The Heart Ward

My dear fellow,

When I visit your father in hospital, I do not wish to hear about your £2,000 lawnmower, your £8,000 boat, or the "fantastic" wedding reception you went to where the "blinding touch" of egg and bacon sandwiches being served to a plethora of pissed up philistines is the highlight of your life till now.

No, if you've got nothing to say about football or Coronation Street can you kindly keep your mouth zipped shut.

Ghouls & Boys

Well, I got my hung Parliament and probably the best result I could have expected. A horrible one.

But the promise of a referendum on getting rid of the unfair first-past-the-post voting system will be making a lot of Tories choking on their foie gras. I'm surprised Cameron hasn't been lynched.

Speaking with a Lib Dem activist today, as you do, I was informed that during all the dithering they'd been contacted by angry people saying either "I didn't vote Lib Dem to get a Conservative government" or "I didn't vote Lib Dem to get a Labour government." Don't you just hate manic optimists?

So a step towards a fair voting system? That's what I wanted out of this election. Of course PR might produce the same result as we've got now. And there'll be even more people to blame.

2010 Election Broadcast

"Hello, Geoff. I am your Member. Would you like to touch me?"


Yesterday evening I was in a bad mood when I got off the train. My mood didn't exactly improve as I was greeted by our MP and his team as I left the station. David had a big false smile on his big smug face.

Although he's a shoe-in to keep his seat, I'm relying on those of you in marginals (sound like skimpy pants, don't they?) to "do the right thing" and "vote for change".

Now where have I heard those phrases before?

A Future Fairer For All

The latest YouCunt poll results are as follows:-

50% of the UK electorate would like a fairer society
30% of the UK electorate would like a less fair society
20% of the UK electorate haven't got a fucking clue what they want

Of course in the current first-past-the-post system, elections are decided by the people who haven't got a fucking clue. But this time, with the very real possibility of a hung parliament, the 50% of the electorate who would like a fairer society may get one. If the Lib Dems get to hold the balance of power, proportional representation could well be on the cards and the Tory Scum will never form a government on their own again. (Well, that's the theory).

If you want a hung parliament, to help you choose, this site looks just the ticket.

Looks like I'll be voting Lib Dem as a tactical vote for only the second time. Last time I voted for them the bastard came third.

Tijuana Brass Neck

If England insist on playing Terry, Lampard and Gerrard in the World Cup, I'm going to have to support another team.

And as my favorite player of this season has been West Ham striker Guillermo Franco, it's going to be Mexico for me.

Of course our countries have a history of mutual admiration. Who could forget this tribute to Bobby Charlton from Mexico's greatest rock guitarist?

It's All We Seem To Hear About Nowadays

I say to my mum, "Did you hear about Malcolm McLaren? He's dead."

"The racing driver?" she says.

"No, the Sex Pistols manager."

"Oh, the Sex Pistols manager."

I take a different tack.

"And Christopher Cazenove."

"That was strange, wasn't it?"

Herr Wallander

I bought three Wallander books the other week. I haven't started reading them yet but I'm looking forward to the descriptions of the surly detective's hair.

Kurt just can't seem to decide what to do with it.

Does he have it au naturel?



Or does he try to look younger by using the cheap option, Just For Men?



Or does he indeed splash the cash and get it done professionally at Benny & Bjorn?



If this is what the male menopause is like, I'm not looking forward to the next fifteen years.

Weally Wotten Wiposte

At the weekend, Fulham fielded a weakened side against the Irons' fierce relegation rivals, Hull City. The Tigers (Grrr) won 2-0.

I think it was this that was the cause of a dream I had last night.

Fulham's manager, Roy Hodgson, was the England coach. By a miracle (beating Germany on penalties), we won the World Cup. To show his appreciation to the players, Roy decided to hold a party.

It was a fancy dress party. And to remind the players of their humble beginnings and their good fortune at now being wealthy heroes, Roy decided on a special theme. He gathered the players together and told them it would be a "Rags To Riches" party.

Here is a photo of a few of the players' other halves at said party:

The Dead Sea

As some of you may know, I've joined Facebook. It's not for me. There's just none of the energy of Twitter, the forward momentum. If Twitter is a vigorous river, Facebook is the Dead Sea. I've been banging my head against my Wall trying to think of a creative use for Facebook. I've given up.

Maybe I just can't be myself.

Who's The Daddy?

Doesn't the Camerons' news put a smile on your face. A pregnancy is just the thing to perk up an election campaign. Mothers and mothers-to-be can relate to politics once again for the first time since Mrs Blair and Mrs Brown were in that wonderful life-giving state.

But who would make the best prime minister? He's got to be seen as virile and a good father. Fathers are so important in politics. Edward Heath was not a father. Look at what happened there!

The current state of affairs for the main UK political party leaders is as follows:-

Gordon Brown (Labour) - 2 children
David Cameron (Conservative) - 2 children, happily one on the way
Nick Clegg (Liberal Democrats) - 3 children
The Lord Pearson of Rannoch (UKIP) - 3 children, but disappointingly married 3 times
Caroline Lucas (Green) - 2 children, though yet to be a father
Nick Griffin (BNP) - 4 children

Of course it is important for the prime minister to have an impeccable marital history. This would rule out The Lord Pearson of Rannoch. Caroline Lucas is also a no no as the time for mothers running the country has gone - the Thatcher era was an historical blip. Gordon Brown has tried over the past few years to demonstrate his virility but no matter how good a father he may be he is just not young and thrusting enough for the modern electorate. David Cameron and Nick Clegg talk the talk but do they really walk the walk? Neither could honestly be described as "Mr Lover Man".

No, only one man will do as Prime Minister. Uncommonly handsome, exceedingly virile, a wonderful father, a moral leader, a man to bring the nation together, Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer.

May 2010 will be Springtime for Griffin!

F for Fake

This week I have learned how to make a fly-on-the-wall workplace documentary. The following guide is indispensable.

1. Don't worry about chronology. It doesn't matter when or where something really happens.

2. Set up false situations to make things more interesting. The protagonists will be happy to go along with this if you tell them it will make more interesting viewing.

3. Get your "stars" to ham it up for the camera. Create fake arguments to make it seem as if there is passionate debate when in reality things had already been decided beforehand.

4. Film some "quirky" footage in the building to make the atmosphere seem unreal and non-contemporary. Stupid people watching will be saying "what a surreal place to work, like going back in time. I would never have realised such places still existed if they ever did."

5. Film some completely unrelated footage featuring real celebrities who turn up at the workplace for no reason whatsoever. This gives your documentary a link to the "real" celebrity world which your viewers can use as a point of reference.

And last but not least...

6. Do not include the people doing the vast majority of the work. They will be too busy to put on an act.

Do Not Buy This Book

After all these years of blogging I've decided it's time to keep a hard copy of my best stuff to date in the form of a book. Something to show to somebody else's grandkids as I'm dressed like Clive Dunn.

So I've done a little 30 pager, just enough to use as a shin pad.

The price shown on the home page isn't inclusive of postage which is a rather expensive addition. This is just an offer for friends and family people who don't personally know me and I'm expecting a very small take up. So please don't disappoint me by ordering a copy.

I mean, why pay for something you can get for free online?

Bollocks idea, really.

Save The Khan

We fell asleep last night whilst watching our recording of BBC4's Heavy Metal Britannia. I'm not much of a heavy fan now but I was there at the start of the musical revolution that was the New Wave Of British Heavy Metal, or NWOBHM as it was imaginatively known in rock weekly Sounds.

