The Corner Of My Eye

The train is only six carriages long. I sit in one of the seats in a row of three, facing the opposite window. A young man sits next to me, and next to him, his girlfriend.

He is a sniffer. One of those who have a runny nose but no will to blow it. They prefer to sniff up the same pool of liquid snot at thirty second intervals throughout the duration of the forty minute train journey.

So I look at him out of the corner of my eye, with disgust.

And there I see his girlfriend's hand. Not only is he a sniffer, but she is a thigh holder. Her hand rests on the inside of his thigh, about an inch from his meat and two veg.

The hand only leaves its resting place in order to turn the page of her magazine, then goes straight back to base, giving a little rub as it arrives.

Does he enjoy this proximity as he sniffs in his snot? In full view of a carriage full of commuters?

And what is she saying to us? "This belongs to me, ladies and gents"? "So hands off"?

I'm sure she asks him in a whisper at one point if he has a tissue.

I'm not so sure she wants it for his nose.

Lies, Damned Lies, And Sadistics

Isn't it a good feeling when your stats go through the roof?

I'm averaging about 60 a day and feeling really smug.

That is until I check where they're all from.

90% of them are searches for...

Lyrics to Sandi Thorn I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker With Flowers In My Hair When The Head Of State Didn't Play Guitar

Yes, that's Sandi T H O R N.

Not only have you got fucking awful taste in music, you can't even hear what the DJ is saying.

It's T H O M

As in Y O R K E.

You know, the one with the dodgy eye out of Radiohead? The one who sounds like he's in pain?

Just go away and leave me to my coterie of like-minded bloggers.

Yes, that's B L O G G E R S.

I Dream Of Psycho

As I reach the foot of the hill, I am confronted by a group of teenage boys. They surround me and one of them snatches my scarf. They each take it in turns to wear my scarf, taking the piss out of me as they do. We all walk towards my mother's house, me in the centre of the gang.

The boys' leader asks me to give him my hat. I say that he can have it if they all leave me alone. He promises they will.

I give him my hat and he puts it on his head, dancing around shouting, "Look at my hat! Look at my hat!" The other boys then take it in turns to do the same. They don't leave me, they carry on walking with me trapped in the middle.

We are in my mother's street. I can see her house in the distance, just past the woods. And I think about the man who lives three doors down from my mother. He is a retired police officer, nicknamed 'Psycho'. I think if I could lead them to Psycho's house, then he could save me from these bullies.

We reach the end of the woods. Suddenly, out of the woods steps my stepdad together with Psycho. I am safe! Psycho asks the boys what they are doing harrassing a poor defenceless middle-aged man like this...

The boys run away.

All except for one, the largest, slowest, most innocent looking boy. I grab hold of him. I am bent on revenge. I ask Psycho to hold him still. He holds him in a head lock and I kick the boy with all my might.



I am half awake but I know I'm in pain. It's my toes. I have kicked the radiator, hard.

Betty is now half awake, too.

"Are you alright, dad?" she asks in her half dream state.

"Eh?"

We are now both fully awake.

"Are you alright?" she asks me.

"I kicked the radiator," I say. "I'll be alright."

"I thought you'd fallen out of bed," she says. "Sorry I called you 'dad'."


For a moment there I thought we were turning into our grandparents.

Happy Days

Ooh! Geoffrey's holiday snaps! How exciting!



He looks like Robbie. But does he sound like him?



Ibiza Town. Just like I pictured it.




Dalt Vila 1 Our Poor Old Legs 0




Very Edward Hopper. Quick, get Athena on the blower.




Wolves not allowed in Ibiza. Not even on a lead.




But deer allowed in New Forest. Come on, chaps. Don't be shy. You can have some of my Oriental Ginger Ice Cream.




All chavs are bastards in Bournemouth. Yeah? So I suppose all students aren't wankers?


*******


And as a special treat...

Distraught by the axing of Top of the Pops, I have decided to follow in the footsteps of Performance Poet/Comedian Phill Jupitus, Performance Poet/Comedian Mark Lamaar, and Performance Poet/Comedian/Actor/Crackhead Craig Charles.

I have performed the poems
I have told the jokes

Now it's time for me to be a BBC deejay like the aforementioned jokers.

Only, my musical tastes are too MOR for the BBC.

So welcome to the world of Geoff's Number Ones. The songs that are number one in my chart each week. You'll be able to listen to them for as long as they're my number one. This may be for longer than a week. Or it may be for just a week. Yes, it's that crazy.

And this week, pop pickers, straight in at number one we have Baby I'm Yours by Barbara Lewis. This Van McCoy song was made a hit by Peter and Gordon. I haven't heard that version and the only Peter and Gordon I knew were my dad and his friend. And they were more into Ted Heath than whatever was in the sixties charts.

Barbara's lovely performance can be found on Soul Diva Sessions: Classic 60's & 70's Ladies Soul With Attitude, an album we played and thoroughly enjoyed in the car on the way down to the New Forest. The soundtrack for the rest of the break was Ibiza - The History Of Trance which we listened to in England as we didn't get the chance in Ibiza to see the sun go down and then come up again with thousands of beautiful people half our age to a soundtrack of chilled-out beats.

