ABACAB - 24 Hr Taxi Service

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anybody else want a go?

Many Happy Returns, Young Edward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take it easy, Teddy. We love you.

Scatological Shakespeare

shit = shit

crap = crap

turd = turd

poo = poo

e.g. "There is more shit in heaven and earth, Horatio, than is dreamt of in your philosophy."

Matchstick Men and Matchstalk Cats and Dogs

I wonder if people have seen this picture and said, "That's me! Just to the right of the horse's nose, the kid with the cap and the sleeveless jumper, looking straight at the artist. I don't remember seeing him there but I often used to stand in just that spot. Just to the right of that horse."

There's a picture in the paper we get of a famous building. The picture is taken from some distance in order to get it all in. And in front of the building are several people, milling around or walking purposefully.

Two of the people walking purposefully are me and Betty. At least they are to us. At first glance. You see, we walk past this building a few times a year. So when we see a photo of it taken from this angle we're obviously going to think, "I wonder whether we're there?" Us being ever so slightly egotistical.

And there we are. As clear as day, the two of us, walking towards our usual destination. I know we're extremely small and not particularly in focus, but it's definitely us. Betty in front of me...

Uh?

We usually walk side by side. Not arm in arm like retired couples or hand in hand like teenagers. But side by side. I don't follow the missus like I'm some sort of subservient husband. We are equals. Then again we could be walking in single file to let someone past. Although I can't see anybody approaching us.

I look closer. Betty would not wear that top. It looks like it's got a picture of a rock star on it. Or that could just be the light playing on it.

What about me? That's definitely me. He's got my stoop. He's carrying what could be a rucksack over his right shoulder. That's me, alright.

But where did I get that chin? I look closer. That's one big John Kerry chin. And yes, I've got a stoop but this bloke's got more than a stoop, he looks as though he's foraging on the ground for fag ends. And is that a rucksack or is that a hump on his back?

He looks about 2 foot shorter than Betty, too. That can't be right. I'm a short hunchback with a foot long chin, I'm walking behind my wife as if she owns me? And look, she's laughing at him! Betty wouldn't do such a cruel thing. It can't be her. How can the woman laugh at this hunchbacked, long-chinned freak when her own tits are nothing to write home about, look, they're down to her fucking knees!

They can't be us! They're a couple of fucking rampaging neanderthals, they don't belong in the 21st century let alone in front of a famous London landmark.

Look, there's a copper! Hurry up and arrest them, you bastard. Put 'em out of their misery. Transport 'em back to an earlier time, the bleedin' stone age! Come on, you lazy pig!

Shit, that's not a copper...

A Rude Awakening

I am on the train, trying to sleep. But how can I sleep? With all this going on...

"Do you really have to push me? You rude young man. Have you no manners? You can see I'm standing here and you have to barge past me, don't you? Have you no patience? I have a bad back, you know! And arthritis! What is the world coming to when a rude young man thinks he can push people out of the way just to get on the train a bit more quickly? How dare you push an old woman out of the way! Do you have no respect for your elders? I am nearly 60 years old, I have a bad back and arthritis!...What?...What did you say?...You wished I was dead?...I have never heard such rudeness from a rude young man in my life! You wait till you get to my age. I hope then you get pushed out of the way by someone half your age. See how you like it!"

Later, I get off the train and overhear...

"She was the one doing the pushing. She barged her way through the carriage."

"You get some funny people, don't you?"

Info...Yes I Said Infomaniac

What do a chocolate Elton John and a utensil for protecting bananas have in common?

Do they perform the same function?

No. The answer is they both feature on Infomaniac.

Not only does she continue to keep us Corrie obsessives happy, but MJ has also started a new blog which will keep the rest of you entertained, too.

So I'd advise you to get over there, my friends. For if you don't I'll do a post entitled "10 Reasons Why I Love Teddy Sheringham."

And you wouldn't want that, would you?

A Quite unGeoffreyish Post

So Tory! Tory! Tory! (BBC4) is over and we've seen the end of the Iron Lady. I remember the day she resigned, listening to people at work saying how sorry they were for her. I wish they hadn't as I've always thought it bad form to bring politics into the workplace as it only adds to the stress of the working day.

