Excuse Me While I Reminisce

I'm on my second week's leave of the year 2006, getting these two weeks in before the glorious activity that is THE END OF THE FINANCIAL YEAR ACCOUNTS which wonderfully complements that most special of times, THE END OF THE TAX YEAR.

And isn't this week a hoot? Back to the dentist's to see the locum (a pleasant young man who keeps his instruments of torture exactly in the spot where the patient would normally access the chair, so one has to climb onto the foot of the chair and crawl on one's hands and knees, turn awkardly, pull a muscle in one's back, and bang one's head on the light before settling down to the real business).

Not only the dentist's but the doctor's because the bastards who used to manufacture my medication have stopped manufacturing it. This means I've either got to stop the anti-psychotic element and live with a feeling of constant indigestion, or imbibe double the dose of the anti-psychotic drug and walk around like a zombie until I get used to it. This will probably take about three years if past experience is anything to go by.

So I'm writing this under the influence, thinking how it used to be in the good old days.

I get to thinking of those lazy, hazy, crazy days of last summer. And now I've bought a digital camera, I can share them with you, you lucky people. The original pictures were taken with an ordinary point and shoot camera and Boots can't make a CD of the negatives so I've had the brainwave of photographing the photographs. I've also uploaded them in the wrong order and can't work out how to get them in the order I want ,so this will not be chronological. I'm new to all this so please be patient with me.

SUMMER 2005 - DEAL, KENT




A beautiful sunny Sunday, we go to Deal's independent record shop and buy the superb album No Cities Left by The Dears, together with the additional Protest EP, all on one CD. "Good choice," says the owner, a very nice man at least ten years older than me. "And you've got the EP on there (the reissue). I didn't get the EP on my copy."

This sometimes happens to me in record shops. I've made a good choice but I've taken something that is dear to them. I'm taking their children away from them.

Then it's off for a walk along the front and past the bandstand. There's a real carnival atmosphere, all ages sitting, eating ice creams, listening to the brass band. As we pass them they start up a new tune: Is This The Way To Amarillo? Buggered if I know.

The statue pictured is situated at the entrance of Deal Pier. I don't think it represents Deal's most famous ex-resident, Charles Hawtrey, and his pastime of fishing for sailors. Unless someone's nicked his glasses.


JUNE 2005 - ALBUFEIRA, THE ALGARVE, PORTUGAL

Most people come to the Algarve for its miles of beautiful, sandy beaches, or its miles of beautiful, grassy golf courses. But there are those of us real travellers who go for the culture.

So imagine our delight as we come across this tribute to Britain's greatest living artist:-




I bet you can't name more than a handful of popular music artists who have streets named after them. Elvis Presley Boulevard. Robert Smith Close...But nobody deserves it more than our Cliff, a man who's graced the tops of the charts for six (count 'em) decades.

Rua Sir Cliff Richard
Cantor

Yes, as many women have asked him over the years...Cantor won't?

And just round the corner from Sir Cliff Road?

A local school:-




NOFX? Punk power? Fuck the system and the politic?

Listen, NOFX. If you're still in the charts in 30 years time, then you can fuck the system and brew your own wine. In the meantime, stop corrupting our young.

Besides...You look like an ugly Take That.


Don't you all feel summery now?

David Attenborough's Blood Lust

This is Planet Earth. BBC's new pull out all the stops nature series.

Say "Planet Earth" to me and I think of Duran Duran. And when I think of Duran Duran, I think of the video to Rio, with the boys sailing at high speed on the high seas, the sea breeze blowing back their immaculate hair, blowing up their immaculate white trousers, cooling and salting their immaculate, tiny, hairless bollocks.

I'd love to see them transported to this show. The Great White Shark who leaps and mercilessly crunches into a poor seal would mercifully take Simon le Bon between its jaws and luxuriate in the warming blubber of one of Britain's tossiest pop idols.

Bon appetit!

Planet Earth is full of sumptuous images. Millions of birds flying across a blue sky. Millions of caribou hiking across the plains of Canada. A pair of cute little polar bears sliding down an icy slope with their mother.

David Attenborough is narrating but I don't really notice what he's saying. Betty says at one point that it sounds as though he's having trouble with his dentures, but I'm just drifting away, watching the groovy digital images. There doesn't seem to be any real narrative, nothing particularly educational, just David's soothing voice, some sound effects of animals mooing or whatever they do, some Russian music when we're in Russia, some Japanese music when we're in Japan.

Cameras nowadays can do close ups from over a kilometre away (that's 6,500 salad plates, Vicus) so that giraffe crossing water doesn't know he's being watched. Woo hoo! Geoffrey!

The programme is repeated at weekends for your kids to watch, but I'd warn you that every now and again, there are bits the kids won't enjoy.

The aforementioned Great White Shark's movements are slowed down by a factor of 40 as it lunches on a seal (where's Paul McCartney when you need him?). We have the heartbreaking sight of a young elephant losing its mother after hundreds of miles of toiling through dry African terrain, searching for water. The youngster finds its mother's tracks and follows them. In the wrong direction.

Now they've got the technology to film this, watch a poor baby walk off to certain death, but not the humanity to help the poor thing out with water and directions. But I suppose your kids will realise how lucky they are to have a home and security and not wake up with nightmares of lost Dumbos.

As with all modern BBC Attenborough programmes, there's a boring 10 minute "how it was done" bit at the end. And they've really pulled out the stops this time. Just look at this equipment, this chopper with that 30 squillion dollar camera hanging off its bottom!

Christ, what a yawn. Here's the cast following a dog hunt...

Two weeks they spend trying to get a shot of a pack of wild dogs catching an impala. Three guys in a chopper, two guys off-roading. The first few days are enough really for us to see exactly how the dogs hunt. And guess what? The dogs are intelligent hunters! They're not all like Goofy, you know. They split up to surround the impala!

They just miss their prey and the impala runs away. We've seen enough.

But, no. The men are gutted. They want to see the kill. They're not satisfied until they see the dogs intelligently rip the life out of their prospective dinner. And just maybe they want another couple of weeks of driving and flying around being all macho, and getting paid for the privilege.

"He's a real maniac!" an off-roading guy shouts out as the chopper comes low and fast over his head.

"Whoa!" they shout as they try to keep up with the dogs and almost go into a ditch.

They get back to base camp one night and one of the tents is on fire. They put out the flames and wonder what could have happened if the chopper had been there with its 30 squillion dollar camera. A nightmare scenario.

On the last day (isn't it always the last day) they finally get their shot of the dogs closing in on an impala. The impala, though it can swim barely better than me, leaps into a river.

"The crocs'll get him," says a macho voice.

The crocs don't get him, you silly prick. The dogs are called away to an actual kill which the machomen missed, as our poor impala scrambles up the bank to run another day.

This is planet earth, kids. Get used to it.


No animals were harmed in the writing of this badly written, long-winded piece of shit.

Saturday Afternoon at the London Palladium

I don't know about you, but I'm not a man's man. I've never been comfortable in groups of males, whether it be in the football changing room, the public house, or the Boy Scout Hut. I tend to retreat into my shell. The biggest favour anybody ever did me was in my early twenties, when I was one of a group of lads in a nightclub and one of them took me aside and said, "You don't belong here with us, do you?" I couldn't disagree, although it hurt at the time.

Frank Sinatra is a man's man. Just look at the Rat Pack! Frank, Deano, Sammy, Dopey, Sleepy...They all liked nothing more than a boy's night out. Practical jokers to a man, drinking, laughing, and talking at the tops of their voices. All that testosterone and aftershave, hugging each other in their man's man's way.

Horrible. I don't even like shaking hands. And if an alpha male presses his hand into the small of my back, I feel like donkey-kicking him in the shins. Don't touch me, you hetero freak.

No, it's me that's the freak of course. I should be loving a man getting me in a headlock and messing up my hair. Especially if that other man was Frank Sinatra.

But I don't like Frank's persona. I don't like his voice. And I don't like the songs he sang. I don't like Bing Crosby, but I like his voice and the songs he sang.

Sorry, Mum. If I have to choose between one of these wise guys to be the greatest, then it's King Bing for me.

New York, New York. The end of the evening at a wedding reception. All but one of the guests gather together in a big circle, link arms, and do a kind of hokey cokey, kicking the shit out of the 30 year old spinster or bachelor in the middle. That's Frank Sinatra for you. And it's not pleasant.

But my mum loves him. To her, he is the greatest artist of all time. She would have loved to have seen him live at any stage of his career but she never had the chance. But on Saturday she did see him live and he was everything she'd ever wanted. Even though he's been dead for nearly eight years.

There was a 24 piece orchestra. There was a stage full of young male and female dancers. And there was a big screen which came down from the ceiling and projected a live Frank. The young Frank, the middle-aged Frank, and the old Frank. Interspersed with commentaries from Frank himself, talkling about his life and times from beyond the grave. Everything a Frank fan could ever want. Stuff your Rat Pack stage show and your Louis Hoover Frank Sinatra Impressionist. This was the real thing.

And my mum was surprised by the audience. There was a family with a couple of late teenage boys. And the boys were having a whale of a time, clapping along and singing at the tops of their voices. There were other young people there, too. Although the majority were grey-hairs.

I'm not surprised these boys were there. Where are the men's men middle-aged pop stars for the youngsters to look up to? Ian Brown? Sting? Paul Weller? Bryan Adams? Morrissey? These are all individuals, you can't imagine any of them preferring multiple male company to the companionship of the one person they love.

And can you imagine Morrissey delivering a horse's head to Andy Rourke's bed in the middle of the night?

If you can, you're more of a man than I am.

Car Trouble

We leave the house to go to the shops. Mr Noisy Next Door is walking towards his front door. A dirty crappy old mini cooper has appeared overnight and is parked next to our car.

"I see you've got one of the old minis," I say, trying to be friendly.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'll cover it up soon. She'll only moan".

He points up at Mrs Next Door's window.

"I like the old minis," I lie, thinking of The Fucking Italian Job and You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off.

"I'm going to get a turbo lump for it. You can have a go in it when I've done it up".