We went to see bands such as Vardis, Angel Witch, Praying Mantis and Iron Maiden (whatever happened to them?).

But my favourite nights out were in the Red Lion in Gravesend watching local heroes, Triarchy. I knew the singer/bassist and drummer and I don't know if you've experienced it but it's a very strange feeling seeing kids you've grown up with suddenly onstage in front of you. As a member of the audience in this situation you can't really let yourself go in the way you would in front of, say, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band or Lionel Richie. You've got to stay cool in front of your peers.

This is the band's self-financed single, Save The Khan, which has a lot more going on in it than you might expect. The Ultravox influence is undeniable!

On 6Music

Twitter's gone a bit loopy today with the news that the BBC could be axing digital radio station 6Music. Thousands of Tweeters are angry enough to #savebbc6music. Apparently George Lamb, Tom Robinson, Bruce Dickinson, Craig Charles, Dave Pearce, Don Letts, Guy Garvey, Liz Kershaw, Steve Lamacq et al are producing shows in the spirit of John Peel (one good reggae track followed by ten fucking awful indie tracks?) and are doing what the BBC is all about (innovation and education) and not just lining their pockets with licence payers' money by doing bugger all other than making self-love to the sound of their own boring voices and playing generally boring music in a boring vacuum of boringness.

As a middle-aged white man with impeccable music taste you would think 6Music would be aimed at the likes of me but even if I did like 80% of the tracks they played I've got music coming out of my ears here at home and there on the internet.

I don't need self-appointed music experts droning on, advising me on what I should be listening to. I'm old enough to work that out myself.

The Media's Perception Of Blogging Is Wrong, So Wrong

I was listening to a discussion on the Guardian Technology podcast yesterday. It was claimed that people are stopping blogging because a blog post takes so much effort from which the blogger obtains so little reward.

Well, I've always found the act of writing on here an enjoyable piece of piss. It doesn't take much effort to type the crap that comes into your head which is what true blogging is all about. If you want to pore over something with a furrowed brow then you should be writing a book, not a blog.

As for the "little reward", what do you expect? It's free to publish, it's free to read. The reward should be in the heads and faces of your readers. The knowing nods, the wry grins, the explosive laughter, the tears of empathy. And then the comments that communicate these emotions across the miles.



(0 comments)

The Boys Are Back

I am currently listening to Thin Lizzy. It happens at this time of life that songs I never thought of buying in the past suddenly creep up on me and I get a hankering.

One of Lizzy's songs is, of course, Dancing In The Moonlight (not to be confused with the Toploader toss). It contains the following lines.

"Now we go steady to the pictures
I always get chocolate stains on my pants"

The first line is clearly how the young Lynott would have spoken, as in 1960s Ireland teenagers would "go steady", as good young Catholic boys would, and he would have gone to "the pictures", the wonderful traditional description of a cinema for those of us growing up in the British Isles.

When we come to the second line, however, Phil is clearly going for the North American market, unless he actually went on dates in his underwear which would have been an arrestable offence in tight-assed Dublin.

Interesting.

Also of great interest to me is from which confectionery product did Phil's chocolate stains emanate. I have discussed this on Twitter and at home and come up with the following list, in order of probability:-

1. Flake (as suggested by Beth) 27%
2. Chocolate Buttons (as suggested by Betty) 24%
3. A finger of Fudge 21%
4. Curly Wurly 10%
5. Ice Breaker 8%
6. Old Jamaica (we know he had a taste for the hard stuff) 7%
7. Revels 3%

Are there any glaring omissions in the list? If only we could bring Phil back to life for just this one question!

Homework

Imagine you are a nine year old child. You are used to doing homework because that's what nine year old children do nowadays. Your teacher gives you an assignment.

"I want you to draw an A-Z of mathematical shapes, including both 2D and 3D examples."

So you ring up your mum.

"Mum, we've got to draw an A-Z of mathematical shapes, including both 2D and 3D examples."

So your mum says "don't worry, I'll help you".

So your mum boots up the computer and looks on Google for lists of mathematical shapes. She finds some sites such as A to Z Of Maths Is Fun, Wikipedia's List Of Mathematical Shapes, etc, prints off the shapes such as Acute Triangle, Bezier Curve, Circle, Decagon, etc, says "there you are, love," gives you the examples and you sit down and copy them, making sure the shapes have the right number of sides, the correct angles, etc.

Your mum checks you have copied the shapes properly and you are allowed to go to your bedroom to call your friends.

I'm So Excited And I Just Can't Hide It

She was really excited.

"I'm so excited!"

She'd just booked a holiday to Florida. She'll be going with two of her friends though originally there were going to be seven of them but four dropped out with pathetic excuses.

I felt really happy for her as she loudly told her friend on the other end of the phone line how excited she was about the hotel being near the beach, near the clubs where they're bound to meet some people, near lots of watersports which they'll all be trying out even though Kirsty has never done watersports before and she's so excited she's going on holiday with a couple of friends who've done watersports before and get a real thrill from them, near the docking point for a one day cruise to the Bahamas which is really good value and the experience of a lifetime...

And of course she mentioned twice, yes twice, that the hotel was so fantastic that CONTINENTAL breakfast is included in the price of £800 for 10 days, yes, CONTINENTAL breakfast!

I was feeling really pleased for her as she said she couldn't believe how lucky she was going to her dream destination, Florida, and that she was sure she'll have an even better time than the last time she went there a couple of years ago!

I was feeling even more pleased for her as she shouted that she couldn't believe how excited she was about this year as it is Kirsty's birthday next week, then next month it's Vicki's birthday, then she's going to India, then it's another friend's birthday, then it's another friend's birthday, then it's June and Florida for the holiday of a lifetime! She said that without all these wonderful things to look forward to she really thought she would be depressed.

The train stopped at Charing Cross and she got off. A blind woman in a wheelchair and her guide dog were waiting patiently by the door. A kind man asked her if he could get her some help to get off.

"Yes please," she said. "Thank you. I wanted to get off at London Bridge but they put me on the wrong train."

Our train doesn't stop at London Bridge.

"Geoff Wet Blanket" Part 2

Many thanks to Rog who has taken Dave's words out of context (something all politicians moan about) and put them into something far more meaningful and true.

Rog's video here.

The Day I Spoke To The Future Prime Minister

Watch live streaming video from conservatives at livestream.com

Could somebody go to 36 minutes into this and tell me what Dave's answer is because every time I try it I piss myself laughing and can't hear him talk.

Make Your Own David Cameron Poster

click to make bigger

Make Your Own David Cameron Poster

Staying Blinkered

You control what you can. You have to concentrate on what you can do. Everything else is not your responsibility. If things around you are falling apart you concentrate even harder on what you can control. Don't look at the bigger picture. Stay focused on small things.

That load of bollocks is my introduction into what I've been watching, listening to and reading recently.

I have been watching Nurse Jackie, starring the marvellous Edie Falco.




It's a "dark" comedy with a heart of gold and a fantastic performance from its leading actress. It may be a bit too sugary for some cynical tastes and the script and performances not as funny as my favourite hospital comedy Only When I Laugh Getting On, but Edie deserves every award going for her portrayal of a drugged-up, two-timing, hard-working mother-of-two with a (yes, you've guessed it) heart of gold.

