25 First Lines

UPDATE.........

Thank you, everybody for an overwhelming response. The phone lines are now closed and the winner is....

CHRIS MOYLES.

I know you all think he's an irritating know-nothing tosser but he really does know his stuff. He got the last two right and knew every other one, too. His knowledge of popular music is second to none (well, maybe Fearne Cotton runs him close). He is an expert on Black American Music 1957 - 2003. In fact that's the title of his doctorate, although I know he's been too shy to make this known publicly. But after the press leak revealing his £600,000 salary I'm sure you'd all like to know a bit about the real Chris and judge him for his knowledge, not for his wanky persona.

Everybody's doin' it, doin' it, doin' it.
Everybody's doin' 25 first lines.
(e.g. Billy and Patroclus)

But of course I haven't got the readership to do it.

But bollocks, I'm going to do it anyway. Come on, I must have at least 8 readers, three songs each?

I've listed the first lines (or more or less) of 25 songs. All you've got to do is tell us the names of the songs and the performers without googling for them. Come on, it's only a game. You're not all cynical bastards, are you?

Some of them are easy, some of them are hard. Some of them I hate but most of them I like. I haven't got that many songs on my mp3 player so I can't do a random play and make this the real thing, but these are some songs that are in my mind at the moment.

The person who guesses most right gets to wear a smug smile like the one currently on my face. I'll get back to everybody when I can, work and shopping permitting. I will also write a little bit about why I like or hate each song. So you see, this post could run and run. But probably won't.

So without further ado, here goes...

1. In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream...BORN TO RUN BY BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN. Identified by Kapitano.
This always, always makes the hairs on my neck stand to attention. And it's not even from Bruce's best album which of course is Darkness on the Edge of Town.

2. Start spreading the news...NEW YORK NEW YORK BY FRANK SINATRA. Identified by Patroclus.
Yes, I hate this song for one reason. Wedding receptions. Say no more.

3. You're everywhere and nowhere, baby...HI-HO SILVER LINING BY JEFF BECK. Identified by Occasional Poster of Comments.
I should hate this song for one reason. Wedding receptions. But I don't. I love it.

4. Step right up, hurry hurry...Before the show begins...My friends...Stand in line, get your tickets, I hope you will attend...It'll only cost you fifty cents to see...What life has done to those like you and me...See the man with the broken heart, you'll see that he is sad, he hurts so bad (So bad, so bad)...See the girl who has lost the only love she ever had...There's got to be no sadder show to see...No doubt about it, satisfaction's guaranteed...SIDESHOW BY BARRY BIGGS. Identified by Chris Moyles (see comments).

5. When the night has come...STAND BY ME BY BEN E KING. Identified by Patroclus.
I know this is a classic 'n' all but I have an irrational dislike of it. I can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's because I'd rather have a nice sit down.

6. Goodbye England's Rose...CANDLE IN THE WIND (SONG FOR DIANA, PRINCESS OF WALES) BY SIR ELTON JOHN. Presumably identified by everybody but I'm sure nobody would want their name against it.
We want a song for Diana's funeral, Elton. Can you write one?
I'll ask Bernie....Bernie? Can you write some words for Diana?
Diana who?
Our friend Diana. Princess of Hearts.
The football team?
Now you're taking the piss.
OK. But it's going to take some time.
We've got 24 hours till the funeral.
I'll come up with something.
You'd better.
I've never let you down yet, Reg.

7. I can't seem to face up to the facts...PSYCHO KILLER BY TALKING HEADS. Identified by Billy.
I love the first four albums by Talking Heads so much. 77 was the first alternative type album I ever bought and look at me now. The indie King! Remember the South Bank Show feature on the Heads? No sign of head shitting there, was there?

8. I was lost, lost on the by-pass road...HOMETOWN UNICORN BY SUPER FURRY ANIMALS. Identifed by Billy.
From the first album by the best band to come out of the Britpop era by a country mile. Melodies and singing that Damon Albarn could only dream of.

9. Beat-up little seagull, on a marble stair...BALTIMORE BY RANDY NEWMAN. Identified by Hannah.
My number one favourite lyricist. There is a superb reggae version of this by The Tamlins (as introduced to me by Betty).

10. Girl I can understand how it might be kind of hard to love a guy like me...I don't blame you much for wanting to be free...I just wanted you to know I've loved you better that your own kin did...From the very start it's my own fault...What happens to my heart...You see I've always known you'd go...DO WHAT YOU GOTTA DO BY THE FOUR TOPS. Identified by Chris Moyles (see comments).

11. Well I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amused...THE ANGELS WANNA WEAR MY RED SHOES BY ELVIS COSTELLO. Indentified by Patroclus.
I loved Elvis throughout my twenties and early thirties. Now his voice mostly annoys me but I do still like about 15 of his songs, this one included.

12. In a little while from now, if I'm not feeling any less sour...ALONE AGAIN, NATURALLY BY GILBERT O'SULLIVAN. Identified by Kaz.
Morrissey likes Gilbert and so he bloody should. So should everyone. This is a very sad song and it makes me cry.

13. Shame on the man who pursued her, the villain who viciously wooed her...THE TATTOOED LADY BY PETER SKELLERN. Identified by Molly Bloom.
There's nothing I'd like more than to be able to walk out in the evening to nice country pub, have a few drinks and be entertained on the piano by Peter Skellern. It's not going to happen, though - it would more likely be Richard Stilgoe.

14. Well I was looking at a movie on the tv last night...Then I had a very funny notion, yeah! I really had to write a song about it...KING KONG SONG BY ABBA. Identified by DH.
I love the ABBA women but you've gotta give Bjorn his due as a singer, too. And as we say in this house, he does have a hot little ass in those trousers.

15. A seasoned witch could call you from the depths of your disgrace, and rearrange your liver to the solid mental grace...CLOSE TO THE EDGE - THE SOLID TIME OF CHANGE BY YES. Identified by Heather.
I told myself I must hate Yes for 23 years after loving them in my teens. I've just bought 5 albums by them. Oh dear.

16. Well I went to a party at the local county jail...RUBBER BULLETS BY 10CC. Identified by Kaz.
They showed 10cc live from 1973 on BBC4 last week. The audience were dead. But the band were HOT! Whatcha gonna do about it? Whatcha gonna do?

17. Uh, what's happening CC? They still call it the White House but that's a temporary condition, too...Can you dig it, CC?...CHOCOLATE CITY BY PARLIAMENT. Identified by D. Prince.
"And don't be surprised if Ali is in the White House...Reverend Ike, Secretary of the Treasure...Richard Pryor, Minister of Education...Stevie Wonder, Secretary of FINE arts...And Miss Aretha Franklin, the First Lady"........."God bless Chocolate City and its vanilla suburbs." I should really have been going to see George Clinton in the late seventies instead of Rick Wakeman and Rush.

18. When I wake up, in the morning light...JEANS ON BY DAVID DUNDAS. Identified by Kapitano.
David Dundas is a real Lord. And this song was used to advertise the great BRUTUS jeans which I loved. I love the song, too.

19. I'm the shy boy, you're the coy boy...HOMOSAPIEN BY PETE SHELLEY. Identified by Kapitano.
Pete did do some good work outside the Buzzcocks. And this was it. Great jumping around music to a rythmic acoustic guitar. The 12 inch single rocks.

20. I was born in Stratford, in nineteen thirty-four...

21. T! R! E! X!...THE GROOVER BY T. REX. Identified by Tim Footman.
No, it's not a margarine. It's the name of the band. The best of glam. There was once a fight at our junior school between two boys, because one liked Marc Bolan and the other liked Gary Glitter. I think if the kids could've joined in then, the Marc Bolan boy would've got his head kicked in. I don't think there'd be the same result with the same protagonists now.

22. Forgot my six-string razor...ALL THE WAY TO MEMPHIS BY MOTT THE HOOPLE. Identified by Heather.
You've gotta love Mott The Hoople and you've gotta read Ian Hunter's Diary of a Rock 'n' Roll Star if you want to know how things really are on the road.

23. Tell her try your best just to make it quick, whom attend to the sick...NIGHT NURSE BY GREGORY ISAACS. Identified by Molly Bloom.
NOT a song about the famous cold and flu remedy, although Gregory does need something for that throat of his. I've loved this song for a very long time.

24. When you first left me I was wanting more...but you were fucking that girl next door...What'd you do that for?...SMILE BY LILY ALLEN. Identified by Nibus.
Yes, the current number one single really starts like that. And our children are buying it! If she thinks she's Althea and Donna mixed into one, she is seriously deluded.