I don't know what a turbo lump is but it sounds like he's going to make it into a fast little motor.

"No, it's alright. I only like to look at old cars," I say, worried that if I were to drive it I'd write off both the car and myself. "So you're going to do it up?"

"Yeah. Should make three or four thousand. Once I get it smartened up and get the turbo lump fitted."

He's towering over me, looking down at me with a fast car lover's enthusiasm. As if I'm really itching to get behind the wheel of his little death trap.

"I can see you really fancy a drive. You'll have to wait a bit longer, though. Once I get it spruced up and get the turbo lump fitted. You know with the mini, it's a fun car. You may only be doing 70 but it feels like you're doing over 100 because you're so close to the ground. You'll love it. Don't worry, once I get going on it, it won't take too long. You'll get your chance."

"No, it's alright. I only like to look at old cars."

Gone to the Dogs

Last Saturday I saw my aunt in Sainsbury's. I said I'd been off work for the past week and that we hadn't really done anything, just relaxed. She said she'd been to the bowls and the dancing with my mum and their respective partners. You've got to keep yourself busy in retirement, haven't you?

I said, "Oh God, yes. There's nothing worse than daytime television. All that shouting!"

She agreed.

So my mum's now online and tentatively trying emails. She sent me an email to say she'd heard I'd met my aunt in Sainsbury's. I sent her one back to say, yes, we'd discussed daytime television and we'd agreed it is full of people shouting on programmes like The Jeremy Kyle Show.

Yesterday evening, we visited my mum. She said she thought my email was funny and that she'd told my aunt that when I'd met her in Sainsbury's I thought she was like one of the people on The Jeremy Kyle Show.

"You wait till I see him," said my aunt.

I asked my mum how my uncle's birthday do at the dog track went. She said the steak was well done, in fact it was so well done it was black. She said she was placed on a table with my step dad, my aunt, my aunt's male companion, and the birthday boy's best friend who'd travelled all the way from Cornwall (although he is not Cornish, nor related to the Cornish side of my family, nor to any side of my family) as a birthday surprise.

The best friend of mein host is tight as arseholes apparently, and did not volunteer to pay for any drinks, not even his own. As soon as they were seated around the table, he proceeded to completely dominate the conversation and spent the whole three hours talking about sex and his wonderful, beautiful, younger wife who'd stayed at home, probably glad of a night's peace.

The man was completely obsessed with telling sexual stories which all petered out into a vague nothingness but had moments which he found so exciting that he had to grab hold of my aunt's arm as with a mouth full of pudding, he spat "masturbation" and "viagra" all over my aunt's lemon pie.

My step dad won £28 on a couple of races, my mum broke even, and it sounded like a fucking good time was had by all.

Maybe next time they'll invite me.

Search Me

I phone my dentist's surgery to book an appointment with the locum (if that word is appropriate for the temporary cover for my dentist and not just for my doctor or my priest).

The receptionist says, "Oh, it's you again. You have been in the wars, haven't you? Poor you. It tends to go like that sometimes.

She books me in for a week on Monday.

"Oh, Monday the 13th," she says. "Lucky it's not Friday the 13th."

Yes, it is lucky.

(THE HORROR that could have been).


*******


On a lighter note, the following are a few of the search phrases people from all over the world have used over the past week in order to access my occasionally entertaining dream blog:-

Michelle Bass Rebecca Loos Nuts

Slowboat to China Chords

Wet armpits of Maria Sharapova pictures

Wet knickers blog

Pictures of women in cut offs

GE Penis Horse

Geoff Moon

Wet Dreams and Older Men

Dreams about warts on feet

Dreams of Floods and Darkness

And voted by Betty and myself as our personal favourite, and very topical considering the recent Winter Olympics:-

"Robin Cousins" film montage


Just beautiful.

Richard Ashcroft is the New Robbie Williams

AN OFFICE. SOMETIME IN THE NEAR FUTURE...


Hello, Leanne. It's Chris Cockerel from Capital FM.

Hello, Chris!

What about this Darren, then? Is he gorgeous?

He's lovely, Chris.

And you get on well? You're getting good vibes?

We really click, Chris. We have a laugh. There's a real chemistry between us.

How long have you known each other?

Six months.

And you fancy the pants off him?

He's gorgeous, Chris.

And you've never been able to pluck up the courage to ask him out?

No.

And you want me to ask him out on your behalf?

Yes.

Because you're scared of him turning you down?

No!

Then why don't you ask him yourself?

BECAUSE I WANT TO BE ON THE RADIO, CHRIS!

And if he says "no"?

He wouldn't dare, Chris. He'll say yes to anything you ask him.

Why's that?

Because you're great. We all think you're great. Everybody in the office thinks you're great.

Why am I great?

YOU PLAY THE SONGS WE LIKE!

You like Richard Ashcroft?

I love Richard Ashcroft. We all love Richard Ashcroft.

You know what?

What?

I'm going to play you a Richard Ashcroft song. Then I'm going to speak to your man. Is Darren listening?

Course he is. He loves you, Chris.

Darren...Are you there?

Chris?

Darren...Do you like Richard Ashcroft?

I LOVE RICHARD ASHCROFT!

Darren...I'm going to play you a Richard Ashcroft song. Then I'm going to ask you whether you fancy a date with Leanne, all expenses paid, at a top restaurant...this Friday.

Fantastic...

Don't tell me your answer. I'm going to ask you the question after THIS Richard Ashcroft song...

Boiled Beef and Triffids

I am currently reading John Wyndham's Day of the Triffids, and lovin' it.

But I've come to an impasse.

On page 42 of the Penguin paperback, the second full paragraph, on the subject of the triffid, starts thus:-

But there were features of it to be less casually dismissed. On its origins the Russians, true to type, lay low and said nuffin.

"Nuffin"?

Is this...

a) The narrator showing the first signs of the disease now known as "mockney"?

b) Wyndham slipping in a rogue working class word to make sure that we, the reader, are awake?

c) A sly dig at the elocution skills of the proletariat?



I can't go on unless I know which.

Mind The Gap

"My mum used to say they're trouble coming and they're trouble going."

Wise words from a work colleague. But was she implying that mine could be on their way out?

I've had the same dentist for thirty-five years. Thirty-five years of fillings and re-fillings and the odd extraction. He's never hurt me and he's never had bad breath or smelly aftershave or nostril bogeys.

But he must be nearing retirement now as he's cut down to four days a week and he has started taking long holidays with only emergency back up. And of course his winding down is coinciding nicely with my teeth beginning to play up.

"Have 'em all out," said another work colleague. "The army fucked mine up. I had 'em all out forty years ago. I haven't looked back since, although I had to have a metal plate put in as I've got a strong bite and used to keep breaking the plastic ones."

He showed me his plate. It looked nothing like Jaws' (from the Bond films). But I don't particularly want false teeth because that would be admitting defeat. The army didn't fuck up my teeth, I fucked them up myself.

I've always got by with the odd filling and no pain. Until seveteen months ago when I got an infection just before we were due to go on holiday and my dentist was on one of his sabbaticals.

My stepdad steered me in the direction of a beautiful young woman who he said was really gentle. So I lay back as she leant over me and told me I needed extensive root canal work at a cost of over £300.

And now, after six months of back and forth to my dentist, after three separate infections, and finally a filling falling into the sink just as my dentist is away for a month, I'm wondering whether I should leave my man and take this woman up on her offer. I don't want to pay through the nose for my teeth, but should I bite the bullet?

I've read about root canals on the internet and frankly, I'm scared. They trap bacteria which leads to arthiritis and heart disease. A root-filled human tooth which was inserted into a rabbit's mouth gave the rabbit arthiritis. The rabbit then died.

Before I go ahead I want to see more evidence. I want to see thousands of rabbits with root-filled human teeth, whole mouths of them. I want to see if the rabbits' life expectancies are drastically cut, and if not, do they have as good a quality of life as they would've had without a mouthful of human teeth?

Some times Google isn't helpful enough.

16 Reasons Why Most Physical Comedy Just Isn't Funny

1. Clowns - Scary, yes. Funny? You're having a laugh.

2. The Greats of the Silent Screen - Bring on the talkies, Mr Jolsen! Stop eating that bleeding shoe, Charlie!

3. Jacques Tati - Un homme et un bicyclette avec pipe et imper = Flasheur.

4. Funny Walk (Max Wall/John Cleese) - Funny walk? You want to see a funny walk? Try the penguins at the zoo.

5. Jack Douglas' physical jerks - Disturbing, yes. Funny?

6. Norman Wisdom's physical jerks - Puerile, but your kids won't laugh at him. He's 90, you know. And never had a funny day in his life.

7. Wrestling - Overgrown schoolboys, aged 7. This includes women wrestlers and "the great" Andy Kaufman*.

8. Benny Hill chases - Benny Hill was (probably still is) massive in France. My sister once had a French penfriend who said to me, "Did you know Benny Hill is French?" Nope, he's ours I'm afraid.

9. Michael Crawford, on roller skates, hanging off the back of a Routemaster bus - Ooh Betty, shoot the bastard, will you?

10. Rod Hull/Bernie Clifton - Nice try, but we know it's you making that bird do those stoopid things.

11. Ennio Marchetto/Andy Kaufman* miming to records in costume - Ok clever clogs, I'm impressed. I'm not laughing, though.

12. Del Boy falling through the bar - "It makes you cry with laughter every time you see it even though you know what's coming." Does it, fuck!

13. Lee Evans' sweaty monkey face and body - Lord, give me strength. BACK TO THE ZOO.

14. Dawn French sticking out her tongue - Overgrown schoolgirl, aged 3.

15. Ricky Gervais' dance - The only crap thing about The Office. Seems to go on for ever.

16. Matt Lucas getting up out of his wheelchair again and again and again and and again and again and again and again and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again and and again and again.


* I only know Andy Kaufman from his silly voice in Taxi and the film Man on the Moon in which he was portrayed by the awful Jim Carrey.

How Could You?