I have been listening to the weekly podcast of Thinking Aloud. I hadn't sat down and listened to the radio since Little Nicky Horne on Capital in the 70s. Now I feel I've been missing out on Laurie Taylor's show since it started on Radio 4 in 1998 but now I am a devoted listener, one of Laurie's Old Gits or LOGS as we are known.

I have been reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, the first novel in Stieg Larsson's Millennium Trilogy. It really is a rattling good thriller and worthy of selling all the copies it has, though you wonder whether it would have sold as many if the author hadn't tragically died before its publication.

Diary A

The Dear Diary season on BBC4 gets off to a disjointed start with Richard E Grant visiting friends and family of diarists Joe Orton and Kenneth Williams, talking about the death diary of John Diamond and visiting Rosemary Ackland's actor husband Joss who compiled and edited her diaries after her death, emphasising all the bits where Joss made "exquisite" love to her.

The most controversial subject, however, was prison diarist Erwin James. If you look at Erwin's biography on his website you will see a story of triumph over adversity, a previously ill-educated man who took a degree and wrote about life on the inside in a very truthful, real way, giving Guardian readers a special insight the string 'em up readers of the Daily Mail will never have. Erwin now works full-time as a freelance writer and the Guardian still loves him.

On the programme, Erwin's work gets a big thumbs-up from "prison reformer" Jonathan Aitken who praises the authenticity of the diaries.


Prison Reformer, Jonathan Aitken

Oh, by the way, did I mention what Erwin was in prison for, which he glaringly omits from his biography?

I'd better not say it here. Instead I'll direct you to the third paragraph of his Wikipedia page.

It's wonderful what an education can do, isn't it? Aitken calls James a "remarkable rehabilitated ex-prisoner". He is the product of a forgiving Christian society which dismisses revenge as Old Testament and realises that people do change over time and if given a second chance may well become good, literate people who can hold their own at nice intelligent dinner parties.

James was in prison for twenty years.

Former England cricketer Chris Lewis is currently serving thirteen years for smuggling cocaine into the UK.

Yes, cocaine, the stuff hidden in judges' white wigs to keep them awake.

Yes, London's Moving, Mr Mayor

Yes, it's been snowing. And we here in the wilderness of South East London are suffering.

Today, in their wisdom, on our line and every other "Metro" line, Southeastern Trains decided to run two trains an hour into London and two trains an hour out of London. When you consider a normal weekday rush hour service contains four times that number, you may see where a problem could occur.

I left early this afternoon and with my fellow departmental employees (we all got the same train, isn't that cute?) we watched our train fill up by Waterloo East and leave lots of people unable to get on at London Bridge. You had to laugh.

And there was more jolity to come. While we made a scenic stop at middle-class Blackheath, we watched the hilarious sight of drivers failing to drive their cars out of the station car park as the incline was too icy. Their tyres just couldn't get a grip! Yes, I know! You pay for a car parking space and a car parking space is what you get!

Still, tomorrow there will be four trains an hour, otherwise known as a "Saturday service". Except it's not really a Saturday, is it?

The Worst Songs Of The Decades

I'm signing off this year with a look back at the decades in shite. Shite has always been in the charts and always will be, annoying the fuck out of right thinking people everywhere. So without further ado:

The Sixties: Freddie & The Dreamers - You Were Made For Me.

This is Freddie at his most hyper, singing to a frightened dog on Blue Peter. There were thousands of frightened children at home, wishing he'd go away.



The Seventies: Don McLean - American Pie

Fuck me, does this go on! It was always on the radio at the time, clogging up the schedules. Imagine seeing this prick live and not wanting to kill him. Later Madonna covered it. Cunt.



The Eighties: Eurythmics - There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart)

In the 80s this duo were responsible for a hell of a lot of violence in pubs when their songs came on the video jukebox. And this is their nadir. You can see Lennox at least once on every series of Later With Jools, dancing like a wanker to anything. She has no taste whatsoever.



The Nineties: Wet Wet Wet - Love Is All Around

My sister once met Marti Pellow in a pub. Instead of glassing him she only went and said "I really respect you." What the fuck? This song is actually decent when played by The Troggs or even REM but blue-eyed Scottish white soul really takes it in a whole other direction.



The Noughties: Bodyrockers - I Like The Way You Move

The creepiest song of all time. This bloke is real heavy-breather material. He probably uses a litre bottle of baby oil every time he makes sweet love with his poor victims. His genitalia are so slippery it wouldn't take much of a push to propel them from one side of an ice-rink to the other.



I hope you enjoy your evenings with plenty of food, wine and song. We will be watching BBC3's Most Annoying People 2009 in anticipation of a new decade of tosspots beaming their inane smiles at us and talking out of their arses.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Album Of The Decade: The Noughties

With news that Lord James Blount's Back To Bedroom is the UK's biggest selling album of the decade, where do I start?

Not with rock, that's for sure. The Strokes and Kings Of Leon tried to keep the rock wagon rolling but one of its wheels fell off long before the turn of the century.

Dance music, grime, dubstep and pop told the real story of the noughties. Vitalic, Dizzee Rascal, Burial and Ladyhawke. Just a few names to drop from a varied decade of artists. The decade of the individual in pop music. The band was dead.

And there was no greater individual than Felix da Housecat, whose Kittenz and Thee Glitz is my album of the past ten years.



Felix has been making house music since the 80s but this decade saw him really mix things up and cross over to a massive audience. Well, he should have but still remains somewhat obscure.

One wonders what is to come in the next decade. Will we see a new youth movement, or will pensioners spend their disposable income on Roland TR-808s and mash things up for the gilted generation? Who is to say?

Album Of The Decade: The Nineties

This was the decade of the last truly classic rock album, Nirvana's Nevermind. The decade when dance music was the format and DJs were the new gods. The most enjoyable time in history to be young, looking at things from a jealous middle-aged perspective for whom the 80s had been a time of abject misery.

Of course that's how it was.

So the dance single grew into the dance album with the likes of Daft Punk, The Chemical Brothers, Leftfield, Deep Dish, etc, producing stuff that you could sit and listen to at home. Contrary to the name, you don't have to dance to dance music. Just as my dad never danced to Ted Heath's Big Band but nodded his head like a demented pigeon.

As this was going on, The Aphex Twin, The Prodigy, Faze Action and Goldie were creating complex rhythms and tunes and music was alive again.

But I'm not going to choose any of these artists because I think of the 90s for me as the end of the old.

Britpop was retro music that took its influence from 60s and 70s guitar rock. The bands that did it for me weren't at the heart of the scene and probably would have hated to be lumped in with the Blur, Elastica and Suede family. Manic Street Preachers and Super Furry Animals are still making good albums fifteen years on which kind of goes against the grain for rock bands.

My 90s album harks back, too, to rock, blues and gospel. It is Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space by Spiritualized.



Jason Pierce made this album after losing his woman to Richard Ashcroft. Imagine the pain he was going through and the drugs he had to take to blot out the image of seeing the love of his life with that untalented streak of piss. But great art can be produced under the influence of pain and drugs.

*Sob*

Album Of The Decade: The Eighties

My quintessential album of Thatcher's big cock of a decade features a man who even out-crotched the Taj Mahal himself, Mr Michael Hutchence.

It was not a great time for the album. The 12 inch single dominated with post-punk pop, hip hop and no wave at the beginning of the decade and house music at the end. The less said about the middle, the better.

There were good albums about, of course, by Joy Division, New Order, Scritti Politti, Associates, Happy Mondays, etc, etc. But New Gold Dream by Simple Minds had a forward thrust ("81,82,83,84") and that 80s production and bass sound that we all loved.



