To (Some Of) The Girls I've Loved Before

ABBA 1975



Mamma mia, here I go again
My my, such a pair of teasers
Mamma mia, does it show again?
I mean the women, not the geezers



KIKI DEE 1976



Don't go breaking my heart
I couldn't if I tried
Honey d'ya wanna get breastfed?
Baby I'm not that kind



MANHATTAN TRANSFER 1978




On a little street in Singapore
No chew-ing gum discarded on the floor
The gals move like sophisticated chicks
Though the blokes look just like a pair of dicks



NENA 1984





99 Decision Street
99 fashionistas meet
To worry, worry, super-scurry
Leather kecks off in a hurry!
This is what we've waited for
This is it boys, this is phwooar!
The sweaty trousers on the line
As 99 red balloons go by



TRACY BARLOW 2007





Bang! Bang! Tracy's silver hammer
Came down upon his head.
Bang Bang Tracy's silver hammer
Made sure that he was dead.

Who's A Fart Young Smeller?

What They've All Been Saying About My New Green Ski Jacket

That's a lovely coat!
Really trendy!
Really smart!
Really suits you!
Makes you look years younger!



What They're Really Thinking

That...




...was really not a good look, Geoff.

My Eyes Are Red, My Nose Is Blue

Well, it's a Relief that's all over, isn't it?

The highlight of last night's extravaganza had to be the Mitchell & Webb snooker song with Chris de Burgh. It really was truly fucking abysmal and Betty was the luckier of the two of us in that she fell asleep after the ten second appearance of Kate Moss on the Little Britain debacle. We didn't sing along to the Proclaimers because although we're both bespectacled we have got a modicum of musical talent in that we can do Amy Winehouse's Rehab in pub singer voices which is a damn sight more entertaining than those 1980s hasbeens with their walking 1,000 miles. If they walked 500 miles away, why didn't they carry on walking 500 miles further into the fucking sea instead of walking 500 miles back to annoy us so? Peter Kay is the most overrated comedian of all time - he just sits there in that wheelchair doing fuck all, he has never ever made me laugh, what in God's name do you all see in him? Shite, shite and more shite all night long.

Don't get me wrong, we weren't actually watching it but watching a docudrama on the independence and division of India, just watching Comic Relief during breaks for urinating and refilling wine glasses. Betty thought Lord Mountbatten was quite dishy (well, actually the actor playing him). Gandhi wasn't played by Sir Ben Kingsley which I found disappointing as now my last image of Sir Ben is not of a blacked-up peacemaker but of a violent psychopathic gangster in Sexy Beast. Makes you wonder what would have happened if Ray Winstone was in charge of India's independence.

Still the funniest things to come out of my blog are the searches people use to get here. Here are the latest:-

1. Kung fu drawstring trousers
2. Does Noel Edmonds drink urine?
3. Grayson Perry posh bastards house
4. Does Prince Charles wipe his own arse?

I don't think he does.

Have a good weekend, y'all. I'm back to work on Monday for the run-up to the dreaded end of year.

Lovely.


*******


UPDATE SUNDAY 18TH MARCH 2007 6PM

I've just woken up from my afternoon nap and that pissing song is still in my head. I don't see why you should be spared from this crap. Here's the link to the video if you want to see why I'm thinking about emigrating from this freakishly humourless land.

LOOOOOOOOK! THERE'S THE KRANKIES, EVERYONE!

Shaggy Blog Stories

It's out! It can't be bought at Sainsbury's!

For every book sold, £3.63 goes direct to Comic Relief.
To buy, it costs £12.72 including £3.76 postage and packing.
Which may not seem very charitable but it's better than 10p from a £2.00 sandwich at Sainsbury's.
And if it's going to be done, it's the best return you could hope for.
The publishers are making nothing out of the sales but publicity.
The contributors are making nothing out of the sales but a wider audience.
Shit, I'm not selling this very well, am I?

Yes, there are the usual A-list bloggers there but also a lot I haven't heard of before. And as far as I know this is the first anthology of (hopefully funny) bloggers' writing ever assembled in Britain. So I'd probably buy it even if some of the money wasn't going to charity.

What I mean to say is...

BUY THIS BOOK!

I Can See Clearly Now...

"I bet you get a good variety of background music in this job," I say to the window fitter.

"Yeah. The bloke yesterday, the old bloke who had the dirty house, he asked us if we liked trad."

"Trad jazz?"

"Yeah. He played it really loud. It was blaring out. He played the whole album."


I asked him about the background music because the window fitters were probably earlier having a good laugh at our choice of television programme to watch as they put in the windows upstairs.

We've got a lot of catching up to do so we watched two old documentaries, one on the Chelsea Hotel, the other on the background to the Lou Reed song Walk On The Wild Side.

The first documentary had a very camp man taking tourists round the hotel, singing and namechecking Brendan Behan, Oscar Wilde and William Burroughs amongst others. As he walked past some painters and decorators on the stairs he compared their work to Jackson Pollack.

We saw Burroughs and Andy Warhol at a dinner party, talking about chicken-fried steak, Quentin Crisp talking about his hair products, and Jobriath singing a super song about naked brunch. the documentry also featured a glorious sequence showing Viva's daughter watching her mother give birth to her on video. The birthing screams reverberated round our house and sounded like a long loud orgasm until the baby started to cry.

The Walk On The Wild Side documentary included interviews with several transexuals from Warhol's gang including discussions of "giving head" to sailors.

Unsurprisingly, with all this going on, the window fitters finished fitting the windows in record time. I bet they can't wait to see what we've got in store for them when they do the doors tomorrow.