It's ten years since my dad's funeral. A little over ten years since he was found alone in his house, slumped in his armchair, wearing a pair of Wellingtons.

I've got one regret. Not that I only saw him three times in the last 14 years of his life. Not that we didn't make it up and become great mates.

My one regret is that we didn't bury him and inscribe the headstone with the words...

"He died with his boots on."

Mile High Club

I've just booked some flights on flymonarch.com. Extras available (at a price) included:-

Your own choice of seats

An extra six inches legroom

Champagne

Chocolates

Golf Clubs



I'm looking forward to playing a round with the Captain at 30,000 feet.

Home on the Range

I've got a week's holiday and this week and I'm taking it easy. No rushing up to London to see something arty or to spend too much money in Fopp. This week I'm relaxing and reading.

Remember reading? Books? The dead things we used to read before the living web became so much a part of our lives?

You've got to make the effort, haven't you? But I'm not used to reading at home. I'm used to reading on the train, to a background of chatting and coughing and whoo-whooing and chuf-chuffing.

I can't have silence. But I can't have distractions. Daytime telly is too distracting. There's so much on!

I need music. But music that doesn't need the attention of the whole of my brain. No words for a start. If there's a beat, it's got to be a slow beat. Nothing that makes me want to move my feet like Booker T & the MG's or Jackie Mittoo.

Dub reggae is good. Ambient house, too. Pan Pipes, Richard Clayderman, James Galway, Mary O'Hara...Go to any market and you'll find hundreds of albums which will perfectly accompany any book from Harry Potter to Wilbur Smith.

But my personal favourite, one which I go back to again and again, which I can't recommend highly enough...

Brian Eno's Music for Crematoria.

The Brits 2006

Before watching this I had already mentally prepared what to say. I was going to say how ironic it is that in a show called The Brits, the only sign of any talent is demonstrated by two Americans, Prince and Kanye West. I was going to say how sick I am of seeing the Khazi Chiefs, KT Tungsten, Jamie Blunted - I saw enough of these jokers on New Year's Eve on Jools' Wankananny.

I was going to say how I'd just about had enough of having to fast forward through yet another teeth-grindingly mammoth performance by Green Fucking Day (little did I know that they couldn't be there so we had to put up with Coldplay doing a lamentable U2 impression).

And as for Weller and his award for his major contribution to musical conservatism...

But after watching The Brits, I'm just reminded that it's now two years since I started blogging. I started off with fourth form poetry. A year later I was in the sixth form magazine.

And now? I've no idea. I can only judge myself with the benefit of hindsight. What I do know now is that The Brits are a waste of breath. But I've now got almost a handful of readers and each of you has impeccable taste in not just music, but film, tv, clothes, and shoes.

And when you've finished reading this, just take yourself over to the nearest mirror and take a good, long look. Do you see what I see?

Yes.

You're beautiful.

The Fish Continues

"Excuse me? Can you tell me the way to St Martin's Lane?"

I have to think about this one. I can tell her. I've been there many times. It's only five minutes walk away. I almost step into a puddle.

"I know where it is. I just can't..."

"You know. Where J Sheekeys is. The fish restaurant."

Shit. Yes, I know where J Sheekeys is. The fish restaurant. She's off to get her Omega-3s.

"It's...it's...not the first right..."

"The next right?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

Shit, it's left. I'm sure it's left. I'm not shouting after her. I'm not running after her. She'll suss it out. And I'll never see her again.

I buy some smoked salmon and a bagel.

Fish for Brains

You can't get enough Omega-3s!

That's what the guardian says. Most of us eat far too many Omega-6s and not enough Omega-3s. A diet which is saturated in Omega-6s makes your brain run like a 386 processor with its memory full to capacity with blurry images of fat men shitting. A brain full of Omega-3s however, runs like a Pentium 4 with Windows Media Center and incredibly high resolution graphics showing young, lithe, athletic bodies, running, jumping and somersaulting.

So I try to up my Omega-3 intake. Oily fish. Sardines on toast for breakfast. Boneless sardines in a rich tomato sauce. If I want a brain like Einstein's I've got to eat them at least twice a week.

Mmm. Do cats really like this stuff? Cold, oily fish. Don't think about it Geoff, just chew and swallow, don't think about the taste.

Jesus, it's only ten to seven in the morning, what am I doing? Cold, oily fish. Cold, oily sardines. Just be grateful they're boneless and you haven't got their little spines to negotiate. And look, there's no mound of roe seeping from their guts. Don't think of what could have been. Their heads. Their eyes. Their hard little tails. Their silver skin...no wait, there's their silver skin under the tomato sauce. Just close your eyes and chew and swallow. Think of something else.

Mmm, this toast is nice. All I can taste is the toast. Lovely, wholemeal toast. None of that slimy tomato sauce or those wriggling little cold, oily fish.

Wriggling? They're not wriggling, are they? Don't open your eyes, just lift the fork and move your mouth over the prongs and chew the toast. The dry, flavourless toast. So dry, you have difficulty swallowing it. Chew! Chew, chew, chew and swallow! Swallow, damn you! Get down, you cold, oily fish in a rich, thick tomato sauce.

What a price to pay. Did Einstein really go through this twice a week or more? No wonder his hair grew the way it did. "Get me away from that fish!" it said. "Christ Albert, that stuff makes me shudder. It's like an electric shock to the system."

Bollocks to it. No more sardines for me. I'm going to stay slow and bovine and count my small change at the front of the supermarket checkout queue and get it wrong.

It's the hare versus the tortoise, isn't it?

In The Dentist's Waiting Room

Where is she?

She's coming.

She's going to bring the bubby, isn't she?

She's just got to drop something off.

She's got to bring the bubby.

I've got a picture of her on my mobile.

The bubby? Let's have a look...Aah, isn't she beautiful. Jessica Katherine...Isn't she just like her mummy?

Hi ya!

Where's the bubby? You're not welcome here if you haven't brought the bubby. You can get out right now if you haven't got the bubby.

She's on her way. Kelly's got her...I've got a picture of her on my camera.

Let's have a butcher's...Aah, isn't she beautiful? Jessica Katherine...Isn't she like her mummy?

Hi ya!

Aah! Here she is! Here she is! Here's the bubby! Isn't she beautiful?

*I'M NOT GOING TO LISTEN TO ANY MORE RUBBISH FROM THAT MAN ANY MORE! HE IS SUPPOSED TO BE MY DAUGHTER'S HUSBAND! FINE HUSBAND HE IS! HE IS A GROWN MAN AND HE SPENDS ALL HIS TIME PLAYING ON HIS PLAYSTATION! WHY DOESN'T HE TAKE THE BOY OUT FOR SOME FRESH AIR INSTEAD OF SITTING THERE ON HIS BACKSIDE ALL DAY PLAYING HIS STUPID GAMES? HE'S NOT A MAN! WHAT SORT OF A MAN SITS ON HIS BACKSIDE ALL DAY PLAYING STUPID CHILDREN'S GAMES?*

Isn't she beautiful? Isn't she a beautiful bubby? She is. She is. Just like her mummy. Isn't she? Isn't she?



* The tv in the waiting room is showing The Jeremy Kyle Show

Who Do You Think You Are? - Jane Horrocks

A few years ago there was a great series on Channel Four hosted by Lisa Tarbuck called Without Prejudice, in which several members of the public with different backgrounds competed with each other for the prize of £50,000. They each gradually revealed more of themselves as a panel of extremely prejudiced nobodies voted them off the show, one by one. I loved it as it showed the nasty bastard British public at their very worst.

Who Do You Think You Are? could do with a similar panel. As each celebrity delves into their family's past, the more they reveal about their own character. And we could do with a good argument between a couple of idiots, one who says "I used to hate Jane Horrocks but now I'm really warming to her" and one who says, "I used to quite like her, now I can't stand her."

Apart from the bloody annoying voice, she's never really crossed my radar apart from the Mike Leigh film where she played a girl with a bloody annoying voice. Apparently she is now famous for being in Absolutely Fabulous and the film Little Voice, both of which are not really suitable viewing for any man, let alone one of my arty persuasions.

But now I cannot bear the woman.

She starts out by 'pegging out' on a Monday morning. "I learnt how to peg out on a Monday morning from my mother, she learnt how to peg out from her mother, who learnt how to peg out from her mother..."

You might think that 'pegging out' was something complicated and took years to master, passed on from gifted mother to gifted daughter.

No, to peg out is to put the washing out on the washing line, a task that can be performed by anybody with at least one arm and half a brain. Maybe Jane is trying to show us her hard working credentials, eh?

Jane and her mother and her mother's mother and her mother's mother's mother are part of a long line of strong women who do things their way no matter what the consequences. A long line of strong, hard working, temperate, Methodist women. God help us.

But as always with families, there is a secret. Jane's aunt has always believed that Jane's great grandmother was left orphaned to bring up her two younger brothers at the age of twelve. But Jane learns that she was actually left orphaned to look after the boys at the age of thirty-one! And that she also failed to mention that she had four other brothers and sisters, including Ernest, the black sheep of the family who emigrated to Australia to become a very non-temperate billiard marker and gambler. The ring that Jane's religious aunt wears contains an opal which Ernest probably won by gambling.

It's incredible how some of these celebrities really connect with their unseen ancestors. Jane still really knows fuck all about her great aunts and uncles but she is still able to pontificate: "They were all good and clever and brilliant except for Ernest who was the black sheep of the family." Good and clever and brilliant just like you, eh, Jane?

It gets better. When Abraham Lincoln blocked cotton exports as he took on the South, there was no work in the Lancashire cotton industry. No work meant poverty and death, and death happened to one of Jane's great uncles at the age of three.

Jane the nutter stands by Manchester's statue of Lincoln and bleats, "I feel so proud that my ancestry believed in something so strongly that they were willing to die for it."

So a three year old boy lay down his own life in Lancashire so that slavery in America could be abolished? Christ Almighty!

How about Jane's father's family? Could they by any chance be related to the Horrocks' cotton dynasty which got rich on the backs of black slaves? You can see Jane's eyes light up as she says, "I could be rich!", as if she isn't fucking rich enough already.