This was the end of a great run of albums by Simple Minds. They soon crossed over into stadium bollocks U2 style, lost their pop sensibilities and went up their own arses. Which for someone as well-endowed as Jim Kerr...

Album Of The Decade: The Seventies

Where to start? Well, I'll start by admitting I'm not up to the job. The 70s was such a varied decade for music with so many great albums. I can't say one is better than the rest.

So the "album of the decade" becomes the album that, for me, is at the heart of the period. In the 60s, The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn took young minds out of the monotone past into a kaleidoscopic future. And so decades to come would strive for a Tomorrow's World without the suffocating constraints of the traditionalist Raymond Baxter.

Raymond would have chosen a punk album, possibly London Calling. But guitar rock was where we'd been, not where we were going, as the future music saw the increasing use of synthesisers.

So I'm going to go the whole hog and ignore great albums by the Sex Pistols, Patti Smith, Television, Talking Heads, ignore the great soul albums of Stevie Wonder and Isaac Hayes, even ignore the electronics of the early Roxy Music albums and Bowie from the mid to late 70s. I'm going to go the whole hog and choose Kraftwerk's masterpiece Trans-Europe Express.



Smart young fellows in suits and ties, helplessly indebted to the Berlin Wall which was to be later ruthlessly destroyed by Roger Waters, Kraftwerk were Cold War Cool. This was the age of the train in Germany, knocking our Jimmy Savile's Leeds-London commute into a cocked hat. Trains that went long distances, sleeper compartments, countryside, towns and cities flying back into the past.

A lot has been made of Kraftwerk's influence on hip hop and house as if this was their greatest achievement. No. The music stands alone as genius. Man and machine, together. Together in electric dreams.

Album Of The Decade: The Sixties

Leading up to the end of the decade I am devoting this blog to discussing the best albums of each of the past five decades. And in time honoured fashion, of course this will mean the best white male rock album of each decade. Because, as we know, white male rock is the only form of music taken seriously for these kind of lists.

So, the 60s. There was the Beatles, of course, who made some classic albums. The Doors, of course, who made some classic albums. And my personal secret band, Spirit, who also made some classic albums.

But the best white male rock album of the 60s just has to be Pink Floyd's The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn.



When I first met Betty I was unaware of the Floyd's early work. When she said she liked the band I imagined going to the Dominion Theatre to see a musical based on The Wall written by somebody extremely unlikely like, say, Ben Elton. Of course I was aware that Roger Waters was largely responsible for the downfall of communism in Eastern Europe. But he wasn't winning me over with his emotional blackmail.

But Betty played me The Piper and I understood everything. Man, what a trip! The Beatles' Penny Lane takes me back to my little comfortable 60s but this album takes me to the sixties. A 60s where middle class white kids were turned on, tuned in and dropped off at psychedelic gigs by their dads. It's a solid gold classic, mate.

What is your favourite white male rock album of the 60s? Pray tell.

Lionel

"We're the only ones who tolerate Lionel. He's such a miserable, horrible man, hasn't got a good word to say about anybody. He pops up on our doorstep at the most inconvenient times. You ask him if he wants a coffee or tea and he says yes please and a sandwich would go down nicely.

Everybody's sent him to Coventry at the bowls club, except for us. It's the same with the dancing club. So when we had our club's Christmas dinner on Wednesday him and Jean were on the same table as us. He treats Jean like shit, always ordering her about to do things. She does everything for him, he's like a big baby who can't do anything for himself.

So we had our meal. Soup with a bread roll and butter, turkey with all the trimmings, Christmas pudding, mince pies, cheese and biscuits. Then they brought some bowls of Roses chocolates round.

Well Maureen offered our Roses to the next table. Their bowl was empty and she thought they hadn't been given any. They had but they'd eaten them all. So they took a couple and handed then back to us.

And you know what Lionel did? He snatched them out of Maureen's hand and said the chocolates were for our table and our table alone and he was going to keep them safe. He held onto them, out of the reach of everybody. He was so angry that Maureen had passed them onto the other table.

So I wasn't having this. I thought I'd make a joke of it and pretended to go for the chocolates. And you know what Lionel did?

He grabbed my hand and squeezed with all his strength. He was furious. He was squeezing so hard I thought he was going to break my thumb. He's a big man.

So that's it. That was like a red rag to a bull. We're not going to socialise with Lionel any more. He's cooked his goose. If he tries to sit on the same table as us in future we're just going to move. And if he turns up at our door we're not going to answer it. He can stick his sandwiches."

An Important Announcement

Things are going to change around here. I've been writing on this blog for fifteen years and never made a penny out of it. I'm following Rupert Murdoch's example and installing a paywall.

From Saturday all you will see when you hit this blog is the following image.




The image will open its mouth and you will have 15 seconds to click on the PayPal icon on the tip of its tongue. You will then be able to securely electronically send me, the author of this blog, one United Kingdom pound for access to the delights therein. I will be making it worth your while by recording an exclusive daily podcast of me reading excerpts from the Old Testament in a very high, silly voice which you can download and play on the portable device of your choice.

Of course if you do not click in time, you will be denied access, the image will shut its mouth and slowly dissolve into the electronic ether. I will be able to tell from my stats just who has decided to not pay me a living wage. And I do not forget.

Snooker Doggy Dog

Last night I came to the realisation that the beautiful game is not football. We had just stopped halfway through watching the French version of Lady Chatterley (or "John Thomas and Lady Whitestockings" as the English subtitles had it) and in my alcoholic haze I was whisked away to the Pukka Pies UK Snooker Championships from Telford. It suddenly all made sense.

Football I can watch if I'm passionately supporting one of the teams. An England containing Terry, Lampard and Gerrard I have nothing but disdain for. And a West Ham team as lame as the current one doesn't really get me jumping out of my seat. But, snooker is something else.

I presume you remember Betty's post on those snooker players of yore who brought an animal sexuality to the game.

I'm afraid today's crop of players are not in the same league. They are young, self-critical, efficient and personality-free. But could you see David Beckham playing in a tournament sponsored by Pukka Pies? Exactly. You cut your clothes according to your cloth.

So I sat there last night for a good fifteen minutes. Transfixed, I was. All that sport-watching machismo had left my body to be replaced by simple appreciation of skillfully maneuvered balls. The players were not important. I willed them both to perform to the best of their abilities. I was in no hurry, not like the old days when a dithering Terry Griffiths would get me shouting expletives with impatience. I was happy for the players to take as long as they liked to create the most pleasing shots.

Last night I found peace with myself. It has taken me by surprise but now I know there is no turning back. I think I will be able to retire with grace and free of stress. Though I may have to be constantly pissed.

National Treasure Island

Morrissey's choices of songs on Desert Island discs were hardly inspiring. New York Dolls, Ramones, Velvet Underground, Nico, Marianne Faithfull, Iggy & The Stooges, Mott The Hoople, Klaus Nomi. Seven-eighths white rock from the 60s and 70s. Even if we take the 70s, there was no prog, no disco, no reggae, no krautrock, no soul, no post-punk. Morrissey knows what he likes and he ploughs a very narrow furrow. This is evident in the whole of his and The Smiths' recorded output, lyrically clever but musically leaden.

Still, I like him and he's a national treasure and all that. Where would we be without Morrissey? Just who from the 80s would we have had posters of on our bedroom walls? Whose name would we have written in our exercise books? Whose name would we have referenced when announcing to our parents we were to become vegetarians? Who would have got us into Oscar Wilde?