Of course Mrs T did what we all knew was necessary by taking on the unions. As your man on the street might say:

"We all know the unions previously ran the country, don't we? Unelected men in smoke filled rooms with sandwiches and beer, plotting how to get the most money for their members for as little work as possible. Miners down the pits scraping handfuls of coal then spending the rest of the day playing Pontoon or I Spy then wiping coal dust on their faces to make it look as though they'd done a decent day's work. The unions kept productivity low so that they could fill dinosaur nationalised industries with a lazy workforce that now and again held the country to ransom by going on strike to keep their outdated practises. The unions were holding Britain back, but we didn't stand for it and we elected Maggie to destroy them. And destroy them she did."

Of course selling off vital public utilities to rich people and turning public housing stock into easy profit or easy debt for individuals was a good thing. Who needs society when you can have every man, woman and child fighting their own corner for their own piece of the pie? Which has to be the natural order, doesn't it? Just look at a Tory, any Tory. Aren't they ever so natural?

And it was the natural order when Mrs T began to stop listening to the people around her. It was naturally time for the lady to go. Here's Nigel Lawson talking about her old lapdog Geoffrey Howe's resignation speech:

"I was astonished by the virulence of his attack on Margaret Thatcher. It was quite unGeoffreyish."

And what were these unGeoffreyish words, this "assassination speech" according to Kenneth Baker?

"It's rather like sending your opening batsmen to the crease, only for them to find the moment the first balls are bowled their bats have been broken before the game by the team captain."

Vicious...You're so vicious...You hit me with a flower..

The Good Samaritan

The young woman is on the phone to her boyfriend as she lengthens her stride and overtakes me on the way to the train station.

"Anyway, see you later. Yeah. Love you."

She stops and looks down at her trouser leg.

"Shit! I've got bird shit!"

She turns to me.

"Have you got a tissue? I've got bird shit."

I blew my nose a minute ago but I have a spare tissue. I tell her I don't have one.

"Shit."

I have a change of heart.

"Actually, I've got a clean one."

I rummage around in my pocket. I pick up the tissue at the bottom and hand it to her.

"Thank you," she says.

I walk away and my nose begins to run. I pull out what feels like a clean tissue.

I Am A Cold Killer

One's dreams are OK as a subject for blogging, if used sparingly. There's nothing worse than a blogger going on and on about his dreams week after week. Like we're really interested that he met Arthur Brown in his DREAMS?

Put a sock in it, you wanker.

But every now and then a dream needs to be exorcised on the web. Keep fit and all that.

Quite often I dream that I'm a murderer and that the body is under the patio, but nobody else knows that I'm a murderer or that anybody is missing. It may be true that I've committed such a terrible act, but I can't for the life of me think who I may have done in. My memory isn't what it was so if anybody can help me out I will be most grateful.

Last night I had a dream which suggested to me that the crime I may have committed was not wholly my responsibility and that my murderous ways are indeed inherited.

My grandad was sitting there, alive and awake, asking me if I could investigate our family tree as he believed that his uncle's grandfather had been a murderer. Of course he gave me little to go on, and all I could say to my grandad was that I'd seen his own name on the 1908 census.

"I know who I am, Geoffrey. I want to know about my uncle's grandad."

What do you think? Is it worth joining Genes Reunited and risk finding out I'm related to Dr Crippen or Dr Shipman? Although I doubt that anybody from my gene pool would have had the intelligence to qualify as a doctor.

But you never know.

Sweet Suburbia

Yes, I've got a new camera. And yes I've had a little play and photographed the town centre on a sunny winter's day. But it came out too good. The sky was too blue, the William Morris Fountain was working and didn't contain washing up liquid, the passers-by looked just too damned handsome. So I've fucked it up a little.

I know you serious photographers are into flickr. But however much I've tried, they won't seem to give me a password that works. But by accident I found yahoo photos on my email account and now I've got somewhere to host them and to do marvellous effects like the one above.

The neon lights are always bright on Broadway
There is almost magic in the air

OK, it is Bexleyheath Broadway. But there is almost magic in the air on those days when we are treated to live entertainment as we traverse the pedestrianised theatre.

The Morris Fountain in the foreground is literally dwarfed by the world famous clock tower a mere twenty yards behind it. And the clock tower has been the focal point of Bexleyheath since the thing was constructed in...do you really think I give a shit?

Behind and to the right of the clock tower is TK Maxx. To the right of TK Maxx is a path which leads you past Marks and Spencer on the right, and Poundstretcher, Wilkinsons, and ultimately Sainsbury's on the left. If you were standing where I'm standing you'd be just in front of the new Starbucks and a mere matter of a twenty second walk to Ann Summers. Fifteen seconds if you're in a hurry.