Of course there is a link, but Jane's Horrockses branched off to become poor cotton bleachers. The other Horrockses were the biggest darn cotton folks in the country, until they lost it all.

Jane meets a direct descendent of Mr Cotton Horrocks. She condescendingly says, "Now we are on a similar standing". That's Jane the rich actress descendant of poor bleachers, and the descendant of the broke cotton family, standing there with his pint of lager and his coat of arms.

We are not told what he does for a living.

GRRRRRRRRRRR

In the shop window there’s a Valentine’s card with an illustration of a really crap cartoon cat. The cat’s licking its lips and is surrounded by pink and purple hearts. The only words on the front of the card are ‘BIG GROWLY HUBBY’.

And hubby must be a big fucker because of the size of the card: about 3ft x 2ft. Only a really big fucker needs a card that big.

And he’s growling? No surprise really when his wife wastes good money on shit like this.

The Ladykiller

"My sister reckons he's got a harem in there."

Mrs Next Door is serious. I started the conversation because I didn't know what else to talk to her about. Apart from the weather or her ailments.

She said, "You may hear some banging in the next few days. I've got a man coming round and he may be banging."

I said, "We're used to a bit of noise round here." Meaning the man below her's son and his late night indoor football.

"My sister reckons he's got a harem in there," she says.

"We don't really hear that much. Just a dull thud now and again." I don't want any trouble.

"God knows what he gets up to," she says. "At all hours of the day and night."

What on earth is he doing? How many women has he got in there? Is it like the cover of Electric Ladyland? How come we never see women going in or coming out? Surely there's not the room for any more than a couple of women. It's a small one bedroom maisonette. And what sort of noise are they making that carries upstairs in the middle of the night? I'd always assumed harems to be pretty quiet when the man's at home.

"I reckon he's drinking," she says.

That's funny. I think he reckons I'm drinking. Maybe she's drinking.

"The police came round the other night," she says. "Just at the time when everything was all quiet."

"Typical."

I Love Blogger

...but...

I just wish they'd stop us from attempting posts when they're doing their maintenance work. Block me, Blogger. Stop me typing up all this crap three times on a Saturday (actually once typed by Betty as I dictated whilst I sat on the arm of the settee like some slimy boss).

But Saturday wasn't my day, was it?

It's the MVC Closing Down Sale. Great! Lots of Van Der Graaf Generator albums at half price, Heaven 17, a Todd Terry 3 cd compilation.

And a Jah Wobble 3 cd Anthology.

"Oh, no!" says the young man on the till. "I wanted that!"

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'll record it for you."

"No, it's all right. Oh no!"

OK, I know home taping is killing music but I am truly trying to do something good for another human being.

We get home and discuss our purchases. What about the Best of The Durutti Column 2 cd compilation? Yes, we should have bought it. And today's the last day. They're closing down.

I run most of the way to MVC. The cd's still there. I purchase it and rush homewards. I break into a run because it's time to eat my sandwich. Ha ha, I avoid some dogshit. I slow to a walk and thank my lucky stars. I break into a jog. I pull a calf muscle. My nose starts to bleed.

Today Blogger has a scheduled outage at 7.00 PM PST. Why they're whispering it, I don't know.

TODAY BLOGGER HAS A SCHEDULED OUTAGE AT SEVEN O'CLOCK.

I'm going to copy and paste this post somewhere safe just in case.

N.B. MVC Sale did not end at the weekend. There is still 1 day to go.

Why We Don't Go To The Cinema Much Any More

...or is it 'the movies' nowadays? I know you're not asked to take your rubbish or your litter with you when leaving, but your 'trash'. And most 'movies' are trash, but they're not my trash. My trash is the wrapping around the sandwich which I smuggle into the 'movie theater' to eat whilst the trailers are on. I think 'trailer trash' is the correct term.

It was so different in the eighties, when I haunted London's independent cinemas. It was so pleasant and middle class, not at all what I was used to in my local smelly Odeons.

In the eighties, on a Sunday afternoon, or during the week after work if I was feeling awake, I would head off to Camden Town, King's Cross, Covent Garden, Bloomsbury, Hampstead, Soho... Christ, there were so many of them. I bought my ticket, sat in a comfy chair with a piece of carrot cake and a nice cup of filter coffee. Or maybe a stem ginger and vanilla Loseley ice cream in a tub. Sat down and read my book or my copy of City Limits or Time Out or NME, sitting there like Little Jack Horner, all quiet and satisfied.

I would choose my own seat, making sure I didn't intrude on anybody's space as I settled down. I drank the dregs of my coffee as the few trailers played. The film usually started pretty promptly. I read the subtitles, watched the action, read and watched, read and watched, eyes down and eyes up for a very pleasant hour and a half, maybe the odd tear or two as I read the credits all the way to the end so that no one could see my red eyes.

Now, in these days of DVDs and widescreen tvs, we can't be bothered to traipse all the way up to London to one of the few independent cinemas that are left. But a couple of times a year, we still go to the cinema...the multiplex.

SCENARIO ONE

We go to the local in-town multiplex. We're going to see the sensitive gay love story, Brokeback Mountain. They take our money. They don't care where we sit. We sit through twenty minutes of trailers and the film starts. There are some teenagers smoking. No one says anything. On the screen, two men kiss. The teenagers say "Fucking queers" and start playing up. Nobody says anything to them. There is no security. The film is ruined. SO WE DON'T GO TO OUR LOCAL IN-TOWN MULTIPLEX.

SCENARIO TWO

We go to a multiplex we have to drive to get to. We pay our money. Once our tickets are collected, we're on our own. But because everybody's had to drive there, there aren't gangs of fourteen year olds hopping from screen to screen. We walk into darkness. We are supposed to sit in seats J17 and J 18. We can see the numbers on the seats but we can't see which row is which. It's too dark. We are at the head of a queue to find row J. We ask a seated customer, "Which row are you in?"
He says, "M. Row J is two rows down."
We take his word for it even though we work out that row J should be three rows down. We lead the pack and settle down in the seats.
"Excuse me," says a customer shining his own personal torch. "You're in my seat."

Now in the real row J, we settle down to thirty-five minutes of trailers of films these jokers think we'll be interested in. All introduced by the same deep American voice which has been doing the voiceovers for trailers since the dawn of celluloid. These knobs must all be from the same family, like the Lassie dogs.

And then the trailer for the film North Country...

"ACADEMY AWARD WINNER, CHARLIZE THERON!" Marvellous.

"ACADEMY AWARD WINNER, FRANCES MCDORMAND!" Super.

"ACADEMY AWARD NOMINEE, WOODY HARRELSON!" Never mind, Woody. Better luck with this one.

"SEAN BEAN!"

"SEAN BEAN"? Just "SEAN BEAN"? Not "THE VOICE OF THE MORRISONS SUPERMARKETS ADVERTS, SEAN BEAN"? Not "EVERY WOMAN'S FAVORITE BIT OF WORKING CLASS ROUGH, SEAN BEAN"?

We laugh out loud. We are the only ones in the cinema to find this funny. Old Brokenback Mountain's going to be an anticlimax after this.

And it is.

fucking geoff

Bad Bowie

I love Bowie. I love his Alvin Stardust phase, his Great White Shark phase, even his Laughing Policeman phase. In fact, I love every phase he went through before Let's Dance (his biggest selling album, and the beginning of cack-Bowie).

But at the weekend, Bowie had me seething.

Transferring CDs to Windows Media Player is usually a piece of piss. Apart from Windows occasionally not agreeing with the CD track listing, that is. But Bowie's CDs are a different kettle of fish.

Because every CD you try to rip comes with a BowieNet program which, if you don't go into it and see all that David has to offer, freezes your computer.

So a program that David developed in his Swiss hideaway laboratory in 1991 makes what should be a simple operation a pain in the arse.

Why, David? Why do you have to have your multimedia empire and sell us outdated software? You don't get other has-been rockers like Macca or Jagger or Dave Grohl at the forefront of yesterday's technology.

The Bowie net I'd like to have seen would have been a nice strong one that covered him in 1981 and only let him out for interviews and copulation. He might have grown fat but at least he'd have all his own teeth.

Geoff's Blogging News

It's been a good old week in Geoff's world of blogging, at last some recognition for a couple of my favourite blogs.

First Corrie Canuck is acclaimed in The Guardian.

Then Caroline is shorlisted for a bloggie.

We are taking over, I tell you.


And guess what?...

I receive a phone call from a man claiming to be television personality Loyd Grossman. He certainly sounds convincing. He says I've been nominated for a prestigious blogging award ("blorging aword") and that the ceremony will be televised. He says he will email me with the details.

When I ask him what I am up for, he says..."Most erotic blog, Geoff."

Of course, I am shocked. Me, up there with the likes of Girl With A One Track Mind and Abi Titmuss Blog? Geoff's Dreams? Geoff's Erotic Dreams? How am I turning people on?

I scan my posts...Nothing vaguely sexual there. I know I get some very rude searches but that's all part and parcel of being a blogger. I bet even the most po-faced political or pious religious blogger gets the odd 'tit wank' on their stats.

It can't be my profile. Come on, a 44 year old wet blanket who portrays himself as Rip Van Winkle and whose interests include Sherlock Holmes, Ingmar Bergman, and Mogwai? Who's going to get off on that?

If it's not in the words, it must be in the images. A beautiful French bulldog, a close up of an orange arsed fly, some spurned Hampshire sheep, the turkey girlfriend of James Blunt. Unless this is some kind of weird bestiality cult blog awards...but then it wouldn't be televised and surely Loyd Grossman would have nothing to do with it.

Ok, they've made a mistake. But what if they've made a mistake and I win?

I'll have to stand up in front of millions of people and try to be convincing. As if I'm articulate and confident and sexy and my words give people a tingling feeling in their private parts. But my writing's more Windy Miller than Henry Miller and my voice is more Martin Freeman than Morgan Freeman.

No! I can't let this happen. Once I get the email I'm going to reply straight back to Mr Grossman and say he can stick the whole thing through his keyhole and up his arsehole. You've got the wrong man, Loyd!