Lovely Days

It's lovely today. It was lovely yesterday. Too lovely for March, maybe.

Yesterday we went for a walk at Trosley Country Park. It's been spruced up since we were last there a few years ago - new toilets, a new cafe. The cafe was busier than the walking trails.

"Come on, let's off-road," I said. And we took the "B" route, all the way down the hill, through several fields, not knowing whether the route was two miles or nine. After about an hour and a half we seemed to be heading back towards the car park. Up, up, up, then across.

"We've reached the woods now," I said. "I'm glad those trees are there because I wouldn't fancy walking on the side of this steep hill with nothing to stop my fall."

We came to a clearing with nothing to stop our fall. Eyes down at the path, not left to the less than gentle slope. Past a braver young couple sitting on the slope with their even braver dog chasing his tail.

I'm such a wuss with heights. My legs turn to jelly, I can't go on, I can't go on, I can't go on.

I went on and we made it. A lovely day with a bit of nervous excitement added.


*******


Today is a lovely day. We go to the dentist's. The receptionist is wearing sexy boots and her cleavage is overspilling. An old man comes out of the torture room and after picking up his cap from under one of the chairs, pays his £50 in cash. There goes his pension for this week.

"Can I use the facilities?" he asks the receptionist.

"Of course you can," she says.

He goes into the toilet and clatters about a bit. I hear running water. He comes out and leaves without another word.

I bury myself in my Sherlock Holmes in case the receptionist thinks I'm looking at her tits. I hear the drill start up.

"Filling for Betty," I think. "That means one for me too."

Our dentist enjoys filling teeth. It's good to see someone taking pleasure in their work.

Me, I take pleasure in my days off.

Mallard In Love

I am a mallard in love
And I'd do anything
To get you into my wings
And hold you within
It's a right I defend
Over and over again
Waddle, I do!

Yeah but, no but...

Think you can do better than Little Britain?

So do I.

But then I look in my archives and I don't see much humour, just anger and spite.

Still, I've chosen a post for this. Why don't you?

Just don't expect me to watch it on the telly.

The Hunt For Middle England

The hunt is a BBC4 90 minute documentary in which stand-up comedian and actor (in the great The Thick of It) Chris Addison searches for the place called Middle England and the people who inhabit it.

The problem is, nobody wants to admit to being a Middle Englander. Chris tries shouting in the street, going on a local radio phone-in show, and advertising in the Daily Mail, all to no avail. Absolutely nobody comes forth.

He tries:-

The Women's Institute
The National Trust
A book club in a Lincolnshire village
The set of Midsomer Murders
A golf club in Guildford

The interviewees admit to a lot of things, seem to have all the supposed characteristics of being Middle English, but never ever call themselves such. At the end, Chris comes to the conclusion that although Middle England is more a state of mind than a specific place or type of person, maybe actual Middle Englanders have emigrated. The programme runs out of time and he never gets to go abroad.

Of course Middle England is not a place. People are not Middle English. The term was made up by the media to make us feel that there are a decent, hard-working, right-thinking silent majority of people out there. When the media reports that politicians want to win over Middle England, they mean only one thing. Politicians want to appeal to the floating voter.

Floating voters decide elections. They have no strong allegiance to Labour or the Conservatives or the Lib Dems. They are disillusioned with the current Government. They are always disillusioned but they have to weigh up whether they want to see a government from a different party.

Floating voters ask themselves:

Will another party be tougher on crime or immigration? Will they be less sleazy or two-faced? Can they be trusted to do the right things, the good things? The Tories were in for too long and got too big for their boots. Now the same's happening to New Labour. It might be time for Cameron. Why not? Give him a chance. Fresh broom and all that. He's got a fresh face just like Blair had ten years ago. Oh dear. Blair had a fresh face but look where that got us with all this crime and immigration. Can Cameron be trusted? Can a fresh face be trusted? What about an old face like Campbell's? No. What am I thinking of, why would I want the Liberals in, they haven't been in power for 100 years. No, it's between Cameron and Brown. Brown? He's an old fashioned socialist! He'll tax us to death! Unless he has a strong Chancellor. What about the NHS? It's terrible the way hospitals are nowadays. Do I trust the Tories with the NHS? Well, they can't do a worse job than Labour, can they? And they will be tougher on crime. And immigration. But what about litter? The streets are a mess! And there's road charging! I'm totally against that! Labour just tax, tax, and tax again. Stealth tax! But I want to reduce my carbon footprint. Oh, it's so confusing. The Greens are nutters. All veggie nutters just like my niece. Did you know she refused to eat her nut roast at Christmas just because my wife poured gravy on it? Well scrape it off, you silly girl! Europe! God, I forgot Europe! How could I forget Europe and their centralising decisions, taking away decisions from us! Decisions, decisions...Blair hasn't done such a bad job. I'm always impressed by him, even with all the crime and the immigration. Oh God, politics! No, I couldn't vote for Brown. No way could I vote for a Scot. Oh my God, I sound racist. Why shouldn't I vote for a Scot? There's nothing wrong with Scots. Cameron's a Scottish name! Cameron, Brown, Campbell! They're all Scots! Right, I'm voting Cameron! Cameron it is then! That's it! Get the Tories back in! Sort this country out! He is very young though, isn't he?

Yeah, let's get Cameron in. Sort this country out.

Middle Englander = Floating Voter = Blairite Tory

Bet You Don't Get This One

Who Is The Celebrity?

The highlight (in fact the only thing worth reading) of the London Lite evening free paper is the celebrity puzzle. You have a few drawings which make up a celebrity's name. The celebrity can be alive or dead.