Stephen Fry?

There Must Be An Angel

Today Annie Lennox receives the Freedom of the City of London in recognition of her sterling work for the British Red Cross. It will be a star studded tribute evening featuring performances by independent lady singer-songwriters such as Little Boots and La Roux. Independent lady singer-songwriters of the noughties are continuing Annie's tradition of independent lady singer-songwriting and let's hope they continue Annie's tradition of humanitarianism in any spare time they may have between writing, recording and performing their songs.

Previous famous recipients of the award include The Queen, Nelson Mandela, Princess Diana, Luciano Pavarotti, Florence Nightingale and Winston Churchill. I'm sure you'll agree our foremost independent lady singer-songwriter can hold her own in such exalted company.

As Freemen, Annie, The Queen and Nelson Mandela (and presumably the ghosts of the others) currently have the right to:-

1. drive sheep and cattle over London Bridge

2. be hanged by a silken rope if sentenced to death

3. carry a naked sword in public

4. be bundled into a taxi and sent home rather than thrown into a cell if found drunk and incapable by a City of London Police officer

So go on, Annie. Fill your boots, get fucking rat-arsed, swirl that sword round like a wacky child and shoo some sheep and cattle over Dave Stewart's headless body. We will cheer for the death of the hateful 80s as your neck is enclosed in beautiful jacquard silk as you stand there resplendent in your perfectly tailored man's suit.

The Shed

This shed was a refuge. It was here I did my stuff, I created. Music, art and literature. From dawn till dusk I did whatever my instincts told me. An artist must trust his instincts. Must act on them. Must do.

My family left me to my own devices. My wife worked at home, in her upstairs studio. She wrote film and television soundtracks. You may have seen her name. It may have registered. Sarah Malcolm. My sweet Sarah.

My children were gifted, too. Ross was going to be a successful musician. He had a magnificent command of a multitude of instruments. And Lucy's calling was to write. She was a precocious child who wrote her first story at the age of four. Our children were beautiful with full brown eyes and long dark hair.

Last Saturday evening, they all died in an horrific supernatural maelstrom of evil that engulfed the house.

Fortunately for me, I was in the shed at the time.

'Tis The Season

Preparations for the company Christmas do are in full swing. It's going to be a posh version of chicken-in-a-basket (pheasant-on-china?) with a live band (who will attempt anything from the 50s to the noughties) to accompany our noshing and guzzling. We've been asked for dedications for the band to play to fellow staff members.

Of course I'm keeping myself to myself and wouldn't dare suggest Kraftwerk's Pocket Calculator for yours truly or The Fall's Mr Pharmacist for the office cocaine dealer, but I thought it might be fun to make things a little difficult for the singer.

Bill Withers' Lovely Day, for example, or Mojo Pin by Jeff Buckley, or 16 Shells From A Thirty-Ought Six by Tom Waits, or Captain Beefheart's Electricity. Even Rush's Closer To The Heart.

Any other challenges for the vocal chords?

The Harvester (Slight Reflux)

Mrs Edmonds is cooking Noel's favourite meal, salmon steak with buttered new potatoes and tinned Smedley peas. Noel always orders this meal when he goes to his favourite restaurant, The Harvester.

"Sauce, darling?" Mrs Edmonds calls from the kitchen.

"Sorry, darling?" replies Noel.

"Would you like sauce with your salmon?"

For the first time in his long life, Noel is not sure about something. He dithers. Mrs Edmonds begins to get a little irritated.

"I said would you like sauce? I'll have to make it straight away if you want it."

Noel is confused. He really doesn't know. He really doesn't know whether he wants sauce or not.

"For the last time, darling!"

"Yes, darling?"

"Sauce or not?"

"Sauce or not?" Noel repeats, parrot fashion.

"YES! DILL OR NO DILL?"

The Harvester

Betty couldn't make it as she'd sprained her ankle the previous day and was not particularly mobile. This left me, my mum and her husband, and my sister and hers. I cadged a lift as I do not drink and drive.

My brother-in-law asked us what we wanted to drink. I was not quick enough to get the drinks in. I never am. Two of them went to the bar and the rest of us were greeted by the Harvester Greeter. Yes, they had a table for five. We were shown to it.

There were all ages in the restaurant, from babies to old women. Children were running around, in high spirits. There was a lot of chatter. I honed in on a kid who had a "Chelsea F.C." top draped over his chair. And the old woman with the half of lager, her middle aged son with a pint of coke. He must have driven the family there, sacrificing booze for kindness.

I picked up the menu. It wasn't the menu I'd seen online, the pdf I'd downloaded to my desktop. This was the good value "Earlybird" menu to be ordered before 6 p.m. I imagined birds waking up at 5 p.m. saying to themselves, "Bloody hell, I'm up early".

I didn't want to seem a cheapskate so I picked up the main menu, as did the others. I'd already decided on the soup to start and chicken & mash as my main course. Apparently you can't go wrong with chicken & mash no matter what day of the week or time of day it is.

The waitress came to our table. Nobody wanted a starter so I kept schtum about the soup. They were all going to scavenge from the free salad cart and eat their spoils as a starter. This is the Harvester unwritten custom. You do not have a starter, ever. You scavenge from the free salad cart.

I have trouble with raw and vinegary food. So after ordering our main courses the others went up to the cart and I was left nursing my glass of red wine.

They ate their salads. On the table ahead of me the old woman sent her lamb shoulder back to the kitchen. Was it underdone? Not enough gravy? I never did find out. Her son seemed happy enough with his mountain of food and his second pint of coke.

We spoke about what was on telly and about the Christine Bleakley/Frank Lampard affair. Then our main courses arrived. Two well-done sirloin steaks, one with jacket potato, one with chips. One salmon steak with buttered baby potatoes. One gammon steak topped with a fried egg and accompanied by chips. Oh, and my chicken & mash. Everybody had a baby's handful of tinned garden peas. And there was a bowl of onion rings to share.

We got stuck in and we were good girls and boys, eating most of our meat and fish and all of our peas. The leftover steak and salmon was wrapped in a serviette for the dog for later.

"Did you enjoy your meal?" said the waitress.

"Yes, thank you," we said.

"Would you like to see the dessert menu?"

"Yes, please."

I really didn't fancy a dessert. The others did and I watched them demolish profiteroles and all kinds of ice cream. A rather overweight family arrived and my mum said "Oh, well. There goes the rest of the food."

And then it was over. We left the bright Harvester lights, its motorway service station ambience, goodbye to the new arrivals, the old woman with three quarters of a lamb shoulder in her belly, her satiated son grinning into his half-full pint of coke. We said farewell and made a wish that this would not be our last time in such a convivial family atmosphere.

Chanson d'Amour

From what you see in the media, you'd think that "old school" blogging was all about middle class birds shagging. Don't get me wrong, there was all that going on. But there was much, much more.

What you don't hear about are the blogs that described your ordinary working class geezers' experiences of sex. To put it bluntly, it weren't just the literary birds that were putting it about. Of course, the press couldn't give a bollock about the men's point of view as a man's sex life is not deemed newsworthy. But blogs like...

Rock Hard Alan's Blog
Derek From Behind
Long Dong Paul
Dogging Dave

and not forgetting my favourite...

Bit Of Rough Ray (a painter and decorator who described his exploits with a series of posh sorts whose interiors he was seeing to)

...all had merit and were a bloody good read.