I check my inbox. There it is...

"Dear Geoff. Congratulations on your nomination for one of our prestigious blogging awards. The panel feel that without a doubt, yours has to be one of the most erratic blogs we have ever read..."

Erratic?...Oh, Loyd, you and your funny way of speaking! God, I feel such a fool! Of course I'm erratic. I'm probably the most erratic blogger out there.

Yes, I'll accept your nomination. Yes, I'll come to the ceremony. Yes, I'll behave in an erratic manner. I'll have one big nutty breakdown when I accept my award. Because I am going to win...

Aren't I?

Fruit Cocktail

I've lost count of the number of times drink has made me sick. I haven't got my dad's capacity for alcohol, just one in a long list of things I'm glad I didn't inherit. If I drink too much, I'm sick. I've been sick on bacardi, vodka, lager, bitter, white wine, red wine...(the very worst incidences have been after an evening of red wine). But the first time was on cider. And you always remember the first time, don't you?

It was a schoolmate's 18th birthday party. I guzzled a couple of pints of Strongbow, a drink my dad was really into at the time. The prog rock was making us feel drowsy, all 20 teenage boys and 2 teenage girls. I'm sure we were all bored shitless. I've never been to a party where I haven't been, so I must have been then.

And then someone put on Freebird by Lynyrd Skynyrd, the band who didn't get to use all their air miles. And Freebird is their classic. It starts off slow but it builds into a monstrous 24 hour guitar solo, ideal for air guitar and headbanging nonsense.

So you've got 20 young wankers, bored shitless, and suddenly there's a chance for a bit of exercise, for us to let those so-called raging hormones free. Right foot forward, head bowed, right hand holding an imaginary plectrum, left holding an imaginary guitar neck...And let those flowing locks fly.

Except my locks aren't flowing, they're barely down to the collar of my cheesecloth shirt. But the head bangs away anyway, the brain thinking of those poor ol' southern boys plummeting to earth, as free as a mortally wounded bird.

And then the cider begins to make its appearance. Strongbow. As strong as your thirst. Put hairs on your chest this stuff son. Dry, fizzy and appley, and here it comes. Excuse me. Out to the garden.

"And this bird will never cha...a...ange".
"Eurrghhh!"...That's better...Shit, no it's not.
"Eurrghhh!"...That's better...Shit, no it's not.
"Eurrghhhhhhhh!"...

I think that's all of it but I feel fucking awful. I go inside. The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway is on the turntable.

"I need a lie down," I tell my host. He gives me his bed. I lie down and die.

So since that day, not a mouthful of cider has passed my lips. The smell of it reminds me of my first time...

But here in the fridge is a can of Merrydown cider, left over from a visit from our cider drinking friends. And the use by date is only just up! It would be a waste of money not to drink it, wouldn't it?

Merrydown cider. One can and you're merry, four and you're down. But one won't harm me, will it? I've got to banish this cider demon. I've got to drink the Merry down.

I open the can. I pour a glass. It smells of sick and piss. It looks like fizzy urine. I feel sick. But I feel brave. I haven't got to get up early tomorrow. I've got the dentist first thing. He'd want me to be brave.

I drink some. It tastes like Babycham. Babycham for men. Except without the big men's fuck-off cherry. Mmm, nice.

Still smells of sick, though.

A Crap Joke That Will Only Work Today

Arctic Monkeys out tomorrow!

(Police to release Pete Burns' coat).

Toothpaste Trouble

I'm fed up with being unable to find my favourite toothpaste, mentadent p. Only Boots seem to stock it now and I can't be bothered to go to Boots.

So I'm going to try mentadent SR (formerly Gibb's SR). I don't know what it tastes like, all I know is that it's a damn sight cheaper than 'p' and 'p' hasn't been doing me many favours recently, what with all my visits to the dentist and all.

But what does the 'SR' stand for? I really really hope for the sake of my physical and mental well-being it's...

Smiling Righteously.

Hallelujah.

Or halitosis?

We shall see.

We Have Been Watching - 1

Tony Blair Rock Star

The story of the coolest boy at public school Fettes. Tony was so cool he wore his hair longer than the regulations allowed and once he snuck out to go to an Elton John concert. Cool or what?

The boy moves to the big city, ingratiates himself with some new ex public schoolboys, promotes some gigs attended by public schoolkids, then off to Oxford where he impersonates Mick Jagger in front of a band of ex public schoolboys.

The poor actor playing him must have needed post-production therapy to get rid of the rictus grin.

Celebrity Big Brother

Preston's going to win. Teenage girls love him for the way he treats 22 year old teenage girl, Chantelle. He's lovely.

And he's so handsome and talented, says recently evicted Rula Lenska. Talented? Has she heard the Ordinary Boys? Phillllllllllll Jupitus likes them for Christ's sake!

For the sake of my mind, I really hope Pete Burns' 'gorilla' coat is fake.

Who Do You Think You Are?

It's Sheila Hancock's turn to trace her family's roots. Who is the woman in the picture? She finds out it's her mother's father's father's father's mother's mother's mother. And she assumes she was a wonderful woman, a real character. She cries at her grave.

How do you know, Sheila? She might have been an evil cow. She was a woman who ran her own business in the early 19th century. She may have been ruthless and a poor employer.

After Jeremy Paxman's tears at his family's poverty stricken background last week, this one seemed a bit fake and actorly.

The Root of All Evil?

Dickie Dawkins quotes another Nobel Prize winning someone or other...

"If there was no religion in the world there'd be good people and there'd be evil people, the distinction would be clear. It takes religion to make a good person evil."

So how does that make religion the root of all evil, Richard?

Can we please have a different professional atheist to be our spokesman? Just someone who doesn't think too much but shouts their mouth off. Our Ian Paisley.

Coronation Street

Sunita, laden with the twins on the way to register their births, misses the bus.

This is the first time anybody has ever missed the bus in Coronation Street. Unless they're meeting someone there, they always arrive at the bus stop with seconds to spare.

Brokeback Mountain

No, we haven't seen it yet but we know somebody who has. Apparently the audience did not comprise of the usual elderly married couples on a Thursday afternoon. Very few married couples, in fact.

But a lot of lone middle aged and elderly men, all down the front.

I Can't Do This

I'm stopping posting in my lunch hours. It's too knackering and I don't have time to read other blogs and leave my unfunny comments.

So from now on I'll be posting at weekends, just as I do with my ever unpopular dream blog. And between 1.15pm and 2.00pm Monday to Friday, I shall be watching you and making/replying to comments.

There. I feel calmer already.

I Feel Pretty

Look at me! Don't I look good and fresh and all lovely and brown and cream? And look my hyperlink (coming up). It's underlined so you know it's a hyperlink and not a grey smudge.

I feel better and happier despite the blogmeet, after which I needed seven stitches resulting from an argument over the merits of Eastenders and Coronation Street. The thug from Welling caught me with her sovereign ring just above the eyelid after I'd called Grant Mitchell a big mummy's boy. I haven't even watched Eastenders for twenty years so I was only going by what I remember.

But as you can see, I've had the Blogger painters in. And doesn't it look smart? They did it for me free of charge after cocking up the template on my dream blog. And I much prefer the dream blog now: it's all olde worlde and even looks a lovely cream on my monitor at work where once it looked a horrible green.

And now I've got rid of that 'Geoff's Telly Blog' title, I can write about anything I like. So expect some politics, some literary criticism, family matters, men's health and fashions, and Geoff's shoes.

Especially Geoff's shoes.

How to be a Happy Blogger

Just a few tips for any new bloggers out there who may stumble across this site on their way to somewhere more entertaining. I'm sure my regular four readers will know the following anyway...

1. Don't expect non-bloggers to read your blog. 99.9% of the general public use the internet purely for sexual gratification.

2. Only peruse your stats to look for amusing search words/phrases and to see who is linked to you. Stats are for statisticians, not for those whose egos bruise easily.

3. Do not check other bloggers' stats, ever. They will inevitably be more popular than you.

4. Write anything that comes into your head. The process is cathartic and there's bound to be at least one person out there who thinks the same way as yourself. Surely at least one.

5. If the quality of the comments you receive is lower than the quality of your post, you have too high an opinion of yourself. Lower it.

6. If the quality of the comments you receive is higher than the quality of your post, you have too low an opinion of yourself. Raise it.

7. Do not worry about the quantity of the comments you receive. The quality is what counts (see 5 and 6). You may think you'd like 30 comments a day, but would you be able to cope?

8. Accept that there are more talented bloggers out there with bigger brains and more to say.

9. Rejoice in the fact that there are thousands of bloggers out there with smaller brains and nothing to say.

10. Never blog on a Sunday or at Christmas, unless melancholy suits you.

11. Only link to sites you like.

12. Only comment on sites you like.

13. When leaving comments on another blog, don't expect a reply. The other blogger may have either a too high or a too low opinion of themself (see 5 and 6). Or your comment may be impossible to answer.

14. Do not leave the first comment on your own post, unless you have a split personality.

Enjoy yourself! It's later than you think.

Here

Here, here, here, here, here, and here.

The Last Noel

From a very close blood relative of mine, a final few words on the man Edmonds and his latest quiz show Deal for a Done Deal or whatever the bloody hell it's called, I don't really care...

"He's a funny looking little man, like a little pixie. He's short, he looks like he hasn't got a bum in those jeans, his feet are enormous, about 6 foot long, he's got a big, bulbous, fatty neck under that little beard of his...It's a good show but he does drag it out, like Tarrant does on Millionaire, keeps you in suspense. The programme could last ten minutes but he drags it out to three quarters of an hour."

There. Now you don't need to watch it.

ipod rubbish

1. Why 'ipod'? It's like 'hoover', a brand name. If you've got a pc, get yourself a Creative Zen or similar. Just copy and paste your files across. Easy, plus you've got a backup for your music files. That's what I was told, anyway. And I'm not one to argue with a computer kid.

