ are very real ones when there’s a force ten gale blowing. And the thought of getting an atomised gob-full of my old man did not appeal.
We huddled in the only bit of shadow we could find – shading us from the fierce Sun. It was weird, but because it was so hot, we were all dressed like we were going to the beach – everyone was wearing ‘Hawaiian-tragic’… I think my Dad would have approved. Just then, my eldest sister turned up with the urn under her arm. My Mum said "What’s that you’re carrying under your arm then?"
"It’s your husband" came the reply……
The Royal Iris steamed into view. It’s one of the Mersey Ferries fleet and takes passengers ‘across the water’ between Liverpool, Birkenhead and Seacombe. The vicar from the local Seaman’s Mission briefed us on the ceremony.
The ferry would steam straight up river at full speed. After about 10 minutes, we would gather at the stern, the engines would be cut and the service would commence. The Rev’ reckoned it would take about seven minutes from start to finish.
"Don’t they mind?" I asked. "You know, the Captain and the ferry company - won’t they mind that the ferry will be late because of the service?"…
"No, they do it all the time…..and they do it for nothing. They don’t charge a cent – except the fare, of course"…
"But what about the passengers?…. The ferry’s absolutely packed with people"…..
"They’ll have to wait – it’s a mariner thing"…
And so it was. My Dad, wartime sailor with the Atlantic and Russian convoys, was given a suitably nautical farewell into the murky depths of the River Mersey. The service was very touching, the engines died, a little reminisce, a prayer or two. A sailor then got out the board that would slide my Dad into a watery oblivion. The ashes were sprinkled onto its inclined plane. Gravity and the super-slick varnish smooth finish of the board did the job and the reconstituted bits of my Dad slid majestically into the water. "Just add water"I thought….
The engines kicked, full throttle into life and the ashes, bouquets and single roses boiled on regulo 10.in the foam below.
And that was it. A Company that knows the value of something – and recognises its marine obligations had just done something special, as a matter of course for the community – as part of its operating philosophy…. And it was all free!
Contrast that with the telecom vultures that set up the 0870 emergency help number for worried relatives of the missing victims of the London bombings. Hazel Blears, one of Tony Blair’s ‘Babe Ministers’ sought to justify the 50 pence a minute charges in the most grotesque way…… a pity really, for at the very moment she was telling the world the charges would stay, the back stabbing boys at ‘Back-Stab HQ’ were appointing Tessa Jowell, the former ‘Minister for the Olympic bid’ to be the new ‘Minister for free disaster phone calling’…
Like I said, ‘the price and worth of things’……..
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Tony Blair – jammiest man in history, official.
Is he in league with the devil or what? Is one of his middle names ‘Beelzebub, or does he own a four-leaf clover farm? Maybe, along with the jam, he’s covered head to toe in the finest teflonic armour, with an accompanying sporran made from rabbit’s feet just for good measure.
It‘s as if he’s got a pact with Old Non-Stick Nick himself. Teflon Tony is flourishing. He’s just as lucky as the luckiest man in ….. Hang on a mo’ – that’s not quite right is it? There is some bad luck in Tony world isn’t there? He’s married to ‘the mad woman’. So, not so lucky in his domestic life then – but politics? As jammy as the guy with a jammy dodger fetish I reckon. Whenever our glorious Leader appears to be falling into the brown and pungent, he pops up – like a cork in a sewerage farm, without a stain on his ego or odour on his character.
"Tony, what is that God awful smell?"
"Oh that. Looks like John Prescott’s been using the Prime Ministerial toilet again, Cherie"….
Don’t you just hate it? Don’t you just hate that smirky smirk on his slimy boat? How does he always seem to get away with it?
Take this last week, lucky ‘Lionel’ Blair, kicks off by basking in the reflected glory of Live8, rubbing shoulders with Sir Bob, Bono, The Edge and Richard Curtis (I don’t know, do you reckon any of these Superstars own any nice holiday villas?) Then just as quickly he's off, over to Singapore to help bring home the Olympic bacon for 2012…..
