Bring a brick....

Always ready to help in a crisis, 'Alfie the helpy sort of guy' has decided to step up to the plate and offer his not inconsiderable back garden to the nation….. (For a Saturday afternoon at least).

Apparently, the Chief Executive of ace footy stadium building company, ‘Multiplex’ (motto – ‘Honestly, it’ll be ready by 3:00pm on Saturday afternoon, almost definitely, possibly, maybe’) is making noises that the new Wembley Stadium might not be ready for this year’s FA Cup Final after all. Rumour has it he’s asking the footy loving public to get over to the ground double-quick and make sure they bring a brick each with them….. a sort of ‘bring a bottle party’ – but without the bottle…..


Clouds are gathering at Wembley
– however contractors are confident they’ll
be finished in time for the 2012 Olympics

Oh bugger. That’s a bit of a problem then. The FA are not happy, not happy at all. There they are, TV contracts signed, two footy teams waiting to go head to head – and nowhere to play the game…. Looks like another sojourn to the Millennium Stadium, Cardiff then. Not necessarily….

Thankfully, and in respect to our national game, this Englishman is willing to go the extra mile in order to make sure the English FA Cup Final takes place – in England. I’m willing to open the rolling acres of Alfie Towers and let the silky skills of the Premiership’s finest perform body swerves galore.

Here at ‘Okaybley’, I’ve got all the essential footy stadium accoutrements to make sure 90 minutes of sinew-busting mayhem pass off with all the bravura that a classic English occasion deserves….. (Just as long as they go easy around the greenhouse, which will now be known as ‘Punditry Corner’). I’ve got grass, mostly green, mostly tufty (except the muddy area by the pond). Super comfy couches for the toffs (and standing room only on the garden furniture for the chavs). Queen Betty and the rest of the Royal entourage will have to make do sitting on the kids’ garden trampoline. There, suspended at a dizzy height of 36 inches, they’ll have a truly spectacular panoramic view of the whole garden complex.

So that’s it then, there’s the offer. Just one thing though, there’s the goal post problem and I’m one jumper down, anyone want to play skins?

Seduced…..

I fell for it last Friday, I really, really fell for it big time. The big-breasted rollover lady with the 85 million double-D bazoomas wiggled her jackpots at me – and I swooned.

I didn’t stop swooning until I got to the Euromillions Lottery counter. I bought two tickets at £1.50p each, the winning ticket and a back up just to make sure. While I was there, and seeing I was a bit of a Euromill’ virgin, I picked up a helpful little leaflet explaining exactly how to carry off the enormous 85 million pound cheque without giving yourself a triple hernia with double rupture accoutrement.

I mean, what could I do with all that money? 85 million quid is a King’s ransom with attitude and no mistake. I could buy a forest, a county…. a country even! - who knows? I could save a species, instigate some third world initiatives, help the Amazon Indians against the illegal logging companies and finance a court case through the U.S courts in which all the treaties signed by General Custer and company not to invade native Indian land are actually honoured. Who knows, maybe they might even say the 27 dollars worth of beads given to the native Indians in exchange for Manhattan might just be adjudged to be have been a bit of a rip off……

Anyway, first thing’s first, I’ve got to actually win the jackpot first before I can swamp the world with ‘AlfieCorp’ good works. (Motto, ‘Indignation is bloody useless unless it’s righteous indignation’) As I walked away from the counter with the sure fire winner in my grasping little graspy hand, I scanned the back of the Euromillions leaflet. Hmmmm, the odds of winning are a bit streaky – apparently winning the jackpot is around about 75,000,000 to 1……

‘Kin hell, Seventy five bleeding million to bleeding one……. Geez, how disappointing…….

Anyway, needless to say, I didn’t win, not even a single crummy Euro. But never mind, this week, the rollover has gone up to over 100 million – it’s huge, it’s massive, it’s fantasy ………

Let’s face it, I’ve got more chance of being discovered as the true heir to the throne and proclaimed as Alfred the OK(ing) the first.

Doomsday….

According to a very sad scientist, today is the most depressing day of the year. He’s taken into consideration the post Christmas blues, the credit card bills gently flopping on every doormat in the country right about now and the really, really grindingly crap weather…

Added to that, Tony Blair is still in power, my dentist is about to go private, Celebrity Big Brother is still on the telly…… II mean, how could it get any worse?

Easy. The Inland Revenue have sent me a letter, cunningly timed to arrive on my doorstep today, on the morning of the most depressing day of the year. It did. It’s from a Mr T. Watt – and he wants to do an in-depth review of last year’s tax return. They want to look in great detail at the things I’ve claimed for, sifting, sifting, sifting…… It’s so thorough, I think in accountancy circles, it’s called a ‘KY audit’ – they look everywhere, especially in places where the Sun never shines.