They may not have had all those fancy words that got the ladies the book and TV deals but what the geezers lacked in finesse they certainly made up for in enthusiasm.

What are your memories of the old days?

And when they were only half-way up, they were neither up nor down

We're coming up to the time of year when my lovely family enjoy a happy Sunday in the glorious surroundings of a local restaurant. Tomorrow is our local Harvester's turn to experience us in action.

We go to posh places, too though. Remember the time we went here?

Well, I've received a few comments about my cheeky little review since I did it all of three years ago. (My, how the time flies!) Anonymous 1, 2 and 3 aren't really on my wavelength. They mistake my jest for a lack of sophistication. And their defence of a popular local restaurant which doesn't need defending I think illustrates an attitude prevalent amongst those with working class backgrounds who have pissed on their roots and are smugly happy to sneer at those who couldn't give a shit about the social climbing ladder. The ladder is long and the top rungs are off-limits to the likes of the anonymous as they climb as high as they can to breathe the rarest air they can reach. The food on anon's rung is good, of course. But far from the best. The best is as unattainable for them as it is for a single mother on benefits.

Pity.

Anon 1: "I can tell you would not know a first class meal at a resonable price if it bit you on your Burburry cap covered empty heads. Stick to MacDonalds you cheap, moronic, unappreciative egits.

By the way the V******* Restaurant is a fantastic place to eat, we had our company Christmas do there and found the food, wine, surroundings and staff to be excellent."

Anon 2: " "I travel through work a LOT and eat out at restaurants across the country practically every night, through necessity, to the point it's not a treat anymore.

The V******** Restaurant in B********* had always been my favourite - a place for a special occasion - and when I went back with my girlfriend recently I was concerned that it wouldn't be as good as I'd remembered, having been spoilt over the last year.

I'm pleased to say, it was every bit as good as I remembered, one of the best places I've eaten ANYWHERE, and I'm going back there again tomorrow.

The writer of this article doesn't know what they are talking about and needs to stick to Weatherspoons, where a beer and burger meal is very good value for money if you are feeling a bit tight ;)"

Anon 3: "Stick to ordering a pizza for your trailer geoff! I hear dominos are doing buy one get one free! that should keep the family happy!

wouldnt know a good meal if it came upto ya and twated u between the eyes!"


Nice, eh? The last comment on the post is Betty's. Which sums up our attitude to sneering bastards everywhere.

Betty: "Bleeding hell, anyone would think he had dared to criticise Cipriani or some other top notch joint, judging by the pasting he is getting from people who are so refained and poshe, don't you know, that they can't spell twatted or Burberry.

A shame that Chavscum.co.uk isn't still around - your subtle, witty potshots at poor people would have found a welcoming home there."

Sleepwalking

"A Conservative government will give every child the kind of education that is currently only available to the well-off".

Does anybody believe this absolute shit coming from the mouth of the Tories' education spokesman and contact lens wearer of the year 2009, Michael Gove? But they're on a roll and can say what they like. No moronic floating voter is going to care what they say, they'll just say "it's time for a change" as if who runs the country is about as important as what they're wearing this autumn.

"I've had this coat for a good three years now. It's time for a change."

For those under the illusion that the New Conservatives don't have any real policies and that they'll be just the same as that New Labour lot, Johann Hari puts them straight in this post.

Of course they won't read it, though. Because "they're all the same".

19th Century Boy

Well, I've tried iTunes U. Couldn't find anything to get me enthusiastic about learning. Just got bored, really. All it did was prove to me I'm not cut out for study. Study is boring to butterfly minds like mine. Since school I've tried a few things but never with any conviction. A Political Economy degree. Boring. The Association of Accounting Technicians course. Extra boring. Michel Thomas's Spanish course. Sleep-inducing. I am destined not to see anything of worth through. I just wanna be entertained.

But what entertains me?

I've bought this ipod and I might as well use it. So I got the audio book version of Simon Schama's A History Of Britain out of the library. Boring. I downloaded Madame Bovary from LibriVox. Boring. Lord Byron's Don Juan. Boring. I'm like a surly kid.

But LibriVox has thousands of titles. And as they are so easy to download I will not give in. I will find literature in the public domain that I like and I will come out the other end smiling. My life is about to become a journey into the past.

A Depressing Week

We are sat there, listening to the following...

"We were sitting in bed discussing the BNP. We think he's going to get the protest vote. People who have had enough of the main parties. You can't trust them. Enoch Powell was right, my dad was right. There will be rivers of blood. Our people's blood, what with all these knives they've got. We'll soon be in the minority in our own country."

My grandfather fought the Germans, not an ideology. It was his patriotic duty. He loved his country, his England. And he agreed with Powell 100%. A white Britain full of "our" people was what he wanted.

Nick Griffin says his is not a Nazi party. It used to be, but not any more. He supports Israel. Can you imagine a Nazi being on the side of the Jews?

Watching Question Time. Watching a bunch of young, middle class Londoners (not your true working class white ethnically cleansed Eastenders, of course) attack one man and his views. Views which are held by a significant proportion of people in the UK. Labour, Tory, Liberal, too, attacking him. The people with their snouts in the trough. The people a significant proportion of the population are disgusted with, want no more to do with.

The BBC shot themselves in the foot. The "lynching" was wrong. It entrenched attitudes and even gained Griffin sympathy from part-time racists, your UKIP supporters. It converted nobody to the right side. Was I supposed to applaud along with the audience? Shout out, "Go on, David, you tell him!"? Feel smug that my representatives shouted him down? My 80% of the panel, my 95% of the studio audience?

If the BNP are legally obliged to be represented on Question Time, the law is an ass and Free Speech takes precedent over respect for others. But if they have to be, let them discuss the events of the week, let's see how their poisonous minds work in debate. Don't have Griffin on next time. Get another odious man on there. Or maybe one of their odious women. They do have women in the party, don't they? The BNP isn't a one-man show, now is it?

The Digital Age

It's been some time since I gave a shit about the England football team. Apart from puking up at the sight of Terry, Lampard and Gerrard, my international mojo has gone. But Saturday saw a new me. My passion for my own team has gone.

I suppose it had to happen. I'm not a child any more, looking up to my heroes. I'm at least double the age of a large proportion of professional footballers. I'm even older than Billy Bonds was when he hung up his boots for good.

Yes, we lost to Stoke. But I still had the highlights to record on Sky Plus. Highlights? Who was I kidding?

So I phoned Sky. When I first got Sky Sports it was a fiver on top of the Sky Plus subscription of £10. Things have changed over the years.

There's no longer a subscription for Sky Plus. The Sports package costs £18 a month. Eighteen quid! Seven quid a game over the year! Ten lucky wins, ten bore draws and ten depressingly predictable defeats. What have I been doing with my life?

In other news, I have bought an ipod and have started listening to intellectual BBC radio podcasts. The BBC Podcast page has a search function where you type in your interest, "e.g. Moyles". I know he's popular but do people really download his podcasts? Do people actually find the twat funny and engaging? I despair of the youth of today.

I've also downloaded some lectures from itunes U. It's like going to university without having to do any work! I might just start skipping the lectures and go to the virtual student bar and spend my virtual parents' money on virtual beer!

Jamie, The Young Karaoke Contender

You get a bit nervous the first few times but it's nothing really, you're amongst friends. I'm 23 now but I've got an old head on young shoulders. I suppose I'm lucky in that my uncle's an old hand. He's been doing it for 15 years. You can't buy experience. His Neil Diamond is the bollocks. And he was the one who introduced me to the music of Sinatra. He says I have something of the young Frank about me.