Sorry - Tone can’t stay to milk the applause, or blag his latest exotic freebee holiday. He’s got an appointment in Scotland to make African poverty history, sort the climate change challenge… And - if he’s got time after Supper, to dismantle the World’s trade protectionist cartels…..
Tony Blair seems to be able to give a Georgie Best body swerve to potential disaster, or by saying "It was him, not me" a lot. Similarly, he has a real gift to leech onto the beautiful, the brave, the successful, the intelligent …. Oh, and not forgetting the money grabbing, self obsessive, narcissistic Beckhams.
"Who’s that talking to Tony Blair, our glorious omnipotent Leader?"
"Oh him, that’s Jesus of Nazareth trying to get an introduction to Saint Bob and Bono… and a few guitar lessons from The Edge"…..
On second thoughts that would never happen would it, Jesus doesn’t own a sexy beach side villa in Barbados does he?……
Is he in league with the devil or what? Is one of his middle names ‘Beelzebub, or does he own a four-leaf clover farm? Maybe, along with the jam, he’s covered head to toe in the finest teflonic armour, with an accompanying sporran made from rabbit’s feet just for good measure.
It‘s as if he’s got a pact with Old Non-Stick Nick himself. Teflon Tony is flourishing. He’s just as lucky as the luckiest man in ….. Hang on a mo’ – that’s not quite right is it? There is some bad luck in Tony world isn’t there? He’s married to ‘the mad woman’. So, not so lucky in his domestic life then – but politics? As jammy as the guy with a jammy dodger fetish I reckon. Whenever our glorious Leader appears to be falling into the brown and pungent, he pops up – like a cork in a sewerage farm, without a stain on his ego or odour on his character.
"Tony, what is that God awful smell?"
"Oh that. Looks like John Prescott’s been using the Prime Ministerial toilet again, Cherie"….
Don’t you just hate it? Don’t you just hate that smirky smirk on his slimy boat? How does he always seem to get away with it?
Take this last week, lucky ‘Lionel’ Blair, kicks off by basking in the reflected glory of Live8, rubbing shoulders with Sir Bob, Bono, The Edge and Richard Curtis (I don’t know, do you reckon any of these Superstars own any nice holiday villas?) Then just as quickly he's off, over to Singapore to help bring home the Olympic bacon for 2012…..
Sorry - Tone can’t stay to milk the applause, or blag his latest exotic freebee holiday. He’s got an appointment in Scotland to make African poverty history, sort the climate change challenge… And - if he’s got time after Supper, to dismantle the World’s trade protectionist cartels…..
Tony Blair seems to be able to give a Georgie Best body swerve to potential disaster, or by saying "It was him, not me" a lot. Similarly, he has a real gift to leech onto the beautiful, the brave, the successful, the intelligent …. Oh, and not forgetting the money grabbing, self obsessive, narcissistic Beckhams.
"Who’s that talking to Tony Blair, our glorious omnipotent Leader?"
"Oh him, that’s Jesus of Nazareth trying to get an introduction to Saint Bob and Bono… and a few guitar lessons from The Edge"…..
On second thoughts that would never happen would it, Jesus doesn’t own a sexy beach side villa in Barbados does he?……
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Phew......
Over a whole week has gone since my last post and I still can't think of anything to write about.....
That must mean that -
a) Everything in the whole world is hunky dory.
b) Tony Blair really is the wise man from the Orange adverts.
c) Our transport system is efficient, modern and cheap to use.
d) John Prescott has finally managed to do something that actually works.
e) I've won the Lottery jackpot.
f) The cruddiness of the Country has finally done me in - and I've lost the will to moan.
The 'eff' has it I think.
Normal, one eyed observations will be resumed tomorrow.
Over a whole week has gone since my last post and I still can't think of anything to write about.....