Let’s hope they don’t find ‘piles’ - (of cash, obviously).

Raiding the family archives...
I have mostly been looking at an old photo this weekend. A very, very long, very rolled up old photo. It’s one of those school photos taken on one of those special school picture-taking cameras. It’s 8 inches deep by about 20 miles long……

I’m trying to find a couple of people on this school photo – and I know they are there. But it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack or do a ‘Where’s Wally’ book. If I do find them then this tatty, 50 year old photograph will be worth quite a bit.

It’s really interesting to look at this picture. Everyone is white. There seems to be a lot of kids there that look like ‘Plug’ out of the Beano. Designer spex are an alien concept – it appears there were two sorts of glasses worn in 1955, National Health jobs or milk bottle bottoms….

There are 3 types of kids on the pic’. 1) Swots and creeps. 2) Honest Johns. 3) Wide-boy embryonic teddy boys. There are some great coiffured hairstyles, piled up using Brylcreem, the styling lard of the day. Dee-Ayz, quiffs and dodgy geezer styles abound…..

It’s a really fascinating social document. But I’m more interested in realising cash at the moment… And these two people, I just cannot find them amongst the myriad of greasy, spotty, testosterone laden yoofs of post war England.

So, who am I looking for on the photo?

Good question, glad you asked it.

The photograph was taken in 1955, in the grounds of the then premier grammar school in Liverpool. ‘The Institute’. The photo was given to me by my Dad many years ago. His brother went there and was in the same class as Paul McCartney. Well I’ve found my Uncle in his teddy boy regalia, but as for the legendary Beatle? I’m really struggling. I know he’s there, along with his younger band member, George Harrison, my Uncle pointed them out when we were looking at the photo many years ago. Unfortunately, at the time I was into Cream, Canned Heat, Zepp (still am) and American Blues – so I showed little interest…..

Funny what the promise of cold hard cash will do…..

Welcome to Thrush TV….
(it’s bloody irritating)

Over the Christmas holiday, was it my imagination or were there more than enough irritations on the box than usual?

It was relentless, aside from the crap standard of the programmes dumb-down TV offered us as a supposedly quality Christmas schedule, it was the adverts, the same rubbishy adverts, repeated over and over again that really did send me into such a seasonal gloom….. Sofas, hampers, more sofas, crap music compilations, still more sofas….. and M&S…

Oh yes, M&S, was in a whole different league of irritability.

"This is not a quality advert.
It is the most irritating, condescending, load of pretentious old rubbish from a has-been-saggy shop, right down on its uppers.

This is an M&S advert, so desperate to sell you stuff that we’ll throw in some exotic words, sexy close up photography and a really annoyingly, whispering Dervla Kirwen voice-over – which surely proves that everyone has their price"…

And, as if that wasn’t enough, some tosser in the ad’ agency ‘Blag, Wag and Nobrail’ thought it would be a really great idea to shove on one of my favourite schoolboy anthems –‘Albatross’ by Fleetwood Mac as the backing track.

"This is not good, it’s a bloody disgrace"….

And then, there was the most hyped music album of the season. Every other advert seemed to be flogging an album by a man who is apparently the most fantastic singer-songwriter to come out of the British Army since Lord Baden-Powell. Apparently, B.P. wrote such classics as the rap version of ‘Dib-Dib-Dob ya Bitch’ - the traditional old favourite, ‘Ging Gang your Gooolies" and the rather risque, 'Can I wiggle your woggle, Skip?'.

Oh yes. Laydees and Gentlemen, James Blunt has left the Armoured Personnel Carrier and entered the album charts. Bloody hell, they’re flogging him like he’s the new Bob Dylan or something… The trouble with that song, that bloody awful whining song, is that once it gets into your head, it’s there for the entire duration. That tragi-falsetto-castrato, warbling away between your ears, scratching away at your brain cells, killing you softly with his screeching…

"You’re beautifulllllllllllll,
You’re beautifullllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll,
It’s terrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuue’….

No doubt about it – it’s as painful as nails down the blackboard or an industrial accident involving a lump hammer, a very sharp chisel and an unprotected pair of testicles….

And yes, it’s right there innit, in your brain - and you can’t get rid of it, over and over again …….
It’s terrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuue’….

(Just be glad I haven’t gone on about the SCS sofa sale adverts hosted by ex Spandau Ballet quiff boy, Martin Kemp)…

Snap happy……

Alfie has been out and about with his digital camera over the weekend and discovered two things,

1) I know what Johnny’s slimmer and not-as-funny brother does in the pubs and clubs around St Helens on a Saturday night…..