None of us drink much really. It ruins your performance. The only time I've really got hammered was on my 21st birthday. I had double vision and couldn't read the words to Hero. A famous song like that, you've got to give it justice.

The pubs we go to vary so much. Mostly they just leave us alone, though there is one where the landlord thinks he's Liam Gallagher. Which means I can't do my Wonderwall when we're there. Still, I've got loads more in my locker. Loads.

Two Drifters, Off To See The World

Andy Williams is the first artist "confirmed" to play next year's Glastonbury.

The luckiest couple in Britain are Mr & Mrs Ormondroyd from Blackburn.



Having come into some money this year, Bert and Hattie bought tickets on the off chance that someone they had heard of would be performing. Let's hope they enjoy the atmosphere and make the Glastonbury Festival a regular destination for years to come.

A Commute Too Far

All Martin wanted was some peace and quiet. A few minutes quiet contemplation.

Sitting opposite him, a middle aged man was crouched over a laptop, tapping lightly on the keys, a look of self-importance on his face.

Martin could handle that.

To his right, a young lad was stretched out, eyes closed, mouth open, listening to what sounded like awful indie for the brain dead.

Martin could handle that.

To his left, a middle aged woman was playing a moronic game on her mobile phone, a gormless fucking look on her face.

Martin could handle that.

Then Martin's mother got on the train. She sat down beside him.

"I'm getting the early train this morning, love. Barbara's not in. She's got an appointment at the hospital. She hasn't told us what for. I'm sure it's nothing. Lovely girl, Barbara."

Martin could handle that.

Martin knew his mother wouldn't push it too far. She knew he liked peace and quiet in the mornings. She would awkwardly shut up now and shyly get out her Daily Mirror. Martin's mother was one of the few Mirror readers on a train full of Metros and Daily Mails.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" he exclaimed.

Martin's mother had pulled out the Mail.

Martin couldn't handle that.

Head Soup

The little plane was full, flying over Africa, on its way to the documentary for Chef Aid.

On board were Jamie Oliver, Marco Pierre White, Jean-Christophe Novelli, Gordon Ramsay, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Antony Worrall Thompson, The Hairy Bikers, Nigella Lawson, Heston Blumenthal and Brian Turner. Pop star Gary Numan was the pilot.

Suddenly the plane started to splutter and Numan gave an announcement.

"I'm going to have to make an emergency landing."

They all woke up in the middle of the unexplored African jungle, tied up and surrounded by a hostile secret tribe of cannibals!

The tribe's chief was sitting on a throne in front of them.

"You know what I really fancy for dinner?" he said.

"No!" said the rest of the tribe in unison.

"I really fancy a bowl of head soup."

"Us, too!" said the rest of the tribe in unison.

So the tribe's butcher cut off the heads of the chefs, Oliver spitting in his face as he sawed the neck, Ramsay effing and blinding about the sloppy way he was cutting and Fearnley-Whittingstall asking for the recipe.

After four hours on a low heat, the soup was eventually ready. The chief was first to taste it. You could hear a pin drop as the rest of the tribe waited to hear the verdict.

"You have done remarkably well," he said to the tribe's chef. "The seasoning is, as usual, subtle yet piquant. The consistency is absolute perfection. But, I am afraid that this soup is not fit for such an illustrious tribe as ourselves."

"Why, Chief?" said the tribe's chef.

"You can blame me," said the chief. "I should have known. I am versed, after all, in the proverbs of the world. I should have known."

"Why, Chief?" asked the rest of the tribe in unison.

He raised his fists to the sky.

"Too many cooks spoil the broth!"

Blue Birds

A short interjection in amongst all my lovely fictional posts. Otherwise you'll forget who I am!

My long affair with the British public house is finally over. Saturday night was several beers and one violent stare too many. I had to concentrate on my friend's face in order to avoid eye contact with a drunk man with an evil look. And I swore I'd never drink in the same pub as my dad ever again!

As for the beer, I felt sick all Sunday and all I could manage that evening was a soothing gin and orange. Wine? Oh yes, wine too. But the rush I used to get from beer just isn't there any more. It's been replaced by nausea.

In other news, my mum's friend's over from Canada, mainly to see Vera Lynn in concert. At 92, I doubt Vera will be up to much singing. But I'm sure it will be an emotional afternoon and a jolly good sing-song, though the audience will mainly be the sons and daughters of Vera's Wartime fans.

Vera's chart comeback makes me wonder who was the Vera Lynn of our War, The Falklands.

Clare Grogan, perhaps?

The Nostradamus Eleven

Nostradamus (pictured above) is probably most famous for his amazing prophecy which predicted the Second World War, to be instigated by an evil, shady character called Hister (our "Hitler").

What is less known is his prediction that an England football team would win the World Cup. Incredibly, the old goat kept a notebook in which he wrote down the names of all the players in the 1966 England World Cup Final team, other characters involved in the competition and even drew remarkable sketches which, thanks to modern computer technology, have recently been transformed into monochrome and even colour photographs!

So, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I am pleased to present to you...

ALF RIMSEY'S GOLDEN WONDERS


Head Coach: Alf Rimsey


Gordon Bonks


George Coben



Jackie Chilton


Bobby Mayre


Ray Wilkins


Alan Balls


Nobby Steel


Martin Peterson


Bobby Chilton


Roger Hunter


Geoff Hister

Nostradamus had such incredible powers he even foresaw that the cup itself would be stolen and then thankfully found by a remarkable animal...


Dog, Biggles, with owner and World Cup

And who could forget the mascot of that great tournament?


World Cup Wally

The Edible Shrinking Man

I walked through the open microwave oven door.

"Do me!" I said.

"I can't do it," she said.

"Shut the door and turn the dial!"

The oven ceiling was a good two inches above my head. I was ready for death, though I could have done with a plastic horse to sit on as the plate rotated.

"If you loved me you'd do it!"

Margaret rushed out of the kitchen in tears. Left me all alone.

What had made me think she could kill the man she loved? She'd stayed with me, hadn't she? Through months of watching me shrink from a six foot hunk to a five inch mouse. I jumped out of the oven and made my way to the intercom.

"Margaret, I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

She came and got me and put me on my chair in front of the plasma tv. The big screen.

"So, what's it to be?" she said, sorting through the DVDs. "Gulliver's Travels?"

I shook my head forcefully. I'd had enough of that shit, night after night.

"Inch High, Private Eye?"

She gave me that smile she gave me when she told me she was pregnant, all those years ago. She couldn't have! How could she have got it? It wasn't out for another three months by which time I'd be the size of an ant!

I couldn't contain my glee.

"You've got it! You've got it!" I jumped up and down for sheer joy.

"That's why I couldn't cook you, my darling. Maybe after we've watched this a few times, eh? Maybe when Graham comes round on Sunday. We'll watch this for the last time, all together. Then I'll do a nice roast. With all the trimmings."

The Greens' Staycation

Mr & Mrs Green planned their staycation with military precision. Each day they were to rise early, take breakfast on the patio, pack their rucksacks with books, sun cream, hats, umbrellas and medication, and take a gentle stroll to the train station with plenty of time to buy tickets for their destination.

The Greens were not affected by the credit crunch. They just wanted a carbon-neutral year. They wanted the local economy to benefit so their budget was to be without limit. By not spending all that money on travel and accommodation, they could do whatever they wanted to, without reason.

