Keep 'Em On

Since Jack Duckworth has lost his sex drive, he hasn't had much going for him. He hasn't even got the prospect of work to skive from - he's not going to be one of Corrie's army of working pensioners. Vera's sexual promises are becoming more and more pie in the sky as they both settle down into a very dull old age. No pigeons. No gee gees. Just a few more years of sitting around giving worldly advice to the incredibly dim-witted Tyrone.

And last night, as Vera, Molly and Fiz secretly arranged Jack's 70th birthday bash (pretending to Jack, Tyrone, and Tyrone's partner-in-dim, Kirk, that they were going on a girls' jaunt to Amsterdam), dim-witted Tyrone arranged in turn a secret strippergram for Jack in the Rovers.

So the party started, and surprise surprise, the stripper turned up at the same time and Kirk ushered her out of the pub before she had a chance to even take off her fake copper's hat and shake her hair loose.

Jack's libido completely shot, he couldn't give a shit and announced to all and sundry that the celebration should be a celebration of JackandVera as he'd be nothing without his little pumpkin pie. Or words to that effect.

I really hope that's the last strippergram I see. It's been a long-term fear of mine, ever since the living dead in the Thatcher government declared them as FUN, that some bloody idiot would arrange one for a birthday of mine.

I would run a mile. Literally. You wouldn't see my heels for dust and your evening would be ruined and so would mine. The stripper would get paid for doing nothing. What a fucking waste of money and time.

The only thing I've had to encounter that was close was near my 40th birthday. Me and some workmates were "celebrating" Christmas at TGI Fridays. Now, I love Fridays. Thank God it's Friday so I can fuck off home and leave anybody who enjoys socialising with workmates to their FUN at a shitty American theme restaurant.

So they announce it's my 40th birthday. The waitress brings a cake for me to blow out the candles and the whole fucking restaurant sings Happy Birthday to me. Everybody encourages me to stand on my chair.

Well fuck that. I don't stand on chairs for anyone. I sit there extremely red faced. The others on my table feel short changed.

I've ruined everybody's Christmas and you know what?

I'm glad.

On The Death Of The Greatest Rock 'N' Roll Venue Of All Time

Johnny Joey Dee Dee
The toilets full of wee wee
Goodbye to CBGB's
Let's listen to the Bee Gees

Norman Wisdom, Johnny, Joey, Dee Dee

I see a lot of these on my travels. Young people, under half my age, wearing teeshirts or carrying bags with this logo. The Ramones logo is a fashionable logo. In fact, I probably see more of these than Kurt Cobain's miserable face. The Ramones are cool. Cool dudes. Yeah.

There was a time when band logos on teeshirts were uncool. When I wore them, of course.



My first band teeshirt was designed by Roger Dean and illegally traced by my dad. It took him bloody ages in the garage, after work in the evenings, at weekends, to get the Yes logo onto a silk screen. It was a totally illegal operation because the materials were nicked from work, but it was done out of love and a need to get away from the rest of the family in the garage when he could have been watching Benny Hill or The Generation Game with the rest of us.

And after all that work, he only used the screen once to print a blue logo onto my cheap yellow teeshirt, my only teeshirt at the time which didn't have those awful capped sleeves.

Did I look good in my tight yellow Yes teeshirt, my hair cascading down to meet the top of the crew neck?

Of course I didn't, but I wore that damned teeshirt for most of my teens.

Until...

Ohmygod, rockin' Dire Straits came along with their Making Movies sweatshirt. I loved that subtle red creation. It was so comfortable I even wore it in an ironic way long after I'd stopped digging The Knopf's finger plucking. Even when he was wanking around with Sting on that cancerous Brothers In Arms album. Yes, I was that perverse. And as an added bonus, it certainly kept all those horrible women at arm's length - as a late developer this suited me right down to the ground.

Since then there has been the mistake of the Prince Lovesexy Tour Teeshirt which was totally unsexy, worn once, and not really suitable to iron. The nineties and the noughties have so far been band-teeshirt-free for me. I have matured and I am slowly growing up, too.

So what now? What should a middle aged man be wearing?

I've got my eye on a nice little Trivium number.



