Sunday, December 31, 2006

A Message From Jools Holland

Good evening all.

I hope you'll all be staying in tonight to watch my




Tonight my guests are Paul Weller, Sam of Sam & Dave, Amy Winehouse, Marc Almond, Ray Lamontagne, Madeleine Peyroux, The Kooks, The Zutons, and Lily Allen. What a show it promises to be!

To earn my tiny slice of the British public's money, I will also be playing the piano in my own particular way.

I do hope you'll see in the new year with me and not fall asleep as you did the previous 14 years.


Jools Holland

p.s. As a special treat, my good friend Rowland Rivron will be there to make sure the party goes with a swing. Please do not shout "cock" or "wanker" at the screen.

Eric Prydz Vs Floyd - Proper Education

This video makes my blood boil.

How can they take an absolute classic song/video and completely turn it on its head?

Roger Walters suffered at the hands of dark sarcastic teachers with their thought controlling ways.

Now kids have the upper hand in the classroom, it's all gone too far the other way and teachers cannot use capital punishment as they used to.

Mr Prydz is making a mockery of this song by showing inner city urchins running amock, probably skiving off school where they only abuse the teachers anyway, when they should be sitting quietly doing their homework.

How could Roger Walters allow this to happen? This coming after letting those ridiculous Scissor Sisters loose on his absolute masterwork, Comfortably Numb.

What a kick in the teeth to the people of Berlin!

Friday, December 29, 2006

The Sweets That Last

She must be ninety soon. We could ask her but she knows so little English and she has so little opportunity for conversation.

She's just had one cataract operated on. They're due to do the other one in a couple of months.

The routine is, we ring her door number, she answers the intercom and is supposed to let us in. But she still doesn't know she has to push the button, after ten years living there. We are let in by the staff.

She greets us at the door and we are welcomed by a small plate of fruit each, a small orange and some grapes.

Today, accompanying the fruit, are about ten Werther's Originals.

We could ask her where they're from but she knows so little English.

In the kitchen are two large family-sized packs of Werther's Originals. I deduce they are Christmas gifts from the Care Home's petty cash. I may be wrong, maybe she's developed a taste for Werther's Originals recently. Maybe her neighbours have introduced themselves by offering her a sweet or two.

They last, do Werther's Originals. Twenty of them could keep you going all day. You wouldn't need more than one meal a day for minimum sustenance. Just suck on these little buttery toffees all day and you wouldn't feel the need to communicate with anyone. Your days would just fly.

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Ghost in the Machine

"You're becoming addicted, aren't you?"

"No. But I can see how people get into it. It's Noel. It would be nothing without him."

Noel Edmonds. you either hate him or love him. I know this because I can see the love in the contestants' eyes. That attractive, presumably intelligent young psychology graduate would let him clamber all over her, she loves him so much.

The fat man thinks Noel's a mate. Noel calls the contestants by their nicknames. He shortens their names to be chummy. "Nichola" becomes "Nick". Nichola loves it even though she only gets called "Nick" by her best friends. Noel's one of her best friends and in addition, is an incredibly attractive man with that glint in his eye.

The "banker" phones Noel to offer the contestant a deal. Noel's on the contestant's side. He's on all our sides. He calls the banker "Scrooge". It is Christmas, after all.

People in the audience shout things out. The sort of cheeky things that a child might shout out if allowed in the studio. Although this is a show for adults, they all seem very childlike. And for their childlike comments, Noel rewards them with a little Christmas box with some money in. He's still got that glint in his eye.

This is an adult show. The excitement of losing or winning large sums of money is blatantly sexual. A television company without vision would have chosen an obviously modern sex symbol such as Vernon Kaye to present this show. But the company knew about the millions of people who had their loins enflamed for the first time watching Swap Shop or Noel's House Party. Whole families used to come together at Christmas as Noel made the day of a terminally ill child. And would there be a thriving swinging or dogging scene today without the groundwork done by Noel's Swap Shop?

I've a feeling this is the ghost of Christmas future.

Friday, December 22, 2006

Fishy Tale Of New York

It was Christmas Eve babe
By the fish tank
An old man said to me, "look there's another one"
And then he sang a song
(He'd had some Special Brew)
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

I picked a plucky one
A tiny, darting one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So Happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

They've got koi big as cod
They've got julies of gold
But they're all young and pretty
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Guppies were waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York city
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Bublé was swinging,
All the fish they were swimming
We kissed by the tetras
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas Day

You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you faggot
Those cheap lousy maggots!
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas Day

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my fish from me
When I first met you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around them

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas Day

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

A Verse For Christmas

When I was a young blogger I was very naive and thought people would be interested in my silly little poems about pop stars. Poems such as this one about Chris Evans' fantasy shag and lead singer of one of the worst bands of all time, Texas...

