Drinking from the Entente Cordial….

Did I really say that.

Did I?

I think I did.

I met a nice French lady yesterday for a business meeting. I had to get to where she was sharpish-like as she could only see me for an hour before catching a flight back to Paris. Her English was immaculate, her dress-sense sophisticated - all in all, she was just so cool, calm and professional. The business done I stood up, thanked her and shook her hand….

Just then, I thought how nice it would be if I could say something in French to her. My mind trolled back to all the Cointreau adverts I’d seen, back to my best CSE French reference books, back to those black and white Jean-Paul Belmondo movies of the sixties…. What could I say to her?

Of course, brilliant…

"Mademoiselle, zank you verhee much for zeeing me. Ah would lake to wish you a very ‘appy bon voyage back to la belle Fransay"

She looked at me like I was a weirdo who had just oh-deed on extra strong weirdo pills.

Maybe she didn’t understand my accent?… Funny, but I thought everyone in France talked like Inspector Clouseau…

Man nicks boat….

This is a weird story . A man hires a canal boat out for a 2 week holiday then does the slowest runner in history – at 4 miles per hour. The police were duly called – and put out a nationwide ‘APB’ on the felon and his hot set of sedentary boatyness….

The last time anyone saw this guy was in March – since then it is known that he has repainted the boat from its original livery of green and red to a rather indiscreet bright blue.

Bad move. Even allowing for the incompetence of ‘Plod of the Yard’, if he really wanted to hide away forever, I suggest a big tin of camouflage paint would be more effective – as can be seen in this photograph.

Fleet of boats on the Kennet and Avon canal cunningly concealed with silk finish camouflage paint....

Now that's gotta hurt

I see a vet has had his arm ripped off by a crocodile at a zoo in Taiwan. Apparently, the croc has been a bit poorly, feeling a bit ill and a bit off his food – so the vet was called to see exactly why he hadn’t eaten anything for weeks – with predictable results….

I don’t know whether there is any truth to the rumour that the vet, now happily reunited with his croc-crocked arm has refused point blank to go and visit the 8 foot tall silverback mountain gorilla who has been totally off sex for several years…..

Divas, Divers and Drogbas need not apply…
Amazing isn’t it? Today’s footballers seem to have the balancing properties of a lump of lard on a tightrope. The merest brush by an opposition shirt can cause the victim to drop like a stone as if shot by Dirty Harry and his Magnum 45.

They twist, they triple salko with pike, they writhe in agony, victims of a gentle graze from a harsh bit of man-made fibre, that could, if you’re not careful take someone’s eye out.

So, what is the problem? Why can’t the average 100 grand a week footy player stay on his finely honed pins for more than 2 minutes without eating grass? Have they all been infected by a vindictive wobbly-bob gene? Has someone, somehow nobbled them via a drop of horse nobbling draft in the half time cup o’ tea?

Or are they just cheating?

Alfie the Corinthian, brought up in the age of fair play, Alf Tupper, Steve Zodiac and Melchester Rovers noble captain, Roy Race simply refuses to believe today’s professionals would stoop so low (without falling over in agony, obviously). And after much research I reckon I have solved the problem as to why they keep dropping like flies.

It’s all to do with ‘shapes’.

Sure, the modern day footy player has wads of cash falling out of every pocket – but does he still smoke 20 fags, drink 8 pints of brown over bitter and finish off with a fish supper every day? The answer is ‘no’.

Tuna bake with pasta will not give the average superstar the same profile as a diet of steak pudding and chips would. The mullet headed footy players from yesteryear – for example, Tommie ‘crunch’ Smith, Norman ‘bite yer legs’ Hunter and Ron ‘chopper’ Harris all had 3 things in common. Sure they had the dangerously psychotic nature, but more importantly they all possessed, a big fat arse and a burgeoning beer gut. Thus, when they ran, their suet pudding counter balances kept their ample frames in bulky equilibrium – and upright, even when they’d just had their heads taken off by a flying two footed challenge.

In short, footy players of yesteryear were just more ‘manly’ Not for them playing week in and week out of a green sward so smooth you could play snooker on it. For Tommy, Norm and Ron regularly played on ploughed fields - which had more in common with the Somme and Paschendale than a footy pitch. They played with footballs made from purest granite, wore boots fashioned from lead clogs – and were paid around 10 quid a week plus all the pies they could eat …. Now that’s what I call a proper man.