We'll buy the hoodie from Primark. Who fancies a few months in my dad's old garage?

In New Music We Trust

Gratuitous shot of Girls Aloud. Which one's your favourite?


December's Uncut is out - time for me to catch up on the new music I missed out on during the year.

Number One in their top 50 albums is Bob Fucking Dylan. "Is he still going?" I hear you ask. Yes, and music journalists are still sucking his dick, as hard rocking Americans might say. Bob was bloody good 40 years ago but 40 years is a bloody long time and now he sounds like he's playing for the dead.

Uncut try to sell me new Americana shit all the time and I'm not having any of it. I'm not having any of the kooky Bjork-like Joanna Newsom, either. One kooky Bjork is more than enough for one lifetime.

Last year at this time I discovered the Vitalic album months after anybody in the know. This year it's the turn of Hot Chip ("wry tech-geeks" who admittedly I have heard quite a few times but it's taken them all this time to wear me down) and CSS (Brazilian "punk-funk" according to the hip old gits at Uncut).

As you should know by now I'm not a fan of blogging that slags off hard-worked shop assistants but I think it's time for me to get on the bandwagon.

Ten minutes I was waiting there as the gothette-lite was looking for the Hot Chip CD under 'C'.

"Hot Chip's under 'H'" said a more senior assistant. "Band names are filed under the first name, solo artists are under surnames."

First day nerves or maybe she'd only ever bought albums by bands with one name such as Incubus, Sucubus, and Cocubus?

She didn't have to look for the Girls Aloud Greatest Hits I bought as they were pre-packaged. OK, I know I'm setting you up for a punchline.

Weekend Teaser

Are hush puppies







the Kid Jensens





of the dog world?

A Mother's Logic

You know that other one off Little Britain? Not the fat bald one?

The other one.

Him. He's gay as well.

But he's a real heterosexual stud. He's been with loads of women. He's shagged Abi Titmuss, for Christ's sake.

Has he really? He was seen out with Denise Van Outen. She was just covering for him. They weren't sleeping together, they were shopping together...Besides, I can tell.

How?

They were on the Paul O'Grady Show. You know he's gay?

Is he?

Course he is. Well, every gay he's had on there, when he greets them they give him a kiss on the cheek. Julian Clary did. The little fat bald one did. And his friend did. When real men go on the Paul O'Grady Show they just shake hands.

In a manly way?

You'll see, Geoff. He'll be out of the cupboard soon.

Bushell on the Radio

I put on the radio for ten minutes a day. Radio 4 at 6.25 a.m. A bit of news. A bit of waffle from some correspendent who seems to repeat whatever is said by the bod in the studio. A bit of sports news. And quite often a plug for a radio comedy show.

It wasn't that long before Linda Smith died that they previewed a show by taking the piss out of the strange accents of comedians like Smith and Mark Steele. Betty's much better at doing the uniquely wanky voice of Steele than I am, which is strange because he grew up not that far from where I did.

Linda Smith grew up a lot nearer, just up the road in Erith. She had an accent like no-one else in Erith. I wasn't really taken with her humour.

Just after her death, I saw the repeat of the Room 101 show she did. She seemed a nice, genuine person and it made for heartbreaking viewing. And then I had a dream where I walked into a courtyard and there were people milling around, waiting for the unveiling of a memorial to Linda. Her death was obviously affecting me in ways her life didn't.

Then this morning I hear the trailer for yet another tribute to her. Steele, Jo Brand, and the OTT-voiced professional Londoner Arthur Smith all have their memories. The joke Brand remembers is the one that Linda is probably most famous for, the one I've heard about 1,000 times.

"I grew up in Erith, a place that is so crap it's not twinned with anywhere. But it does have a suicide pact with Dagenham."

I'm sure she could have been remembered for many witticisms but this is the one we are stuck with as her legacy.

Yes, Erith is crap (as I am sure Dagenham must be). But it's no more crap than most places. Most of us still live in these crap places and did not escape to exciting old London or to the safe cossetted yet exciting BBC land of panel shows. Most of us get on with living in dull suburbia with its lack of excitement, its houses with gardens and flats without, its roads and pavements, its bits of green, and hot and cold running water and heating in the winter. I'm quite happy to be bored in these circumstances. Erith and Dagenham don't have particularly high rates of poverty or crime. We can't all lead exciting lives but most of us are fed and warm and feel safe.