So you may get a drawing of a man mowing the lawn followed by another drawing of a man mowing the lawn followed by a drawing of a baby sheep. Put them together and you get Mow Mow Lamb.

You may get a drawing of a severed head followed by three drawings of planks of wood. Put them together and you get Head Wood Wood Wood.

Geddit?

I thought I'd give it a go.

OK, people. Can you tell me who is the following famous celebrity? And is he or she alive or dead?

Flights Of Fancy

I'm afraid I upset one of my anonymous commenters with my post on darts players. I had the cheek to suggest that darts players may not be blessed with that skin deep phwooooar factor. According to Anon, there are lots of good looking guys out there on the circuit, including Wes Newton, Adrian Gray, Johnny K and Ray Carver, "just to name a few." Well that's enough for me to be going on with, so, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...



Johnny K




and Ray Carver.


They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder but there's no denying the je ne sais quoi these guys have. It's the steady eyes that look into yours as if you're the only human being they have ever wanted. Catch one of these guys' eyes over a crowded room and you'll be putty in their hands. They're used to concentrating on small areas from the distance of a couple of yards. Just imagine if they locked in on your dilated pupils. You'd feel ravished before they spoke to you.

Gently Does It

Yesterday I made a decision to go on a permanent go-slow, just like those naughty 1970s trade union members. In fact I feel a bit naughty doing it, myself. But I don't feel guilty.

You see, I've been trying to pack too many things into too few hours, scowling through the day. Something's gotta give and it's not going to be me.

So I'm going to do everything at a slower pace from now on, and that includes blogging. I may not write so much. I definitely won't read so much and I'm not going to feel guilty for not keeping up with forty odd blogs. The whole blogging thing was becoming a chore and the laughs were becoming few and far between.

Anyway, must go and check on my Bloglines. Hope there's not too many because I've only got half my lunch hour left.

Oodles of Googles

I think we're all due a little light relief. So how's about some highlights of recent searches for this blog?

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?

1. Victorian armpit hair

As we know, the Victorians loved their armpit hair. In fact, Queen Victoria used to amuse herself by seeing just how long hers would grow. The only time she ever smiled was when she was once mistaken for a yeti on a state visit to Tibet.


2. Bear in the window of a house on the beach in Walmer Deal

There aren't any actual houses on the beach at either Walmer or Deal. I seem to remember there is, however, a little fisherman's shack. Maybe this fisherman has a pet bear who sits in the shack watching Grizzly Adams DVDs, maybe peering out every now and again if the fisherman is late coming home.

3. Keith Allen eating chips

Not hard to find, you would have thought. The co-composer of Vindaloo, World In Motion and other songs produced to attempt to make the English feel good about themselves. If I was searching for this image I might type "Keith Allen stuffing his pug-ugly smug arsehole of a mouth full of lardy shite." But I'm not so I wouldn't.

4. Nick Rhodes erection

So much less common than Keith Allen eating chips. The last time Nick had a hard-on in public was at the 1983 recording session where he produced Kajagoogoo's Too Shy. For a laugh, Limahl and the two Nicks (Beggs and Rhodes) sprayed one of their many cans of hairspray down the front of their trousers. If you listen to the track closely you can hear laughter in the background of the chorus.

5. Man rude to Jeremy Kyle said he had big ears

In the words of Contains Mild Peril (as summarised by Google):-

What is the world coming to when a rude young man thinks he can push people...the people on the Jeremy Kyle Show. "You wait till I see him," said my aunt.

Did I really say that?

Jack's It

If you missed the first programme in Michael Cockerell's series Blair: The Inside Story, I'd recommend catching the rest of this history of our Tone's ten years in office. I'm sorry you missed the quote of the week, the following rubbish from Jack Straw concerning the death of the Princess of Our Hearts:-

People forget, almost ten years down the track, just what a national trauma it was for everybody. You'll remember the astonishing floral tributes: a great symbol of beauty in the future which was the idealised version of Princess Diana who'd been crushed to death in a rather seedy car crash in Paris.

First of all Jack, I don't forget what the reaction was like ten years ago. A lot of ordinary people were in shock. And a lot of ordinary people were like me and my friends: totally unaffected by the woman's death but extremely annoyed by the over the top reaction of the press and the falsity of our fresh faced young arse licking prime minister.

I do remember the floral tributes, though I only ever saw them on the telly. As far as "a great symbol of beauty in the future which was the idealised version of Princess Diana" goes, I'm sorry Jack but I don't understand what the bloody hell you're on about. You'd think a politician of your experience would be able to communicate with the public in a straightforward way but you're just not making sense, man.

And by calling the car crash "seedy" I think you're putting the blame on the evil paparazzi and the press's hunger for the exposure of every little bit of Diana's life, the press that drove her to her death. When in reality if the bloke driving her car hadn't been driving too fast on drink and drugs she may still be alive today living happily ever after at Mansion Al Fayed.

Peace, Jack
:)

Union Jacked Up

Roger Black's Olympic Challenge
28 February 2007

In a landmark new series for BBC Radio 4, Olympic Silver medallist Roger Black takes on one of Britain's most urgent challenges - to get the nation's kids fit for the 2012 London Olympics.

Roger calls in the Army to help him prepare his class for their first ever inter-school sports competition.




So Jamie Oliver's got our kids healthy, now good old Roger Black's on the scene to get them all fit enough to take part in the bloody 2012 Olympics.

Of course it really is a fucking "urgent challenge" to get Britain's kids fit for the Olympics. And where better to monitor their progress but on a Radio 4 programme. Let's face it, all kids listen to Radio 4.