Didier Drogba and co simply couldn’t cope in that environment – in short, they just don’t have that manly profile. No pies and no Guinness equals no balance. And to be honest, I think I would trust a pork pie man more than a green salad with a side dish of grass man. With that in mind, Alfie is launching his brand spanking new campaign to make football more manly. Bring back beer guts and big bums – bring back balance, spend less on washing powder….

Let’s make the beautiful game lardy again….

Wanted – a Condominium for the UK.

Apparently, Durex has launched its first UK recruitment drive for thousands of British ‘condom testers’…

They want a panel of 5,000 people to report their experiences of using its condoms and lubricants in the bedroom. A spokesperson said they were looking for a "massive panel of testers"…. (Or possibly a panel of ‘massive’ testers?)

Durex haven’t yet confirmed whether they want the condoms back once they have been tested.

Heavenly bodies...
Walking to a country pub with one of my Sons the other night, I decided to try to elevate the casual conversation above the inane schoolboy chatter and 'nob-jokes' genre we usually engage in. Looking over to the west, in an inky black clear sky was the majestic heavenly presence of Venus. At this time of the year it is the brightest thing in the night sky (apart from the moon, obviously)….. I thought this could be the time to cram a little more knowledge into my Son’s noggin – I mean, Venus is such a weird place. For instance, it’s the hottest planet in the Solar System – and it’s the only planet that spins in a clockwise direction. It spins incredibly slowly – once every 243 Earth days – which is actually longer than it takes the planet to orbit the Sun. So amazingly, a Venusian day is longer than a Venusian year.

"So what’s that up there then?" I said pointing up to the great twinkler in the sky.

"I don’t know. I don’t know what that is up there in the sky. It’s some sort of star isn’t it?"

"No,no,no – it’s the planet, ‘Venus’ and it's dead weird!…. So what’s so weird about Venus then?…… I’ll help you if you like. Venus is really special. It’s the only planet that……. "

My Son thought a bit - "Venus is the only planet that rhymes with ‘Penis’…."

So much for elevating the conversation. I’m just glad we couldn’t see Uranus.

You know you’re getting old when…..

You know you’re getting old when you give a lift to an old bloke you’ve just met. He’s balding, breathless and overweight in a near-death-experience kind of way. His clothes are straight out of the same shop that Prince Phillip gets his gear from. He’s wearing light slacks, brown and cream stripey tie with coffee coloured shirt and brown blazer with gold effect buttons and brown slip on shoes…..

We chat.

I find out Mr Squaresville is 64 years and 11 months old – and that next month he is retiring.

With not much in common with my new travelling companion – the pregnant silence interrupted only by the dull whine of the engine and the gentle wheezing of my passenger, I decide to play a CD…..

"Sorry, but I’ve only got Zepp – so it’ll have to be King Jimmy Page and his trusty Gibson SG I’m afraid"….

"What, Led Zepp? They’re only my most favourite band ever"… With that, he leant over and turned the volume full-on to ‘bleeding ears’ level.

Rock and roll….

Fabulous Stud Muffin…

The fastest change of mind I’ve ever heard of happened to my friend Fiona last night. She was due to take her dog Toby, a Tibetan Terrier to the local Vet to have his kerambas taken off this morning.

However, she was watching Cruft’s last night as Araki Fabulous Willy took the Supreme Champion trophy and the regulatory Pedigree Chum contract - beating around 25,000 other dogs to the ultimate prize.

The reason that Toby’s nuts are now safe and as valuable as 24 carat gold nuggets is because ‘Fab Willy’ is his Granddad…. Kerrching!

An anthem for England…

Can I ask everyone who reads my blog to please take the time to visit this page on the Number 10 website and sign the petition to press Tony Blair and his acolytes to give England a national anthem.

We should have one – we have to have one, and soon. Anyone who has cringed when watching David Beckham or Jonny Wilkinson glottaling away with the dire lyrics of ’God Save the Queen’ will surely agree.