Erith and Dagenham are also two of the few places in Greater London a lot of us can afford to buy property. So we're really stuck in the crap, aren't we?

I'm sure Linda had some withering put-downs of arsehole politicians in her repertoire so why do the BBC highlight this particularly crap, offensive joke?

Do I really need to answer that?

Observation v Opinion

Of course I like showing off (why else would I have a blog), but I dislike arguments. It hurts me when other bloggers contradict me when I say something or somebody on the telly is shit. It hurts me to realise I am wrong.

But is there enough for me to write about if I limit this blog to just observation? I'm afraid I can't do it.

It's very difficult for me to observe without sticking in my tuppence worth. Even when I do try it, say with the Peter Stringfellow post, you assume things, don't you? I say I see Peter Stringfellow and I say nothing bad about him, yet everybody thinks that my opinion of him is that he's a sexist old scrote who should be made a target at a shooting range for crackpot crackshot militant feminist sharpshooters.

I can't help it, I'm a natural character assassinator and the telly brings out the worst in me as I shout insults at all and sundry. One of these days I'm going to throw something heavy at a particularly smug comedian and then I'll need a new telly.

The problem is, a lot of those people I despise are thought to be talented by fellow bloggers.

Oh dear.

I really want to please each and every one of you, all 20 of you, (it was 4 for ages so you're less of an exclusive bunch now), but I suppose it's not possible. I hope you all consider me as your friend, albeit a friend you'll never meet (let me assure you you'll never want to meet me as in the flesh, even drunk I'm as shy and retiring as a sober Mavis Riley).

The cut and thrust of debate does not interest me. As long as we're all nice middle class wet liberals, I'm happy to share cyberspace with people with different senses of humour. There's nothing worse, after all, than a bunch of people all laughing at something because it is "supposed" to be funny, not because it actually tickles their funny bone. A theatrical performance of one of Shakespeare's comedies or Eddie Izzard Live spring to mind.

So please bear with me next time I insult one of your comedy icons.

Rest assured, I will be wrong and you will be right.

Intermission

The Paul Young/Gary Numan cross sits opposite me on my commuter train. He is speaking loudly into his mobile phone to whom I presume to be a work colleague.


"PUBLIC SPEAKING DOESN'T BOTHER ME AT ALL,"

he shouts.

"BUT NOT IN THAT ENVIRONMENT."


I am so glad he feels more comfortable here.

Another Boring Post About Asda

The fire alarm went off in Asda on Friday evening. Not that I am one to point fingers, but there were some very suspicious teenagers hanging around before, most probably hiding fireworks under their tops.

It took a good minute of constant alarm noise before we were asked to leave by the car park exit and to leave our shopping in the aisles.

The green-topped staff walked up the escalator to their gathering point and us shoppers were left to wait just outside the exit doors. The fire brigade arrived after about ten minutes.

"Oooh, I've gone all weak," I said to Betty. "What I would give to be carried off by one of them."

We then ticked off all the firemen we have known in our lifetime. None of them could be described as particularly good looking or even that hunky.

Then, all of a sudden, it was over. The green-topped staff jogged down the escalator like a football team coming onto the pitch after half-time. I thought we ought to give them a round of applause, cheer them to their checkouts. A couple of them looked too young to work, probably stock room workers, coughing amongst the soap powders as I used to do all those years ago. Except the Co-op then was like a Sunday pub team.

Asda is Premiership.

Better Buzzcocks

"You're a bum, you're a punk..."

Bailey's team don't know the next line.

"You're an old slut on junk" is the next line.

"Who would write a line like that?" says Alesha**, now solo artist, formerly of pop group Mis-Teeq.

"The Pogues," says Jupitus with utter disdain.

Jupitus, looking like a fat Truman Capote with those wanky little glasses is one of the old guard who thinks that Joe Strummer and Ian Dury and Shane MacGowan are gods. He's got his own show on BBC radio because he's a shite comedian, and of course shite comedians like him and Lamarr know all about music, don't they?