Since retiring from his "job" as an athlete, Roger has worked as a BBC athletics know-it-all and is apparently an accomplished motivational speaker and conference host. In this morning's preview to the programme, Roger said he wants to teach kids to lose as well as how to win.

Do kids really need to learn how to lose? Losing's all a lot of them know. Does losing a fucking stupid race to a naturally talented athlete make you understand what it's like to lose, say, a member of your family? The deaths and rejections of loved-ones are all part of losing, Roger. Can you really say your stupid races are lessons in how to deal with these losses?

You have to be born a certain way to be an athlete. You can't learn how to have the right lungs or physique. Roger has done very well because he's a natural fast runner with the gift of the gab. Well, well done, Roger. Jolly good for you! But just what will you be able to motivate the kids to do? Run and lose? Great, yeah, a great lesson for life, there. They knew they were going to lose anyway!

I wish I was a kid again and you were trying to motivate me with your ridiculous Army back up. Is Prince Harry involved? Great example he is to the kids with his Nazi clothes and his SAS ring of steel around his puny royal body. You couldn't motivate me in a million years. I am one of the unmotivatable. So ner!

Sport is sport. That's it. If you're good at it, good luck to you. If you enjoy watching it, good luck to you. It is an escape from the thing we call life.

Period.

When I Grow Up, I Want To Be...

The meme of the year so far, created by Tim Footman, this one dedicated to the Snowman himself. See if you can spot the dedication...

Seven Things I Have Wanted To Be:

1. Footballer. The new Bobby Moore. Except my mum sewed my number 6 on upside down.

2. Songwriter. Trouble was I could only write shitty cod reggae. I took a tape of mine to an independent record company. They said the lyrics needed some work. It would have been kinder to be crueller.

3. Writer. I've written since my early 20s, never completed anything except for a shite play.

4. Fitter.

5. Happier.

6. More Productive.

7. Comfortable.


Seven Things I Have Been:

1. Money collector for a football pools company.

2. Supermarket shelf stacker.

3. Drugs tester (greyhound piss).

4. Tote cashier (greyhound stadium).

5. Insurance clerk (bored out of my fucking brain for a month).

6. Auditor.

7. Bookkeeper.


OOH, THE GLAMOUR! NURSE, THE SCREENS!

Brucey Bonus (300th Post - Thank you all for reading, I don't deserve you)

I'm listening to Bruce, my hero in my late teens.

I didn't get to see Bruce until The River tour. He was tiny on that stage, up the other end of Wembley Arena. It might as well have been Fozzy Bear & The Sesame Street Band for all I could see and hear.

This was before Bruce pumped up his body and his sound. Before the air-punching Born in the USA. Before the American right saw a chance to muscle in on Bruce's new anthemic rock.

The Bruce songs of my youth are all about the working man. The blue collar worker who works damned hard at a shitty job and can only break free at night or at the weekend.

My life has never lived up to Bruce's songs. I'm definitely white collar and my weekends have never consisted of burning up/sweating it out on the streets or wild partying. I've always taken it as easy as Val Doonican or Perry Como.

In Bruce's song Independence Day, he's leaving his dad, breaking free from the family, making his own way in the world, away from the older man he resembled a little too much.

In my case, it wasn't me but my dad who upped sticks, took permanent leave from the family. I was left with his old responsibilities. I have never lived a Springsteen song. And I'm so grateful because if I had I'd now be divorced with five kids, a knackered old chevy and several broken dreams.

And bollocks to that for a game of soldiers.

Uncle Giles

A shameless promotion for the blog of a friend of the family.

Giles has started writing again after a traumatic few months. I tried to help him upgrade to New Blogger and I totally cocked it up, so here he is at his new address.

He is a very open emotional man who wears his heart on his sleeve so I wouldn't be surprised if he wins Post Of The Week sometime in the near future.

Selling Sausages By The Pound

The smell in Asda today is foul, although the smell in Asda today is not fowl but definitely porcine.

On special offer is the sausage apparently voted the country's best: the Porky White.



The woman speaking over the tannoy doesn't tell us who voted and which other brand of sausages were included in the shortlist of best English sausages. Was Porkinson's there? Or does Prince Charles have a special sausage in his Duchy range of organic good-for-you foods? Or were they just voted above plain old Wall's bangers?

Anyway, Porky Whites are the best. They just don't smell very nice. At Asda they are offering little portions of the PWs on sticks free of charge for Asda's hydrogenated fat saturated customers to sample. The portions look undercooked but they are being gobbled up. Most consumers return the sticks.

Whilst in Asda we buy some bog roll. We like the soft stuff as we have sensitive arses. In fact my arse has been known to weep in front of paticularly moving films.

This is our current bog roll of choice.



The reason I am none too impressed is because the hard looking little bastard on the packaging is apparently the new "MD" of the bog roll company. Apparently he will get back to you if you're in any way dissatisfied with your arse-wiping experience. I don't believe them. I can't see a psychopathic little shit like that manning the phones or dictating an apology to his secretary/mother. He's more likely to send his own shit wrapped in a paper nappy, recorded delivery to the poor sod whose arse was cut open by the shards of glass inserted in the bog roll by the same evil child.

Put On Your Dancin' Shoes

I've just looked at myself in the mirror and I didn't like what I saw. An accountant who dances like a social worker.

Where did that come from earlier today? Saying I was in a dancing mood and asking for emails? Post-Ikea stress disorder probably.

Still, the song I was dancing to is here and if you want to dance like a social worker I suggest you listen to it. It's off an album called The Rough Guide To Highlife which is well recommended although this is the only track including those 80s keyboards that wallys used to play like a guitar.

DJ Jazzy Geoff

So I'm halfway through my week off and what have I done?