’God Save the Queen’ is not the anthem of England, it is the UK anthem. England is a country in its own right – and as such, should have a national song that we can all identify with. Favourites of mine are ’Jerusalem’ or ’I vow to thee my country’…. But I’m not that bothered really what we have, as long as we get one. (Although I’ll draw a line on the ’Birdy Song’ or ’Agadoo’

Lard news bulletin…

So what about this then? I’ve only just gone and lost over 2 stone since October, that’s all… I’m down to 17st 10lbs! (Not quite a size zero, but I’ve come in another notch on my trouser belt)… Blood pressure is continuing to head south - and I’m not going green and splitting my shirts quite as often as I used to.

Snarling, angry Alfie has turned coolish and chilled - and is adopting a calmer karma towards his fellow human beings. (Well, most of them, anyway)….

Antiques Roadshow eye candy....

OK, did you see me? Last Sunday night on the telly – the Antiques Roadshow from glorious Southport. There I was, stood in a queue to nowhere with the family jewels in my hand, third hot and sweaty loser from the right, just behind the woman having her huge chest expertly examined by the show’s huge chest expert.

I just knew I’d be on – standing around for hours on end, basting gently on regulo 7 in a hall stuffed to the rafters with people, loads of tat, some proper good stuff, Michael Aspel and his faithful crew of make up wizards and those hot, hot TV lights ….

My face really was that orange - and yes, I really wasstanding in a pool of sweat the size of Lake Windermere….

The Daily Play – deserving of a good handbagging…

Late at night, when I cannot sleep, I sometimes watch ITV’s post midnight offering ‘The Daily Play’ the crappiest waste of TV space on the box. It basically consists of a failed actor smarm machine, a ‘70’s porn film music track, a phone line and an almost impossible puzzle to solve. I know I’m sad – but it’s the greatest cure for insomnia I know.

It’s all a scam of course. Punters ring up and try to guess the answers….. they shouldn’t bother, they always get it wrong and even if they don’t get through (which is most of the time) ITV still lift nearly 80p from each phone call. They’ve earned millions from such low brow exploitative tat.

You’d think in sophisticated Britain there would be a watchdog looking out for the little guy in such circumstances – well there is, and they’re not happy. Apparently they’ve criticised one of the puzzles in which punters were asked to try and guess the top ten contents of a woman’s handbag… they thought that two of the hidden answers - ‘Rawlplugs’ and a ‘Balaclava’ were perhaps not entirely contextually typical of a laydee’s accoutremental handbaggy make up.

Well, are they typical or are they not? Alfie decided to turn into Private dick, Sam Fabulous to find out. Risking wrath and the imminent loss of some fairly vital bodily parts, I decided to have a butcher’s into Alfreda’s constant companion and see what was within. Hmmm, well that is disappointing. No Rawlplugs, of Balaclavas, just the usual emergency make up kit, diary, purse, a crate of Newcastle Brown, a pair of football boots and Colt 45 Magnum handgun.

Bring back (or dig up) Biddy Baxter….

Blue Peter has been criticised for showing the ritual slaughtering of a goat as part of a festival in Jordan. The goat, or ‘Billy the Cuddly Goat’ as all the kids knew him, had his throat cut from ear to ear and then hung from a tree.

Bit of a bummer really, I expect when Billy heard he was going to star on the show, he must have reckoned he was stepping into Shep’s shoes and join the menagerie that sits with the presenters at the end of the show….. and not be in the kebab butty after it.

Climate change, munchkins and new year tomatoes….

Last night, I got back from the Ring ‘o’ Bells pub surprisingly wide eyed and bushy tailed. So much so, I decided to watch a Christmas present DVD – the disaster movie‘The Day After Tomorrow’.

The film is all about climate change – and the scariest of catastrophic climate scenarios: the buggering up of the Gulf Stream – or ‘North Atlantic Current’ as film star Dennis Quaid insisted on calling it. The physics involve billions of tonnes of melt water from the polar ice caps. The water flows on top of the salt sea water, sinks the Gulf Stream to the frozen depths of the ocean – and stops it…..

The warming goodness of the Gulf Stream ends, the whole of western civilisation freezes – and Dennis Quaid ends up the hero. Of course, it’s all a right load of simplistic Hollywood rubbish isn’t it?