25. I was working part time in a five-and-dime...My boss was Mr. McGee...RASPBERRY BERET BY PRINCE. Identified by Patroclus.
See Elvis Costello - used to love him, now like about 15 songs. This is one of his best.

What a Tuna Smith

A heartwarming tale for a change.

Remember the exploding tuna incident? Well, I wrote to Sainsbury's to explain exactly what had happened. I'd been advised not to complain but just to state facts and this seemed to work as I received an apology and a voucher for £20 to spend in any Sainsbury's store.

Naturally I was very happy about this and I spent the extra money on some CDs in HMV, as I usually spend more than £20 in Sainsbury's on a Saturday anyway.

The company were really apologetic and described exactly what had happened to the tins of tuna...

"The tins of tuna in spring water were recalled because there was a sealing fault during the manufacturing process. This meant that bacteria could enter the product and cause a build up of gas, which meant that the tins were exploding."

Well, it sounds like I had a lucky escape.

And to demonstrate how happy I am that I survived this ordeal, I've written a little song that Sainsbury's may or may not wish to use as part of their next advertising campaign. I'm not so vain as to wish to appear in the video, complete with exploding tins of tuna, but I would suggest they use the St Winifred's Male Voice Choir to sing the song. I can hear it in my head and I'm sure you will if you can remember the tune...


SAINSBURY'S, WE LOVE YOU

Sainsbury's, we love you
Sainsbury's, we do
Though you may be far away
We think of you

My tuna in spring water
Exploded over me
I smelled like shit and had to have
A bath at three thirty
The walls and sink were covered
With bacterial stink
It made me sick to contemplate
Even one meal or drink

Sainsbury's, we love you
Sainsbury's, we do
Though you may be far away
We think of you

I wrote to Sainsbury's pronto
They gave me 20 pounds
I spent the extra spondoolicks
On hip and trendy sounds

Sainsbury's, we love you
Sainsbury's, we do
Sainsbury's, we love you
Sainsbury's, we do

There's no one quite like Sainsbury's
A love we always share
At party time and Christmas too
We know it will be there
There's no one quite like Sainsbury's
It always has a queue
It never hurries us along
And gives us cash back too

Sainsbury's, we love you
Sainsbury's, we do
Though you may be far away
We think of you

And one day when we're older
We'll look back and say
There's no one quite like Sainsbury's
It made our fucking day

Sainsbury's, we love you
Sainsbury's, we do
Sainsbury's, we love you
And we know you love us too

My World Cup Overfloweth

I don't know about you (well actually I do know about a couple of you) but I don't know who to support in tonight's final. I loved the way France beat the massively overrated Brazilians and I could watch Zinedine Zidane all day. By the end of the day I'd probably even believe that this is how a beautiful man should look.

And Italy versus Germany was the best match I have seen in a very long time. The Germans have really played above themselves in this tournament, really had a go. And that's all down to Jurgen Klinsmann's intelligence and enthusiasm. Yes, that's both - you can't get by on just the latter, Mr Keegan.

But Italy were something else. The perfect team performance.

So I'm going to sit down, relax, and cheer the team that plays the best on the day. Not really an ideal way to watch a football match, as I'm not going into it with the prejudices which you need to get yourself on the edge of your seat. So come on, Fritaly!

Of more concern to me is which channel to watch it on. The BBC coverage has been really getting on my tits, what with "dream team" Motty and Lawro talking shit throughout the matches then Lineker and Shearer moaning how the tournament has been negative since the Group stages. Of course this is only sour grapes because the BBC got the crap matches (i.e. the ones involving Portugal).

But Martin O'Neill does make the BBC worth watching. The man who should be England Manager (mentor Brian Clough) tells it like it is. Previewing the France Portugal game, after Hansen and Shearer had stuck their pennyworth in, O'Neill says truthfully that he has nothing to say as Hansen has spoken about Portugal and Shearer about France. There are only two teams playing and there are three pundits. And at half time in last night's third place match, he called it the "most meaningless game in football history." Squeaky bum time for Lineker.

By the end of the match, he was quoting William Goldman...

O'NEILL: Has anybody seen a film called Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?

SHEARER: I'm only 35.

O'NEILL: The writer William Goldman wrote a book in which the most famous line is "No one knows anything."

There then ensues a bit of an altercation with Shearer who can't believe that no one knows anything. The dialogue ends thus...

O'NEILL: Well, maybe you should go out and watch a few films instead of going home and...

Mourning Has Broken

Sad news that after 76 years, the popular BBC situation comedy The Vicar of Dibley is to end. The situation comedy, written by 4 C*nts and a Funeral's Richard Curtis and starring the face of Chocolate Orange, Dawn French, has been a good, trusted friend to many of us, old and old.

Samaritans groups are at the ready to man phonelines as expected suicide attempts by vicars throughout the nation is expected to reach epic proportions.

"I'm long enough in the tooth to remember the end of Yes! Prime Minister," says Good Samaritan Rodney Pewes. "Conservative MPs were dropping like flies, sucking up oranges laced with strichnene like there was no tomorrow. Yes!! Prime Minister was their programme and I'm really dreading the possible effect the ending of The Vicar of Dibley could have on the vicar community."



"The Vicar of Dibley has been a real friend to vicars over the past 76 years," says Arthur Font, the Vicar of Dobley. "Dawn French has given me so much pleasure. Often I've been taking a wedding, closed my eyes for the hymn, and seen her frankly fucking gorgeous face up there in lights like a fucking beacon, shining God's light down on the poor bastards taking their worthless vows. I'm totally shocked that her life is near its end."



"I'm doubly shocked," says Jonathan Eyles, the Vicar of Dubley.

Kids Say The Funniest Things

As we all know, kids say the funniest things.

They say things in all innocence that make us adults crease up.

No matter how good a joke or an aside or a pun thought up by us adults, a child's funny, spontaneous question or reply beats it into a cocked hat. There really is nothing funnier than a four year old coming up with a one-liner to make us adults stop in our tracks, drop all our cares and woes, lean forward from the waist, and give an enormous guffaw, helplessly under the power of the little one's pure comedic genius.

And this morning on the station platform, I overheard the following conversation which quite literally made me piss myself with laughter, causing me to run home to change my underpants and trousers.

I warn you before you read it, you too may piss yourself. So it's probably best to read this on an empty bladder as this is proof that KIDS REALLY DO SAY THE FUNNIEST THINGS...




BOY: Mum?... Mum? ... Mum? ...Does our train go underwater?

MUM: Eurostar!

Canada

My mum and stepdad are in Canada, visiting old friends. They're staying in Calgary, as they've got tickets for the Stampede (see picture above). They're going to dress up in Cowboy gear for the Stampede (see picture above). But for the rest of their stay, they're going casual. They've been advised to wear "sneakers" which I believe us Brits know as trainers. My mum hasn't got any trainers, old skool or new. But she can dress casual. Smart casual.

They're spending ten days in Calgary, then they're to take the tourist train to Vancouver. It's bloody expensive but supposed to be the trip of a lifetime. There is an upstairs and a downstairs on the train. The upstairs costs twice as much as the downstairs. The upstairs is covered by glass so you see everything. You get special meals and presumably special treatment. My mum and stepdad are downstairs but they get to look out of the window and say "ooh look, there's a bear!" and they are included in the party which stops to take in a show, presumably the local mounties' performance of Seven Brides For Seven Brothers.

The family they're staying with are the family of my dead dad's dead friend from way back. Strange how things work out.

The initial friendship was between two boys, my dad and his friend. My dad's friend had the get up and go, the gift of the gab, and made something of his life. He took his family to live in Windsor. We visited them. I had a smooth ride in their Jaguar, sliding on the leather seats, feeling extremely car sick as I wasn't used to a smooth ride. They were out of our league. My dad's friend smoked fat cigars, did scarily loud impressions of Donald Duck, had a finger missing, an attractive wife and two attractive daughters. One of the daughters looked like Kiki Dee and I inevitably had a bit of a crush.

My dad's friend's gift of the gab and get up and go took him to Holland to work and eventually to Canada to live for good.

The invitation was there to visit but my dad still didn't have the gift of the gab or the get up and go to earn enough money for the trip. For any trip. He never went abroad in his life, and as far as I know he wasn't in touch with his old friend at the time of his death.

I think they'll be sharing a few memories in Canada.