1. I've been to Ikea to get a new table and chairs. I've sweated over flat packed wood to put together said table and chairs...

Oh yeah, when is 40mm not 40mm?
When it's 45mm, Ikea you silly meatballs.

2. I've visited the local recycling centre (tip) to dispose of the knackered old cheapo Argos table and chairs. Get away with you, cheap rubbish!

3. I've invited a man into the house and given him a deposit on new windows, door and patio doors.


******


Yes, I've been an adult. I hate being an adult on my days off. I don't like spending money on tables, chairs, windows and doors. I like spending money on CDs and DVDs. I am 15 and my pocket money doesn't stretch to furnishings, please Mummy surely this is yours and Daddy's responsibility.


******


At least the rest of the week is to be devoted to more fun pursuits. And first, in response to a very listenable 60s female French singers compilation my friend did for me, I've decided to return the favour: my first ever CD compilation for somebody else.

I'm confident it's going to work. I'm not confident that he'll like it but it's going to work for me and that's the best I can do. I know what he likes and what he doesn't like. But not what he might like. We've got a hell of a lot of music here and I'm going to try to make this as eclectic as I can. A real mish mash of musical styles. A cornucopia of groovy sounds.


******


I'm kidding myself, aren't I?


******

UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE

To celebrate me finishing the compilation CD for my friend I feel like dancing.

If anybody else wants to dance email me and I'll send you a track that makes me dance every time I put it on. Six minutes of dancing feet!

I'm a crazy guy!

The Ballad Of The Boy With A One Track Blog

You turned on the computer
Your eyes and nose full of snot
Your toast strategically placed beside the mouse
Your jam it was apricot
You had one eye in the mirror
As you watched yourself toss off
And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner
They'd be your partner, and

You're so vain
You probably think this blog is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this blog is about you
Don't you? Don't you?


My writing several years ago
I remember was still naive
Well, you said that I'd make such pretty prose
With a 21st century Jeeves
But readers come and readers go
They don't give a stuff for me
I had some dreams once that they'd leave a comment
They'd leave a comment, and


You're so vain
You probably think this blog is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this blog is about you
Don't you? Don't you?


...............


Well, I hear you were in the Blog Awards
And of course you naturally won
With your blog about having it off non-stop
As if it were really fun
Well, your book's out now and you've got your fame
And your mug is on tv
On some shitty wanky arts show or Richard and Judy,
Richard and Judy, and


You're so vain
You probably think this blog is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this blog is about you
Don't you? Don't you?

Rub a Dub

We are off to the local on Saturday to meet some old friends.

The local used to be a bikers' pub.



Now you're more likely to see golfers.



When we were regulars, a Lloyd Cole lookalike was, too.



Joining him in misery was his girlfriend, a Hazel O'Connor lookalike.



Last time we were there, a topless man was being thrown out just as we made our entrance.



But the pub's in the Good Beer Guide now. So we're expecting a more refined clientele.



Cheers!

Martyn Shivers

Murph's post about serendipity and how it's preferable to WOMAD old Peter Gabriel advising us on what we should be listening to made me think: what if I were looking for a new artist to listen to based on what I am currently listening to? I am currently listening to John Martyn.

I'd never sat down and listened to John Martyn until I saw his fantastic performance on the Old Grey Whistle test programme last month. Someone who I'd previously dismissed as an old folkie suddenly became essential. In the same way that I used to assume Elliott Smith was just another shit Americana bollocks artist when in fact he is not Americana at all, John Martyn is not really folk.

So I'm listeninng to John Martyn. Now what else might I like?

Let's consult bloggers' favourite music site, last.fm. Come on, last, give me something new.

On their similar artists' list (based on overall listening habits) there is a 100% chance I will like Fairport Convention. I don't actually mind them so I'll give them that one. But they're not new to me.

Mmm...Bert Jansch 99%, Roy Harper 94%. Maybe I should be growing a beard after all. Maybe I ought to give these folkies a chance. Let's go down the list a little...

Joni Mitchell 78%, Neil Young 72%. Yes, I love them. But they're not new to me.

Paul Weller 61%, John & Beverley Martyn 57%.

Eh? Come on, people. If you've got some John Martyn albums you've gotta get the classic ones he made with his ex-wife. And stop bloody listening to that prick Weller.

last.fm looks pretty good to me. You can sample songs by any artist you like the look of. You can network with other music fans. I would have loved this 20 years ago. 20 years ago we went on our own, we stood on our own, we left on our own. And our bedrooms were not places to socialise.

But this similar artists section really is a load of old guff. If I were to connect John Martyn with anyone in my record collection it would be Arthur Russell and possibly Massive Attack (since they seem to have got their whole sound from John's album One World). They're nowhere on the list. Maybe I'm just too way out. Maybe I should put Arthur Russell into the similar artists search.

That's better. It's alright, I feel like I'm amongst friends now. They're probably all intellectuals, but at least they're not all middle aged beardies.

Mine's a pint of Old Peculiar.

Asparagus Syndrome

I try to get my five a day. A glass of pineapple juice, muesli with dried fruits, an apple, a large portion of peas or broad beans or soya beans. I think I just about make five portions of fruit & veg a day. I should live to be 90.

(By the way - did you know it doesn't matter how many glasses of fruit juice you drink a day, they only add up to one portion so you can't just gorge yourselves on orange juice, you lazy people).

Sainsbury's are helping us all reach our goal. When you spend £20 there you get a lucky coupon which tells you if you've won some free fruit or veg. So far we've won a carton of apple juice which we don't drink and two packs of fresh asparagus.