But I was going to tell you all about the entertainment scene, wasn't I?

1. Between Poundstretcher and Sainsbury's car park there is often a lone Peruvian Pan Piper. He plays along to a pre-recorded CD. He plays the lambada if you're lucky, Sting if you're not. You may lambada past him in your thong or your plus fours or both if you wish. If Sting's playing you may consider just how little time we have on this earth and maybe cover your ears with your hands and SCREAM.

2. The main stage is the area you see between TK Maxx and the clock tower. And it is here you may see the Glam Rock line dancers, women of a certain age, moving like an arthritic Nan's People, getting it on to T Rex and Cockney Rebel, all in aid of a local hospice. My personal favourites, although I stress my mum is not part of this scene. Yet.

3. As mentioned in a previous post, in the same area, maybe a little closer to TK Maxx, you may see the Mark Kermode lookalikes, The Rockabilly Foursome, rocking their way through Rock Around The Clock, spreading the message of the late L Ron Hubbard: Say NO to Drugs, Say YES to Life. A choice between L Ron Hubbard and Philip K Dick? It's unlikely that anybody in the town centre has heard of either. And why should they?

4. Finally, a special treat (possibly for Mother's Day, I do hope so). "Isn't he lovely? Like an Italian Russell Watson!" It's the young opera singer with crumpled suit and velvet voice. Even the hardest of hard faces softens as he gets in really close to the microphone and belts out those opera classics from Italia '90. Old biddies have been known to miss their bus home.


Luckily, we live a mere 12 minute walk from here and could stay for the duration of any of these performances. If we wanted to.

What happened to you? Whatever happened to me?

The same people appear in my dreams with depressing regularity. Teenagers I went to school with and haven't seen for 26 years. In the dreams, we're all in our twenties and we're having a kind of school reunion. I say nothing, drink a few pints of lager and wake up with indigestion.

I make myself ill because I don't want to see these people. I don't want to know they've made a success of their lives. I don't want to know that their game plan has worked, that their chosen career path has led them in the direction they always wanted to go.

I'm not a member of Friends Reunited but I know someone who is. And every now and then I take a peek at my year at my old school. Just to be nosey. The boys' self portraits go something like this:-

"After leaving school, I travelled round South Africa for a year, met some wonderful people, came back to Southampton University, met some wonderful people including my future wife and my future business partner, Michael Dawson. The business has gone fantastically well and we have four lovely children."

So you're happy but you miss those shitty school days, do you? The worst years of our lives? Don't tell me you actually enjoyed them!

Or am I wrong and they were the best years of our lives? My dad always used to say they were. School followed by National Service. "Great years, Geoff. Great times. You may think you're having a bad time of it now but when you're my age you'll look back on today as a golden time."

Well now I am his age and I'm happier than I've ever been. And I still hate the memory of school. And National Service?

Sergeant Crumb made my life a misery. A misery, I tell you! He used to make me scrub his scaly back with a toothbrush at 2 am every Friday. He'd sneak up to my bed, place his hand over my mouth and whisper in my ear, "Private Geoff...it's time for a little plaque removal. Don't forget to bring Tony."

He'd lead me to his Sergeants' mess, remove his nightgown, and sit like Christine Keeler on his dressing table chair. I'd remove Tony Toothbrush from his vanity bag, coat his bristles with calamine lotion, and gently scrape away Sergeant Crumb's army fatigue deep into the night.

On Friends Reunited, if you click on my all-boys school, my year, there is a boy called Georgina. A few years ago my sister must've been noseying around and accidentally left her maiden name there. So any of my old classmates who happens across this entry could be thinking, "I remember Geoff as a fresh faced young man. I didn't fancy him then, but I quite like the idea of him as a woman. I do hope he gets in touch."

WELL I BLOODY WON'T, SO PISS OFF!

Godabilly

Spotted in the town centre...

Britain's Number One (unnamed) Swing (i.e. Rockabilly) Band live, playing to their two dancing fans.

Nobody else gives a shit.

Which is a crying shame as the four Mark Kermode lookalikes in fingerless gloves and overcoats were sponsored by THE CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY.

Do they really think they're going to get converts by playing Mucho Mambo with pub singer to an ocean of hurrying hard-faced women outside TK-Maxx?

At least they could have drafted in John Travolta to do his Pulp Fiction Dance where he draws his fingers across his face. If he could have persuaded Uma Thurman I might have joined in and signed up, too.


Beam me up, Spotty.

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