No More Heroes

I did try to like The Clash. I had a few of their albums on tape and I played them over and over again, trying to connect. I didn't get it, though. It just sounded like so much barking, heavy-handed bluster.

John Cusack has never really crossed my cultural path. Was he in that bollocks about John Malkovich's head? That was utter bollocks, wasn't it? And wasn't he in some Nick Hornby tripe that I never saw? Or did I see it? Playing some wanker who works in a record shop, some anal retentive who's had at least five girlfriends in his lifetime. Oh yeah? Dream on, buddy boy!

But recent blog reading has alerted me to the possibility that Mr Cusack is some kind of sex symbol. And then I am nudged in the direction of his blog which includes this little gem from November, a transcript of a speech he made at a Joe Strummer tribute in Scotland. Now this is absolutely hilarious...


"There was no one like Joe Strummer. There is a lineage, of course.

Woody Guthrie, Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan...I was always staggered by his voice. It was like a shaman should sound. If Roy Orbision sang for the lonely, Joe sang for the hungry.... His voice was liquid desire and it ignited as it left his mouth, his body shaking to contain the heat, like a rocket in the first phase of lift-off.... He was a pioneer who demanded art and politics be fused in the interests of humanity and truth. Often the truth was painful, just as often it was liberating, transcendent, and just plain fun. He was an icon of unrivaled integrity... Billy Brag said if it weren't for The Clash, punk rock would be just a sneer, a safety pin and a pair of bondage trousers... it sounds right to me... It's been said Strummer reinvented rock. That sounds right too. I know for certain he challenged, inspired and demanded us to think and feel in ways we hadn't before... demanded we use rebellion and anger as fuel for the journey to other, better worlds, never as an end in itself. Demanded we reach for the transcendent in everything and everyone, and to never suffer those fools who will not think and feel their way home. He was a guiding light and he got us out of many a tough jam. Knowing him, I was always humbled by his grace and intelligence, his passion, and the sheer ferocity of his will... and Jesus Christ that man could fucking rock."

I mean, I'm sorry he's gone and all but Strummer was shit, wasn't he? I bet poor old Bon Scott doesn't get such a hagiography anywhere and he was just as shit.

And I'm so glad that "Billy Brag" is quoted. Of course if it weren't for The Clash we'd only have had the Pistols, the Buzzcocks, the Banshees, Wire, The Stranglers, The Ruts, The Skids and many other British punk bands who could hold a tune.

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.

I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker By Sandi Thom

[chorus:]

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

In '77 and '69 revolution was in the air

I was born too late into a world that doesn't care

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

I know what you're after, Sandy. The nihilism of punk mixed with the let's all love one another message of flower power. Lovely thought. But I'm afraid there's never been revolution in the air in the UK. Unless you mean the Thatcherite revolution which didn't reject old greedy capitalist values but turned them into a religion.

When the head of state didn't play guitar

Not everybody drove a car

It's true, neither Harold Wilson nor Jim Callaghan played the guitar. Harold played the squeezebox and used to keep Mary up all night. Jim played the mouth organ at the 100 Club R&B nights. That's R&B as in old style rhythm and blues, Sandi. And not everybody did drive a car. Although you may be surprised to learn that many people today either cannot afford to or don't want to drive a car.

When music really mattered and when radio was king

When accountants didn't have control

And the media couldn't buy your soul

And computers were still scary and we didn't know everything

Once again I agree that we didn't know everything then. But do you really think we know it all now? There's a lot of things out there still to be discovered, Sandi.

[chorus]

When pop stars still remained a myth

And ignorance could still be bliss

And when God saved the Queen she turned a whiter shade of pale

She's always been pale, Sandi. She's not one for lying in the sun.

My mom and dad were in their teens

And anarchy was still a dream

So your mum and dad are about my age? We didn't really dream of anarchy. They're having you on, matey. All we wanted was someone to love.

And the only way to stay in touch was a letter in the mail

No no no. We did have telephones, you know. It wasn't the dark ages.

[chorus]

When record shops were still on top

And vinyl was all that they stocked

And the super info highway was still drifting out in space

Kids were wearing hand me downs

Once again I think you haven't been told the whole truth by your parents. This was the 60s and 70s. OK, if families had a string of kids, they might get hand me downs. But working class mothers had their pride. Maybe they wouldn't take their kids on foreign holidays but they would buy their children clothes.

And playing games meant kick arounds

And footballers still had long hair and dirt across their face

Come on. Have you seen Robbie Savage?

[chorus]

I was born too late into a world that doesn't care

We care, Sandy. Honest, we do.

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

Don't Believe The Hype

I'm trying to be quick off the blocks here.

If you like Rufus Wainwright and big Antony & The Johnsons, you'll love...

Joan As Police Woman.

Then again, if like me, you can't bear them...

Paul Merton's Silent Clowns

Smile, damn you. Come on, Buster. Cheer up, it might never happen. Just a little smile. No? OK. Bloody sod you, then.

I don't want to go through all this again. Why I don't like physical comedy. But seeing Paul Merton's audience in his lecture about Old Stoneface I think I understand myself a bit better.

I don't like laughing with other people. I can sit in front of Curb Your Enthusiasm, just me and my good lady wife on the settee, and I'll have tears of laughter rolling down my face. But that's between me and Larry David.

The people in the audience watching Keaton are different. They are getting off on other people's laughter. Show me a Keaton film in the comfort of my living room and I couldn't tell you where you're supposed to laugh. Impressed by the stunts, yes, but laugh?

But when there's an audience they all seem to pick up where to laugh almost immediately. I don't know if Merton initiated the laughter himself but...

It reminds me of Billy Bragg when he's talking to an audience about some old folkie or other. He keeps his audience rapt with his witty Essex repartee. They laugh in the right places, too.

At one point Merton asks his audience to imagine how the following excerpt of Buster's film could be improved by dialogue. The excerpt shows Buster running down a hill, seemingly out of control, being chased by rocks.

The dialogue could go like this...

FIRST ROCK: Let's get the bastard.

SECOND ROCK: Stone face, my arse. He only looks like that so he can get the women.

FIRST ROCK: I bet he's had his fair share, too.

THIRD ROCK: Course he has. And do you think he would've if he'd looked like us?

SECOND ROCK: Oi, Keaton! How'd you like a real stone face?

Big Arseholes

All I have gleaned from listening to reports of the latest Big Brother are:-

1. For a dumbfuck laugh, there is a young man who has Tourette's Syndrome in the house. He spent the first evening shouting "Wanker!" to all and sundry.

2. Last night this same young man got his knob out. Apparently a contract to appear in a porn film is waiting for him to sign when he gets evicted.

From this, the Sherlock Holmes in me deduces that the porn film will be sado-masochistic, for those men who enjoy being verbally abused for their own physical self-abuse.

Elementary, my dear wanker.

Some Crazy Things You Just Can't Get Out Of Your Head

And today it's Stuart Staples of the Tindersticks singing vowels...

Ayhee Eehee Eyehi Oho Uhu

Stop it, Stuart.

Don't Badger Me

We catch a bit of Emmerdale. A man is carrying the woman who used to be Reg Holdsworth's lover in Corrie. His back gives way. The actor is recognisable as one of the Flying Pickets, the very odd-looking band who did an acapella version of honking voiced pubrockelectropop duo Yazoo's Only You. The character Mr Picket plays is a middle aged Ted with one especially distinguishing feature...

He has badger hair.

Very strong black hair with a wide streak of white running from front to back, dividing his scalp into three separate zones. I've seen this hair before.

"Remember The Mallens?" I ask Betty.

She doesn't.

I vaguely remember The Mallens. A Northumbrian Dynasty soap in which badger/men fought amongst themselves for the ultimate prize: king of the sett. A Catherine Cookson bodice-ripper, no less. I vaguely remember enjoying it.

The Mallens, however, like Leslie Thomas's Tropic of Ruislip, is one of those series I remember watching for a few weeks, then the next week tuning in to discover it had been mysteriously pulled from the schedules. It was upsetting and showed total disregard for millions of us freaky hair lovers.

Then again nothing surprises me. They'll keep that depressing shit EastEnders going forever and pull comedy classics like Eldorado at the drop of a hat.

Bastards.

Lordi Lordi Lordi

So congratulations to monsters of rock, Lordi, Gene Simmons' barmy Finnish army.

I was genuinely surprised at the result, not believing that there could be so many "ironic" voters out there in Eurovision land.

We voted with our hearts for the Nightingale of Sarajevo. Of course, nobody else in Britain voted for him.

Plus ca change...