Mrs Green fancied the London Eye. Mr Green didn't so much as he had a terrible fear of heights. He didn't mind flying but those pods looked so exposed up there!

On the other hand, Mr Green liked the idea of the London Aquarium. But guess what! Mrs Green had a fish phobia!

But, of course, the beauty of a staycation is that all that money saved on fares and hotels can be spent on things that don't damage the environment. And it so happened that Mr & Mrs Green knew exactly what to do to ensure they both enjoyed every second of their two weeks off.

They would spend the money on seeing a hypnotherapist to conquer their fears.

So for the equivalent of two weeks in the Bahamas they got to go on a big wheel and see some cunting fish. And it pissed down with rain most of the days.

The Busker

An old geezer once asked me to play some Dylan. Wrong generation, mate. Your classics are not necessarily mine.

The oldest song I play is Every Breath You Take. Most of my set is stuff from the 90s. Losing My Religion, High And Dry. I might even throw in the odd Wonderwall or Don't Look Back In Anger to please the masses.

I had this group of lads once, stopped and sang along. Wanted me to do an Oasis medley. I didn't mind doing it. It was a laugh. You don't get many laughs as a busker.

Sometimes you might see a married couple and you get eye contact with the woman. On her way to M&S or Sainsbury's, the old man in tow. At that moment you feel like you're singing just to her. That's a sweet feeling, that connection. A sweet feeling.

Nothing Idyllic (For Liz Jones)

Country life is not for the faint-hearted, It is red in both tooth and claw. Yet it happens time and time again that a city dweller has a totally unrealistic chocolate box idea of the country and without a great deal of research foolishly ups sticks and moves to what they think will be a rural idyll.

But there's nothing idyllic about mucking out your own husband's shit. Nothing idyllic about having a ewe vomit into your face as your husband pulls out a bloody, gunky newly-born lamb as his shit runs down his legs into his Wellington boots. Nothing idyllic about having to drive 30 miles to a chemist for Imodium as your husband sits in the back of the Land Rover, shitting into a bucket. Nothing idyllic about having your husband shit on you during intercourse as he cannot control his bowels as he ejaculates. Nothing idyllic about hosting a dinner party round the Aga and as you tuck into your organic lamb you hear your husband in the adjoining lavatory, evacuating for England. Nothing idyllic about having lunch in a quiet country pub and your husband coming out of the Gents letting loose a noxious smell which permeates the bar for the next 20 minutes.

No, country living is no bed of roses. But I would not want it any other way.

Billy Bus

Billy Bus was a big red beast, a gentle giant. He moved through town with extra special care, looking out for pedestrians and other vehicles, never jolted forward like some other buses, and treated all his passengers the same, from the most courteous to the very rudest. He bore vandalism, sex, violence, fast food and body odour like the trouper he was. He never complained but worked hard from morning till night.

About a year ago, some middle class fucking cunt wrote a children's book about him and made a fucking fortune. The stories are currently being made into a very profitable television series.

Did Billy get any of the proceeds? Did he fuck! He continues to work as hard as he ever did for absolutely no reward.

The Face Off

They were in the pub, the rugby crowd. Having a good time with their pints and their rugby songs. The landlord had never had any trouble with the rugby crowd. Boisterous, yes, but good humoured.

Then things turned nasty.

A gang of golfers walked in, fresh from the links. Every one was in a bad mood as they'd each shot a 10 on the 18th hole. They were spoiling for a fight.

The smallest golfer caught the hooker's eye. They were brothers and hated each other for their choices in life. The golfer had left school at 16 to become a plumber. The hooker was a chartered accountant. They both had large houses on the same estate, but never talked to each other, were never at the same family gatherings. The last time they'd spoken there'd been blood.

"Alright, lads," said the landlord. "What can I get you?"

"Little drinks for little balls," said the hooker, looking directly at his brother.

"Now come on, lads. We don't want any trouble, do we?" said the landlord.

"We all shot a 10 on the 18th," said the smallest golfer. "Our weekend can't get any worse. We've come here to drown our sorrows. We don't want any trouble, either. But if trouble comes looking for us..."

"Hear! Hear!" said the other golfers, as one.

The rugby crowd put their pints on the bar. Each of them stared daggers at a separate golfer. The hooker had fratricide in his eyes.

"Come on, lads," said the landlord. "Let's settle this like gentlemen, shall we? What about a nice game of darts? Winning team gets a free round."

Suddenly, in walked Mr Cockle, Purveyor Of Fine Seafoods.

"Seafood!" he growled, in such a smooth, sensual way.

The tension was broken, the brothers' stares melted, the rugby crowd picked up their pints, and they all mingled like long lost friends, feasting on whelks.

Antisocial Basterds

You've probably guessed by now that the scenes described in the last couple of posts on this blog didn't really happen. Real-life events are so unreal at the moment that the only way I can conceive of responding to them is to write fiction. So please bear with me as I go completely mad.

I've got a two week break coming up and will be taking another "staycation". I have the following activities penciled in. Will we enjoy ourselves or are there other things we could be doing or seeing within an hour or so's train ride of London?

1. Oxford
2. London Zoo
3. Inglourious Basterds
4. Little Venice Circular Walk

These are all daytime activities, of course. Evenings are for sitting in front of the telly, drinking ourselves into oblivion. Antisocial basterds that we are.

Bob Boskins

An old actor friend of mine died a few weeks ago. At his funeral there were all these luvvie types saying how he would have wanted us to celebrate his life, not mourn his death. You know the scene from Four Weddings & A Funeral? Just like that, it was.

This twat in a beret got up and performed a poem. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." His was a very soft voice which did not rage well but there was not one dry eye in the house, save mine.

It was a Humanist funeral, full of smug cunts. A Dawkins-lite tosser in a cream suit took the service. Fuck knows how he managed to sneak Darwin into it, but I suppose the deceased was a bit ape-like.

The spit of Bob Hoskins, in fact. I used to call him the cockney Bob Hoskins. I did this short at film school, Bob Boskins, in which he played the leading role. You've seen Being John Malkovich? Based on Bob Boskins, that was. Did I get the credit? Did I, fuck.

So they played a Rufus Wainwright song as we all took a few minutes to remember our friend. Rufus Wainwright. I hate him. My dead friend hated him. He obviously wanted me to suffer because he knew all those luvvie types like all that fake emotion.

Bastard.

Four Hands

"Free Kleenex tissues!"

It happens about once a month. I exit the train station and they're there, blocking the pavement.

"Free tissues!"

Free tissues. A little pack of Kleenex tissues. The anti-viral sort that kill germs.

Not very useful for me. I use more toilet paper than I do tissues most days. And I don't think anti-viral tissues are suitable for wiping your arse.

"Free tissues!"

People are lapping them up. Look at him! That bloke over there! He can't get enough free tissues. He opens one of his packets. He takes out a tissue. He holds it to his hooter and blows. He feels good. He feels so good he might wipe his arse on one of the tissues later. I wouldn't if I were him. But I think he's going to. You don't get much for nothing nowadays and what you do get you've got to get maximum value out of it. Not only blow his nose and wipe his arse, he may well have a little wank into one when he gets home. Just a little one, half a teaspoon or so. They're not mansize you see, but they will kill 99% of the germs in his jizz. If only he could do all three at once. Blow his nose, wipe his arse and have a little wank. But he'd need four hands for that. Count them.