Mind you, last night, outside, the weather went uber nuts. Stormy, rainy and tempesty – it reminded me of Munchkins, Kansas, Dorothy and Toto….. But this wasn’t a dust bowled mid-west state, it was soggy Lancashire in January. There were no Munchkins – I hadn’t drunk enough to see any. Our dog, Domino was dead to the world, and I look crap in a gingham dress & ruby red slippers…

But it got me thinking, the seasons are definitely in flux – and after reading about The Birdman’s seasonally weird Ox-Eye daisy encounter, maybe the climate really is changing.

Half way through the film, I pressed ‘pause’ and decided to have a nice ham and tomato sandwich. The ham came from the remaining bits of the hamper my Mum had given me at Christmas. And the tomato? It came all the way from my green house, it was the very last from the crop of 2006 – and I picked it at the weekend… Now that really is climate change.

Maybe we should rename the seasons, get rid of a couple of them as being surplus to requirements…. Just have 2 rather than the 4 we have now. Maybe we could have a competition, suitably sponsored by the Sun…. You could win, win, win big in our special comp to rename the seasons. An executive ‘Gulf Stream’ jet, a luxury Chelsea tractor or your very own coal-powered Power Station could all be yours! Not only that, but the winner will get to plant a tree to help offset his carbon impact! It’s all in your greener, cleaner, environ mental -as-anything Sun, now!

I thought of ‘Strummer’ and ‘Winting’ as my new seasons – a homage to the Clash front man and a subtle and clever fusion of Winter and Spring, brilliant eh?…. Sure fire winners if ever I saw them…. Maybe the weather is going further, sliding into a minging mono season of grey, lukewarmy windy dampness – where the only things we can look forward to is trenchfoot, walking at an angle of 45 degrees and Christmas tomatoes…..

Time will tell.

The Antiques Roadshow comes to town…

In mid October, the Antiques Roadshow rolled into a seaside town just 8 or so miles from Alfie Towers. It was a perfect opportunity to get the family jewels valued (so to speak) - then I could have a few angst ridden weeks wondering whether to flog them to the Getty Museum in California for a zillion quid or donate them to a grateful nation…..

This being the UK – and hence unable to organise anything apart from endless heats of the World Queuing Championships, I had to try and think of a way to get my stuff swooned over and valued by a grateful antiques expert and back home in double quick time. Being a person who hates queuing with a passion – let alone with my priceless heirloom, there must be a way to avoid the endless coils of humanity that were sure to be there?

A call to Roadshow HQ in Bristol and a visit from an antiques bod confirmed that my 3 foot high piece of solid Wedgewood was indeed worth taking…. “It’s a pedestal” he said. Unusual colour – have you got the pot that should go on the top?”

“Err, no. It’s a long story”

“Pity. If it had the pot with it – we’d be talking a lot of money …. And that really is an unusual colour all right”….

I’d always thought of it as mustard coloured, but maybe ‘dusky diarrhoea with a hint of Rangoon rim’ would be more accurate.

Just before the antiquarian left, he gave me a ticket – “This will get you straight through to the reception past all the suckers who will be queuing for England. From there you’ll wait around 20 minutes before seeing an expert – get there around half ten and you should be able to just stroll in”.

The day duly arrived and we loaded the Wedgewood pedestal, a nice Victorian music cabinet and the magical yellow ticket into the car and set off. We arrived, found space and prepared for the short walk to Antiquarian nirvana. Mrs A got hold of the music cabinet, I grappled with the pedestal. After about 50 yards, my kidneys felt they were going to burst. The lump of Victorian pottery began to metamorphose into the consistency of lead weight. Sweat is pouring off me.

Up there, along the prom on a very windy Autumnal day, kidneys bursting with my big mustard piece between my legs I must have looked a right berk. Nearing the entrance, two women have just walked out of the theatre doubling up as Antiques Roadshow HQ. As they pass me, their eyes are transfixed on the big mustard column between my legs…. “What an unusual colour…. A bit like baby diarrhoea”….

“It’s mustard. The bloody colour is bloody mustard, OK?”.
“Sorreee! But where’s the pot, if you had the pot it would be worth a lot of money you know”….

I don’t reposte, I’m right out of any reposting. All the breath has been sucked out of me as I waddle through the entrance, straight into Mr Jimmy Jobsworth.

“Straight down and into the theatre and join the queue” he said.