Moog

I suppose I should be grateful to Mr Moog for giving us the Moog, the premier analogue synthesiser.

The Moog probably appears on a lot of my favourite tracks. Being a non-muso I couldn't tell you which.

But. But. Without the Moog, we'd have no Keith Emerson. No Rick Wakeman. Teenage boys with high IQs and no soul in the 70s would have had to stick to listening to guitar solos which, no matter how excrutiating, are still more palatable than monophonic keyboard wanking.

It's sad to see Mr Moog, only months of life left in him, playing a tone-deaf Ol' Man River on his beloved Theremin near to the river by his home.

An experimental Russian musician who was involved in the early stages of Moog development would have preferred the instrument to be keyboard-free, presumably just twiddly knobs and slides.

Which would have done me just fine.

This Week I Have Been Listening To Joy Division

It's been a couple of months since I started my higher strength drugs regime and I must say I'm feeling like a new man.

I'm sleeping like a baby, albeit a baby on elephant tranquilisers, whenever I get the chance to close my eyes. I am able to drink tea for the first time in years (my favourite being Assam), and this helps me to fight my general tiredness. I'm even able to take real cows' milk with my breakfast cereal and gulp my way through a Muller Light yoghurt after my one-thirty sandwich.

But considering I'm taking larger doses of anti-depressants, I'm not getting any more cheerful. Not that I was depressed in the first place, but it would be nice to walk around with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

See, I Told You No More Football

Episodes 6290 and 6291 of Corrie (how do I know? - Sky+ balls-up) showed us the best of Roy Cropper.

After spending the night sprucing up the cafe to win over the Environmental Health Officer, Roy showed the man round whilst sporting what seemed to be a new extremely smart, slick hairdo complete with side parting.

Of course, once the officer had left, allowing Roy to reopen the cafe, Roy's hair was back to normal, although maybe a tad shinier than usual.

And later, when explaining why he reemployed Vera after unfairly partly blaming her for the mess the cafe got into while he was away, he compared Vera to HM The Queen:-

1. He's not sure why she's there.
2. He gives her too much money for what she does.
3. He's not actually that keen on what she does do.

BUT - for some inexplicable reason, she draws in the punters.

And that's as near to a republican manifesto you'll get on a British soap opera.


*******


In other telly news - the Hovis advert has gone all countryfolk on us.

The same hilly, cobbly street, the same brass band musical bollocks, but no longer the eeh bah gum when I were a lad from oop North ecky thump. Oh no, the voiceover is all oo ar, oi loikes moi bread to be olemeal, oi doz, and this week oi 'ave been mostly eatin' 'ovis.

Is it just the South who've got this new accent? This reminds me of the Bacardi advert in 80s cinemas where the cockernee voiceover was for the Dog 'n' Duck dahn the 'igh street apples 'n' pears me old china. Then I go to Edinburgh for a short break and it's The Thistle and Sporran in Sauchiehall Street och aye the noo there's a wee bit a dirt in ma eye and I canna get it oot.

Why can't these bastards speak the Queen's English?

For Christ's sake get Brian Sewell in before it's too late.

One Last Post About Football

Of course everything looks better in the morning and I can draw comfort from my supposition that it's not just me who had a miserable night but also fellow Hammers fans Noel Edmonds and Russell Brand.

That's enough about football, folks. But before I go, just a couple of gripes I have about the current language of football on tv.

1. A player is never his exact age. A 21 year old is described as "21, 22". A 24 year old is "24, 25." Even one of yesterday's heroes, born-leader and future England captain, Nigel Reo-Coker couldn't describe his own age. I don't wish to be known as "44, 45", thank you very much.

2. Pundits and managers can never say the truth about the Premiership. They always say "the top 4 or 5 clubs", trying to infer that it's a slightly more level playing-field than it is. EVERYBODY knows it's the top FOUR clubs. Chelsea, Man U, Liverpool, Arsenal, and that one of these FOUR clubs will win the League or the Cup. That's the FOUR richest clubs, right?*

Tomorrow I'm going to stroll into work at 9.45 a.m. and explain that I start work at 9, 10 o'clock.


* Quote from the actor John Simm in UNCUT Magazine:-

"PET HATE - I'm beginning to really hate Chelsea Football Club because I just hate the fact that they've bought all their success. It really annoys me. We (Liverpool) are nearly catching them up, and I hope we do. It's just so annoying because they're going to go out and buy more of the best players in the world and buy people out of their contracts. I just hate the marketing of it all. It's just horrible. I'm not being bitter or twisted, but it's ruined the Premiership."

Piss off, John. You spoilt brat.

Pre-Cup-Final Tension

Wednesday night I dreamt I was in the team. I didn't recognise any of my team mates or the opposition. It was a tense match. I bicycle-kicked the ball away from our penalty area. I woke up with my foot an inch from the bedroom radiator.

Last night I also dreamt I was in the team. Except my team was a rock band and we were in a battle of the bands with the Flaming Lips. I was thinking we could piss all over these jokers but Wayne Coyne threw us a googly, interrupting their set by tucking into the buffet, playing for time. They then did that song that asks me if I realise that everybody is going to die. I retaliated by putting my heart and soul into the Beatles' Yesterday, followed by a new song I'd just written. We blew the audience away.

Sorry, Liverpool. Do one. This is our year.

They Don't Just Keep Your Chips Warm

As I enter the station platform of a morning, I like to look at what other people are reading.

Look, there's a Da Vinci Code.

And there's a Mein Kampf.

It's usually the newspaper headlines I'm after, though. And often I am unable to see the whole headline as to crane my neck could be construed as harassment.

So this morning I see most of the front of The Sun...

KEE
VIGI

Ah, I think. The terrorist threat again. They're making sure we KEEP VIGILANT. Of course I am, I'm forever checking for stray rucksacks in the overhead luggage compartments.

Then I see another Sun, this time the whole front cover...

KEEF
VIGIL

And then at my London station, the free paper The Metro has the headline...

FILL YOUR BOOTS, CHANNEL HOPPERS

Great, I think. Good old Mr Murdoch is giving us another 15 Bible bashing channels and 25 Phone-In Quiz channels to play about with.

But no, the story is the EC's relaxation of the Government crackdown on booze and fags cruisers who make a tidy living from their regular jaunts to France.

Calais here we come.

Come On, Let's Have A Sing-Song

Come on, everybody! Stop moping and start hoping! You know what I do when I'm feeling pissed off? I have a sing, that's what I do. Come on, bloggers. All together now. Pretend I'm Danny la Rue and I'm getting you all going. Let's try one we all know...

On Mother Kelly's doorstep, down Paradise Row,

I'd sit along o'Nelly, she'd sit along o'Joe.

She's got a little hole in her frock, hole in her shoe,

Hole in her sock, where her toe peeped through,

But Nelly was the smartest down our alley.

On Mother Kelly's doorstep, I'm wondering now,

If li'l gal Nelly, remembers Joe, her beau,

And does she love me like she used to,

On Mother Kelly's door step, down Paradise Row.

You see, they didn't have Primark then. Hole in her frock, hole in her shoe, hole in her sock, and probably, although it's not mentioned, a hole in her knickers, too. And she was the smartest human being in the locality. Oh yes, she scrubbed up well, did our Nelly...

Come on, let's have another chorus...

She's got a little hole in her frock, a hole in her shoe,

A hole in her knickers where her Joe peeped through...

Truly Madly Annoying

This week we've attempted to watch a couple of expensively made American films. Films we wouldn't normally watch.

First up was The Matrix, apparently the only one of the trilogy worth watching.

Two things I can't stand in films:-
1. An unrealistic rooftop chase (unless it's done in an arty way)
2. Men in dark suits and dark glasses (this rubbish started with the godawful Blues Brothers, continued with the bleeding Men in Black and now we have these twits in The Matrix).

So, The Matrix: We lasted ten wasted minutes.


We didn't, however, give up on Solaris starring George (down, girls) Clooney.
Solaris - basically a love story between a man and the ghost of his dead wife, basically then a better looking version of those nauseous old tear jerkers Ghost and Truly Madly Deeply. Basically an excuse to show off George Clooney's tight arse and well-defined back and shoulders.

Yuck.

Come on, America. You can do better than that.


*******


The HM Revenue & Customs' April Employer Bulletin is out! Hurray!

Look at these gems...


*******


"Subject to Parliamentary approval the current age limits of 16 and 65 on entitlement to Statutory Payments will be removed from 1 October 2006.