I was delighted to find the asparagus at two packs for £3. I took the two packs to the checkout with two bottles of bleach. I managed to pay £3 for the asparagus less £3.98 in asparagus vouchers, making a profit of 98p! 32p for two bottles of bleach and two packs of asparagus! Fantastic!

What I didn't realise is that after eating the asparagus, you need to use the bleach every time you go for a piss. Because fresh asparagus eaten in the quantity suggested by the government makes your piss extremely stinky. I almost passed out from the smell. As I was taking my post-asparagus piss, I wasn't thinking about all the good it was doing me with its vitamin c and its folic acid, I was thinking "how am I going to get through the next 20 seconds when the smell of my own piss is killing me?"

I should have known better. The following is a photo of the actress Sarah Miles, clearly dead after drinking a pint of her own asparagus laced piss. Her suffering is over now.

Soul Britannia (Twinned with Betty's 300th Post, *Yay*)

Count Suckle had all the best records, imported from the States and Jamaica. But where to play them?

The owners of the dance halls wouldn't rent them out to the Caribbean community so the only alternative was house parties.

The trouble with house parties is that they create noise which creates a natural antagonistic reaction from the neighbours who call the police who confiscate the sound systems.

And of course there's the perfectly natural reaction from teddy boys and other stupid white boys who disrupt the house parties by throwing petrol bombs and chanting "Burn the niggers! Kill the niggers!" and "Go back to your own country!"

This was the start of the first of the Notting Hill race riots in 1958.

Later in the programme we get working class white youth culture expert Robert Elms summing up the whole era:-

"I think for me mod is the core idea behind the whole youth culture caper, and between that extraordinary relationship between the music of black America and the lifestyles of working class England. I mean, mods are predated by teddy boys and the teddy boys are great, but the teddy boys wanted to stay in their place, they were very kind of brown ale and down the pub on a Friday night and 'gawd blimey' and they were right wing and they were all of these things..."

Yes, Bob. They were all of these things. They were racist cunts and they were gawd blimey and they were GREAT. They were GREAT because they were a smartly dressed youth culture, weren't they? Part of the youth culture caper, all the japes and fun of flick knives and petrol bombs. Oh what a jolly band of boys!

It's all a bit of fun isn't it, Bob?

Me and The Salesman: A Fantasy

I tell the salesman, "Last time we ordered one we had our old one with a company called A. The salesman said A were in the process of being taken over by a larger company and he himself was in the process of moving to a different company, B, and would we like to buy B's product? I thought that was a bit sneaky so neither A nor B got our business and we used C."

"Was it Harry W?" asks the salesman.

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"We took over A," he says. "Harry did leave for B but he was back with us within a year. He's not on the road any more, he's working in the office now, somewhere more suitable for a man of his experience. Lovely man, Harry. One of the best. Old school."

"No he wasn't," I say. "He was a smarmy creep just like you are, just like most salesmen I've had the displeasure to do business with. In fact, if I was writing Death of a Salesman, the death would involve horrific bollock-crunching torture. I'd like to see the salesman smarm his way out of that one."

Street Life

We've had Andy Whyment from the Royle Family recreating his dim-witted character in Corrie.

Now it seems we've got Rodney Litchfield from Early Doors, sitting in the pub by himself, a miserable old bastard who never buys a round.

Corrie are nicking the best characters from the great Craig Cash comedies. Which makes me happy as you can't really see them acting like lunatics and getting involved in ridiculous murder storylines. No, they'll keep Corrie light-hearted.

In last night's episode, Street lothario Dev tried to get off with Rodney's granddaughter by buying her a drink, not realising the drink was for her grandfather.

"Thanks for the drink, chief," said the old man as he left the Rovers.

"Is he being racist?" asked Dev of the granddaughter.

"He calls everyone 'chief'" she replied. "Besides, I think he can tell the difference between people with roots in the Indian subcontinent and native Americans." (or words to that effect).

Eh? Is this in response to the Big Brother furore? It's one of those lines you get in Corrie now and then where the scriptwriter is being clever but not really making much sense.

There are no racists in Corrie. Plenty of murderers, but no racists. There are people of different colours and backgrounds just getting on with life, drinking a hell of a lot, and falling in and out of love. Maybe less realistic than Big Brother but a damn sight more entertaining and with more lovable characters.

Can we just vote Janice Battersby out of the Street for good?

Please?

If A Picture Paints A Thousand Words...

Christ, I was looking rough this morning.


"Come on, Betty," I said. "Take my photo, quick. Let's put some colour back into my cheeks."

There was a large explosion.

Et voila!.....

This is in place of the ninety-five year old Geoff I was going to post from this site which doesn't work for me.

C'est la vie!

The New Harry Potter

You don't mind if we watch Big Brother?

No.

We're recording Five Days.

So are we.

So slow, isn't it?

We've only seen the first three quarters of an hour. Seems alright. The brother of the actress who was in my play is in it.

The play "wot you wrote"...Eric.

Ernie.

Who does he play? This brother.

The young policeman.

Is there a young policeman?...Did his sister do anything after your play?

I suppose so. I thought I saw her in an advert. The actor who was going to but didn't play the main part in my play ended up in The Bill. He was a central character in The Bill. Another actor on the course was in Eastenders for a bit. I keep looking out for them. It's such a long time ago, I'm not sure I'd recognise them now.

You ought to write a book. You always were good with words. You could give up work, sit at home doing nothing all day. That's what you'd like to do, isn't it? You could create the new Harry Potter. Become a multimillionaire.

No, I couldn't.

Why not? She's done well for herself.

I can't write prose. Only dialogue. And I'm no good with stories.

You don't mind me turning the telly up?

I Am...

...mortified I can't find Toby Anstis' blog.