That must mean that -
a) Everything in the whole world is hunky dory.
b) Tony Blair really is the wise man from the Orange adverts.
c) Our transport system is efficient, modern and cheap to use.
d) John Prescott has finally managed to do something that actually works.
e) I've won the Lottery jackpot.
f) The cruddiness of the Country has finally done me in - and I've lost the will to moan.
The 'eff' has it I think.
Normal, one eyed observations will be resumed tomorrow.
Monday, June 27, 2005
The kiss of death…..
Well there you go, the coup de grace has just been well and truly delivered to the London 2012 Olympic bid by an own goal to end all own goals.
And it was all going so well wasn't it? So ‘professional’, so ‘we’re coming up on the rails and we’re gonna pip Paris at the tape’ …….. but now we’re not are we? The cockneys will probably limp in somewhere behind Moscow, Bootle and Wigan…..
We’ve handed twenty-twelve on a platter with a side salad of golden laurel leaves to our French neighbours…. It’s entente cordial with ‘le knobs on’ as the French are obviously going to waltz away with the big prize now that our cock up masters par excellence, once again do their worse......
What disaster could have befallen our bid? Not enough money? …. Someone pocketing a few million quid ‘biscuit money’ expenses? ….. Bid leader, Lord Seb’ Coe found in flagrante with Anne Widdecombe in a broom cupboard? ….. No, none of those, it’s much, much worse than that.
Some divvi in the Government has just appointed one ‘John Prescott’ as the man, the man charged with ensuring all the London Olympic venues are built, on time, on spec, and on budget……
"Eh up, Coe, yer southern ponce, merk way for t’maestro…. This ‘ere ‘Twenty 12’malarky is now a New Labour prorject so shift yer posh arse, change t’name on the doower, put t’kettle on and go and get us a sack o’ pies & a side skip o' mushy peas, you great gormless posh twat"……
If you listen very carefully, you can hear Jonny Frenchman laughing his head off as he cycles down the Champs Elysee with his stripey jumper and pungent string of onions in tow….
Well there you go, the coup de grace has just been well and truly delivered to the London 2012 Olympic bid by an own goal to end all own goals.
And it was all going so well wasn't it? So ‘professional’, so ‘we’re coming up on the rails and we’re gonna pip Paris at the tape’ …….. but now we’re not are we? The cockneys will probably limp in somewhere behind Moscow, Bootle and Wigan…..
We’ve handed twenty-twelve on a platter with a side salad of golden laurel leaves to our French neighbours…. It’s entente cordial with ‘le knobs on’ as the French are obviously going to waltz away with the big prize now that our cock up masters par excellence, once again do their worse......
What disaster could have befallen our bid? Not enough money? …. Someone pocketing a few million quid ‘biscuit money’ expenses? ….. Bid leader, Lord Seb’ Coe found in flagrante with Anne Widdecombe in a broom cupboard? ….. No, none of those, it’s much, much worse than that.
Some divvi in the Government has just appointed one ‘John Prescott’ as the man, the man charged with ensuring all the London Olympic venues are built, on time, on spec, and on budget……
"Eh up, Coe, yer southern ponce, merk way for t’maestro…. This ‘ere ‘Twenty 12’malarky is now a New Labour prorject so shift yer posh arse, change t’name on the doower, put t’kettle on and go and get us a sack o’ pies & a side skip o' mushy peas, you great gormless posh twat"……
If you listen very carefully, you can hear Jonny Frenchman laughing his head off as he cycles down the Champs Elysee with his stripey jumper and pungent string of onions in tow….
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Andrew Murray - tennis wonderkind...
Listening to the radio, I have noticed how many times a drooling FiveLive commentary team are most careful to emphasise that Andrew Murray is from SCOTLAND - and not Britain..... "Murray from Scotland"... "Plucky Scot, Murray"..... etc, etc....
It's funny, but I can't remember Tim Henman - when he was regularly getting to the quarters and semis of Wimbledon - EVER being called 'The Englishman, Tim Henman' or 'England's Tim Henman' or 'England's great tennis hope, Tim Henman'...
He has always been known as 'Britain's Tim Henman'...... Hasn't he?