From this date all employees with average earnings at or above the Lower Earnings Limit (LEL), (currently £84 per week), who are:-

aged under 16 or 65 and older, will be eligible for SSP

aged under 16 will be eligible for SMP and SPP."

So not only do they want us to work from the cradle to the grave, they want us dropping sprogs as soon as we reach puberty.

Well, Mr Brown, you can stick your work and family ethics right up your tight arse, my son.


*******


And news that although the Home Computer Initiative has been scrapped, computers provided to employees by employers are not affected by the change...

"Where an employer provides employees with a computer for the sole purpose of enabling the employee to perform the duties of his or her employment no tax will be due as long as any private use made of the computer is insignificant."

So this means you lucky bloggers who work from home can breathe easily because all those blogging hours you put in are INSIGNIFICANT. You won't get taxed because this blogging lark is INSIGNIFICANT.

OK?

Here We Go Again

It's time to vote again.

I told the caller from New Labour when he phoned about a month ago that I'll be voting for their three men. So New Labour have left us alone.

We've kept the Tories from the door too, but they've stretched their long, slimy arms and popped some leaflets through our letterbox. All the leaflets seem to explain how they are committed to reduce the time for removing grafitti from fourteen days to a mere seven.

There's one leaflet showing all three Tory candidates together, smiling to the camera, looking like three middle aged zombies who've dug themselves out of their 1950s early graves and been on a rampage round the local charity shops in search of old, ill-fitting trousers and jackets that DO NOT GO TOGETHER.

Of course the Tories will win in our ward (working class people shooting themselves in the foot as was said in one of Mike Leigh's condescending films), but NOT because George Galloway told them to vote against Blair and the Iraq War but because they feel it's time for a change which of course means a Conservative government and young Mr Cameron.

And the better off will be better off. And the worse off will be worse off.

How jolly bloody super.

Sun is Shining, Weather is Sweet

They said it would rain. And it didn't.

Yesterday we went on our favourite local walk: Foots Cray Meadows. I'd never been there till a couple of years ago. Thought we'd try it though as a change from the woods where we were always nervous of meeting the local big cat.

There are no lynx or panthers here, though. A great variety of dogs with their owners. And on the river there are ducks and coots. No babies yet but hopefully soon.

The river in the picture is the River Cray, a tributary of the Thames. This is its widest and deepest part and there is strictly no fishing here as it is for wildlife only. Some swans were shot here with air rifles last year.

Doesn't the water look inviting? No? It looks pretty clean to me. And it would have done to my dad in the early post-war years. Because this is where he and his friends learned to swim. Copying the coots and the ducks? Paddling for dear life? Maybe. You can see it was all sepia then. This area wasn't part of London, it was on the edge of a North Kent village with its independent brewery and its council houses, one of which saw the birth of my dad and the deaths of my grandparents. I spent a year in the house when I was four and shit scared of the wallpaper in my bedroom.

On the way there yesterday we walked past a hall hosting a record and CD fair. This was right up our street as we can't resist a bargain. They let us in for free so I felt obliged to spend £24 on seven CDs, bargains all.

They must've thought they'd never get rid of that John Cale CD, that Can CD, that Box Tops CD or that Edgar Broughton Band CD. The latter band were recommended by the great Boggins and I always listen to my elders and betters. I'm even currently reading a book by Harlan Coben, an author recommended by Vicus, so you see I really do have the greatest respect for those who've lived a bit and still got all their own marbles.

I suppose you've all found mine and Betty's new blog, Search Me. It's not a serious creative blog like our others but there to illustrate just what type of people we are spending hours trying to entertain.

You're all mad.

The Spiders Eat Mars

I'm confused.

Looking over someone's shoulder this morning at what I thought was The Daily Xenophobe, I saw the headline, "Piggy Stardust", basically an article taking the piss out of David Bowie's new-found weight.

Now I look on The Xenophobe's website and I see that "with a hint of a double chin and a wide smile, he looked much healthier than in his hollow-cheeked days."

Being a fan of the old Bowie, I much prefer the former approach.

So does anybody remember these lines from some of David's old songs?

The return of the fat white duke

Ground control to Major Tom...Take your slimming pills and put your corset on

We can eat them, just for one day. We can eat Cheerios, just for one day

Ashes to ashes, funk to funky...We know Major Tom's a chunky

Let's not dance...I'd rather sit this one out and tuck into the buffet


My sides are splitting. Literally! I'm on the Bowie Diet!

The 400 Million Blows

So I open a new box of tissues and what do I see? Not the usual advertisements for hayfever products at this time of year. No, I see "Kleenex For Men: 50 Years of Mansize Strength 1956 - 2006".

I'm not an 8 stone weakling but I'm certainly not a strong man. OK, I can just about open most jars handed to me by arthritic pensioners, but really the only things that say "big strong man" about me are the tissues I use.

50 years of Kleenex For Men. I'm guessing that the 'ex' stands for 'emissions'. When it's used as a suffix, such as Kleen-ex and Dur-ex, we're talking about the containment of emissions. When used as a prefix, such as Ex-lax, well that's just the opposite.

I'm very happy with my Kleenex. You see, growing up I had a cotton handkerchief. It was my task to decide when it was dirty. When I'd decided it was, I'd throw it in the washing machine. Of course when I had one of my regular nosebleeds, then it was dirty. But for the usual day-to-day effluent, I just had to ask myself how long I could tolerate a wet right pocket.

I probably started using Kleenex For Men when I started to do my own washing. And it revolutionised my life. My right thigh never felt drier or more confident. And my nose appreciated being wiped dry rather than wet. Those horrible germs now got thrown onto landfill sites for seagulls to chew instead of being dissipated amongst the weekly wash.

So happy birthday, Kleenex For Men. You beat those other girly tissues to a pulp. And you sure made a man of me.

An Audience With Coronation Street

"An Audience With..." is an ITV institution. There's usually a star alone onstage who answers questions put to him/her by members of an audience which is completely made up of celebrities. In between the questions/answers, the subject of the show sings or tells jokes or does whatever they're famous for.

An Audience With Coronation Street is different. Here, the audience take turns to get up on stage. Because the audience is made up of past and present Corrie actors mixed in with a few ITV personalities I recognise, such as sports presenter Jim Rosenthal (above), and hamster faced charlatan Gillian Mckeith, and quite a few personalities I have never seen before. Because the only programme I watch on ITV is Corrie.

So the Corrie stars get to go onstage and introduce nonentities from Emmerdale and that Ice Dancing programme. The nonentities then ask questions of Corrie stars in the audience. We learn that Michael le Vell was advised to trim his mono-brow by Johnny Briggs, and we learn the names of all of Sam Aston's animals at home.

There is a pleasant diversion from all this as William Roache and Sue Cleaver take us on a tour of The Street set. Now this IS interesting. William shows us the house that Len Fairclough rebuilt - it has newer bricks than the houses around it. The telephone in Number 11 is red and always had been red ever since that scarlet woman Elsie Tanner had the first telephone installed in that house. Did you know that Hilda's ducks first belonged to Elsie? And that some of Albert Tatlock's old furniture is still in use in the Barlows?

But enough of that. It's Saturday night and we want to be entertained. So in between all the talk we get the real show...The Music...

1. Richard Fleeshman sings Walking In Memphis as he pretends to play the piano. Now this is the first time I've heard Richard sing and I can sure see what all the fuss is about. He really could be the new Curtis Stigers, yes he's that good. Walking In Memphis is one of my favourite songs, it really gets to the heart of the blues as anybody who is familiar with WC Handy would...No, not WC Fields! This is serious stuff! When Richard stands up away from the piano (as the piano plays on) for the climax of the song, he is a little awkward and unsteady on his feet, reminding me of Nick Cave when he was on heroin. Yes, he's that good.

2. Andy Whyment and Jennie McAlpine perform the Elton/Kiki classic Don't Go Breaking My Heart. Andy's a real star. There was a preview to this show on the other night where they interviewed the Soapstar Superstar superstars Fleeshman and Whyment. The interviewer said is there nothing Andy can't do? Act? Dance? Sing? It's a crying shame he's been typecast in exactly the same role for both The Royle Family and Corrie, isn't it?

3. Wendi Peters performs Judy Garland's Get Happy. Wendi is so lithe and supple the way she glides over the stage. And with that pitch perfect voice, you close your eyes and you could swear it was Judy herself.