2. When copying and pasting music files from your pc, look out for the first track on an album. If it's called 'intro', change its name to 'intro - anniemal' or 'intro - devin dazzle'. There's only room for one '1. intro' on your device.

3. Don't listen to the twats who write about the ipod as if its revolutionised the way they listen to music:-
"I could be listening to a Coldplay track followed by a Beethoven track followed by a Bob Marley track on the bus! And I've no idea what's coming next!"
Oh, jolly good for you! You really have got catholic taste, haven't you? Stars on fucking 45.

4. Don't listen to the twats at Leicester University who say that the 'ipod generation' (no such thing) don't get emotionally involved with music any more but just use it as a soundtrack to their lives. Condescending shite. My Zen's enabled me to listen to music more personally and more emotionally than I have done in years. When I've got my Engelbert Humperdinck Grado headphones on, sitting in the bath, I'm right there with the music. No distractions. Don't tell me how to feel or where to feel it.

Splosh.

I Was a Teenage Rebel

In Coronation Street, Richard Fleeshman plays Craig Harris, a 15 year old goth whose favourite band is Death Metal outfit Stench of Death.

Richard Fleeshman the actor is appearing in Soapstar Superstar. He is an excitable young boy who rebels wholeheartedly aginst his screen persona. When asked which song he would like the public to choose for him to perform on tonight's show...

1. Elton John's turgid ballad I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues

or

2. A stinky rock bollock by Red Hot Chilli Peppers...

Richard almost wets himself with excitement as he urges the public to "Vote Elton! Please vote Elton! I love Elton! Ooh, I love that song! Ooh, I've almost wet myself!"

Sweet.

The Root of All Evil?

Dear Mr Dawkins

I know I'm not as clever as you. But I'd like to think I've got what us thickoes call "common sense". So, about your programme last night...

Put yourself in their shoes, Richard. How would you feel if a religious nutter came round to your house, asking you impertinent questions about your beliefs? Wouldn't you tell them to sling their hook? I know I would. So why be surprised when you visit these crazy fundamentalists, saying things like "Your meeting reminded me of the Nuremberg Rally", and they give you short shrift?

You are on their territory. There's them and there's us. Don't tell me we can all live together in perfect harmony. We live seperate lives. Talking about religion is only going to raise our blood pressures.

And how can you say that you honestly believed that by the 21st century we would have won the argument. There is no argument. You have faith or you don't. You believe that God created humans. Or you believe that humans created God.

Christ almighty, surely you can see it's that simple.

And don't call my children animals. They're angels, right?

Big Bruvver Is Watching.......

Sir 'Ming' Campbell - The compromise choice to take over from wild man Bad Charlie Kennedy as leader of the Christian Liberal Democrats. The 'Ming' was awarded to Menzies as he is seen as such a safe pair of hands that you would trust him to carry your most valuable crockery across a slippery, hard wooden floor. He is not so named because of his startling resemblance to Flash Gordon's nemesis.

Gorgeous George Galloway - Who is unable to attend surgery for his constituents at present as he is busy stopping the Iraq War by hypnotising the nation with his piggy eyes. Young people everywhere who previously couldn't give a stuff about what's happening in this shitty world of ours as long as they're all right Jack and Shayneeee Ward gets to Number One are signing up to the RESPECT Party in their droves as they've seen the light in George's crabby orbs.

The b/w photo on Abu Dhabi TV - I'm guessing it's a picture of a recently deceased member of the Saudi Royal Family as he was in his younger, lovely days. The picture is accompanied by a singer who sounds like he's been singing for 36 hours without a break. But don't dare go for the remote control, as you'll get your hand chopped off at the wrist.

Happy Days!

Read This Tex

Yesterday, I had an argument at work.

"I text so and so to wish them a happy new year."

"What did you do?"

"I text so and so to wish them..."

"No, you texted so and so to wish them a happy new year."

"I text."

"You texted."

"Text."

"Texted."

"Text! Text! Text! There's no such word as Texted"

I lose the argument.

I have never text/texted in my godforsaken life, and I had never felt the need to describe it until yesterday.

My brain hurted.

What's Wrong With Noel Edmonds?

What're you doing?

Watching Sweeney. Recorded it last night. He's a brilliant actor.

Dennis Waterman?

Ray Winstone.

Oh. Sweeney Todd!

Yeah. He's brilliant.

Is he?

I thought you liked him? He supports West Ham.

So does Noel Edmonds.

What's wrong with Noel Edmonds?


(What's wrong with Noel Edmonds?)

New Year Happy

I'm busy. So I'm going to cut the crap. Or should that be cut to the crap?

Over the holidays...

We watched

King Kong - Fay Wray beautiful. Kong ugly but good, strong teeth.

Corrie - Goths Rosie and Craig have underage sex. Rosie's dad Kevin furious (jealous that he never had sex till he was 27 even though he grew a moustache at 13).

Bleak House - Hi-tech and addictive, but still soppy enough to be Dickens. Some great performances, the pick of which by Johnny Vegas's cat who I'll be voting for as Animal Actor of the Year at the BAFTAS.

Yuri Norstein Animations - Wonderful adaptations of Russian Folk Tales. Great pipe-smoking, knife-toting rooster.

Jools Holland's Hootenanny - Annual knees-up for Jools and his middle-aged chums: unfunny 1980s comedians. A pissed Adrian Edmondson jamming with the Kaiser Chiefs: middle-class twit of the year.

James Last at the Royal Albert Hall from 1977 - Not only can this soulless white audience not dance, they can't even bleeding conga.

The Death of the British Sitcom - Daffy old Carla Lane complains about being dropped by the BBC. Says "The Office is for 15 year olds". Daffy, daffy, daffy old woman living in the 1970s.

We Saw

Henri Rousseau at the Tate Modern - Colonial old fool but still a genius. It takes genius to make a lion look ugly.

We Listened to

Woman Next Door - She's contacted the police about our noisy neighbour. Oh dear.

Favourite Words

"Contains Mild Peril" - On adverts for that film about the penguins that the American Christian Right think is a moral story of family values.

Shhh

As a naturally quiet, shy person, happy to see out the new year without the company of strangers, I would like to echo the thoughts of millions of quiet, shy, unobtrusive individuals throughout the world. As this day is our day, the one day in the year when it is ok to be yourself.

In the words of the sage Bono...



ALL IS QUIET ON NEW YEAR'S DAY

Wall Ball

Christmas Day

Out for our afternoon constitutional, we meet the moany old woman who lives in the upstairs maisonette next to our house. There's no "Happy Christmas" from her, just a good old moan about another of our neighbours, the man who lives below her. She has got a council form to fill in. She's just about had enough. She's confronted him about it and he was rude to her. She's spoken to the landlord who won't do anything about it.

Christmas Evening

The man next door has one of his children visiting - the boy with the football. The boy begins to play football indoors, against the wall. We hear the usual dull thud in the background.

A few minutes later we hear loud banging from next door upstairs. Loud banging which reverberates around the whole block. The old woman has been driven to bitter, wild retaliation.

Yesterday

I am about to get on my treadmill, the first chance I've had in a few days to sweat off the festive fayre. Before I begin, I decide to take out three empty beer cans to the recycling bin at the front of the house. Not wearing my glasses, but wearing shorts, teeshirt and trainers, I stagger into the cold dark.

The man next door gets out of his car, accompanied by the boy with the football. The dad asks me if I've had a good Christmas. He looks at the beer cans and says that he sees that I've had a good time. He says he noticed that I had a few too many on Christmas Day. I am caught in the glare of his headlights.

I hadn't seen him on Christmas Day. He must think it was me who was making all the noise. I don't know what to say. He says he doesn't get the chance to drink as much as he would like nowadays, not with four kids. The boy with the football glares at me.

I go inside and get on the treadmill.

The dull thuds commence.

The Coronation Street Christmas Pantomime

It used to be a tradition in panto to have the leading male character played by a young woman, usually Anita Harris. So Anita was Jack of Jack and the Beanstalk, Dick of Dick Whittington, and The Prince in countless other shows.

These pantos were love stories and the boy (girl) always got the girl (girl) in the end. More recently the lead male has been played by Darren Day, famous for being blond and crap and for treating his celebrity girlfriends like shit. But he's popular amongst a large section of British women and of course he was on I'm a Celebrity Get Me Outtahere.

I'm disappointed to see that in this version of Cinderella the lovers aren't played by Violet and Frankie. Just a pure, sweet, innocent kiss between them would've made my Christmas.

Or alternatively, Hayley as the Prince. A woman who plays a woman who used to be a man playing a woman playing a man might be too much though for viewers pumped up with Cava and turkey additives.

No, instead we've got Frankie as Cinders (a bit old for the part but she wears the costume well), and Danny as the Prince. You couldn't get much further from a young fresh-faced girl/boy than Danny Baldwin, a grizzled middle-aged bloodshot borderline alcoholic. More of a real prince than a fantasy one, then.

I've never watched Celebrity Stars in Their Eyes but Corrie actors always seem to be on it (Shelley as Dolly Parton, Les as Dean Martin, Janice as Bjork). So this is my first chance to see the guys and gals outside of their comfort zone.

This panto looks like it took about five minutes to write. That doesn't matter as it's really mainly a showcase for the multifarious talents of Corrie's stars. Bradley Walsh is not just a mediocre footballer, comedian and actor. He's a piss poor singer and dancer, too.

So what happens? Well, a pissed Frankie bangs her head on the floor of the Rovers and has this dream, you see.

Frankie must've had something slipped into her wine because her dream is very very strange. Her Street mates play all different types of characters from lots of different pantomimes. But the basic story is the old Cinderella one.

There are a few scenes where we see what could have been done if the writer's rather than the actors' ego had been satisfied. There is a little bit of Dickens where Chesney as Tiny Tim is lying in his sick bed. Looking through the window at him are Dev-Eneezer Scrooge and a cranially damaged Tommy Harris as the Ghost of Christmas Past. And then there's Ugly Sister Norris's boast that he is wearing a new perfume: "Kabin Fever from the Rita Sullivan Range".

More! More!