I'm all for national pride - so why, when an Englishman is successful, he is 'British' - and when a Scot is successful, he is 'Scottish'? And if the media start to call him/her 'British' - they are accused of 'hijacking' their own Scottish heroes...
You can see this happening all over sport today - for example, in F1motor racing. David Coulthard has a Scottish Saltire plastered all over his helmet - Jensen Button has a Union flag on his. When he changed it to a St George's cross last summer to support the England football team, he was assailed by an ITV commentator, demanding to know why he was being so 'un-British' and unpatriotic by removing the Union Flag - and replacing it with a "Red and White squiggle"..... The design was artistic, in the same way that the Union flag was, but Button still felt the need to explain and to justify it... Needless to say, he made Button feel embarrassed and uncomfortable - and sure enough, at the next race Jensen had replaced the St George's cross with the British emblem....
David's identity is strongly Scottish and that is perfectly fine.. when he is mentioned, he is 'The Scot, David Coulthard'... Button, however is always referred to as 'The British driver, Jensen Button'....
It is clear that as far as the establishment are concerned, Scottish sportsmen/women are Scottish, Welsh sportsmen/women are Welsh and Northern Irish sportsmen/women are Northern Irish.......
But what of English sportsmen/women? Well, of course, they're all from BRITAIN, obviously!!!!
Listening to the radio, I have noticed how many times a drooling FiveLive commentary team are most careful to emphasise that Andrew Murray is from SCOTLAND - and not Britain..... "Murray from Scotland"... "Plucky Scot, Murray"..... etc, etc....
It's funny, but I can't remember Tim Henman - when he was regularly getting to the quarters and semis of Wimbledon - EVER being called 'The Englishman, Tim Henman' or 'England's Tim Henman' or 'England's great tennis hope, Tim Henman'...
He has always been known as 'Britain's Tim Henman'...... Hasn't he?
I'm all for national pride - so why, when an Englishman is successful, he is 'British' - and when a Scot is successful, he is 'Scottish'? And if the media start to call him/her 'British' - they are accused of 'hijacking' their own Scottish heroes...
You can see this happening all over sport today - for example, in F1motor racing. David Coulthard has a Scottish Saltire plastered all over his helmet - Jensen Button has a Union flag on his. When he changed it to a St George's cross last summer to support the England football team, he was assailed by an ITV commentator, demanding to know why he was being so 'un-British' and unpatriotic by removing the Union Flag - and replacing it with a "Red and White squiggle"..... The design was artistic, in the same way that the Union flag was, but Button still felt the need to explain and to justify it... Needless to say, he made Button feel embarrassed and uncomfortable - and sure enough, at the next race Jensen had replaced the St George's cross with the British emblem....
David's identity is strongly Scottish and that is perfectly fine.. when he is mentioned, he is 'The Scot, David Coulthard'... Button, however is always referred to as 'The British driver, Jensen Button'....
It is clear that as far as the establishment are concerned, Scottish sportsmen/women are Scottish, Welsh sportsmen/women are Welsh and Northern Irish sportsmen/women are Northern Irish.......
But what of English sportsmen/women? Well, of course, they're all from BRITAIN, obviously!!!!
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Free the ‘Plate-gate 1’ .... from this
Neil Prendergast a young driver from Manchester was caught bang to rights by the Old Bill last Friday. A plain clothes plod in a plain clothes plod-car pulled him over and slapped a 30 quid ticket into his surly, suspiciously guilty, suspiciously ordinary Astra saloon owner’s hand.
"Well, as soon as I saw him, I just knew he was a bad ‘un’. The streets are safer now this scum has been banged up" reported P.C. Agenda.
Well thank goodness for that. I can tell my old Mum she can go and get her pension in complete safety now that the law has come down on Prendergast with all the force of Charles Clarke sitting on a kitten. .