Oh Sharleen Spiteri...
Do you eat dairy?
Your complexion is four out of four.

Your smooth creamy skin
Is packing 'em in,
But your middle aged pop is a bore.

This was before I realised you had to network in order to be a big blogging star. The muse, however, hasn't left me. And yesterday I was inspired by hearing a song on my least favourite radio station, Heart 106.2.

I hope you enjoy it, though experience says you won't...

When Crosby sings White Christmas
He sings it with such class
When Michael Bublé does the same
I just think "silly arse"

Bing can almost fill me up
With happy Christmas cheer
Bublé brings me to despise
This rotten time of year

I have no need of presents
I'll be content with nothing
But Bublé's gob filled to the brim
With sage and onion stuffing

Monday, December 18, 2006

The Christmas Number One

I've never seen X Factor but my eyewitness for the final tells me it was fixed.

The song they chose to be the single was not a man's song. It was a woman's song, a Mariah Carey/Whitney Houston type warbler.

Ray, the 18 year old Robbie Williams wannabe, couldn't really do it justice. You felt a bit sorry for him, trying to hit the high notes, his bollocks not allowing him to.

Ray was good, very good, but he's got bollocks and was therefore at a disadvantage.

Maybe they should have chopped them off, shaved them, and fed them to the judges, brought a bit of I'm A Celebrity type entertainment to the proceedings.

Ratings (and Ray's voice) would have soared.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Radio Times

I'm too honest for my own good.

On Tuesday I had an email from a BBC Radio 4 researcher. He said how much he enjoyed my dream blog. He asked me if they were authentic dreams.

I couldn't tell a lie. I got back to him admitting they were made up. I didn't hear from him again.

If any of you listen to Radio 4, I would be most grateful if you would let me know of any programmes in the future about people who actually have dreams that are funnier than the comedy cack** they usually churn out.

Also I would be grateful if you'd tell me if they replace Thought For The Day with Geoff's Dreams.

** admittedly I only hear previews of such cack just before the morning news at 6.30 a.m.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Xmas Book Preview

We get a few books at Christmas. We get to choose the ones we want. I look in the ‘Religious’ section.

I see AN Wilson’s biography of Jesus Christ.

“Jesus!” I say.

“Are you alright?” asks a concerned colleague.

I surreptitiously take Jesus and the Andy Summers autobiography. I want to compare and contrast.

One thought he was God’s gift to the world. The other was in a band with a man who thinks he’s God’s gift.

Jesus/Sting. Crucifixion/Tantric sex. Both bolt upright for hours.

Who suffered more? Jesus on the cross or Sting on the job?

It’s Christmas so I’m reading Jesus first.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006


45 today. A quiet day, busy at work, no time to reflect or look forward.

I'll read some blogs at dinnertime. And tonight I'll watch telly and drink wine with my favourite human being of all time.

Christ, isn't my diary boring and twee?

Monday, December 11, 2006

On A Happier Note

A big hand, in fact several big hands, for Royal horse Neddy, who has been named Horse Personality Of The Year by viewers of BBC's One Gel And Her Horse, the primetime Saturday afternoon Royal Horse show on digital channel BBC Royalty.

Neddy, who is owned by the niece of the Prince Of Wales and named after his favourite wireless comedy character, received 100% of the 13 votes submitted by viewers pressing the red button.

Well done Neddy!

Saturday, December 09, 2006

Quotes of the Year 2006

Overheard on the train: a young lady speaking to a friend on her mobile phone about why she is changing gyms...

"I go there to work out, to de-stress, not to get stressed out by some fucking weirdo looking at me."

Friday, December 08, 2006

Classified Results

Beatles 10, Stones 7

Lentil Soup 10, Leek & Potato Soup 2

Christmas 0, Birthday 4

Roeder 1, Pardew 2

Bergman 10, Almodovar 6

Antiperspirant 0, Trust Deodorant 8

Curb Your Enthusiasm 10, Lead Balloon 0

Paolo Nutini 0, Amy Winehouse 0

Ghent 8, Bruges 8

Ashes 0, Champions' League 0

Harvester 3, Victorian Restaurant 1

One score draw, two no-score draws.
Possible jackpot.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Post Post

Since Royal Mail's reorganisation earlier in the year, we never know when our post is going to be delivered. Depending upon the levels of staff sickness and/or holiday leave, it could be any time between 8.15 a.m. and 1.00 p.m.