4. Louis Armstrong's Wonderful World - a jazzy interpretation by Ray Fearon and Tupele Dorgu. A stroke of genius. Take two black actors who never appear in the same scene together but don't you just know there'll be chemistry between them? They're natural jazz singers, of course. Why stick to the tune when you can improvise like that?

5. Beverley Callard and Simon Gregson perform Guns & Roses' Sweet Child O' Mine. Wow! Doesn't Bev look HOT in her black leather rock chick outfit? And Simon! What a pair of lungs! Just a shame the song only lasts 37 seconds.

6. A grand finale of Richard and Andy's belting rendition of Hey Jude. JUDY JUDY JUDY JUDY BABY! And isn't that Callard's orgasmic scream we hear?


Sorry I didn't mention the tribute to Johnny Briggs but I'm sick to the back fucking teeth with tributes to extremely rich people.

Searches Made By Dirty Perverted Perverts

1. Aunt sex
2. Man watches wife getting fucked
3. Tickeld guys
4. 'Smelly knickers'
5. Dog meaty cocks
6. UK nudist blogs
7. Wearing my little sister's frilly knickers
8. Matronly breasts
9. Hairless bollocks
10. Bare breasts in sheer tops
11. Wet knicker close ups
12. Pictures of obese men with large breasts
13. Hairy sucking grannies
14. Wet dreams hire
15. Grannies sucking cock

I am proud to say that none of the men (I'm assuming they're men) were successful in finding any of the above images on either of my rather prudish blogs. I did not encourage these men and as soon as they entered my sites they would've realised that I do not peddle pornography. I do not even pedal a bicycle anymore as I've heard that the friction of thigh on saddle can make some poor souls horny.

I'm sorry that over the past few days I've felt the need to illustrate to you, my reader, just what kind of people are out there in blogland. It's a warning, yes. But hopefully you've also found it a rich seam of entertainment.

I'm just glad my grandmothers aren't here to see it.

And my big-titted great-uncle.

Searches By Downright Weirdos

1. Tickeld by the feet
2. The blood runs like a river through my dreams
3. What do boys really think of women in white?
4. What are the 12 pantomimes of a liar?
5. "Aryan flu" baby
6. Fizzy urine
7. There's nothing like this what we have sip a glass of cold wine lyrics
8. Coronation Street death clips
9. "Stink bug" phobia
10. Alzheimers described as a train journey

I'd love to know the answer to no.4. I can only think of Puss In Boots. That leaves eleven more.

And come on, boys. What do you really think of women in white? Good marriage material? Good cricketers? Or accidents waiting to happen?

Celebrity Searches of a Sexual Nature

1. Sharapova armpits
2. Michael Owen's cock
3. Jesus Christ Superstar wears frilly knickers and a see through bra
4. Gunnar Nelson Groupies
5. Jimmy Savile necrophiliac
6. Shag Holly Willoughby
7. Geoffrey Howe wet dream

No. 7 is the most disturbing image I can imagine...





Go on. Get your rocks off.

Searches for Geoffs

1. Geoff Geldof
2. Geoff Charles
3. "Geoff" and "drums"
4. Winkle stinky Geoff
5. Geoff Stone Air Conditioning
6. Geoff's nipple
7. Geoff Ray Ward

I'd better say straight away that no. 4 was not my nickname at school. My nickname at school was Bubbles, named after who I think was a Richard Beckinsale character, nicknamed Geoffrey Bubbles Bom Bom. There is also a link of course to West Ham (as in I'm forever blowing...), i.e. not Michael Jackson.

I don't know if there are any Geoff Geldofs. Obviously he wouldn't be Bob's son as Bob's son would have a silly name. What do you mean isn't "Geoff" silly enough?

I've only seen Sir Bob once on a day trip to his home town, Faversham in Kent. He was walking around town with his family and we kept bumping into him (from a distance). Of course I had to point at him and say "there he is again" every time we saw him. I'm sure he wished me dead.

The lasting memory of that day is watching Bob feel and taste the fruit from the greengrocer's market stall, eventually buying some. Bob Geldof can do this. If I tried the same thing the greengrocer would kindly tell me to fuck the fuck off, I'm sure.

Questions Questions. Give Me No Answers.

I'm feeling feverish and not really up to producing something of worth.

So what a perfect opportunity to update you on my wonderful world of search engine searches. Just what have my potential readers been typing into Google or MSN or Yahoo or Dog Breath in the last month or so?

I've sorted them into categories and will post them over the next few days as to post all of them at once would be spoiling you. Of course they're much more entertaining than the usual guff you get on here so don't expect to continue laughing at my posts when they're over.

The categories are...

Celebrity searches (various)
Searches for Geoffs
Celebrity searches of a sexual nature
Searches by downright weirdos
Searches by dirty perverted perverts

And we'll start the series off with Celebrity searches (various)

1. Family Tree of Sir Alf Ramsey
2. Solar Van Clarkson Jeremy
3. Ronnie Barker Cinderella & her ugly sisters
4. Midge Ure Hotel Room
5. "Axl Rose" "plastic surgery"
6. Douglas the Lurpak man
7. James Blunt "Piss Take"
8. Sean Bean Lives Hampstead
9. David Attenborough's Voice
10. Noel Edmonds Evil
11. Max Wall Funny Walk
12. Anita Harris and Jimmy Clitheroe pantomime
13. Richard Fleeshman turns goth
14. Teddy Sheringham - is he married?
15. Laughing Policeman David Bowie
16. Fiona Richmond what does she look like now?

I don't really want to know the answer to no. 16 as Ms Richmond sadly died a couple of years ago.

I think the parochial nature of my blogs is really apparent as the only search for a non-British celebrity is the Axl Rose one. And I do seem a bit stuck in the past, don't I?

So that's the first in a series of five and I bet you're all looking forward to the next one. In the meantime, why not tell me how you first came across this blog. Which category do you fit into?
Are you a weirdo, a pervert, or a Geoff lover?

Or maybe all three?

Tired of London?

Easter Monday, we went to London and did a few touristy things...



Look. Here's Nelson's Column.

Then we did The Princess of Wales Memorial Walk*, around the lake in St James's Park, where we...



Fed the pigeons ducks, and...



didn't feed the pelicans.

Just a perfect day.


*demurely, with our heads cocked to one side.

Talk About The Passion

This is the story of the evening we went to see The Smiths...

It was the first time I'd been to the Brixton Academy and we turned up at our usual time, hoping to catch some of the support band just in case they might one day be famous. The support band that night were James who did indeed go on to become massive vegan stadium rockers.

But we missed James and God knows how many minutes of The Smiths as it seemed that the gig had started on time. So it's not only Kraftwerk who do that sort of thing.

A couple of my friends rushed down to the Moz Pit and the remainder of us stood at the back of the long, long auditorium. We were very bored as The Smiths live were just like The Smiths on record. And what's the point of that?

The next morning I got a phone call to say that one of my friends was in hospital. On the train, on his way back from the gig that previous night, he'd asked a group of young lads to stop racially abusing an elderly couple. The meatheads got off at the same stop as my friend and proceeded to kick the shit out of him.

So there we have a story and a moral. Sticks and stones may break your bones, so don't reply to idiot words unless you can out-muscle the idiots.

Getting on for a quarter of a century later and James' Tim Booth plays Judas in The Manchester Passion. Tim eats nothing but bacon now so he could well be a real life Judas to Morrissey, too. Where once was a floppy, curly mop of wanky hair, there is now a bald pate. He looks mad in the way Michael Stipe looks mad, i.e. not very convincingly mad.

This is the story of Jesus Christ's crucifixion and resurrection updated to the 1990s, including the most famous songs of some of Manchester's finest pop proponents (and Stoke's Robbie Williams), performed by actors, Tim Booth and Denise Johnson.

The bloke playing Jesus is John Simm-lite with even less charisma. He makes his way to Albert Square from one direction, whilst a large neon cross is carried from another part of the city by some nutty Christians followed by the flotsam and jetsam of people of all faiths and apparently some of none.

We speak to a Muslim who says that Jesus is a prophet but not the son of God (which kind of does make Jesus a blasphemer) and a Scottish so-called punk who found Jesus in his early twenties , is now 29 and says that if Christ were alive now he would be at home with the freaks and the weirdos in the mosh pit of a punk gig. Oooooh, how weird!

But bollocks to the cross, the real action is happening where the actors are...

The Songs

1. As Judas leaves the rest of the gang to tell the authorities where Jesus is, he suddenly feels really bad about what he is about to do. He looked for a job and he found a job (and the reward) but heaven knows he's miserable now. Why does he spend so much time with people who don't care whether he lives or dies? This is accompanied by an acoustic guitar which confuses me as Dylan was called Judas for going electric. Booth yelps at the end like Morrissey with his knackers in a vice.

