The Moment Bands Decided On Their Definitive Names - The First In A Series

As Blogger's being naughty and not allowing me to upload pictures of our few days away, as a little stop gap here's the first in a series, The Moment Bands Decided On Their Definitive Names.

Today, the Climax Blues Band.

(INT. A CAFE IN STAFFORD. A BLEAK NOVEMBER AFTERNOON.)

BLUES BROTHER NUMBER ONE: I've got it! I've got a new name for the band!

BLUES BROTHER NUMBER TWO: What's wrong with The Stafford Chicago Blues Revue?

BLUES BROTHER NUMBER ONE: The lads wanted something more punchy, more in yer face.

BLUES BROTHER NUMBER TWO: Go on then. I'm all ears.

BLUES BROTHER NUMBER ONE: Alright. It's something your missus doesn't have.

BLUES BROTHER NUMBER TWO: Coffee?

BLUES BROTHER NUMBER ONE: No. Not bloody coffee. What is it she doesn't have, no matter how hard you've tried to give her one?

BLUES BROTHER NUMBER TWO: Pickled onions?

I'll Be Right Back

We're off for a short break tomorrow. And I was going to leave you with a picture of the sad closure of Samantha's, a local clothes shop for skinny young women with erect nipples, if the shop window dummies were anything to go by. It was going to be such a poignant image, but today I'm afraid the shop is completely empty.

Another wasted opportunity.

While I'm away from Blogworld, I feel I have a duty to direct you to the blog of someone who has been a good friend of mine for many years. I first met him in 1996 when he introduced himself to me as the last person to see my father alive. In fact, he introduced himself to the whole congregation as the vicar pushed the button to consign my father to Hell.

He really is a lovely chap, so much more so than me, and I'm sure he'll give you a warm welcome. Well he would, only I've just noticed he'll be away for the next few days, himself.

So hello to Giles, and welcome to the world of blogging, my friend.


Au revoir.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Twit

We've been watching Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Brilliant acting by thespian God Guinness and the rest, great claustrophobic smoky atmosphere, perfect length of episodes...

But what the bloody blimey are they on about? I was fine for the first two episodes, but then I found myself in a fog of Witchcraft and Merlin and Operation Testify and which one is which out of Alleline, Haydon, Bland and Esterhase, and which adverts did the bloke with the nice voice do voiceovers for?

Halfway through the final episode I consult Wikipedia's plot summary which helps a great deal but still leaves me wanting to read the book.

Of course it's not in the library so we head to our local cheap but crap bookshop. I forge ahead to the "L" section, on a mission.

And there I see several copies of the book pictured above.

"Ooh, look," I say to Betty in a silly, high voice. "It's Abi Titmuss!"

Betty doesn't reply. I turn as a woman walks closely past me, avoiding eye contact.

And I see Betty, ten yards away, over by the Classics.

There is no le Carre.

Q & A

SIR PERCIVAL





Sir Percival was born in Norfolk in December 2004. He left his home and family the following January. He now lives in a community of swine on the Isle of Wight.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Solitude. Tranquility. A babbling brook.

What is your greatest fear?
Slaughter.

What is your greatest extravagance?
I buy a lot of art. I have put a lot of this in my other extravagance, a 14th century house in France...Only teasing. I'd say my greatest extravagance is probably ASDA Smart Price Vanilla Ice Cream.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?
My bum.

What is your most treasured possession?
As a Christian and a Socialist - I'd have to say my soul and my brain.

What is your most unappealing habit?
Farting in the farmer's face.

What is your favourite smell?
Truffles. I've only smelt them once and they drove me wild.

What is your greatest pleasure?
Farting in the farmer's face.

To whom would you most like to say sorry and why?
To the child I made cry last week. I should have been a good piggy.

Which living person do you most despise and why?
As a Socialist and a Christian, I'd have to say George W Bush.

When did you last cry, and why?
Yesterday. Sir Arthur stepped on my trotter. Sir Arthur is an extremely clumsy, heavy pig.

How do you relax?
Sleeping and eating.

What is the most important lesson life has taught you?
It's what's inside that counts.

Typical Man

Another two weeks off?

Yes, I'm at home again and sharing a computer with the missus. Which means that when one of us is inspired to post something, the other is hogging the limelight.

I also feel really guilty that I didn't sort out our internet connection earlier. When Orange took over Wanadoo, the first thing that happened was they made our download speed much quicker. We couldn't work out why our connection kept disconnecting, and the voice on the phone helpline just understood that some of us were having problems but not to worry because everything will be sorted out soon.

Last week I'd had enough and got through to a human being who said our modem wasn't up to the job of handling the new speed. So we are waiting for our new livebox. And swearing out loud like Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral every time we are disconnected. Which is about every 3 minutes at the moment.

Today it is dreary and overcast. Yesterday was beautiful.

Yesterday we went to Deal. Apologies to Mig as I know I promised you more pictures of the Deal Fish Statue but we didn't go near it. We will next summer, cross my heart.

We parked as usual in the Deal Castle Car Park (a green field). We walked for an hour along the coastal path to Walmer. We walked back. There were lots of pensioners on bicycles riding in the cycle lane. A few mothers with young children. And an abundance of all sorts of variety of dog and owner, excepting the hard sort we get at home.

After spending an hour and a half on the beach, reading and sleeping, I fancied a cup of tea to perk me up for the drive home. They serve hot drinks in the gift shop of Deal Castle.

"Can I help you? Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Er, tea, please."

The pleasant woman goes to the vending machine and makes me a cup of tea.

"Seventy pence, please. The tea whitener is here."

"Have you got a toilet by any chance?"

"We have but we usually only allow people who are visiting the castle to use the toilet."

"Oh..."

"But since you bought a coffee, it's straight through that door and to the left."

I leave Betty to a long embarrassing silence, legs crossed, with my brewing tea for company.

Where's You Bin?

These are bins for compostable waste. We used to have one. We used it once, then it disappeared.

These two bins are in two parking spaces in our cul-de-sac. They are there to stop parents parking as they drop off/pick up their children at/from the primary school 100 yards away.

The bins have become a constant feature, taking up space designed for cars. The cul-de-sac itself was constructed in 1992, from land previously belonging to the council as part of the school's playing fields.

The ex-footballer Gavin Peacock went to this school and may well have honed his skills near where the bins now stand. Maybe he should take a nostalgic trip and have a kickabout with me, using the bins as goalposts.