2) I know that the people responsible for doing the signage for megacorp retailer, Tesco should have lessons in written English – or maybe they could buy a copy of ‘Eats Shoots and Leaves’ by Lynn Truss and learn exactly when you should use apostrophe or two - and when you should not!

The Christmas ‘flop’…..

At Christmas, we mostly didn’t get Pictionary, Risk, Twister or Monopoly out from the top of the wardrobe. Nor did we indulge in an energetic afternoon of Charades…… "It’s a film, a play, a book and a tee shirt?"….

Our old favourite, Trivial Pursuits - so well used in times past, (we know all the Q&As’ off by heart) was also parked for the duration along with all the cute little cheeses...... No, for this Christmas we decided we should indulge in a little bit of street cred’ gamesplay. And this could only mean one game would fit the bill - Texas Hold’em poker was our pastime of choice for the festive season. We’ve been following the intricacies of the game on satellite TV. Six players and a dealer, huddled round a green baize table, hands like shovels clacking their chips, clack, clack, clack. The little nuances, the bluffing, the stone facing, the big sovereign ringings, the chunky necklaced blingings, the black as black dark glasses, made by 'Mr Inscrutable' of Milan…...

The men look like they’ve lived their whole life standing on their faces. Every bum deal, every all-night drinking session, every 10-grand blow-out etched on furrowed brows, gaunt expressions and aged puffed out cheeks. They all smoke, it helps with the persona. And, of course, they all have ‘Mississippi Riverboat’ type handles (even though they come from Watford, Bingley and Bootle) ….. ‘Fancy Dan’ Smith, Jimmy ‘Cool Dude’ Prentice, ‘Diamond-Deuce’ Dobson, et al….. They all drink Jay Dee obviously. Sucking it through gaps in their gappy-toothed teeth, some white, some brown, some gold, wincing as the Kentucky sour mash hits their nicotine-stained, lily-livered taste buds.

Even the phraseology of playing is sexy. ’The Flop’, ‘Check’, ‘The River Card’, ‘Ace high’……. With a bit of imagination, I’m there, on a Mississippi Riverboat, playing James Garner, the original Maverick - and I'm about to take him to the cleaners with a well disguised Royal Flush……..

We’ve just got to get a set for Christmas, we could play it straight after the Queen's speech at 3:15pm on Christmas Day.

The set is bought from the New Orleans branch of Woolworths. (sort of).

We’ve got the full poker-playing monty – cards, 3 packs. Chips, bloody loads of them – and they really do make a lovely ‘clacking’ sound. Dispenser, shuffler, rulebook. Just to make doubly sure we have enough chips to play a proper game, we invest in a couple of extra packets. We walk slowly, carefully out of the big Dubbya. We're on the look out for muggers and river boat con artists…. After all, for the princely sum of 20 quid, we’ve just bought almost 100 grand worth of chips…..

Christmas came and went. I put the dark sunglasses on – bought from Mr Inscrutable in Milan, but that just made me want to go to sleep. Somehow, we never quite managed to play. We never quite managed to clack those chips, look as if we'd spent our entire lives standing on our faces or gunned down a riverboat rival with a cunningly concealed Deringer pistol..... Never mind, there’s always next year. Meanwhile, we’ve stored the poker set safely, on top of the wardrobe, in the spare bedroom, next to Twister, Risk and Monopoly…….

All the best for the New Year.

Spook central at our local Spar…..

It's strange, but no matter from what angle you look, Degsy's eyes will always follow you around the room......

It was a day, just another ordinary day.
And it was still daylight.
I was feeling pretty OK, sort of, as I parked the car outside the local Spar supermarket. The sky was icy blue and the chill wind made it feel like everyone in the whole world was sucking on a moon-sized peppermint every time we breathed in. I made my way towards the entrance of the shop – it was 2:00pm on a late November afternoon…..

As I approached the threshold, my bright and optimistic candour suddenly evaporated. For no reason at all, I’m feeling as sad as a Leonard Cohen fan with depression and a bit of a headache, what the hell is the matter with me?

A black cat ran across my path. Hmmmm, that could be an omen, I suppose - or it could just be a cat. Suddenly, above my head, a large crow perched on the big plastic letter ‘Pee’ of ‘SPAR’ started squawking at me. His bright yellow evil eye held me in a rabid rabbit, car-in-headlights trance. It fluffed up its bible-black, bible-blackest feathers in an attempt to keep out the cold north wind…. It looked like a little angel of death, waiting for his next victim. I’m no expert, but maybe, just maybe it could be a bit of a portend. A portend of doom?