But, no. We get a string of show songs sung by amateurs seemingly chosen to please Granny who is sitting in the corner of the living room farting and snoring her way through Boxing Afternoon.

So, Ladiees and Gennlemen. I give you the songs:-

1. It Ain't What You Do It's The Way That You Do It (Shelley, Sean and Fizz)
Trouble is, that ain't the way to do it. Little Chesney gets to do the line "and then your tribe will swing" in a deep grown-up voice. Hilarious.

2. The Stripper (Roy and Norris)
An instrumental featuring a strip by the two Ugly Sisters. Probably the best performance as there's no amateurish warbling.

3. Good For Nuthin' Liar? Double Crossing Liar? (Jack and Sarah-Lou)
I don't know this song but it features Jack and Sarah as a raunchy married couple which is enough for me to sick up my cashew nuts. Bill Tarmey is the only professional singer on show. It doesn't show.

4. We're A Couple Of Swells (Kirk and Les)
This utterly shite performance thankfully doesn't erase the sublime Judy Garland/Fred Astaire classic one from my memory.

5. All I Want For Christmas Is You (Frankie)
This instantly forgetable performance unfortunately doesn't erase Mariah Carey's purely evil one from my memory.

6. There's No Business Like Show Business (Fred, Cilla and Bev)
Like watching sumo wrestlers attempting ballet.

7. Moondance (Danny Baldwin)
Danny begins to take over with this reading of the Van Morrison "classic", full of sweaty bollocky Cockney Soul.

8. The Way You Look Tonight (Frankie and Danny)
Frankie too thin, according to my mum. Danny old and haggard, according to me.

9. The Sunny Side Of The Street (The Whole Ensemble)
Fred puffing like a buffalo, Warren Baldwin miming because he doesn't know the words, Blanche not keeping up, hobbling along with the aid of her walking stick. An extravaganza. There's even time for a short Bhangra section by Dev to get Granny's blood boiling so that she's awake for the real thing: Boxing Day Corrie.

10. The Party's Over (Danny)
As they are left alone, Danny sings to Frankie. A real tearjerker as he leaves her alone to wake from her dream and walk back into the Rovers to throw up in the Ladies and drink another bottle of wine.

Can't wait for next year.

Legends. James Last. (BBC4)

I don't remember ever seeing my dad listen to music. There were a couple of Beatles singles in the house, a couple of Stan Freberg 78s. Then in the seventies, some James Last LPs. But I don't remember him ever listening to anything.

Music was my preserve. It was MY music centre in the corner of the living room where I could put on my headphones, close my eyes and escape. I even tried listening to a James Last LP. All I can remember is applause and whooping, then the Simon and Garfunkel song Cecilia played by about 1,000 instruments, then more applause and whooping.

I remember this correctly as this is the James Last formula: a string of popular songs knotted together by a pissed audience having a GOOD TIME.

James, or Hansi as he's known by his fans and family, is the second biggest selling artist after Elvis. He's recorded over 100 LPs. He gets the best musicians to work for him and he treats them well. He's no James Brown.

HE'S FRIENDS WITH RICHARD CLAYDERMAN.

Paul Morley says that James Last music is music for people who don't like music. They take a holiday in popular music, get to hear it in bite sized chunks, each and every one of them believing that Hansi is the genuis, the great creator.

I don't think so. What nails Hansi's appeal for me is when Malcolm Laycock says his stuff's a fresh take on Big Band Music. I know that my dad was a big Big Band fan. He would stand at the front at a Ted Heath show, drink plenty of beer and nod his head like a chicken. Like Big Hansi, Big Band was big and loud and brassy with simple melodies, perfect drinking music. And you'd certainly need to be pissed to enjoy James Last.

Nowhere in this documentary however, is German Oompah music mentioned. If Hansi's roots aren't in that thigh-slapping bollocks, then I'm Father Christmas.

But Hansi's rich, happy, with a much younger wife. The critics can go stuff themselves because he knows what the people want.

Because at the end of the day...

He who laughs, Last laughs longest.

All I Want For Christmas....

No, it's not one of my front teeth that's gone, it's a side molar.

I still have marks from the dentist's knees and toenails on my chest and thighs respectively.

The pain's intermittent and I will survive.

Instead of putting the tooth under my pillow in return for a sixpence from a friendly fairy, I have cut out the middle man and placed the tooth straight into the Christmas pudding.

It'll be my own bit of Christmas Day magic as someone takes a bite, thinks they've lost a molar, then discovers with relief that they haven't.



Christ, it's dragging this year.......

Three Wise Men...

...each of them filled with cocksure Christmas spirit, three examples of white, English heterosexual man at his finest. I feel so proud I have goosepimples.

Wise Man Number One: He's been at the office party. He's on the phone to his mate. Yes, he was on a promise tonight, but he couldn't exactly take her home with some other bird's knickers all over the bedroom floor, could he?

Wise Man Number Two: He's been to his office's Christmas meal. Three of his co-workers didn't turn up. So today, he's eaten four Christmas dinners. Yes, FOUR Christmas dinners.

Wise Man Number Three: He's in the pub with his male employees, six suited men together. He shows the arselickers a picture on his mobile phone. It's of his 19 year old daughter. Proud as punch of his attractive, sexy 19 year old daughter, showing her off to leery men fired up with beer and Christmassy sex hormones.

Gold, frankincense and myrrh?

Or shit, shit and more shit?

To Dig dig dig dig dig dig dig is what we like to do

The British public love a good soppy song. Robbie Williams' Angels, Robson and Jerome's Unchained Melody, Westlife's Flying Without Wings. Good funeral songs for dead people.

And this Christmas we have the ultimate in marketed soppiness. We've been told that The JCB Song is a tragic thing about a dyslexic boy who gets bullied at school and skives off to be with his dad who drives him round town in a JCB. The boy imagines his dad is dead kung fu film star, Bruce Lee. Heartbreaking, eh?

Trouble is, in the song itself, the "bullies" at school are only mentioned in passing. The dyslexia isn't mentioned at all. The song is much ado about nothing, but the nation is crying at a story which doesn't exist in the song but in the hype around it.

And call me old fashioned, but if your dad is Bruce Lee you don't want him driving you round in a digger truck like some twat out of Trumpton, thereby giving the bullies more ammunition to take the piss out of you. You want your dad to kick seven shades of shit out of the bullies' fathers.

Or preferably your mum.

And she's Uma Thurman.

There's No-one Quite Like Grandma

The illustrated nanny goat stares out at me from the packaging. She has a benign smile on her face. Her large ears stick out at right angles from her narrow head. Her little eyes are expressionless. She wouldn't do me any harm.

Underneath her face are the words, "The REAL alternative to cow's milk". Above her face, "Packed full of goodness".

I know cow's milk ruins my digestion. But I'm a bit bored with soya. And there's no denying that dairy gives me a boost. I feel stronger and more awake when I drink it. But with cow's milk, the minuses outweigh the pluses. But Nanny wouldn't harm me, would she? I take her home.

Nanny's milk is very white. Brilliant emulsion white. It tastes slightly sour. I pour it on my cereal. I lap it up. I feel strong. Stronger. Christ, I could climb a mountain if I didn't get vertigo.

But as the day goes on, the milk doesn't go down. It sticks in my gullet (the old reflux). I start to cough. I feel breathless. Here we go again.

I go to the fridge. I pick up the carton and Nanny smiles at me. There's something cruel in that smile. Why didn't I see it before? Why should she like me when cows don't?

And cows are more even tempered than goats, aren't they?

Whistle While You Work

As Chris de Burgh rears his ugly Christmas head through the office stereo, from the gap in my open window I can hear a man whistling the tune to one of the following:-

a) Socialist anthem, "Keep the red flag flying high".

b) Chelsea FC anthem, "Keep the blue flag flying high".

c) West Ham United FC anthem, "Stick the blue flag up your arse".


I am taking bets. To which group of humankind does the man belong?

The odds are:-

Chelsea Fan 7 to 4 favourite
West Ham Fan 20 to 1
Labour Cabinet Member 40,000,000 to 1

A time transported gentleman, an early pioneer of the Labour Party, would shake the man by the hand and say, "Good to hear a friendly sound, brother...on these cacophonous streets."

And the whistling man would most likely reply...

"Are you Chelsea?"

There's Only One. Tel

The One. Tel British TV Comedy Awards sponsored by telecommunicatons company One. Tel.

Including the renaming of the award for best comedy writer. It is now called the Ronnie Barker Best Comedy Writer.

Of course the award goes to those Little Britain boys in homage to their stupid, crude humour which is to Ronnie's writing what Robbie Williams' stage presence is to Otis Redding's.

One. Tel must be an absolutely fantastic company to work for as all its employees at the bash seem to be having a superb time a-whooping and a-hollering along each time the name "One. Tel" is mentioned by host Jonathon Ross.

Maybe it has something to do with the free vodka jelly and gin blancmange they seem to be quaffing by the gallon.

I bet Mr Bubbles the balloon bender goes down a storm at their Christmas party.

Brace Yourself, Nigel

My train is cancelled and the next train is one of those new ones. I like to read for half the journey into work and sleep the other half. But these new trains make sleep impossible.

I can sleep through the woman's voice which has to say "the next stop is..." every three minutes.

I can sleep through the usual gum chewers, the snot sniffers, the really important phone callers.

But I can't get any sleep on these new seats.

As soon as I begin to drift off, I get thrown forward into the brace position. My ageing spine tells the working part of my brain that it would be more comfortable at 30 degrees than bolt upright against a surface that only a Pilates black belt or former 400 metre runner Michael Johnson could tolerate.

"Just checking for dust, sir?"

I am 44. So neurgh!

Eleven fours. A football team of four year olds.

"Joshua! Joshua! Get your arse back! Go on, Jordan! Go on, my son! Oh, yes! The vision of that boy! Back door, James! BACK DOOR! Man on, Daniel! Give it, Thomas! Not James! Joshua, you lazy, fat...Get your arse in gear! Go on, Jordan! Go on, my son! Go on, Jordan! You little genius! You beautiful boy! Oh, yes! What a goal! WHAT A GOAL!...What? Foul? Foul? What foul? Referee? You wanker, referee! You fucking wanker! Don't you fucking book my boy! Don't you fucking dare!"