2. Meanwhile on the stage in Albert Square, mother Mary (Denise Johnson) sings M People's Search for the hero inside yourself, the theme to London's Olympic bid. The chorus is subtitled for us to sing along to at home. We do so with gusto.

3. As the disciples fall asleep at the last supper, Jesus for some reason sings James truly shit anthem, Sit Down. Now if the disciples have fallen asleep over their creme caramels, presumably they are already sitting down. Still, you've gotta give it to Jesus, he gets the audience watching him on the big screen sitting down like twats (well, with the guidance of our MC, prime stinky sausage Keith Allen, anyway).

4. Blue Monday. Judas comes back to the fold only to be forgiven by the saviour. They sing this one together, Judas with the line "If it wasn't for your misfortine, I'd be a heavenly person today." Deep, eh?

5. I Am The Resurrection, just the verse mind, sung by the token black disciple as the cops come to take away our hero. The disciple denies he knows Jesus. Oooh, isn't this such a HUMAN story?

6. Mary starts up her first version of Robbie's Angels on stage. Suitable because Angels is the most popular funeral song of our age. I just wish they'd cremate the fucking thing.

7. After Barrabas, played by the REAL star of the show, Chris Bisson formerly of Corrie, is pardoned and Jesus is sentenced to death by Keith Allen, Keith and Jesus then sing Wonderwall together. What the fuck?

8. Mary's rolled on again for Elkie Brooks' Sunshine After The Rain as the crucifixion takes place elsewhere as Keith says we don't have public executions any more.

9. Jesus suddenly appears by the Town Hall Clock and sings the CHORUS to I Am The Resurrection. This is what we have been waiting for and the audience go mad and we all sing along at home.

10. Out of the blue, Angels starts up again, there is an enormous cheer and we think Robbie's turned up, but no it's the whole cast joining in the great dirge. Keith Allen says goodnight it's all in The Bible and we're all born again. The midwife slaps my arse and makes me cry.



** As this was the Manchester Passion, there is of course a cameo appearence by Anthony H Wilson.

Jesus H Christ.

One a Penny, Two a Penny, Hot Cross Buns

I've been neglecting my duties. This blog started out as a review blog of the best and worst of the television programmes you may or may not have seen on British tv. I can sense you're all missing those halcyon Heimat days so, as a special treat, this Good Friday I will attempt to watch BBC3's The Passion of Jesus Christ.

It is to be performed live in Manchester's shining Albert Square (not to be confused with the one in Eastenders), with a cast of not only pop stars and actors but the silly general public, too.

It is hosted by...

It is hosted by the...

It is hosted by the great...

It is hosted by the great twat Keith Allen and I for one can't wait for him to get his knob out and piss in someone's beer.

If it's anything as passionate as The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, well, we're all in for one hell of a treat.

What's Up Doc?

Just back from the doctor's where I was given the all-clear...to continue taking the medication I've been experimenting with for the past couple of weeks. As I was about to leave he said...

"You're a journalist, aren't you?"

I am not. I am a kind of manager stroke administrator stroke glorified bookkeeper. My doctor has known me for thirteen years. He must know I'm not a journalist. Maybe the blogging is paying off at last and I give off the aura of one who earns his living by the written word.

"Well I suppose that can be stressful, can't it?"

"It's not too bad."

Blameless Bob

Being a ridiculous kind of manager stroke administrator, I often receive what I can only describe as "useless stuff" through the post and via email. Only this morning I received an email headed, "Headset Heaven!" Of course, having no truck with those Scientologist fruitcakes, I deleted it without opening it.

A company called SkillPath regularly sends me the same information about the same seminar which they seem to hold throughout the year. It's offered to managers and supervisors and it's titled, "Dealing Effectively With Unacceptable Employee Behaviour (How to get the productivity, cooperation and results you need without incurring resentment or damaging relationships)"

I wish they'd stop sending me this rubbish. The employees I supposedly manage behave perfectly acceptably in the main. But SkillPath seems to think there's a problem. And that if I supervise one or more of these employees, I need to take action NOW! Yes, NOW!

1. Antagonist
2. Blameless Bob
3. Whiner
4. Thumb-Twiddler
5. Insubordinate Subordinate
6. Tortoise
7. Amy Attitude
8. Hand-Holder
9. Early Retiree
10. Worrywart
11. Clock Watcher

Gee, is that the time already? This lunch sure is for wimps.

(We Don't Need This) Fascist Groove Thing

If you have a racist friend
Now is the time, now is the time
For your friendship to end
Be it your sister, be it your brother
Be it your cousin, or your uncle, or your lover
Be it your best friend, or any other
Is it your husband, or your father, or your mother
Either change their views
Or change your friends

So say The Specials. Wives, children, aunts and grandparents should really be added to the list.

Yes, lads, I've followed this throughout my life. I've never knowingly had a racist friend. But are family really friends? Isn't it a fact that you can choose your friends but not your family or your workmates. And just how racist is racist? Because most of the people I know are racist to differing degrees. And how the fuck am I supposed to change their views?

"So I phoned the number and I was put through to India. I had to ask him to speak slowly, couldn't understand what he was saying. Finally got the answer then he asks me is there anything else he can help me with..."

"Yeah. You can learn bloody English for a start."

And these are people I like. I wouldn't call them friends but I find it very difficult to make friends. Even more difficult to meet women in the past, as soon as they uttered the words "Paki shop" that's it for me, I'm afraid. Whatever slight interest I had just disappeared. And then there's family. Ah, family...

My grandparents had a black dog they called Nigger. That was many years ago, before I was born so they had an excuse.

As did my grandad when he always used to say that Britain would one day be "overrun by Pakis" as "they breed like rabbits." He had the excuse that he was born in the 19th century.

My so-called socialist dad used to say, when angry about some bastard big businessman, "Hitler was right about the Jews." But my dad had the excuse that he was born before the Second World War.

And it continues. There are the conversations I have where I am asked questions which always start off, "But don't you think that THEY...?"

There are the "POLITICAL CORRECTNESS GONE MAD" conversations..."You used to have a golliwog, Geoff. You had one of those Robertson jam badges."

Yes. How old was I? Did I ASK for a golliwog? Yes, I probably did, but I didn't know any better. What's your excuse? Ah, you were born before the War!

But I don't speak out. I keep quiet amongst my groups of all-white people (yes, all-white because that's the way it's been for me for the past 20 years, don't tell me we're an integrated nation).

One day, though I did speak out. Pathetically.

He'd been to Australia on holiday and loved it. "Met some lovely people. But you know what? They've got our problem over there, too. There are less immigrants over there but immigration is becoming a worry." (By which I assumed he meant non-white immigration).

IMMIGRATION? AUSTRALIA? DID HE KNOW WHAT THE WHITE BRITISH ESTABLISHMENT SCUM DID TO THE NATIVE ABORIGINES?

Of course I said nothing of the sort. I just went very red and said I couldn't listen to this rubbish anymore and I stormed out into the kitchen. I didn't even pick up a knife.

I can't do it, Specials. I can't spend my life arguing.

Still, I can get on my anonymous soapbox, can't I?

Choo Choo Train News

Overseen On The Train

Spotted over someone's shoulder, in The Sun newspaper, new ipod for books ( you can store hundreds of books on a portable device and read them whenever and wherever you like).

I don't want to piss on Apple's chips, but don't we already have a portable device that we can use to read our fiction or non-fiction favourites? They're called books. You can take them anywhere, they don't mind being battered about, you can carry on tomorrow where you left off today.

Of course, if anybody wants to read 100 books at a time, or maybe wants to read an encyclopedia at random, then the new device will be very handy.

Overheard On The Train - 1

The portable music device, however, has transformed countless lives. You can even listen to spoken word versions of books on them, handy if you want to explore Dickens but feel the need to drift off during certain long, tedious passages.

I know how people moan about hearing other people's music on public transprt. It doesn't usually bother me. But it did yesterday.

A 45 minute fret-wank guitar solo, that's all I could hear. Some heavy metal shit. And then the bloke stood up and he was carrying a canvas shoulder bag with those silly band patches on. Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Iron Maiden, Manowar. So...

BASICALLY HE LIKES ANYTHING WITH LOUD GEETARS!...EH? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!...I SAID THE GEEZER'S GOT SOME TASTE. SOME, BUT NOT A LOT! HIS EARS ARE FUCKED!...EH? WHAT DID YOU SAY?