So what crime did young Prendergast commit that was just so heinous? The very worse crime of all, apparently….. a shocking and wanton declaration of identity. Yes, Prendergast (aka Baby-Face Caponee-ownee) was caught with a St George’s cross and the word ‘ENG’ provocatively and brazenly displayed on his registration plate. Sorry, it’s twice as bad as that…. He had the flag on both registration plates. And not only that, he’s obscured the Euro flag in the process – twice!……
I feel sick. There should be a list that this sicko has to register on, so the police and good citizens can keep tabs – and if necessary, send the vigilantes round to work a bit of retribution. I’d call it the 'flagophile file'…..
Alfie the man whose arm is strong - and vengeance total, has been doing a bit of detective work to get to the bottom of this ‘happy slappy, flag not flappy’ craze and has managed to find a sad and perverted enthusiast of the ‘flag on the plate’ genre.
He told me his name was ‘Reginald Plate’ – or Reg for short.
I’m not sure I believe him.
He said he originally put the stickers on to support England in last years Euro Nations Cup….. and it sort of grew from there. He’s now expanded his flag collection, nothing is off limits anymore….. car air fresheners, stickers for the back window, even the ‘Reg and Sharon’ sticker along the top of the front windscreen has been binned in favour of one saying ‘ENGERLAND 4 EVER’…….
He said that sometimes a whole load of these ‘enthusiasts’ gather at a ‘flag meet’ to wave the flag and taunt the filth. "Sometimes, it can get quite nasty when a few of us get together to try and compose a national anthem. Afterwards, we feel great... but, you know.... a bit, well 'dirty'"…
‘Sick’, just isn’t the word…. – ‘revolution’ is.
Reg Plate in front of his banned plate doing a bit of fuzz taunting.......
Neil Prendergast a young driver from Manchester was caught bang to rights by the Old Bill last Friday. A plain clothes plod in a plain clothes plod-car pulled him over and slapped a 30 quid ticket into his surly, suspiciously guilty, suspiciously ordinary Astra saloon owner’s hand.
"Well, as soon as I saw him, I just knew he was a bad ‘un’. The streets are safer now this scum has been banged up" reported P.C. Agenda.
Well thank goodness for that. I can tell my old Mum she can go and get her pension in complete safety now that the law has come down on Prendergast with all the force of Charles Clarke sitting on a kitten. .
So what crime did young Prendergast commit that was just so heinous? The very worse crime of all, apparently….. a shocking and wanton declaration of identity. Yes, Prendergast (aka Baby-Face Caponee-ownee) was caught with a St George’s cross and the word ‘ENG’ provocatively and brazenly displayed on his registration plate. Sorry, it’s twice as bad as that…. He had the flag on both registration plates. And not only that, he’s obscured the Euro flag in the process – twice!……
I feel sick. There should be a list that this sicko has to register on, so the police and good citizens can keep tabs – and if necessary, send the vigilantes round to work a bit of retribution. I’d call it the 'flagophile file'…..
Alfie the man whose arm is strong - and vengeance total, has been doing a bit of detective work to get to the bottom of this ‘happy slappy, flag not flappy’ craze and has managed to find a sad and perverted enthusiast of the ‘flag on the plate’ genre.
He told me his name was ‘Reginald Plate’ – or Reg for short.
I’m not sure I believe him.
He said he originally put the stickers on to support England in last years Euro Nations Cup….. and it sort of grew from there. He’s now expanded his flag collection, nothing is off limits anymore….. car air fresheners, stickers for the back window, even the ‘Reg and Sharon’ sticker along the top of the front windscreen has been binned in favour of one saying ‘ENGERLAND 4 EVER’…….
He said that sometimes a whole load of these ‘enthusiasts’ gather at a ‘flag meet’ to wave the flag and taunt the filth. "Sometimes, it can get quite nasty when a few of us get together to try and compose a national anthem. Afterwards, we feel great... but, you know.... a bit, well 'dirty'"…
‘Sick’, just isn’t the word…. – ‘revolution’ is.
Reg Plate in front of his banned plate doing a bit of fuzz taunting.......
Friday, June 17, 2005
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.
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.
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.....