“But we’ve got a ticket – it’s a special, non queuing ticket”

Somehow, I just do not think Mr Jobby was in. The lights were on but what with Eric Knowles, Michael Aspel and Henry Sandon being in town, the elixir of celebrity was surging through his jumped up little body. Nothing this exciting had happened to him since The Krankies had headlined – and he’d been appointed Head of Security for Jimmy Krankie’s school cap. He was on auto-pilot, gears set onto a pompous twat setting…..

“Yes, yes, yes….. down the stairs, through the lobby, on into the theatre and ask someone there. He’ll give you a ticket”…
With that, his finger jabbed down to a sea of humanity in the lobby, all holding their little jewels of antique flotsam, jetsam and crapsam.

We struggle down the stairs and fight our way into the lobby. It’s wall to wall people all standing around. Suddenly, rather alarmingly I realise that these people are in a snaking queue. I’m looking at the longest brick-a-brac conga line in history.

Right in the far corner, we see the entrance to the theatre. A spotty youth with the tickets is there just inside the gloomy entrance. He’s giving out little raffle tickets on a big role. He gives us 6003 and 6004. My heart sank…. “Just sit there at the back, when your number is called you can join the end of the standing queue in the lobby….. Unfortunately, the wait is around 4 hours before you get called”…..

The theatre is swathed in a penumbra of gloom – just like it is before an act is about to come on. I can just make out men in macs, sitting with their original Van Gogh’s and women nursing heirlooms passed down from great aunties and careful grannies……

“So this is a queue – a queue for ‘the queue’ proper then?
“Sright, mister”….

“But we’ve got a special ticket” I pleaded.
In the dim antique grimness of the theatre his eyes locked onto the golden ticket. Golden rays of celeb dust bathed his acne-furrowed face as the magic ticket was waved in front of his eyes.

Suddenly, I knew what it must be like to be a somebody. Suddenly we were whisked away by the spotty kid towards the lobby….

We breezed past the conga queue and into the large side room to a reception desk. This room was where ‘the action’ was. He planted us right at the head of the conga queue…. A few weary queuers started to shout about the unfairness of it all. The very posh lady behind the desk held up our golden ticket and roared to the varicose veined huddled masses in a perfect received English tone “Excuse me, these people have a golden ticket!”

They cowed back in shame.

So this is what Margaret Thatcher is doing in her spare time then? Maggie gave us a big ticket each. Mine said ‘POTTERY’, Alfreda’s ‘FURNITURE’….. We joined our respective mini queues of around half a dozen people each.

I looked round, mini-queues everywhere. Cameras, lights and antique type people all milling around. In the middle of the room was where they did the filming. If someone had a nice piece then they would have to do the talk again in front of camera. Some bloke had brought in a really superb collection of Japanese animal bronzes. Oriental expert David Batty was drooling over them. Then there was the woman with the fantastic 16th century wooden chest….. Away from the filming area, little tables with experts sat back, unwrapped parcels and either made someone’s day or left them devastated. Some woman approached the bloke who was an expert on silver. I recognised him immediately, just then an old crone staggered up to him with three bags of newspaper parcels. She carefully unwrapped her bounty to reveal a shed load of nicked hotel coffee and tea sets. He valued the hoard at about 100 hours community service if the police ever caught up with her.

Finally, it’s my turn – and I’m sat down actually looking at the great ceramics experts, Henry Sandon and his son, John. They inspect the Wedgewood.

“Interesting colour” said Henry. “Rather like…..”
John interjects, “Mmmmmm. Have you got the pot?”

“No, it’s a long story, my sister rolled it down the stairs in our house in 1957 – she was only 6 years old”

Henry winced “Oh that is a pity. Only, if you did have the pot it would be worth maybe 1500 – more if you sold it to the Americans….. As it is, I think we are talking about £400”….

John said he’d heard longer stories than my long story.

Crestfallen, I thanked Henry and John and met up with Alfreda outside. She seemed happy, her tiny little music cabinet was worth at least £800. We struggled back to the car with the stuff. I packed away the useless lump of Wedgewood onto the back seat …… come to think of it, the colour wasn’t mustard at all….. but one thing’s for certain, it wasn’t the colour of money either.

If you get a chance, watch the Antiques Roadshow episode from Southport when it is on. You might see a man in the background with a very red face, burst kidneys, a big yellow ticket in his top pocket - and carrying the biggest lump of solid baby diarrhoea in the world.