I thought, long and hard – should I go into this SPAR? Should I risk it - go in, when all the omens are warning me off? It’s just a shop for God’s sake. I mean, I know the service is a bit crusty and they don’t have 97 varieties of coffee brands on sale, but if I’m lucky, I might justbe able to bag the last prawn mayo butty of the day.

I ponder. It’s a battle. A battle of wills between my head and my stomach. Which bit will win? On the one hand there's my primordial instincts - they have enabled the human race to survive and flourish over millions of years by warning of hidden danger through a mysterious 6th sense. On the other hand are the hunger pangs in my stomach. It’s gut-instincts verses gut-guts……

No contest, ‘guts’ wins this, and has done every time.

I breeze in and lunge, the last prawn and mayo on brown is mine all mine. And what a bonus! The corners have hardly bent upward yet – and the bright pink chemical that is supposed to resemble prawn juice hasn’t fully sogged through the sad slices of bread. The excitement of the chase had dulled my survival senses, it was only after the prize was mine that I was aware that I was not alone. I’d just manage to beat a bloke dripping gold, fake sun-tans and the last 1977 consignment of Brut 33. He cracked on that he wasn’t bothered about missing out on the prawn….. he chose something from the losers counter……

The stranger with the several layers of sun tan, the gold stuff and the Brut vapour trail strolled away towards the bottled water display. Hang on a mo’ – this stranger somehow looks familiar. Yes indeed, none other than spirit medium and seer – of all things dead, Mr Residual energy himself, Derek Acorah.

The star of Living TV’s ‘Most Haunted’ was here (presumably in the flesh), in my local Spar shop, one prawn sandwich down and looking to purchase a bottle of water. Now, if you believe the publicity, Acorah is supposed to be unable to walk down the road without tripping over millions of lost spirits – he’s supposed to be able to pick up on ‘them that have gone over’ like other people pick their nose.

I stared hard at his back. He continued to study the not very extensive bottled water range. What was he doing? Was he performing an exorcism on a 2-litre bottle of Malvern Spring? Was he checking his flies – who knows. Suddenly, in a move reminiscent of Antonio Banderas in the latest Zorro film, Acorah spun round and caught me looking straight at him.
It was a fair cop. I was caught, bang to rights, clocking a Zed-list celebrity. His 6th sense was obviously honed to ‘turbo mode’……. Well, it would be wouldn’t it – what with all those ghosts and orbs and stuff. Maybe ‘Sam’ his native north American scout spirit guide tipped him the wink from the fire water aisle?

Just then, Acorah moved. With the speed of a poltergeist on a mission of mischief, he got to the only check-out in the shop before me. He opened his wallet – wall to wall Gold cards and notes……. No doubt about it, there really is money in crap television. Acorah seemed to sense the bad karma emanating from me to him. He looked ruffled, hot and bothered. The ‘great smell of Brut’ was working overtime.

He paid and walked out of the shop. I looked straight at the shop assistant behind the check-out. Lights on, no one at home. She gave the impression she had just joined the living dead. I wanted to say to her, "That la-de-dah Derek Acorah, who the bloody hell does he think he is. Coming in here as bold as you like and buying some water – and almost getting the last prawn mayo on brown"…..

As I said, I wanted to – but some 6th sense inside me was screaming "Don’t say a word, master!"…. Was it my very own spirit guide? Was he an Indian, or maybe a Traffic Cop…. who knows? Who knows which character of the Village People he was trying to materialise to me as – all I know, it certainly worked, because just then Degsy swooped back from behind me, and he would have surely caught me slagging him off.…… "Sorry luv, forgot me water"

A likely story, Derek. I offered a private thankyou to Nobby Navajo, my new pal spirit guide. "Cheers Nobby, mate"

Nobby Navajo, Alfie's spirit guide.

Death of an Englishman.



One of my favourite broadcasters died a couple of weeks ago. John Timpson, native of Norfolk and proud Englishman slipped away aged 77 years. John had a fantastic accent, a comfy and relaxed rural burr, as mellow as a glowing glass of English mulled wine on a crisp and frosty Winter's evening.

Timpson initially got his big break on the ‘Today’ programme when original anchor, Jack deManio began to lose his marbles. Every now and then, deManio would turn up at the studio ‘a bit tired and emotional’ and inevitably make a right pig's ear of the script. On this particular ‘last straw’ occasion, DeManio was trying to introduce a story about some bloke from the Lebanon.

"And Mr Walid, a lesbian…….

Oh, I’m terribly sorry, that should be, Mr Walid, a Lesbianese…….

Errrr, sorry, that’s not right either, I meant to say Mr Walid from Lesbianon….."