Don't worry about the school, by the way. They've still got a reasonably large playing field and their playground has been recently tarmacced. The boys play football on the now dry tarmac with light, airy, fluffy balls which they kick over the fence on purpose whenever an adult passes by on their way to the shops.

I'm in an awfully wistful mood today, which I am blaming on the new antipsychotics and my current listening choice of Francis Lai.

I'm listening to Francis Lai and I think I'm going to cry.

Boo hoo.

Hoo boo.

Boo hoo hoo.

Hoo boo hoo boo.

Boo hoo hoo hoo.

Hoo.

Till Death Us Do Part

As Sir Anthony Blair's Grand Guignol Socialist Experiment draws to a tragic end, it's time to assess just what his achievements have been, especially in those three crucial areas of education, education and education.

The state of British Education has never really interested me. The recent developments of league tables and "choice" for parents just completely baffle my old bonce. Never having wanted/produced any kids, any opinions I have about education come from my own pre-New Romantic society experiences 30-odd years ago.

But it's good now and then to get actual real-life stories from the horses' mouths, i.e. from grandparents whose grandaughter is currently having private personal tuition to hopefully get her through the 11-Plus. Yes, we do still have the 11-Plus in Bexley, there will always be an England here.

So Tony, the problems with education (bless you), education (bless you), education (bless you), are:-

"Even if she does pass her 11-Plus, there are no Grammar schools for girls in the family's catchment area for her to go to. The only schools she can attend are rubbish schools with histories of achieving poor results and employing poor teachers. The standard of teaching is so poor nowadays unless you get your child into a good school. It stands to reason that all the good teachers go to the good schools (it's only human nature), leaving the not-so-good schools with all the bad teachers. Really, what sort of choice is it if hard-working parents cannot send their hard-working children to the best schools? Sorry Tony, it doesn't add up. We need more good schools!"

"Then there is the immigration problem. What once was a good Catholic school is being destroyed by a policy of admitting foreign pupils who do not speak English! Good teachers at this school are being made to compete with their hands tied behind their backs, as not only are they having to teach the kids the 3 Rs but they are having to teach our native language to non-natives of this country! The white kids are not able to fulfil their potential."

"And did you know immigrants can get free English lessons in this country, but if an English person in their own country wants to learn Spanish, they have to pay for it?"



Sometimes I want to be a



and not have to think about anything other than where my next bamboo shoot is coming from.

An Open Letter To Jools Holland

Dear Jools

I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to both yourself and to your employer, The British Broadcasting Corporation, for what has been a pathetic campaign to attempt to reduce the hours you appear on our tv screens.

Over the past couple of years, on every blog I have started, I have mercilessly slated you time and time again, using the same old unoriginal put-downs which I will not repeat here because I am trying to make a fresh start free from petty name-calling.

My latest diatribe (see previous post) was merely a knee-jerk response to watching you present the Mercury Music Prize for what seemed like the 100th year running. I know it wasn't because, as you said on the show, you were born in 1958.

After reading my post, my good friend Alan Yentob immediately summoned me to my second brunch this year, which I attended this morning at Simpson's in The Strand. Yenty has now totally convinced me that you, Jools, are the man for the job.

There is nobody else who could front a music show with such humour, with such enthusiasm, and most of all with such an inside knowledge of what makes crotchets and quavers tick to make a good tune.

Yenty showed me a couple of performances from your Rythmn & Blues Big Band on his beautiful little Apple Mactop, namely your jams with the late, great Desmond Dekker and my favourite pop trio, the Sugababes.

"Music is music, after all," said Yenty. "Desmond was initially wary about playing The Israelites with a big band. Even during the performance you can see him looking to the wings, worried that the fun might not be translating to his fans. But when he saw the rushes, Geoff... He loved it. LOVED it. And as for the Sugababes: Keisha told me it was like a dream, like being in the Andrews Sisters. Imagine, the Andrews Sisters! They'll never forget performing with Jools, Geoff."

So you see, Jools, Yenty won't have a word said against you. And what's good enough for Yenty is good enough for me.

I promise from now on you'll only read good things about you on this and any other blog I decide to start in the future. In fact, I hope we can be mates. It would be lovely to see you at the Little Britain party on November 5th.

Yes, I'm going to become a real writer. Dave and Matt brought me in to work on a new sketch they were having trouble with. I think I did a good job.

In the sketch, Andy pretends to have TB. It's fucking hilarious, Jools. He's in his bed, coughing up fake blood in front of Lou. When Lou pops off to the bathroom to get a wet flannel, Andy jumps out of bed, abseils down the drainpipe, runs down the street, buys a packet of fags in the corner shop, smokes them all in a Benny Hill speeded up type of way, runs back home, climbs back up the drainpipe, and jumps in bed seconds before Lou reappears from the bathroom with the flannel. Then Andy continues to cough up more fake blood!

Anyway, enough about my success. It would be really good to see you at the party, Jools. Rowland Rivron and Phil Cornwell are going to be there so you won't feel left out.


All the best, boogie-mate,


Geoff

Sir Simon Rattled

The BBC today announced that it will not be broadcasting this year's Last Night Of The Proms and will instead show a live performance by Jools Holland and His Rythmn and Blues Orchestra recorded at the Croydon Fairfield Halls in October 2002.

Jools is joined by Sam Brown, Beverley Knight, Chris Difford and Suggs for a high octane mix of rythmn and blues, soul, and country. The performance highlights include Difford's slow, sensitive version of Squeeze's Cool For Cats, Sam Brown's 1988 white soul chart success, Stop! and an upbeat ska skanker specially written for the show by Jools and Suggs, Night Train To Chelmsford.

Sir Simon Ohm, the UK's leading conductor of his generation, told Talksport Radio this morning, "I am extremely disappointed that the BBC should pull the climax of the Classical Music Season from its schedules. They say that our music does not get the audiences any more! But tell me, would the people of Britain really rather see poor imitations of black American and Jamaican music played and sung by a bunch of overpaid middle-aged pub-rockers? Once again this is the decision makers at the BBC riding roughshod over those of the Great British Public with discerning musical taste. In short, they are treating us like cunts."

Isn't Alan Partridge Rubbish?

Recently I've been having a lot of fun with The Satanist's Big Bumper Book of Fun 1954 Summer Holiday Annual. It is crammed full of puzzles and games to play on the beach/khazi. Completing the Quik Crossword yesterday during a bout of diarrhoea, I was alarmed to discover what you get when you reverse the words 'LIVE' and 'LIVED'.

It really doesn't bear thinking about too much, does it?