He asked me before lunch, "Why not read my blog?"

Now he's off air and I miss him so much.

I've just read all your new blog postings and, feeling a bit slow today, I couldn't think of one single comment to make.

I can think of plenty to say to Toby, if only I knew what he was blogging about.

Can anybody help me and find Toby's blog?

Oh where oh where is Toby's blog?
I feel I'm in an awful fog
Or in a desert, perhaps the Gobi
Without the one and only Toby

Anyone For Tennis?

Their 4x4 was written off by a falling tree in last week's high winds. Good for the tree, I say, taking one of the bastards with it.

Unfortunately, when it comes to motor insurance, this is not an Act Of God, and they can choose a new £25,000 monster.

Also, luckily for them, there's a brand new 4x4 out. The queue to test drive one is predictably long.

In a year in which we are not going to fly, reducing our carbon footprint to the size of a sparrow's, it's heartwarming to discover that other members of my extended family are doing their best to help with the destruction of the planet. I totally despair of the selfish human race as I look at my smug face in the mirror.


*******

Yesterday was spent re-evaluating our CD collection. Which meant bringing down all the 80s, 90s, and early noughties CDs I'd stuffed in the loft a few years back and bringing some back down into the listening fold.

I tend to have manic purges now and then and throw the babies out with the bathwater. Betty is more sensible (if it wasn't for her I'd have got rid of half the contents of the house by now).

So welcome back Moby, Madonna, Jake Slazenger, Manic Street Preachers, Radiohead, Mad Professor, Tricky, and Fairport Convention. All that Britpop shit went straight back into the loft however, to have their own Britpop party with Elvis Costello and Nick Cave brooding in the corner.

Dismissing Jake Slazenger? What was I thinking of?

Modern Day Heroes Part One

Russell Brand, zombie version of George Roundy, Warren Beatty's character in Shampoo.






You love him or you hate him.

I used to hate him, now I love him. Not for his humour but because he's always there and I just happen to like it that way. I don't need to watch him, it's just good to know he's there. He's a thoroughly nice bloke with "wanker" written all over him. But don't worry, he knows it. And anybody who's been called a cunt by Sir Bob Geldof is alright by me.

Saw Shampoo, the film, last week for the first time. Still don't fancy going back in a time machine to late 60s California. Still happy I've never taken drugs.

The film ends with the old rich man getting Julie Christie. As if that sort of thing happens in real life!

The Devil & Daniel Johnston

It could have been so different if I'd discovered Daniel Johnston in the eighties. I would have been over him by now. I would have loved him for a few years then dropped him from my listening schedule.

My eighties fixation with American indie music has long gone. I didn't hear him at the time. And that time has gone.

I'm not over him. I'm discovering him for the first time. And Christ, do I feel for him.

Not only manic depressive in the extreme, with all the horrible delusions that go with it, he was, in addition, born into a very religious family. The poor sod never had a chance.

His whole life seems to be either filmed or on a cassette tape. And that's really freaky.

There are his freaky cartoons, too. And of course his songs obsessing about a teenage girl he once knew. When I say obsessing, I mean obsessing. He can't leave her to the past.

Satan is never absent from either his songs or his art.

His songs have been covered by the great and good of indie rock. They probably sound clearer and more professional than Daniel's versions but no way could the stars put as much real feeling into the songs. Daniel hurts so much it's painful to listen. Since his teens he's needed buckets of medication to keep him from doing something stupid. But being the real deal, he's skipped his medication in order to perform his songs the way he's wanted to: honestly and with full raw emotion.

It's too much for me. I'm quite happy with false emotion and singers just singing the songs, not baring their haunted souls. OK, there are a lot of suicides in my music collection but they all seem to be holding things together on the recordings. Please tell me they are. I couldn't bear it if they're cracking up.

The film ends with Daniel out of the mental home, living with his elderly parents. He so wanted to become famous to be able to afford to make his parents' lives comfortable in their dotage. They end up caring for him, 24 hours a day.

They won't be able to do it for much longer. They are running out of time.

Junior Mastermind

Name: Jonathan Witsaboutim

Location: Swotsville

Subject: Green Day



Green Day? Green fucking Day?

Dad, why do you have to foist your taste in music on the poor sod? And then get him to memorise every single thing about that shitty so-called "punk" band?

Ooh, you big rebel, Dad. Green Day on Junior Mastermind!

Sorry Dad, these are the tossers who closed the coffin lid on Top of the Pops. Them and the Red Hot fucking Chilli Peppers, with their interminable live sets. Music for middle aged men with no concept of a pop tune. How in God's name is your son ever going to find himself a girlfriend if he's obsessed with Green chuffing Day at the age of 10? You've ruined him, Dad.

Letter To The Sun Newspaper

Dear Editor

I am afraid I cannot summon up any "revulsion over another botched hanging", a feeling which you say is "worldwide".

Iraq is still a long way from becoming a peaceful democracy with civilised executions.

However, the more people who are executed by hanging, the more experienced the practitioners will become, and the more expertly the job will be done. There is nothing more morally uplifting than a perfect execution, performed with grace and humility, allowing a dignified end to life.

Messrs Bush and Blair have started the democratic ball rolling. It is up to the Iraqi people to run with it so that they too can one day have a capital punishment system to be proud of.

R Dean Taylor Day

It's R Dean Taylor Day today here on Contains Mild Peril.

Here's a bearded loon on the run from Threshers in the video of Indiana Wants Me. Scruffy git deserves all he gets if you ask me.

And here's a snatch of the ex President and First Lady of Northern Soulah, Mr & Mrs Smith, before she left him for boily necked working class wannabe, Nigel Kennedy.