No, instead we got a mid-evening glimpse of Nigel Fear and his one-man Shadows impersonation in the hotel bar.

Apache!

Fishy Fingers

Q: What smells of rotten cheese, shit, puke, and gets in your hair, on your glasses, on your lips, on your teeshirt and up your arms?

A: A tin of Sainsbury's exploding tuna.

I explain to Customer Services. She has a stony face.

"Do you want your money back, then?"

"Erm, yes please."

"Oh. It's saying item not found. Barbara, do we know anything about these packs of tuna?"

"They've been recalled. It's about the third page in."

"Oh, yeah. Poor quality."

Poor quality? I still stink of shit and vomit even after my bath and they say it's poor quality?

"Give him his 99p."

She gives me a pound coin. She doesn't ask for the fucking change.

We're a Couple of Swells

A few words just to say we're off again tomorrow for a couple of days breathing in the New Forest air.

In the meantime, here's a picture of me with historian and Ibizan author, Isidor Macabich. We're both known for our sardonic senses of humour and tendency to rust if pissed on.

There'll be more pictures of our holiday when we get back at the weekend.

Oh goody.

Here Comes The Summer

So we're winding down for the holidays and this'll probably be the last post for a couple of weeks. For on Monday, we're off to banging party island Ibiza for a week.

I'm looking forward to seeing all my old dj friends (DJ Horny, DJ Clammy, DJ Spanner and Judge Jules) as we have it large in the wee small hours on a beach that's been reclaimed from the sea especially for us.

I'll be djing at Manumission next Wednesday. Of course Wednesday is Indie Retro Nite at Manumission, the one night of the week when there isn't live sex on stage involving a bald old git and a young glamour model. Lots of fun for the party-goers, however, as I will be playing an uplifting set including Love Cats, The Passenger, and Jump Around to a crazy mixed-up middle-aged ex-student audience. If you're coming, don't forget Strongbow is only €6 a pint so drink sensibly!

There's a special treat too, as next Wednesday is a Britpop Special. We have a special 4 song set by a reformed Gay Dad and Louise Wener will be autographing copies of her latest novel in the foyer.

In the meantime, why not tell me this...

If you were to be a popular musician, living or dead, who would you choose? Me, I'd like to be a younger version of Robert Wyatt, composing and recording at home with a keyboard and a lot of electronic effects. I couldn't be doing with all those jazz musicians, though.

Keep it pop!

Doesn't He Look Young?

Although I spent most of the 80s being mistaken for this poxy joker, more recently I have been compared to celebrated counter tenor, Andreas Scholl (above). For those of you poncey music fans who live in the London area, I'm not lying when I say that Andreas is to give a recital at the Queen Elizabeth Hall on 11th June. I'm not going as I'd only be mobbed by autograph hunters.

Actually, I look bugger all like the bloke, although we do both wear glasses.

At my place of work, however, I am known as a celebrated tenner counter, as I am the man who deals with the petty cash.

I am celebrated because I count the cash with such consummate style. I always make sure the Queen's head is up the correct way and facing the ceiling, and I do not lick my fingers.

I am available for performances any evening or weekend.

You supply the notes.

I bring my own box.

Bragging Rights

Smiling sweetly, she thrusts a leaflet in my hand.

It's a leaflet advertising a gentlemen's hairdressers I used to go to.

Friendly & Professional Hairdressers
Have a Haircut from our mainly Lady Barbers
Specialists in Long and Short Styles


My hair's short but I don't think I've ever had a "style", unless you count the time I went to Demop, the same week I bought a pair of trousers from Demob. What a cool dude I was that week!

Now my trousers are from M&S and my hair is cut by Betty with some Phillips clippers. It's neat, tidy and presentable, and it's done by my favourite woman with loving care. Not by a stranger, no matter how scissor-gentle or alluring she may be.

So I don't need to go back to my mainly Lady Barbers. A good job because I might get the urge to ask just how many of them are Ladies.


*******


I would be extremely happy if I never saw or heard Billy Bragg ever again. He's there on the Bob Dylan documentary, he's there on Question Time, he's there on the early evening local tv news, he's there on Cup Final Day for Christ's sake.

And the other night, while I was on the blog, he was featured on BBC Radio 6's Tom Robinson Show. And why is he everywhere? Because he once bought John Peel a mushroom biryani. The BBC = The Boring Boys' Club.

It's like the 90s never happened. Tom 'Motorway' Robinson telling us what a treat we've got later on. What's the treat, Tom? Billy Bragg live from 1995! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

We hear an excerpt from Sexuality, or "A nice big mugga tea," sung by an Essex builder as it translates to my sensitive ears. A nice big mugga tea wiv the miwk of 'uman kindness, Billy me old china.

Has there ever been a more depressing voice in music than Billy Bragg's? Couple that with his jarring solo electric guitar and all you need to add is a bit of Ben Elton stand-up to the bill and you're in 80s hell. No wonder the Tories lasted so long!

I'd even take a supergroup containing Sting, Annie Lennox and Phil Collins over the Bard from Barking.

Bard?

Should have been barred years ago.