Neither does the BBC's latest episode in the series The Story Of Light Entertainment. This week, we heard all about The Chat Show.

I have four things to report from this programme:-

1. That Was The Week That Was was even more prevalent in the history of all types of light entertainment than The Music Hall which was surprisingly NOT a precursor to The Chat Show.

2. If I were to become a Chat Show Host, the presenter I would most resemble would be Eamonn Andrews, what with his constant nerves and extreme sweating under the studio lights, next to his famous guests.

3. If you invite a crazy alcoholic such as George Best, Oliver Reed, or Cliff Richard onto your chat show, there is really only one possible outcome...Clips of the interview will be shown for ever more.

4. I am reminded of just how much I miss Caroline Aherne on our small screens and of how much I fancy her when she is playing Mrs Merton. If I had a psychotherapist, they would have a field day. If my psychotherapist was dressed as Mrs Merton, so would I!

Radio Times - Part The Two

What's going on with Me and Mrs Jones?

Heart 106.2...

...favourite radio station of women in offices and Martin (17) and Ronnie (20), air conditioning installers to offices staffed by women, of course...

...plays this song at the same time every day, afternoon tea time, when the ladies have a little time to dream of a naughty six-thirty mug of skinny latte at Starbucks with George Clooney or Bill Ward.

To dream of coffee whilst drinking tea.

Does the DJ listen to the records he plays? Is he dreaming of an extra-marital assignment with our office Mrs Jones, you know, the one with RSI, HRT, and a golf-obsessed husband?

Or is he re-reading those notes he made all those years ago, the notes that keep him on the straight-and-narrow-deejaying track and stop him mutilating the Heart studio and its hundred CDs, the notes that tell him it's only a job, it is not a prison and he's getting paid damn good money for such little effort and thank his lucky stars he's not nine to fiving for a living?

Me, me and Mrs, Mrs Jones, Mrs Jones, Mrs Jones,
Mrs Jones got a thing going on
We both know that it's wrong
But it's much too strong to let it cool down now

Drink it while it's hot, then.

Radio Times (Part The One)

There is background to my days. There is traffic noise, human noise, and radio noise.

The traffic noise is fine. The human noise is OK, I mean I'm not working with annoying children or screaming babies.

Then there's the radio noise. The radio is tuned to either Heart or Capital. Two seriously shit radio stations, both aimed at women in offices. Luckily, I am able to concentrate on my work and my mind registers the stuff as background musak. As if there is a tiny James Morrison or James Blunt singing into a tiny microphone which plugs into a tiny amplifier, all of whom and which I could crush with a gentle stamp of my delicate foot.

So it doesn't bother me that much.

But of course now and then I have to say something, for I am an arbiter of good taste and I feel I have a duty to impart some of my vast knowledge of popular music and thereby improve the lives of my fellow human beings.

"If you were at home every day, and you didn't have access to a radio, you surely wouldn't play the same few CDs over and over again, day after day, the same songs every day, day after day, over and over again, every day, the same songs by the same artists, day after day, the same songs every day for every day of the year. Would you?"

"I've probably got about five CDs that I play at home."

"I've been listening to Elton John at home these past couple of weeks. Going through his late sixties to mid seventies albums. When I've finished with them, I probably won't listen to him for about a year. Except for Are You Ready For Love? and Step Into Christmas which they play on Heart over and over and over again."

"I can't stand Elton John."

If...

Robert Swipe were to have a favourite advertising agency, it would be called something like this.



(Check out the address)

ITV1, 8.40 p.m. - Midsomer Murders Country (New Series)

Tonight, John Nettles sings Stand By Your Man.

Sheer Heart Attack

On the right of the picture you can see the last few steps we walked down yesterday, on our way to the Faerie Ring. As we started our descent of the hill, a mad jogger was ending his ascent.

Shorne Wood Country Park isn't a bad place for a walk. We hadn't been there for a few years and had always seen the odd rabbit on the bit of grassland two-thirds of the way round the mainly wooded red trail. Yesterday, we didn't see the odd rabbit.

The place was very busy. The car park is so much bigger than I remember. And the new visitor centre/cafe really deserves a more idyllic setting. It is constructed in local sympathetic materials and the piss water from the toilets is recycled as drinking water.

The two teenagers whacking branches against tree trunks, having a competition to see whose bit of branch would fly furthest were not really in harmony with their local surroundings.

Jamie Oliver Beetroot Cancer Scare

Looks harmless, doesn't it?



But this little red root vegetable was yesterday at the centre of an enormous furore which at one point seemed to be leading towards litigation against Channel 4 by the famous celebrity chef.



"I thought I was pissing blood," said the celebrity chef after eating 3 kilos of the superfood in one week in preparation for the forthcoming Jamie Oliver series, Superfoods For Super Kids.

The premise behind the series is to hothouse three poor inner city five year old children to prepare them to take Media Studies GCSEs at the age of 11.

The controversial "Superfood" method of study developed by controversial University of Utah professor, Professor Gordon Osmond, includes eating seemingly vomit-inducing volumes of porridge, turkey, blueberries and beetroot. Oliver was persuaded to front the series by British Superfood Guru, Dr Gillian McKeith.

"She said she really fucking believed in the guy," said Oliver. "I told her I'd go ahead with the series but I'd have to test the method myself before trying it out on the kids. She said it was ok, my shit could take it."

Neither McKeith nor Channel 4, however, thought to warn Oliver about the side effects of eating large amounts of beetroot.

"They made me feel such an idiot," said Oliver. "How was I to know my piss would turn red because of the beetroot? I was worried out of my mind for a whole week. I couldn't sleep and I couldn't tell Jools what was wrong."

Channel 4 have today apologised to the chef and made an undisclosed donation to a charity of his choice.

Great Post, Geoff

Post sponsored by the Own Little World blogging community.

Little Arrows

Jacques Peretti's excellent programme Darts Tarts displays a real love for the game and affection for the obsessive characters who play it.

I should rephrase that as a real love for the sport, as darts is now officially a sport. That's thanks to this inconsistent government which bangs on about obesity and drinking and smoking, and now classes darts in the same category as healthy, exciting competitions like ice dancing and rifle shooting.

Peretti describes darts as the working class game, as opposed to middle class snooker which drove darts into the wilderness of satellite tv in Thatcher's eighties.

But was Thatcher to blame for this seismic shift?

Or was it the fact that snooker is just so much more bloody sexy?