Come on, this'll only take five minutes of your time.


If you haven't got it, BUY THIS ALBUM.

The Generation Game

She STILL looks 61. Have a guess how old she is.

47?

She's 48. She's had everything done. Botox everywhere. She still looks 61.

She must have had a hard life.

She was a smoker.

Don't you find these programmes depressing?

Not really. I like to see how other people live.

I had to sit through bloody Deal Or No Deal all Christmas Day. Now it's this rubbish. It's all so depressing.

I'll turn it off then. I'm recording it anyway. I'll watch it tomorrow.......Ron's finished his book. You can borrow it if you like. Do you like Fred Dibnah?

Wasn't he on Mastermind?

No. That was Fred Housego. Fred Dibnah's the bloke who steeplejacked. Dead now.

No thanks. Not really my kind of thing.

It's good, isn't it Ron?

Brass Buttons

To help get Betty in the mood for her project, yesterday I ordered a Nudie suit from the hire shop.





They've only gone and sent me a Noddy suit.

Hotel California: LA from the Byrds to the Eagles - A Short Precis (Laurel Canyon For Beginners)

Woodstock was the apex of peace 'n' love hippiedom.

The Manson Murders* and Altamont shot the 60s clean outta the sky.

Cannabis was the drug for peace 'n' love 'n' sharing, maaaaan.

Cocaine was the drug for selfishness and cynicism.

Whatever was goin' on, David Crosby was at its centre, tubily naked in the hot tub with small breasted women.




*The headline on some American magazine at the time called Charles Manson "The most dangerous man in the world."

Were they being ironic, or just up their own arses?

Later Vs Whistle Test

Just compare, not the performances or the songs, but the way these two perfomances are broadcast...

Here's Spiritualized on Later With Jools with their classic song, Broken Heart.


And here's Roxy Music on the Old Grey Whistle Test with their classic song, Ladytron.




On the Story Of The Old Grey Whistle Test, Jools is quoted as saying his show is the grandchild of Whistle Test.

Of course he's wrong. They're like chalk and cheese.

Whistle Test is so much more intimate. The tv viewer is not being patronised. There is no ego about the presenter. Bob Harris is in the studio but in the dark, an unobtrusive presence. He hasn't got a piano right there in the middle of the studio saying "THIS IS MY SHOW". He lets the music speak for itself.

And a Whistle Test performance is not a LIVE performance in front of a LIVE studio audience. There is no audience. The band are playing as if in a real recording studio. And that's what makes this kind of tv so much more exciting. You feel like you really are a fly on the wall, just you, watching the band create. You're not being told you're part of a big live audience and that THIS IS HOW LIVE MUSIC IS.

I don't care if not all the Whistle Test performers were playing everything live. Whether they were playing to a backing track. So what? That's what happens in studios. It's what it looks and sounds like is what matters.

Sorry Jools, but I'd rather see Jason Pierce in a small studio with a few of his mates, singing to a backing track, than all the clever slow zooms and pans to backing singers and violinists, trying to give the appearance of "live" music in a cavernous space filled with idiots with free tickets who'll applaud any old shit. It just doesn't cut it on tv. If I wanted to see live music I'd go and see The Fall. And I really couldn't be bothered to see them any more.

Comfortably Numb

My tranquilisers are continuing to make sure I have sleepy train journeys to and from work.

Yesterday evening, as I awoke, I caught myself smiling. I don't usually smile on public transport. I hope this is not the start of a worrying trend.

Then again, maybe this is not the first time, but just the first time I've caught myself doing it. Maybe I always smile in my sleep and people know to steer clear of me.

If I start laughing in my sleep I may soon have the carriage to myself.


*******


My current stats are reasonable, with about 20 odd regular readers. At least I hope you're all regular. You've got to be odd.

Search engine queries that come my way have recently become more predictable, however. I've had enough of Sandi Thorn's Flour in her hair and Bev Callard's ample bosom.

The following searches are like peaches in a bowl of rotting Golden Delicious...


What is the weight of the cocaine I buy in the little bag?
Sorry I can't help you, old son. Try taking some scales along next time you see your dealer.

Nick Park middle aged spread.
Yes, I can see it's possible. But why? Was he a sex symbol as a young man? Gone to seed?

Middle class wankers dinner parties.
Are you looking to attend one? Do you really think they'd advertise themselves as wankers? Look, there they are playing that game where someone sticks your character on your forehead and you have to guess who you are.


*******


My post on the Bexleyheath rockabilly Scientologists has been found by someone in Chile. The post had been translated into Spanish.

Apparently "Four Mark Kermode lookalikes" is "Cuatro lookalikes de kumode de la marca."

Oh yeah?

Dear Mr Cameron

Dear Dave

I am most upset by the news that Big L** DJ, Mike Read has made it onto your shortlist to stand against Ken Livingstone for the job of London Mayor.

I know you are a cultured man, a fan of Radiohead and Coldplay, and a supporter of the blogging community.

I don't know if you know, but there is a statue of the great writer Oscar Wilde, just across from Charing Cross Station...



I have it on good authority that if Mr Read becomes Mayor, he is determined to replace this tribute with one of his own favourite cultural "icon"...



I am begging you, as a cultured man, Dave. Please do not let this man lead Londoners. I would even prefer Adam Rickett.


**Big L - Frinton-on-Sea's premier radio station

A Message From Jools Holland

Good evening all.

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




HOOT




A NANNY


(GEDDIT?)


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.


Cheers,

Jools Holland
The BBC


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!

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

45

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?

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!

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."

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.

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.

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.

“I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING FRENCH ON THIS MENU!”

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!