That morning, DeManio seemed to have been obsessed with butch women – it didn’t go down well with the prudish Auntie Beeb – and Mr and Mrs Outraged from Tunbridge Wells had a field day.

The old soak that was Jack DeManio was quietly pensioned off to write his memoirs and Timpson seized his chance. – Various partners joined him, until the BBC had the good sense to partner him with Brian Redhead, a gobby Northerner from Macclesfield with a rare commodity amongst current broadcasters – a brain a sharp as a steel trap, and a true journalist, to boot.

For many years, throughout the ‘70’s and ‘80’s, they co-hosted this flagship radio programme. It was superb radio. Full of acerbic wit and off message, non pc comment, the merciless grilling of some inadequate tosser politician of the day was a regular sporting highlight. It was free of the nefarious agenda that currently infests the present BBC.

It was a sad day when John retired. Some young whipper-snapper called John Humphrys took over his slot – and the programme lost its appeal to me. Timpson said he wanted to retire back to his beloved Norfolk to write about the county and Country he loved so much.

Soon ‘Timpson’s England – a look beyond the obvious’ hit the bookstalls, swiftly followed by a follow up. The books were superb to read - witty little quirky snippets from forgotten corners of this great Country. Timpson toured England, finding odd and eccentric facts and figures in churches, pubs and villages – in essence, he recorded the very soul and marvellous eccentricity of this fantastic Country.



Nearly 20 years on, I’ve still got my copies – and when I’m feeling just a bit low, despairing of what this cowardly bunch of no-mark politicians in power are continuing to do to this Country, I dip into them.

It makes me feel a hell of a lot better – and it’s cheaper than Whisky……

Another attack of the ‘Nangs’…

Not been able to post this week at all. I’ve been suffering. Really, really suffering. Loads and loads of nangy things going on in the body that is planet Alfie. Itching underneath my fingernails, wanting to give the backs of my eyeballs a damned good scratch, a crease in the bed sheets irritating the hell out of my back…. In short, just feeling uncomfortable all the time.

Even just ‘thinking’ was enough to bring on a bit of a nang attack – and as the classic nang symptoms are being absolutely unable to switch off – even at 3 in the morning, it’s been a self perpetuating vicious circle of nang. I’m not entirely sure what brings it on, but it could be a type of hyper-tension – I don’t even know whether the condition is known to science. I’ve tried to find it in the medical dictionary – but it just ain’t there.

So what brought the nangs on this time? God knows, but I think it’s got something to do with bad news – the first time I got it was when I was about 9 years old, the cause? Mr Trivett, the school deputy head and psycho in residence hit me with a ruler on my head. When I got home in floods of tears - acute toe-nang was diagnosed by my Mum. There was so much tension in my feet, all my toes arched downwards, fixed like stone – a parrot without a perch. Still, it meant school was a no no, because once I’d got my special school ‘Tuf’ shoes off (with nice animal foot prints on the soles) - there was no way I could get them back on.

Since then, I’ve caught the nangs every year or so, without fail. As I’ve got older, they’ve moved around my body. The nang virus is no respecter of body geography.

I’m trying to think what ‘bad news’ may have brought this year’s attack on – and let’s face it, there’s a hell of a lot of it around. I reckon it might be to do with the news that our temperate climate is in trouble. The Gulf Stream, our bringer of warmth and balmy stability has lost 30 to 50% of its strength over the past 15 years. To put it bluntly, we could soon be up moose creek, in a kayak in 20 foot of pack ice without a paddle - or a pickaxe.

I don’t relish the imminent arrival of a big white Polar bear strolling down our high street, looking for a ‘Seal-in-a-Basket’ outlet – but we’re on the same latitude as Labrador and Alaska – both places hardly renowned for their Costas.

Paradoxically, it’s all down to Global warming. Greenland’s massive ice glaciers are melting faster than you can say ‘a15 trillion megawatt electric fire’. Billions of tonnes of ice cold fresh water are cooling the current flow from the tropics. Reduced salinity, because of the dilution and lower temperatures has meant the Gulf stream has got a bit flaccid and a bit floppy. We need to change our lifestyle habits like right now, or start making a 10,000 tonne Viagra pill to drop into the North West Atlantic.

And talking about greenhouse gases, it was reported this week that 14% of all emissions of greenhouse gases comes out of cow bums. There are over 1.3 billion cow arses on the planet – so that’s a hell of a lot of flatulence from our bovine boffers. So there you have it, cow farts could end civilisation as we know it, unless we change our ways and start eating carrots, or order 1.3 billion jumbo sized corks double quick.

No wonder I’ve got rampant nangyness.

Do's and dont's.....