Betty has already clearly demonstrated the sheer horn factor of snooker. Where else do you see fit men, bent over a table, a four foot pole perfectly balanced between their gentle hands, their smouldering eyes peering intently at a hard ball, the ball just aching to be kissed into a soft, tight pocket.

How could darts compete? Besides the fact that darts players are generally 5 stone heavier than snooker players, you are extremely unlikely to see a professional darts player bend over and show his arse to the world. A poor arrow thrower may spend half the game bending over to pick up a dart that has missed the board or hit it at the wrong angle and plummeted to the floor. But how many times has that happened to John Lowe over the past 30 years? And really, who would want to see it happen?

So Thatcher's not really to blame. In fact, she probably encouraged many workers to take up darts, practising throwing at a photo of her face on the wall.

No, it really is down to eye candy, not the destruction of working class culture.

Be honest. Cliff Thorburn or Eric Bristow?

Come on.

The End of An Era

I am losing the ability to communicate. I think I gave the impression that I saw Peter Crouch walking along The Strand. I didn't see him.

My dream blog is probably at its end. I've run out of dreams and I haven't had any new ones for months. But, hey, at least I didn't go out at the top of my game and finish a year ago, eh? If you left one or more comments on it, thank you. If you didn't like it, I'm sorry for wasting ten seconds of your life.

This blog will go on forever, however. I may not get many comments because I do not give many elsewhere. As I said, I'm losing the ability to communicate. I can't think of many witty comments and certainly no serious ones.

So this blog will go on and on even after you're all sick of it. I promise to continue to try to be entertaining. Yes, I said "continue", I really have been trying these past 15 years.

In other news, we have just finished watching the brilliant I Claudius. Or "One Clavdivs" as we called it. Then we watched a programme about television portrayals of the Romans. And an unknown (to me) comedian on this programme said that at school he and his chums called it "I Clavdivs".

So our humour is on a slightly lower level than that of twatty 14 year old schoolboys 30 years ago.

Top of the Form, Ma!

A Hero For Our Times

Walking along The Strand, I notice a Dad and his two kids ahead of me. Dad is dressed in casual England style teeshirt. The two teenagers are wearing England football shirts.

The girl has blonde hair in a pony-tail. She has the word "Beckham" on her back.

The boy is turned towards his father. I see sticky-out teeth and a gormless expression. He is lanky with short fair hair.

Come on. Turn, you bugger. You've got to be.

He is.

Net Curtains

Jessica Bandwidth wasn't happy. Her boyfriend, Thomas Kilobyte was very sluggish. He would not get up off the sofa. Once he got his feet into those comfy slippers, his heels resting on that luxurious pouffe, his lap full of Doritos, and a beer in his hand, he was just like any other man.

"But I need my rest," said Thomas. "I work hard all day and I do love my Dorito Time."

Jessica couldn't complain. She was getting bigger each week herself. How could she expect Thomas to get off his arse and work in the evening after a long day in the office if she stuffed her face all day with cake?

"I've got a really good idea," said Jessica. "How about you and me joining the gym? It'll give us more energy for the evenings. Look at what it's done for Cassandra!"

"Your sister's an obsessive," said Thomas. "She lives on her nerves. She's not happy. Not by a long chalk. And neither's her uptight prig of a husband."

Thomas took a swig of beer and produced an enormous belch.

Jessica couldn't look at her boyfriend. His swinish habits disgusted her. So he was happy, was he? Well let's see how happy he'd be without a girlfriend.

"If you don't join me in going to the gym, it's all over between you and me, Thomas," she said.

He crushed a can and opened a fresh one.

"It's a choice between me and the Doritos," she said, turning on the BBC News.

"Hasn't Natasha Kaplinsky got fantastic bone structure?"

Only Dr Freud Can Help Me Now

On the Duloxetine, I am sleeping well. I am sleeping too well. I sleep well all night and given the chance I'd sleep well all day. I've only been taking the little chaps for just over a week so maybe this is an initial side effect. Or maybe the old pills are still in my system, increasing the drowsy effect. Or maybe I'm turning into a modern day Rip Van Winkle. I am becoming my avatar.

Of course getting a good night's sleep means plenty of opportunity to dream. And now my main dream interpreter seems to have too many questions of his own, I'd like to throw last night's dreams open to the House. Does anybody else think I'm losing it?

Dream One - My sister gives birth to five large white seahorses. Thankfully I do not see the birth, but I see them joyfully bobbing around in a tank of water.

Dream Two - Bob Geldof approaches a group of us in a pub. He is collecting money for starving Africans. Everybody enthusiastically gives apart from me. I tell him to "f**k off, you c**t".

Dream Three - I am walking towards the train station from school. I have to walk through an alley which is blocked by a gauntlet of two rows of boys from another school. One of them checks my train ticket. He is not happy with it and is about to hit me when he is called away to another fight.


God knows what I'd be like on acid. I'm such a lightweight.

Geoff's Shoes

These are my new trainers. I wore them in Nottingham a couple of weeks ago. And yesterday I wore them to my mum's.

"Did those laces come with those shoes?" she asked me.

"Yes. Why?"

"They don't look right. Brown laces would look better with brown shoes."

"They're not shoes, they're trainers."

"OK, but white laces still don't look right."

"I think they look alright."

"They do brown laces in Sainsbury's."



Does Mother know best?

Hot Stuff

These people are not my friends. I'm not in the sauna with them, behind the camera, a towel covering my modesty.

The Holy Grail light shining from the midriff of the bloke at the back is not real. What you see is a poor photograph of the front of an advertising booklet. I am not a good photographer.

The words on the front of the booklet, above these four charming young people, are "What is it like in your office during the summer?" The booklet is advertising air conditioning.

Now if this was my office, I would be very unhappy. Because it looks as though I'd be the one doing all the work. To be frank, each of these four employees look as though they're in the midst of their own highly personal erotic dream. I wouldn't mind if it was in their lunch hour but they can't all be on the same lunch, surely. Who's going to cover for them? Muggins, that's who.

It's alright, guys and gals. I'll answer your phones. Even though the calls are probably personal ones from some model agency or other.

This is just typical of the younger generation. They really think they can have it all.

Away

I keep yawning. My ears itch. Surely the penicillin should be working by now?

I am at the bottom of the garden amongst the toadstools, playing keepy uppy with Pat Nevin and Graeme Le Saux. We are 19 years old, 4 inches tall, and beautiful.

Elizabeth Fraser calls us in for some elderberry cordial.