Overheard On The Train - 2

"Last night? It was alright. He went Spanish and I chilled out."

"He wants to be careful. He's walking on thin ice...He might tip her over the edge."

Off His Trolley

So Mike Baldwin's gonna bite the dust. His heart's gonna give out and he's gonna fall into the arms of several times love rival, former angry young man Ken Barlow. Mike's gonna say, "Deirdre always loved ME." Then he'll pop his clogs. It won't be such a long, drawn out death in the end, not your typical dementia case. Mike'll die in the street, with his suit on.

And if you've been affected by Johnny Briggs' acting, here's the number of the SHIT PLOTS HELPLINE where you can donate money to the Alzheimer's Society. Give them a ring and tell them how much Mike forgetting that his son had shagged his missus made you cry. Tell them how you've been crying for the arsehole head of a dynasty torn apart by men's infidelity. Tell them how your sorrow translates into you caring about the thousands of poor sods who remember their first kiss but don't know the current Prime Minister's name - IT RHYMES WITH PRAYER. They might suggest you make a donation out of your meagre pension which has been increased in line with the price of bread rather than wages since the self-serving Tories moved poorer pensioners' goalposts in the eighties. Fancy making a donation? £2 a month? £5 a month? Come on, you can afford a fiver a month! Cut down on those bloody toffees for a start, they're not doing you any good, there's no real dietary value in them.

Come on, a fiver a month. It might be an investment in your own future, after all.

ABACAB - 24 Hr Taxi Service

Nobody ever tags me so bollocks to you, I'm nicking a meme from Spinsterella and Cultural Snow.

1. A track from your early childhood - Michelle or Penny Lane by the Beatles. I remember us driving through London at night with one of these playing on the car radio. Except I'm sure we didn't have a car radio. Not so sure we had a car. Whenever I hear these songs I always feel a little sad, though. Those lovely minor chords make me ache for the innocence and sheer uncomplicated happiness of those days. They weren't the Swinging Sixties for me, they were the warm and comfortable sixties. Until I started school. Then boy did we swing.

2. A track that you associate with your first love - Ben by Michael Jackson. Memories of the girl picking blackheads from my skin as we listened to this soppy shit. Before she told me I'd always assumed Ben was Michael's pet dog. He wasn't. He was a fucking rat.

3. A track that reminds you of a holiday trip - Don't You Forget About Me by Simple Minds. We were on a skiing trip in Aviemore. I was with a group of lads who I'm sure didn't want me there as they were the sort of adventurous young men who would turn up at a ski resort with no skiing experience and with no tuition would be hurtling down the black run by the end of the first day. I was the sort of young man who was shit scared of heights and couldn't even get on the chairlift. Don't You Forget About Me was playing in a bloody awful disco as I drank pints of horrible McEwans bitter in an attempt to forget I was there. Of course the bitter didn't stay down for long.

4. A track that you like but wouldn’t want to be associated with in public - I still have a soft spot for Follow You Follow Me by Genesis (pictured). Even after all these years and hating Phil Collins and Mike and the Mechanics and yes, Genesis, as I do.

5. A track that accompanied you when you were lovesick - Who do you think I am? A girl?

6. A track that you have probably listened to most often - Probably Shipbuilding by Elvis Costello. I spent the 80s in love with Elvis. But now his voice just annoys me, so put-on. Same goes for Tom Waits and Nick Cave, used to love 'em, now can't be arsed. I prefer Robert Wyatt's version of Shipbuilding, but I've really heard the thing too many times.

7. A track that is your favourite instrumental - Any of the food inspired tunes by Booker T. and the MG's. i.e. not Soul Limbo (the one that used to introduce BBC's cricket). I just can't get down that low.

8. A track that represents one of your favourite bands - Virginia Plain by Roxy Music. Why? Why not? Lucky dip and Roxy won.

9. A track which represents yourself best - Showroom Dummies by Kraftwerk.

10. A track that reminds you of a special occasion (which one?) - The Bomb! (These Sounds Fall Into My Mind) by The Bucketheads. The occasion? I knew I wanted to be with my special lady for the rest of my life. (Pass the sick bucket).

11. A track that you can relax to - There's Nothing Like This by Omar: "Sip a glass of cold champagne wine...The rug that we lie on feels divine...And there’s no parallel for we two...Ecstasy the word of the night...Ringing in our ears, we’re inflight...There’s no substitution...For what we have...No others can have" ONLY JOKING - Actually I am a very cool guy and I relax to whole box sets of Trojan CDs.

12. A track that stands for a really good time in your life - Can't really pick one out. Hundreds over the past 10 years. (KEEP PASSING ROUND THAT BUCKET).

13. A track that is currently your favourite - The charts have ben shit this year, haven't they? Probably Red Dress by Sugababes. Not their best by a long way but still the best pop song out now.

14. A track that you’d dedicate to your best friend - A Billy Childish track. Any Billy Childish track. They all sound the same to me. But I think that's the idea.

15. A track that you like especially for its lyrics - In Germany Before the War by Randy Newman. Gives me a lump in the throat every time. And Anarchy in the UK by the Sex Pistols, of course.

16. A track that you like that’s neither in English nor German - Bonnie and Clyde by Serge Gainsbourg. OK, there is a little English in it. What do you want them to sing, "Bonnie et Clyde?" And what about Je Suis Un Rock Star by Bill Wyman? Classique Franglais.

17. A track that lets you release tension best - Number One Song In Heaven by Sparks with Giorgio Moroder. And I'm sweating buckets on my treadmill, wearing those little shorts like Kel does in the great Kath and Kim.

18. A track that you want to be played at your funeral - Funeral For A Friend (Love Lies Bleeding) by Elton John. Followed as it is on the album by Candle in the Wind. Those two'll make me sound like I had an interesting life. "The candle burned out long before the legend ever did." Why has nobody else ever chosen that song for their funeral? We're all legends to someone.

Well, I quite enjoyed that. I know you didn't.

Anybody else want a go?

Many Happy Returns, Young Edward

So it's happy birthday to Teddy Sheringham, 40 today. And as promised, here are 10 things I love about Teddy boy...

1. Teddy is my royalty. The Queen Mother was 99 for about three years. Teddy has been 39 for at least four. I have never cheered real royalty. I have never shouted out to Prince Charles, "Go on my son!" I have never chanted, "Oh, Charlie Charlie! Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Wi..indsor!" It doesn't scan and besides, he's not the most inspirational of human beings, is he?

2. Teddy has vision. He can read a game. These are the kind of players I like, slow of foot but quick of brain. I worship Bobby Moore for this reason.

3. Teddy lives locally. He does not live in the country next door to Madonna. He lives amongst the people. Except with a bigger house than the people.

4. Teddy is loved by the fans of every club he has played for. A player who is loved by fans of Millwall, Tottenham and West Ham alike is a bloody good example in my book. Because I have nothing against supporters of other clubs. I might dislike the chairman, the manager, or the way the team plays. But us fans are all in the same boat (speaking as a wimpy armchair fan).

5. Teddy has loyalty. Even at the age of 40, Tottenham wanted him back at the end of this season. He'd rather stay and finish his career at his present club where he feels his work is unfinished.

6. Teddy likes a drink without using it as an excuse to beat up women. Remember the Dentist's Chair pictures from before Euro 96? Can you see Teddy ending up at The Priory? I don't think so. He's enjoying himself too much.

7. Teddy likes his chips. He was spotted locally eating chips outside a local chip shop when he should have been pre-season training. Beats all that chicken and pasta shit.

8. Teddy is not afraid to take his clothes off for charity. He is pictured with other footballers in a naked line up with his hands covering his privates. It's all in aid of a Bollock Cancer charity. Can you imagine Bobby Charlton doing that for his fellow man? And I know Jackie once paraded around with his cock out on a tv documentary about Middlesbrough FC, but I couldn't see woor Jackie whipping out the big man for a good cause.

9. A quote from ex-teammate Neil Ruddock: "He's got a body like a 19-year-old, with a six-pack and not an ounce of fat. He's also never been married, so he's probably had no stress." So he's never had a young lady up the aisle? Good on you, Teddy! Weddings are crap, aren't they?

10. A quote from ex-teammate, Ole Gunnar Solskjaer: "Teddy always trained hard and gave it his all, although I have to say he had a knack of knowing when to get injured - around November so he could get a sneaky week in the Bahamas."

Take it easy, Teddy. We love you.