When moving office, installing a new broadband line, buying a router and a shedload of wireless peripherals, it is most important to follow the installation instructions ‘to the letter’ especially as the entire stable of computery are AppleMacs of varying ages and operating systems.

When receiving the top secret ‘Username’ and ‘Password’ over the phone from the provider, it is most important that extra special care is taken to write it down correctly. Because, as everybody knows, an incorrectly written down password will mean days of frustration, a completely buggered up weekend, a few box files becoming airborne and GBH to a computer mouse.

When ringing the provider up on a snowy Monday morning, it’s important to stay cool, calm and collected, even when you’ve been hanging on for hours and hours, pressing buttons till your fingers bleed and listening to menu instructions till your brain fries. It’s especially important when going over the username and password, letter by letter, number by number, upper case by lower case – because, as the user manual says, ’It’s vital to type in the correct username and password’. - Because if you don’t, then the system will never, ever get up and running.

And it didn’t, no matter how hard I tried..

When talking to the person at the trouble shooting office of the provider, it’s important that all the ticks, all the boxes and all the typed instructions are correct and checked. I have, they are. But still it won’t bloody work.

It is also mostimportant that you do not say "Oh f*cking hell, what d’yer mean "Sorry, that lower case ‘ell’ should be an upper case ‘eye’. Do you know how many f*cking hours I’ve spent twiddling with the settings on this installation screen – and all the while you’ve been giving me the wrong f*cking password, you f*cking moron!"

When you have been extremely pissed off – and pissed upon, it is most important to vent the glottal, exercise the spleen and exorcise the pent up frustration of dealing with jobsworth divvies – and thus helping to avoid a heart attack or commit homicide, don't you think?.....

Alfie’s Christmas Gift Suggestion


Got a few quid to spare? Want to get that alternative Chrizzy pressie for that special pal? Then may I suggest you invest in a few copies of editor Tim Worstall’s excellent round up of the British blogging world in 2005.

‘Blogged 2005 – dispatches from the blogosphere’ is the year as seen through the eyes of bloggers – all the big subjects of the year are there - described in full by the army of blog in a sometimes humorous, sometimes cynical, sometimes analytical way. I went and got a copy from a branch of Waterstone’s in Southport – and it was the last one in the shop. The assistant reckoned there had been a bit of a run on them – and knowing the bohemian folk of Southport like I do – they know a book-cred bargain when they see one. You’d better get one while you can - and take my tip, go to a big bookshop. Waterstone’s was the 6th I’d tried – and at the second one, I was asked what a ‘blogged’ was. Or you could go here at Amazon – and get a few quid knocked off.

Canal walking with a bouncy guy….
I went for an evening stroll along the tow-path of the Rufford branch of the Leeds-Liverpool canal yesterday with my Son Luke and his dog Domino, the bounciest dog in the whole wide world. Dusk was gently closing in and the mist rolling up from the Ribble estuary as we parked the car and set off along the tow path. It was very atmospheric – like a Turner painting without the dynamic of a dose of laudanum. The flat landscape of the Lancashire plain rolled away into the distance, stratified in consecutively lightening shades of grey. It reminded me of a time before colour televisions – wall to wall grey scale.

I love these winter days. Still, quiet and cold - waiting for something to happen. It’s like the whole world is holding its breath. Nothing is moving – apart from the bouncy guy busily shoving his bouncy nose into the ferns.

Overhead, five Bewick’s Swans, winter visitors from the Russian Tundra, white kites against the slab grey sky, flopped and flapped over us, barely 50 yards above our heads. The dog tried to do some seriously extreme bouncing – he obviously fancied Swanski for tea.

The very low level of the canal has exposed the fantastic stone setts of the lock gates, You just cannot help but marvel at the manic Victorian precision of massive subterranean stonework never normally seen. We peered into the frozen shallow watered gloom of the canal, vainly hoping to see the odd fish or two. All of a sudden, we noticed that the bouncy guy wasn’t bouncing any more. He had now adopted the persona of a rigid guy – frozen in an attitude of a doggy Robert De Niro. "Are you looking at me?" He was in a staring contest with a rather hard looking sheep in the adjoining field.

A bit of tension here. Who’s the scariest? Well the sheep’s not given an inch – and she’s got some mates behind her to boot.

We walked away, but still the sheep and dog were locked in eyeball to eyeball starey mortal combat. Who would blink first? We broke the spell by shouting at the dog to "Come on"…… He trotted towards us, stopped and looked back to his chunky wooly protagonist. Was he saying "I salute you as a worthy opponent"…. Probably not – more likely he was saying that the next time they meet, the sheep will be stuffed into the bottom of a tin of ‘Kennomeat’

A group of partridge exploded out from a nearby grassy knoll. The dog bounced in frustration. In the distance, a barn owl quartered a field looking for a rodent supper. Our walking target was a little stone bridge, built to carry nothing more than a muddy farm track over the waterway, but as beautiful a bridge as you could ever imagine. Built at the same time as the canal, the cut stones were still as good as new. The proportions of this little bridge are as perfect as anything built in Venice. Constructed by master craftsmen in a time when men still had pride in what they did – and the consummate skill to go with it.