Telly Under The Influence - Thank God For Duck Soup

LOST IN TRANSLATION

Two Americans in Tokyo. Both unhappily married. One man in his fifties. One woman of about twenty. His wife and family are back in the US. Her husband is based in the same hotel but continually leaves her to go on photographic assignments.

Neither of them can speak Japanese and the Japanese people they meet cannot speak good American.

They naturally come together and fall in love, although because of the fucking enormous age gap they realise there is no future in their union and they go back to their uncaring partners.

Can she only be happy in a relationship with a father figure?

Can he only be happy in a relationship with a daughter figure?

Can Sophia Coppola only be happy under her father's wing?

Can Francis only be happy knowing he is protecting his daughter from the Hollywood devils?

Do I give a shit about any of it?


THE STORY OF LIGHT ENTERTAINMENT - RADIO STARS

The IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME I'M GREAT WITH PEOPLE DON'T YOU REMEMBER THE HOPEFULS? Award goes to Terry Christian with this beautiful put down of multi-millionaire Chris Evans...

"If you've got anybody hailing fucking Chris Evans as a genius, you've got something very wrong with the world, right? He's a working-class kid from Warrington. No passion, no conviction, not interested in music, not interested in culture, not interested in the world of people...Hates people. He's like Morrissey, he's a complete fucking misanthrope."

Poor Terry.

And poor Kenny Everett, such a comic genius, he did all his own jingles, he was a broadcasting original, he died tragically young.

Remember Sid Snot, the high voiced Bee Gees, big-arsed Rod Stewart, the all in the best possible taste woman, Marcel whatever the bloody hell his name was (the shit mime artist)?

Christ, wasn't Kenny Everett crap?

Apparently I Used To Do A Good Impression Of Normski - I Can't Remember Ever Doing One

I'm not supposed to be here, at home. I have one sick day in a blue moon but today I feel like shit so I rang in sick and called the doctors'...

"Hello. Can I help you?"

"I've had a sore throat for the past week and now I ache all over and I'm bringing up this yellow mucus."

"I think you've got the wrong number. This is The Co-operative Funeral Directors."


******

Actually that didn't really happen. But just imagine if it did! No, I saw the Practice Nurse and she stuck something in my ear to check my temperature, asked me to lift my teeshirt so she could listen to my chest, and shone a light down my throat.

"You're not allergic to Penicillin, are you?"

"No."

"These'll sort you out. You'll be feeling right as rain after taking these."

I picked up my Duloxetine along with the Penicillin. My cold turkey starts tonight before I can start taking the new pills on Monday evening.


*****


The wonderful thing about blogging is you can write anything you like about anything that happens in your life without some sharp-minded editor saying, "You can't write that, Geoff. Who's going to be interested in that?"

That's why I left The Independent (after pissing in Janet Street-Porter's coffee).

Freshen Up Your Blog...

With Ewe Tube

An Old, Bitter Sadist Speaks

Due to popular disinterest, we shut up shop on Search Me a week and a half ago.

But as it's easy money, I'm going to continue to bring my legion of reader all those hilarious searches brought to me exclusively by Statcounter.

But first an explanation of the title of this post...

The vast majority of my hits are continuing to come from surfers looking for the lyrics to the Sandi Thorn song. Yes, that's Sandi THORN. And of course many of these searchers are big fans of Ms Thorn. And some can't help themselves from telling me exactly what they think of me and my friends...

I love this song..jenne x


you know that i'm just like you people , making fun of everything that is idiotic and sensless , but maybe just maybe you are so wrong ....k the words don't make a lot of sence , she's truly lost when it comes to what is a hippy rocker or punker etc. but she has a point there.anyways just thaught that eventually someone will leave all the judgemental crap behind and read between the pooooorllllllllly done lyrics.heck i could never write a song and i'm betting that all of u are unable 2 do so 2 .

well actully i love tht song it dusent matta wat the words are its the tune people listen to leave sandi alone i bet u cudnt write a better song then tht actully im puttin it as my ringtone !!!!11


ITS AN AWESOME SONG. WHY ARE YOU SO DAMN BITTER? WHO CARES WHETHER SHE IS CORRECT OR NOT? I FEEL SORRY FOR YOU; A BUNCH OF OLD, BITTER SADISTS

OK, I've probably been had and these anonymous comments are really by my blogging friends taking the piss out of the idiotic text speak of the younger generation. But, hey, whatever. Whoever you are you've given me a good laugh anyway.


*******


Another thing that makes me laugh is Google's William Burroughs style cut up technique. So when a googler types in...

Frank Sinatra is the shit

They see under Contains Mild Peril...

Frank Sinatra is a man's man. Just look at the Rat Pack...link arms, and do a kind of hokey cokey, kicking the shit out of the 30 year old spinster...

Go on, Deano! Fuck me, you can't even walk straight let alone kick!

Or when a punter asks for...

Beverley Callard breasts...

They get...

Beverley Callard and Simon Gregson perform Guns & Roses Sweet Child O' Mine. Wow!...Matronly breasts.

And when they look for...

Country Artist 'Bleeding Angels'

I say...

How many more times in my life will I have to listen to bleeding Angels?



*******


And finally in this extremely bitty post (not "bitty" as in Bev and Simon), 22 of the best searches I've had recently.

1. In Peril
2. Boneless boy falling
3. Pictures of obese men
4. What does a dream mean when dreaming of a policeman with the name Harry?
5. Wet arseholes
6. Wish I was a punk rocker shite
7. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty To Long-Haired Men (No. 4 in Google search from Finland)
8. Paul Merton wank sock
9. Tuna smell cheese
10. Boris Yeltsin gooses (a 19 minute reader from New York)
11. I hate Ben Elton
12. I hate Chelsea
13. I think I'm James Dean
14. Paul Merton is living at...?
15. Pulled Arseholes
16. Mild scarf bondage
17. Taking a bath in public dream
18. Ritchie Blackmore, wig
19. Sexy girls crapping
20. Thigh squeezing
21. The great white shark spotted in Kent in 2006
22. Ground control to make the thumb David Bowie

Now you see why Search Me failed.

Old Misery Guts

They're few and far between now, our visits to pubs.

There was a time when I'd enjoy being in these joyless, characterless shitholes. I'd enjoy meeting up with friends, enjoy a creamy headed pint of Guinness or five, enjoy the conversation, the catching up, the odd laugh.

And I'd also enjoy the goodbyes at 11.30 and the see you soons.

That was when friends were local.

Now, apart from the fact that beer is too belchy and voluminous for me, because friends aren't local, a night out is once in a blue moon and is followed by after hours drinks in front of the telly or stereo. And here I'm struggling.