Steve Strange but true…

Just watching Celebrity Scissorhands last night to see none other than ‘80’s style icon and uber Visager, Steve Strange as one of the competitors.

It was a bit of a shock. ‘80’s cool has given way to noughties shambling, Steve looks completely cooled out. Not only that, he’s just about the worst hairdresser in the world….. He seems to get the shakes when he’s got a pair of scissors in his hands.

I don’t know what he’s been on but he now cuts a sad figure in the Celeb hairdressing salon. He’s still got his eye make up on and his shaped eye brows, but all his face has gone South…… as well as his career it would seem.

A month off… but now I’m back….

October was a bit of a weird month for me. 30 odd days of reflection, resolve and reinvention. Tap, tap tapping has not been a priority, hence the paucity of postings. What caused it? Dunno really, could be my age and a growing sense of my own mortality - or it might be that for the past few years I’ve not so much been stuck in a rut as down a hole. But it was more likely that at the beginning of October Mrs Alfie decided to take a bit of a look at our current financial position – and it’s not good. We owe over 40 grand to banks, finance houses and credit card-sharks…..

So, at 53 years old, is this it? Up to my eyes in debt, doing stuff I hate for a living and living on the hellish A59 uber-bahn, the most dangerous trunk road in the country?

We had to talk. A crisis meeting was hastily convened to discuss ways of getting out of debt and redirecting our lives.

We’ve decided to sell the house and move out of mad commuter belt world and go to live in the middle of nowhere. The more remote the better. I want to live a simpler, more relaxed lifestyle, so I’ve also decided to change career – as long as we can get a broadband connection we’ll be OK.

So for the last month I’ve been playing at Bob the Builder, trying to get the place in some sort of state so we can put it on the market. It’s a five bedroomed house, so we should get a fair whack. The plan is to downsize, pay off the mortgage & the 40 grand and live a simple idyllic life away from New Labour politicians, Tesco superstores and reality TV. We’ve had a look round and found some tumble down cottages with land just right for doing up – and as we’ll have cash in hand, we don’t need Building Society approval for any potential purchase.

We are just 2 of millions in this country who aren’t buying into Blair’s utopian vision of Britain, who feel frustrated and ignored by a control freaked-out government. We can’t go overseas, so we are doing the next best thing – moving to somewhere remote, far, far away from the madness of modern British life. We’re going to pay off the mortgage, grow vegetables, keep poultry, brew home made beer, build my own reed bed filtration unit for our waste and put a big sign at the gate post – ‘Dunlisteningtonulabourlies’……..

That’s the plan. We call it ‘Plan A’ – there is no ‘Plan B’….

The Goodie, the baldy and the babe..

This week sees the start of the Autumn Watch series on BBC1. There is much excitement in our neck of the woods as the show is based at Martin Mere, which is about 2 miles down the road from where I live. With luck, we might get a glimpse of Kate Humble - but we have a superb pie shop in the village -so I guess we're more likely to see Bill Oddie with his chops wrapped around a dribbling meat 'n' tater pie.

I worked at Martin Mere soon after it opened in the '70's. There was a real frontier spirit around then, it was mostly mud, mud - and more mud. The reason it was created in the first place was to protect the wintering marsh land areas of the Pink-footed Goose. This visitor from Greenland & Iceland arrives in West Lancashire - and Martin Mere in particular in great numbers during the winter. It's sobering to think that most of the world's population of these lovely looking birds migrate to the area. Andy, my old friend from the time I worked there has risen through the ranks to become acting Curator of the place, so no doubt he's already met Kate (jammy sod).

Over the past two weeks, I1ve been keeping a close eye on the build up to the show. A little corral has been created in the corner of the car park as every day, more and more 'stuff' arrives - it's wall to wall satellite dishes, motor homes, catering trucks, Landrover hardware and around 15 million makeup artists.

Just how many people does it take to make a wildlife programme?

I hope they never have to change a light bulb.

Calling all pie eaters....

I've found this little site dedicated to the dark art of pork pie eating. I don't think it's based in Wigan...... (but maybe they're ex-pats).

Good news, bad news

The good news? Quiiz uber champ, Pat Gibson failed to turn for last night's quiz. (see previous post).....

The bad news? His replacement was brilliant. We got battered - as battered as a beaten up Blackpool battered Cod......