Eleven fours. And I'm still getting cards with footballers on the front. And trains. No racing cars this year, though. That was last year. I've never been that bothered about trains and cars. They get me from A to B. And B to A.

* * * * * * *

I sit in my office lightly tapping the keys of my calculator, organising my days in my desk diary. I look forward to going home to play with my birthday presents...

1. My new pocket calculator.

2. My new pocket diary.

Christmas Babble

We go for a curry to celebrate my forthcoming birthday. It just so happens that the restaurant is packed to the rafters with parties of people in party mood. They aren't here to celebrate my life.

But some of them are here to talk about cars.

Apart from an ejaculation of "BHP - BRAKE HORSE POWER", the loudest sentences tend to include the words, "Jeremy Clarkson said..." or "Jeremy Clarkson's favourite..." I think the man is in love with Jeremy Clarkson as he seems to be having a bit of a rocky spell with his wife who he brings into the conversation only to demonstrate how she doesn't understand him.

We are spoilt by a Christmas hits soundtrack, although the Mud track they play isn't Lonely This Christmas, but Tiger Feet. Your usual Wizzards and Slades are present, along with your Mariahs and your Eltons. Two young men exit the toilets together, each clutching a false moustache/beard combo to his face. As they walk past me I expect to hear howls of laughter from the enormous party behind me. I hear nothing but babble.

* * * * * * *

Trousers are a problem for me. They just don't fit. I've got a couple of pairs of Primark combats which I wear for all occasions, but with the festive season now upon us I feel I ought to have a smarter pair.

So here I am trying on a pair of £32 M&S combats. 34 inch waist, 31 inch leg. They seem to fit but they don't. There's a drawstring inside the waistband which seems pretty pointless as you either tie it too tight or too loose. Too tight and my ropey digestion starts playing up. Too loose and they fall down to my hips. So I try on a pair of £32 moleskin trousers. 34 inch waist, 29 inch leg. They're cotton of course, not real mole. And Christ, they're tight. Hug me round the middle with a tape measure and I'm clearly 33 inches. How can 34 be too tight?

I leave the changing room, put the trousers back, and a small dog who is accompanied by a well dressed middle-class man looks up at me with pity in his eyes.

His owner's trousers fit like a glove.


* * * * * * *


In Wilkinson's, looking for cheap, tacky Christmas decorations made in Chinese sweatshops, we notice a £20 yeti. "Press here," it says on its chest. I press there, nothing happens. I press again, nothing happens. A seven year old child muscles his way in front of me and presses there.

The yeti begins to sing and gyrates his hips in a lewd fashion. The seven year old walks away. I am left watching the abominable Elvis with a man in his sixties.

He turns to me and smiles.

Bored With Telly?

No, not really. Just a bit fed up with writing about it. Christmas is coming and I don't want to spend the whole festive period slagging off things. I don't like being nasty all the time. I wanna have some fun for a change. I want to walk in the air, play amongst the moonlit clouds.

Take me up, Jesus.

Scam

You buy six bottles of red wine in ASDA so's you get 10% off . You make sure one of them is corked and tastes fucking foul. You drink half of it anyway cos you're a pisshead. You take it back to ASDA. You say "This bottle of wine is corked and tastes fucking foul." They say "Do you want a new fucker or do you want a fucking refund?" You say "I want a fucking refund." They give you the FULL price of the original bottle of wine. You come out having made 50p and a half full belly of corked wine which went straight to your head.

Quality Street?

I don't want to step on Frank's toes, so I won't go into the storyline of last night's Corrie.

But I just wish I could warn the producers just in case they didn't watch it.

We expect preposterous plots from Corrie. It's all part of the fun. But the characters are always true to themselves, and the script is invariably sharp and funny, never getting above itself.

But last night it did. The writer Stephen Russell is an old hand whose first script was transmitted in October 2002, so all I can assume is that he's got a grudge against someone and last night was his attempt to lose viewers. Fred Elliott is allowed to be stagey,that's how he is. But last night we had Eileen, Steve, the whole bar staff of the Rovers, the Websters...(yes, even KEVIN) hamming it up like a drama group in Surbiton. And all because the script was fucking diabolical.

Please, Stephen...if you've got a grudge, don't take it out on us. Put laxatives in someone's drink or something.

Either that or head for the stage.

If the play's the thing, darling.

Spiders From Mars

Tears are falling from my left eye as little baby wolf spiders hatch from their mummy's eggs. I'm a sucker for baby animals and now it looks like I'm a sucker for baby arachnids, too.

How can you not love these beautiful creatures? You've got a phobia? I'm sorry. Perhaps you love baby humans? Those horrid ugly, big, bald, crying, scary things which usually grow up to be much better looking? Each to their own.

Snakes scare me. The reptile house is full of beautiful lizards and horrible snakes. A house full of snakes and baby humans would be just too much for me to take.

Thank you, David Attenborough and the life in your underpants. I heart spiders.



And this morning tears are falling down again as I listen once more to Grace by Jeff Buckley. Everybody says Hallelujah is a religious experience, but no, its the least brilliant thing on the album. Not only is it written by cold fish Leonard Cohen, but also whenever I hear it I'm reminded of the version by foghorn leghorn Rufus Wainwright. I spent most of the eighties listening to stuff by singers putting on a voice and I've had enough. Tom Waits doing his drunken tramp. Nick Cave doing his junkie preacher. Elvis Costello's new wave vibrato. If I'd continued in that vein I'd now be listening to Mr Wainwright and wounded polar bear Tony Johnstone of Antony and the Johnsons. Instead of a beautifully natural voice like Jeff's.

Musicians' sons are usually crap musicians. The Lennons, Rolan Bolan, the Marleys. But Jeff was better than his dad. Listen to Lilac Wine or Corpus Christi Carol and try not to cry. And he could kick ass like Kunt Cobblers could kick ass.

He went out with Elizabeth Fraser for a while.

He died young, falling into a fast moving river.

I want to pull him out of the river. Pump his chest till he coughs up the crap that's in there. Lead him to the altar with Elizabeth and ask them to sing their vows. Live happily ever after, not having to sing any more...

...just sit there having a laugh at Thom Yorke.

Kiss of Death

Yes, that's me.

Recently, whenever I've put a comment on somebody's blog, nobody else seems to follow suit. I know I smell but surely you can't smell me from there.

So I would be grateful if fellow bloggers would sign their name in the comments below if you do not wish me to comment any more on your blogs.

I'll understand.

There's Something About You...

Congratulations are due to David Cameron on his election as new lead singer of rock band INXS. The post has been vacant ever since a tragic auto accident killed the band's previous frontman, Michael H.

But can our David cut the mustard?

Last night on the local news, he was said to possess "that all important tingle factor". "Whatever that means," said the presenter.

I thnk we all know what it means.

And this morning I'm sure I heard the announcer on Radio 4 say that the rise of Mr C has caused a mass debate in the country.

Good grief. If Michael H was reputed to be in the possession of the Taj Mahal of crotches, one can only imagine what wonders lie below young David's 42 inch cummerbund.

Superfly

This weekend, we have been watching films.

Two films, both with brilliant soundtracks. Le Feu Follet, with music by Eric Satie. And Superfly, music by Curtis Mayfield.

Le Feu Follet is a classic film about alcoholism, despair, and suicide...which leads us nicely into the festive season.

Superfly is enjoyable tosh about a drugs dealer who wants to get out of the game by making one last deal which will make him a millionaire, not realising he will have to deal with corrupt police. It stars Ron O'Neal, a name which puts me in mind of former Norwich goalkeeper Kevin Keelan for some reason.

Ron gets to wear some snazzy clothes, sniff half a bucketful of cocaine, have some soapy, sensual sex in the bath, and fight a few fights.

The best lines (heh heh heh), however, go to his sidekick when Ron first says he wants out of the coke business:-

"You gonna give all this up? 8 track stereo, colour tv in every room, and can snort a half a piece of dope every day. That's the American dream, nigger."

And in 1972, it was.

Young At Heart

Bloggers past a certain age worship different cultural icons. They run the gamut from Sigur Ros to Jimmy Clitheroe. I've sampled both in the past 24 hours, trying to discover which side of the cultural fence I should be sitting. I've liked the Ros's for well over a year and a half, but what about Jimmy? Am I missing something?

I've had enough of comedians impersonating teenagers with crap catchphrases; "bovvered?" and "Yeah but no but" spring to mind. But that's just crap, not disturbing.

Disturbing is where you get adults acting as children. A regular nightmare of mine is the image of Colin Welland and Michael Elphick in shorts in Blue Remembered Hills. Then there's Terry Scott, Jeanette Krankie...And the original Clitheroe Kid.

We've started to utilise our telly to record the radio. Five hours of Edwin Drood this week...no, of course we fucking won't. No time, mate.

There's the John Lennon interview on Radio 4, 15 minute Oscar Wilde and DH Lawrence short stories on BBC7...ooh, I'm feeling all Christmassy already.

And there he is, slap bang in the middle of the BBC7 schedules, The Clitheroe Kid.

So, for some of you bloggers out there who may not be old enough, and for those of you old enough but whose memories are shot due to a lifetime of overindulgence in drink, drugs and wild wild women/men, here's a sample of the dialogue from The Clitheroe Kid:-

Have you put your conkers in my drawers again, Jimmy?
It weren't me, Mam. It were Grandad.
You lying little fooker.
Fook off, Mam.
No, you fook off, Jimmy.
No, you fook off, Mam.
Grandad! He's telling me to fook off! And he said you put conkers in my drawers!
I'll tan the little fooker's hide.
No you won't, Grandad. You fooking old twat.

So get out those protractors, get out those compasses, get out those slide rules. For...

The Clitheroe Kid is strong and tough,
And only the worst is good enough,
The sauciest words,
The most insults,
The evil that's in Clitheroe.