As we turned to head back, the gloom had virtually enveloped us. Above, the final skein of Pinkfooted Geese, over wintering from Greenland honked their noisy way to their evening roost on the sand-banks of the River Ribble.

The dog didn’t bother bouncing any more – he was completely bounced out…..

Four men in a tub – the Chelsea of division 2….
...of the Ormskirk quiz league to be precise. This season, instead of being the usual journeymen of the division, assuming a sort of ‘Manchester City’ position, we’re as rampant as a rampant lion, rampaging away at the top of a steeply inclined ramp - in Rampton. And believe me – that’s rampant!

An initial draw and then 8 straight wins on the bounce have ensured that ‘Team Tubsters’ are miles and miles ahead of everyone else.

What’s more, we’re not just beating teams, we’re thrashing them, crushing them, blitzkrieging them. We don’t have a billionaire backer, a Russian oligarch or a rich American in a Stetson bankrolling us. We don’t have a gobby Portuguese managing us either - we don’t need anyone to gee us up, we just go out there and win! And if you don’t believe me, check this out. Being unbeatable has its perks. 'Respect' for a start..... We haven't got any groupies yet, but there's always hope, we've noticed the odd lady bar-fly giving our well honed team the old once over (strange, but it never seems to graduate to the old 'twice-over')... Who knows, in a month or two, we could have a whole groupage of Tubsterettes' in tow ........ ladees, form a queue.

Last night was the best. Our adversaries? Old Hall –our bogey team. We’ve never beaten them, ever. They’ve always managed to intimidate us with various underhand tactics, it’s fair to say, they are our least favoured team. Usually, we have the game, a couple of pints, some butties, then a friendly – but most of all we’re supposed to have a laugh….. but not with Old Hall. They just don’t seem to have a sense of humour - it's all angst and fretting and moan,moan, moaning with the Old Hall crew…. Anyway, back to last night’s game, we came, we played, we battered them. Our opponents? Vanquished to the country of bitter and twistedness. We tried (but not very hard) to act all magnanimous in victory – and only punch the air out of our opponent’s eye-shot.

So why have we all of a sudden discovered a grey matter streak, a nugget of knowledge and a seam of nelly-knowalliness? Our team is the same – and has been for a few years now. There are five of us – from which we perm a team of four. Maybe it’s because we’ve changed pubs. We now play in The Ship at Lathom, known to the locals as the ‘Blood Tub’ due to violent and habitual fighting between bargees there in the late 19th Century. So that’s where our name ‘Four Men in a Tub’ comes from….

Anyway, whatever the reason is, it’s working – if we carry on with the winning streak we’ll get into Division 1 next season. And that will mean we’ll play some very clever people indeed.

And if we do, we’ll come up against ‘Old Dog’ – the team currently second in the top tier. Within their ranks is Pat Gibson, a gentleman Irishman, now living in Wigan and recent winner of a million quid from ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’ and last week, the winner of the Grand Final of BBC’s ‘Mastermind’

We can’t wait to play against them. Pat, mate, start to get worried, ‘Team-Tubster’ are after your scalp.


Pat Gibson, man of Wigan looking worried at the imminent contest with Alfie and the rest of the Tubsters

Remember,
(Firework night reprise)...

I used to love firework night when I was a kid. The ‘club man’ dressed in gabardine mac’ and pulled down trilby would knock on the door of our house a few weeks before the big day armed with his ‘Bommy suitcase’. Forget leaflets with photos. In the suitcase was the real thing, packs of fireworks made by what we considered to be the most dangerous manufacturer of all time – ‘Brocks Fireworks’.

The smallest box was the cheapest – priced at a frugal price of one shiny English shilling. Within that box was the odd ‘Golden Rain’, a triangular ‘Mount Etna', a token Roman Candle and a few hand held fireworks that were strictly for the wussy Walters of this world. Next was a 2/6 box (12.5p) – as before with a couple of rockets, a few Catherine wheels and some Bangers. The boxes went all the way up to the gargantuan 1 quid box. Absolutely massive; the stuff of pyrotechnic dreams.

A quid box of fireworks was way out of our league. They were intended for the posh kids whose parents drove Hillman Hunters or Rover saloons, poured themselves a gee and tee when they got home from work and got the Radio Times every week.