I keep going because I always drink until the night peters out. So I'm drinking lager at 2.30 in the morning, outstaying my welcome, fed up with myself, fed up with other people, knowing I'm going to get four hours sleep, wanting my own comfortable bed 160 miles away, two hours ago. Wanting a belly nicely warmed with red wine rather than full to bursting with gassy beer.

I'm just not a social animal. I'm a good listener, yes. If you've got a story or ten to tell me, I'll listen and maybe even remember some of them the next day. You just won't get much out of me. The more I drink, the less able I am to tell my own stories. My vocabulary shrinks. I stop talking and carry on listening.

So when this carries on after midnight, I want my daddy to ring on the bell and take me home in his car. But my daddy's dead and he wouldn't be able to take me home if he was alive because if he was alive he'd be more pissed than me.

And he would've been drinking alone.

Gut Reaction

I like my gastroenterologist. He must be in his mid 60s now, a very tall man, impeccably dressed in pinstripe suit and very shiny shoes. Extremely friendly. I hadn't seen him for a couple of years until yesterday and he hasn't changed. Lovely man.

Though I did once see him outside the consulting room environment. In 1998 when I had the endoscopy. He was dressed in a bloodstained butcher's apron and had an evil grin on his face as he forced the 3 inch diameter ribbed rubber hose down my throat with demonic glee.

Admittedly I was under giggly anaesthetic at the time.

He's now trying a new drug on me. Not that he wants to, but the antipsychotic which has calmed my digestive system for the past 6 years is no longer in production. The company that manufactured it don't think it's making enough money for them. So they're producing a completely different, more profitable drug at the factory instead.

So for the next few weeks, please be gentle with me. I'm to do cold turkey for three days next week, followed by the introduction of new foreign matter into my system.

The new stuff's a more recently developed drug and hopefully won't make me so drowsy.

The only question is, as it's not a drug designed to deal with digestive disorders, will it do the job we want it to?

So I'd be most grateful if you all would stand up and give a big cheer for Duloxetine 30 mg. Maybe with the encouragement of good people like yourselves, the little guy will perform.

Altogether now...

"We love Duloxetine, we do! We love Duloxetine, we do! We love Duloxetine, we do! Oh, Duloxetine, we love you!"

And no fucking Mexican waves.

Alas

Just a little something from BBC's History of Light Entertainment which I should be writing about because this is a TELLY blog after all.

The next time someone uses the word "Oxbridge" I'm going to call the police and get them arrested.

Stephen Fry says "Oxbridge educated Smith and Jones blah blah blah..."

Unfunny sick face Smith went to Oxford and unfunnier halitosis face Jones went to Cambridge. They did not go to "Oxbridge". "Oxbridge" doesn't exist.

As far as I'm aware a double act from Yale and Harvard aren't described as "Yarvard educated". A double act from Liverpool and Manchester Universities aren't described as "Manpool educated".

Who do they think they are, these "Oxbridge educated" show offs?

Do they think they run the country or something?

Thank You For The Music

ABBA Gold is playing on the CD player. This is a new development.

"There are some more CDs in that top drawer over there."

I take a look.

ABBA, Simon Webbe, Take That, Will Young, The Carpenters...
Middle aged women's music. I don't mind so much. I'm partial to ABBA and The Carpenters.

Could be worse. Could be a lot worse.

Could be...

Coldplay, Keane, The Feeling, The Kooks, Athlete...
All that indie shit.
Whatever "indie" means nowadays.
Independent of what exactly?
Independent of life?

Or it could be...

Jack Johnson, Paolo Nutini, James Morrison, James Blunt, Corinne Bailey Rae...
All that new singer/songwriter shit.
Tasteful, soulless bollocks.



But there's only one more Top of the Pops. I need TOTP. I don't want to get out of touch. I don't want to be one of those middle-aged men who doesn't know what young people are listening to. I don't want to be hard at work as in the background the new number one is on the radio and I don't recognise it.

I don't want to sit there with nothing to annoy me. I want James Morrison to really get on my tits. I want to feel something nasty bubbling up through these damn tranquilisers.

I don't want to end up in an old people's home with Robbie Williams playing on a loop and sit there not minding. Just sit there through Robbie Williams album after Robbie Williams album and not putting up a bloody good fight but accepting this is the way it is until my eventual happy release.

The Rocky Mountaineer Is Better Than The Ear We Had

This is the corner of our fridge (freezer section). You can keep a cow or a sheep in here for 7-9 months. A goat will last a year.

As you can see, the outside is tastefully decorated with fridge magnets, mementoes of places we haven't been to. Look, there's a San Francisco cable car. It would be nice to have Karl Malden's autograph on it but you can't have everything.

And below that, to the left, there's a Spanish pepper. We've been to many areas of Spain but none where you can get a Spanish Pepper Fridge Magnet.

Above the pepper you can just about see, glinting in the sunlight, a bespectacled German crow. He's looking at the top of what I can only translate as a Bovril cube. Has he eaten it and put the packaging back together? Or is he just savouring his lunch-to-be? "...der richtige!" means "...the straight tip!" I am none the wiser.

The magnet to the left of our feathered friend is useful in that you can hold a whole notebook in its claws. So you will never be short of paper to write things like "Don't forget Willie's PE kit" and "And God said, Let the earth sprout tender sprouts, the plant seeding seed, the fruit tree producing fruit according to its kind, whichever seed is in it on the earth. And it was so." The magnet is from Vancouver and displays the Canadian flag in all its glory.

We have never been to Vancouver and we have never taken the Rocky Mountaineer tourist train from Calgary to Vancouver. But look, there on top of the fridge proudly stand our two new mugs, an embossed, patriotic, naive bear waving to us from the front of the mug and an illustration of the train itself clickety clacketing through the mountains, looked over by the omnipotent Mountain Goat God who could strike me down with lightning if he/she could be arsed.

Bowls

2003 - "You've got to keep yourself busy in retirement, Geoff. Got to keep your mind and body active. Bowls is brilliant, you're out in the fresh air, you get a bit of exercise. Keeps you young you know, does bowls."

2004 - "You can always come along for a roll up, Geoff. The club's always looking for new blood. Go on, just think how good you'll be by the time you retire."

2005 - "It's old Ernie's funeral tomorrow. 85, he was. Didn't look it. Lovely man, he was. Cheeky sense of humour."