I spot a postal van outside my office window at 11.45 a.m. I go out to investigate.

A postal worker is waiting by the side of the road. I ask her if they have our post. She says yes, probably, but she doesn't know where the van driver is so she can't deliver it yet.

I relay this to a work colleague.

She says there was a Royal Mail delivery driver in her home town, a very intelligent good looking man, who one day stopped his van in the middle of the road and walked away. He never came back.

He can still be seen walking the streets, beard down to his navel, muttering to himself.

Twenty minutes later, our post is delivered.

Monday, December 04, 2006

The Victorian Restaurant

A gentleman relaxes after a bloody good blow-out at The Victorian Restaurant...

Actually this couldn't be further from the truth.

The Victorian Restaurant perches on top of the Prince Albert Pub in Bexleyheath. It is not a Victorian restaurant at all. One look at the website and you can see it is a French restaurant…

· Experience the delights of our extensive french cuisine menu.
· Enjoy first class service in a sumptus (sic) setting.
· Sample fine wines from our large selection to a background of classical music.

As you climb the stairs from the sumptus (sic) antique brass and copper decorated Prince Albert bar, pint in hand, you’d better hold your breath to prepare yourself for something special. It’s been recommended by my stepfather’s son and my sister’s partner’s friend so you can imagine my anticipation is high. It’s two o’clock and it’s time for lunch.

We’re doing this for my mother’s birthday. We usually go to the Harvester – all the salad you can eat for free so you don’t have to order that much for the rest of your meal.

But today it’s a proper 3-course meal in a posh-for-Bexleyheath setting. The waiters and waitresses are very attentive and the menu is reassuringly expensive.

I don’t know whether it’s in my genes (my dad was a tightwad who would never eat out, never in fact have so much as a cup of tea in a café) but I have a limit on how much I spend on a meal. £15 each for food, which I think is plenty. So when I go somewhere expensive I end up going for the cheapest thing on the menu.

I know we’re not talking “expensive” expensive here, not talking Sunday supplement restaurant review sort of figures. We’re talking £6.50 for a starter, £15.95 for a main course, £3.25 for vegetables, £4.50 for dessert.

No, I will not pay thirty quid a head. I will have the set menu, thank you very much. However much it upsets my delicate constitution.

I say quietly to my mum, “On the website, they say this is a French restaurant. Although you wouldn’t have guessed it from the name.”

My mother is used to speaking to the hard of hearing.


Oh dear. The waiter looks upset.

“Madam,” he says, “This menu is 95% genuinely French. It is written in such a form so that English customers can understand it. We have a French chef. We are French. I personally have worked with Michel Roux. I have served many celebrities.”

Oh dear. This cuts no ice with me and certainly not with my mother.

“Is liver and bacon French?” she asks.

“Madam, we tried to take liver and bacon off the menu but there was such a demand for it that we had to put it on again. It is not French but it is not our choice. Some of our customers prefer British food. Can I take your order?”

“Can I have the roast beef set lunch, please.”

Refusing to order off the a la carte menu as for £30 a head I’d expect not only a good meal but enough wine to get pissed out of my head too, I order the roast lamb set lunch. After a pleasant lentil soup, thirty pieces of lamb arrive, swimming in an ocean of black gravy, accompanied by a lone unnecessary Yorkshire pudding.

“Sauce, sir?”

“Mint, please…Thank you.”

“Have some more, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The vegetables are roast potatoes, bitter yellow slices of courgette, crisp mange tout, and a creamy sickly cauliflower cheese. Basically, the sort of yucky Sunday lunch you get anywhere, but at £14.95 for three courses you can’t go wrong, can you?

The three less money-tight members of our party eat a la carte. They seem to enjoy it but it’s still far too much food for normal appetites. Fat bastards would love it here.

For dessert, I choose the lightest dish, a mango sorbet. It is refreshing but possibly does not complement the remainder of my Spitfire ale. Yes, I’m drinking beer as the wine is eighteen quid a bottle and I’m not spending that on a bottle of wine.

So almost completely sober and stuffed to the gills with too much food, I waddle home to watch the second half of the Everton v West Ham match.

It’s rubbish, we lose, and I'm certain the piece of lamb stuck between my teeth is going to cause an infection.

Bring on Christmas!