My Mum always settled on a 5 bob box (25p) – real class, but not too ostentatious. The 5 bob box had everything, - Roman Candles, Bangers, Catherine Wheels, Versuvius’s, Air-Bombs and……. ’Rip-raps’. What a superb firework rip-raps were! Dangerous, unpredictable and full of street cred. Even lighting them was a bit of a challenge, because they bounced about a lot, in a rip-rappy sort of way. They looked like a snake folded back and forth, back and forth. The more you paid, the longer they were. And the longer they were, the more bangs and jumps you got.

Young rapscallions would throw them at people’s feet. Each time they banged, they would bounce – and a long one would bounce perhaps 20 times. What fun, what joy. They used to drop into chaps turn-ups or ladies knee length boots. Third degree burns were all so innocent then….. Eventually, like all instruments of torture, they were banned……

Also within the box would be a packet of ‘Bengal Matches’. Now these were really, really dangerous. They were like a big match with a black head, which was about an inch long. When you struck the match they would burn so brightly it would light up a star system. Napalm on a little stick they were. They burned in different colours – and all at the heat of the inner core of the Sun. They got banned as well.

Once the deal was done – and we’d agreed to pay the clubman a shilling a week for 5 weeks plus sixpence deposit, the fireworks were ours – all 5 bobs worth of them.

As a special after sales treat, the clubman would give us a box of indoor fireworks. These were deemed to be not as dangerous as the outdoor versions, but you still lit them with matches. Smoke still spewed from little ‘Mount Etna’s’. Kids still got burnt, houses still got burnt down. They got banned as well.

Come to think of it, so did the Bangers…….

...Remember,
Best explanation I heard over the weekend for exactly why the Gunpowder Plot was timed for the 5th of November…..

Well, apparently the plotters decided on that date so anyone seeing them lumping gunpowder, matches and firewood about would think they were going to just another fireworks party.

...the fifth of November.
And talking about Gunpowder plotting…..
There’s been a plethora of drama documentaries over the past week about how the plotters were persuaded to give up their secrets and how they eventually met their collective ends….

Guy Fawkes suffered the most of course – having been tortured on the rack, gouged with gougy things, stabbed with stabby things and having to wear the same underwear for more than a week.

On the day of his execution, he was helped up the scaffold steps because his legs had been smashed through the torture. He was then hung by the neck until he was almost dead. They cut him down, chucked water over his face to revive him and make sure he was still in the land of the living. They then cut off his goolies & knob and chucked them on the fire before his very eyes….. were gouged out and they too were chucked on the hot coals. The barbecue was made complete, courtesy of a full set of Fawkes’ guts and entrails.

Remember, Fawkes is still alive at this point, the disemboweller having taken great care not to injure the lungs or heart. The final act of barbarity was to chop his head off and stick it on a spike. His body was hacked into four quarters and despatched to the outer reaches of the kingdom….

Not much chance of parole there then.

Lordly matters….
OK, the House of Lords application form is all filled in and ready to go. Hardest job was finding any people who were willing to say I was of sound mind and a bit of a decent kind of chap. It’s amazing what the odd threat and the swift application of a judicious Chinese burn will do. But now comes my toughest task. The word is, in the corridors of power that ‘donations’ to certain political parties help the smooth sashay into an ermine robe. Anyway, I’ve had a whip round down at the Blood Tub Pub. Thanks to all patrons who willingly gave up their hard earned wedges for the cause of OKedness – and for the lucky falling into my lap of the PDSA collection box from the pub bar. How much ‘sashaying’ will £18.56p and a 2 Euro coin get me? Am I looking at Ermine Street, Easy Street or Ere’s-the-door Street?

Christmas Day is on 25th December this year isn’t it?
I was in the local Spar the other day. Waiting to pay for my stuff, I noticed a huge pile of seasonal Christmas Selection boxes, each with a fat jolly smiling Santa on, standing on a snowy roof with Rudolf and all the rest of his faithful crew. Think of all those kids on Christmas morning, stuffing their faces with this choccy bounty.

Right next to Santa’s chubby beaming smile was a nice, bold, clear message printed in a regulation EC approved typeface. - ‘Best before 10th December, 2005’…….

Ross Kemp – a big girly…
For tough guy Ross Kemp, recently beaten up by his feisty flame-haired, Sun Editor wife, I have a suggestion.
Ross, if you’re suffering from battered hubby syndrome, call me in total confidence – (sort of). I can offer a shoulder to cry on, a look that I really do give a damn on my face and present a convincing argument that you can still play a hard man in Eastenders and an SAS killer on the telly, even though you’re the world’s biggest wuss.