2006 - "Every time we come back from holiday it seems another one's gone. Big man, Tom. 6 foot 6. Very young and healthy looking for 78. Didn't look his age. It was a happy release only 4 months after he was diagnosed. We're all looking round now, wondering who's next."

A Message Of Unity From The International Union Of Working Bloggers

So another blogger has been "dooced".

Hey, that's nothing!

Today in the office, I was douched.



And very pleasant it was too, in this absurdly hot weather.

Dumbing Down Again

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

Lord Byron


He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.

Sir Winston Churchill


You're beautiful, it's true.

James Blunt


All three of the above were pupils at English public school, Harrow.

No-one can doubt their mastery of the English language.

But now Harrow, frankly disappointed with the atrocious standard of spelling amongst its pupils, is to give all its new A-level students a simple literacy test. Any pupil who fails will have to take extra classes in his own time until he is a master of basic spelling and grammar.

In a survey carried out for Geoff Polls, would you believe that 90% of 16 year old boys at Harrow could not spell a simple word like "privilege"?

And that 99% of these kids did not know the correct definition of the same word?

It truly beggars belief.

Why We Don't Go To Festivals

Watching the Julien Temple Glastonbury documentary, I was thinking to myself, "there but for the grace of God go'd I."

Because if I'd had more outgoing friends, who knows, maybe I'd have spent some time at festivals, getting no sleep and throwing up my guts as I tried to hold my breath during my daily motions. And of course wanting to murder about 90% of the people on the site.

I wasn't surprised by the images we saw on the doc:-

Keith Allen playing the wanker as usual
Billy Bragg being deadly dully earnest as usual
Joe Strummer acting the BIG man - ooh, I'm so much in awe!

And even more sick-making, the close-ups of the poo-suctioning as three brave men empty the lavs. Yuck!

But the most interesting question brought up by this visual history of the greatest festival in the world was posed by Betty.

"Why do hippies have so much pubic hair?"

They're dancing around, stark bollock naked, but you can't see anything rude because of the barrier of an enormous thatch of thick, black, greasy hair.

And the men are just as bad with their penises seemingly being strangled by a hairy lava that's spewing from the volcanic mouth of the navel, suffocating the bollocks under a pillow of pubes.

25 First Lines

UPDATE.........

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

CHRIS MOYLES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So without further ado, here goes...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a Tuna Smith

A heartwarming tale for a change.

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

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

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

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

Well, it sounds like I had a lucky escape.

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


SAINSBURY'S, WE LOVE YOU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My World Cup Overfloweth

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

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

But Italy were something else. The perfect team performance.

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

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

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

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

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

SHEARER: I'm only 35.

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

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

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

Mourning Has Broken

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

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

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



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



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

Kids Say The Funniest Things

As we all know, kids say the funniest things.

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

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

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

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




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

MUM: Eurostar!

Canada

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No More Heroes

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

The Corner Of My Eye

The train is only six carriages long. I sit in one of the seats in a row of three, facing the opposite window. A young man sits next to me, and next to him, his girlfriend.

He is a sniffer. One of those who have a runny nose but no will to blow it. They prefer to sniff up the same pool of liquid snot at thirty second intervals throughout the duration of the forty minute train journey.

So I look at him out of the corner of my eye, with disgust.

And there I see his girlfriend's hand. Not only is he a sniffer, but she is a thigh holder. Her hand rests on the inside of his thigh, about an inch from his meat and two veg.

The hand only leaves its resting place in order to turn the page of her magazine, then goes straight back to base, giving a little rub as it arrives.

Does he enjoy this proximity as he sniffs in his snot? In full view of a carriage full of commuters?

And what is she saying to us? "This belongs to me, ladies and gents"? "So hands off"?

I'm sure she asks him in a whisper at one point if he has a tissue.

I'm not so sure she wants it for his nose.

Lies, Damned Lies, And Sadistics

Isn't it a good feeling when your stats go through the roof?

I'm averaging about 60 a day and feeling really smug.

That is until I check where they're all from.

90% of them are searches for...

Lyrics to Sandi Thorn I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker With Flowers In My Hair When The Head Of State Didn't Play Guitar

Yes, that's Sandi T H O R N.

Not only have you got fucking awful taste in music, you can't even hear what the DJ is saying.

It's T H O M

As in Y O R K E.

You know, the one with the dodgy eye out of Radiohead? The one who sounds like he's in pain?

Just go away and leave me to my coterie of like-minded bloggers.

Yes, that's B L O G G E R S.

I Dream Of Psycho

As I reach the foot of the hill, I am confronted by a group of teenage boys. They surround me and one of them snatches my scarf. They each take it in turns to wear my scarf, taking the piss out of me as they do. We all walk towards my mother's house, me in the centre of the gang.

The boys' leader asks me to give him my hat. I say that he can have it if they all leave me alone. He promises they will.

I give him my hat and he puts it on his head, dancing around shouting, "Look at my hat! Look at my hat!" The other boys then take it in turns to do the same. They don't leave me, they carry on walking with me trapped in the middle.

We are in my mother's street. I can see her house in the distance, just past the woods. And I think about the man who lives three doors down from my mother. He is a retired police officer, nicknamed 'Psycho'. I think if I could lead them to Psycho's house, then he could save me from these bullies.

We reach the end of the woods. Suddenly, out of the woods steps my stepdad together with Psycho. I am safe! Psycho asks the boys what they are doing harrassing a poor defenceless middle-aged man like this...

The boys run away.

All except for one, the largest, slowest, most innocent looking boy. I grab hold of him. I am bent on revenge. I ask Psycho to hold him still. He holds him in a head lock and I kick the boy with all my might.



I am half awake but I know I'm in pain. It's my toes. I have kicked the radiator, hard.

Betty is now half awake, too.

"Are you alright, dad?" she asks in her half dream state.

"Eh?"

We are now both fully awake.

"Are you alright?" she asks me.

"I kicked the radiator," I say. "I'll be alright."

"I thought you'd fallen out of bed," she says. "Sorry I called you 'dad'."


For a moment there I thought we were turning into our grandparents.

Happy Days

Ooh! Geoffrey's holiday snaps! How exciting!



He looks like Robbie. But does he sound like him?



Ibiza Town. Just like I pictured it.




Dalt Vila 1 Our Poor Old Legs 0




Very Edward Hopper. Quick, get Athena on the blower.




Wolves not allowed in Ibiza. Not even on a lead.




But deer allowed in New Forest. Come on, chaps. Don't be shy. You can have some of my Oriental Ginger Ice Cream.




All chavs are bastards in Bournemouth. Yeah? So I suppose all students aren't wankers?


*******


And as a special treat...

Distraught by the axing of Top of the Pops, I have decided to follow in the footsteps of Performance Poet/Comedian Phill Jupitus, Performance Poet/Comedian Mark Lamaar, and Performance Poet/Comedian/Actor/Crackhead Craig Charles.

I have performed the poems
I have told the jokes

Now it's time for me to be a BBC deejay like the aforementioned jokers.

Only, my musical tastes are too MOR for the BBC.

So welcome to the world of Geoff's Number Ones. The songs that are number one in my chart each week. You'll be able to listen to them for as long as they're my number one. This may be for longer than a week. Or it may be for just a week. Yes, it's that crazy.

And this week, pop pickers, straight in at number one we have Baby I'm Yours by Barbara Lewis. This Van McCoy song was made a hit by Peter and Gordon. I haven't heard that version and the only Peter and Gordon I knew were my dad and his friend. And they were more into Ted Heath than whatever was in the sixties charts.

Barbara's lovely performance can be found on Soul Diva Sessions: Classic 60's & 70's Ladies Soul With Attitude, an album we played and thoroughly enjoyed in the car on the way down to the New Forest. The soundtrack for the rest of the break was Ibiza - The History Of Trance which we listened to in England as we didn't get the chance in Ibiza to see the sun go down and then come up again with thousands of beautiful people half our age to a soundtrack of chilled-out beats.

No, instead we got a mid-evening glimpse of Nigel Fear and his one-man Shadows impersonation in the hotel bar.

Apache!

Fishy Fingers

Q: What smells of rotten cheese, shit, puke, and gets in your hair, on your glasses, on your lips, on your teeshirt and up your arms?

A: A tin of Sainsbury's exploding tuna.

I explain to Customer Services. She has a stony face.

"Do you want your money back, then?"

"Erm, yes please."

"Oh. It's saying item not found. Barbara, do we know anything about these packs of tuna?"

"They've been recalled. It's about the third page in."

"Oh, yeah. Poor quality."

Poor quality? I still stink of shit and vomit even after my bath and they say it's poor quality?

"Give him his 99p."

She gives me a pound coin. She doesn't ask for the fucking change.

We're a Couple of Swells

A few words just to say we're off again tomorrow for a couple of days breathing in the New Forest air.

In the meantime, here's a picture of me with historian and Ibizan author, Isidor Macabich. We're both known for our sardonic senses of humour and tendency to rust if pissed on.

There'll be more pictures of our holiday when we get back at the weekend.

Oh goody.

Here Comes The Summer

So we're winding down for the holidays and this'll probably be the last post for a couple of weeks. For on Monday, we're off to banging party island Ibiza for a week.

I'm looking forward to seeing all my old dj friends (DJ Horny, DJ Clammy, DJ Spanner and Judge Jules) as we have it large in the wee small hours on a beach that's been reclaimed from the sea especially for us.

I'll be djing at Manumission next Wednesday. Of course Wednesday is Indie Retro Nite at Manumission, the one night of the week when there isn't live sex on stage involving a bald old git and a young glamour model. Lots of fun for the party-goers, however, as I will be playing an uplifting set including Love Cats, The Passenger, and Jump Around to a crazy mixed-up middle-aged ex-student audience. If you're coming, don't forget Strongbow is only €6 a pint so drink sensibly!

There's a special treat too, as next Wednesday is a Britpop Special. We have a special 4 song set by a reformed Gay Dad and Louise Wener will be autographing copies of her latest novel in the foyer.

In the meantime, why not tell me this...

If you were to be a popular musician, living or dead, who would you choose? Me, I'd like to be a younger version of Robert Wyatt, composing and recording at home with a keyboard and a lot of electronic effects. I couldn't be doing with all those jazz musicians, though.

Keep it pop!

Doesn't He Look Young?

Although I spent most of the 80s being mistaken for this poxy joker, more recently I have been compared to celebrated counter tenor, Andreas Scholl (above). For those of you poncey music fans who live in the London area, I'm not lying when I say that Andreas is to give a recital at the Queen Elizabeth Hall on 11th June. I'm not going as I'd only be mobbed by autograph hunters.

Actually, I look bugger all like the bloke, although we do both wear glasses.

At my place of work, however, I am known as a celebrated tenner counter, as I am the man who deals with the petty cash.

I am celebrated because I count the cash with such consummate style. I always make sure the Queen's head is up the correct way and facing the ceiling, and I do not lick my fingers.

I am available for performances any evening or weekend.

You supply the notes.

I bring my own box.

Bragging Rights

Smiling sweetly, she thrusts a leaflet in my hand.

It's a leaflet advertising a gentlemen's hairdressers I used to go to.

Friendly & Professional Hairdressers
Have a Haircut from our mainly Lady Barbers
Specialists in Long and Short Styles


My hair's short but I don't think I've ever had a "style", unless you count the time I went to Demop, the same week I bought a pair of trousers from Demob. What a cool dude I was that week!

Now my trousers are from M&S and my hair is cut by Betty with some Phillips clippers. It's neat, tidy and presentable, and it's done by my favourite woman with loving care. Not by a stranger, no matter how scissor-gentle or alluring she may be.

So I don't need to go back to my mainly Lady Barbers. A good job because I might get the urge to ask just how many of them are Ladies.


*******


I would be extremely happy if I never saw or heard Billy Bragg ever again. He's there on the Bob Dylan documentary, he's there on Question Time, he's there on the early evening local tv news, he's there on Cup Final Day for Christ's sake.

And the other night, while I was on the blog, he was featured on BBC Radio 6's Tom Robinson Show. And why is he everywhere? Because he once bought John Peel a mushroom biryani. The BBC = The Boring Boys' Club.

It's like the 90s never happened. Tom 'Motorway' Robinson telling us what a treat we've got later on. What's the treat, Tom? Billy Bragg live from 1995! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

We hear an excerpt from Sexuality, or "A nice big mugga tea," sung by an Essex builder as it translates to my sensitive ears. A nice big mugga tea wiv the miwk of 'uman kindness, Billy me old china.

Has there ever been a more depressing voice in music than Billy Bragg's? Couple that with his jarring solo electric guitar and all you need to add is a bit of Ben Elton stand-up to the bill and you're in 80s hell. No wonder the Tories lasted so long!

I'd even take a supergroup containing Sting, Annie Lennox and Phil Collins over the Bard from Barking.

Bard?

Should have been barred years ago.