Jupitus likes The Ordinary Boys.

But a young black woman not knowing the masterful words of the drunk master wordsmith Shane MacGowan? It's part of British culture, darling, don't you ever listen to words? You must have heard Fairytale Of New York thousands of times.

Yes, haven't we fucking all.

Still, at least that tosser Lamarr's gone, replaced by my favourite young television personality, Simon Amstell.

All we need now is Miquita Oliver and get rid of Jupitus and wacky-weirdy-beardy Bailey and we might have a decent show.


** by a strange coincidence, Alesha has a very similar laugh to that of Shane MacGowan. A sort of a "sheesh sheesh sheesh sheesh".

Pretty Girls Make Graves

I now acknowledge that a mixture of Patrick Swayze's rippling, thrusting torso and a laughable Warnes/Medley caterwaul had even more of an impact on the sexual awakenings of the heterosexual women of this nation. The vast majority of women of all ages just can't get enough of it.

Just look at the audience for the opening night of Dirty Dancing, The Musical. Babs Windsor, Judes Dench, Abs Tittimouse. No, it's not just ordinary working women and ex-students, it's real stars, too.

But what about us heterosexual men? What about me? Which screen images with which musical accompaniment hit a nerve with me?

I am currently reading Alan Bennett's Untold Stories, specifically the part where he visits his mother in an old people's home in Weston-super-Mare...

"...in a world where so much must seem strange, to be wearing a familiar frock may be a comfort...As time goes on, though, this argument carries less weight. When she can't recognise her own children and doesn't even know what children are, how can she recall 'the little coatee I got at Richard Shops' all those years ago?"

It's tearjerking, but the nerve is hit. Not by Alan's mother's coatee, but by a television advert for Richard Shops which hit our screens sometime in the mid seventies. Lovely legs in lovely stockings. Lovely older women (early twenties) who could teach me so much in their lovely fragrant way.

And the song...

Richard Shops are filled with all the pretty things
The soft and lovely pretty things
To wear
Hey, there pretty things
Make the world a prettier place
Come prettier
Come buy your clothes
At Richard Shops

I think it was "Come prettier", though "Come pretty-up" would sound more logical. "Come and pretty yourself up, pretty lady."

"Pretty things" were both the clothes and the wearers. Richard Shops were filled with them, pretty clothes and pretty ladies. We never had a local Richard Shops and I'm glad because I'm sure the dream would have been shattered. Imagine walking into a branch of Fosters around the same time and seeing a shop full of male model types, admiring themselves in the full-length mirrors. The dream and the reality never really hit it off.

*******

But dream and reality did come together for me just 15 minutes ago. There I was, coming back from Tesco, egg & cress sandwich in my hand, when who should I see but dreamboat and love-machine, the British Patrick Swayze, Mr Peter Stringfellow himself. He is shorter than I expected (unlike Robbie Williams who is a giant), has lovely long flowing blond hair, and wears his camouflage trousers with a certain panache. He was available, ladies, as he did not have a young piece of crumpet on his arm. He was talking into his mobile phone but I'm sure he noticed me. Was that a jealous grimace he gave me? "Who is that handsome young man with an egg & cress sandwich?" he was thinking to himself. "That's why I opened my nightclubs, to keep sexy young men with egg & cress sandwiches out. The chicks would be flocking at his feet if I let him in with his egg & cress sandwich. He wouldn't get any further than the hat check girl before he was ravished on the spot."

I Owe It All To You

It is a depressing statistic, but 99.9% of women of my generation just LOVE the film Dirty Dancing.

It is a fact, therefore, that I didn't find love in the eighties.

Over 200,000 tickets have been sold for the musical version of Dirty Dancing. The show opens at the Aldwych Theatre tonight.

By a stunning coincidence, Patrick Swayze is in town, performing in the musical Guys & Dolls. Just in case you don't know, let me tell you that Patrick, the very individual-looking, leather-faced hunk was the star of the original film version of Dirty Dancing. He was also the star of Ghost, in which he moulded a ceramic version of his cock. I'm sure he'll be in the audience at the Aldwych at some point, so I hope you're lucky, girls.

Heart 106.2 are celebrating this major cultural event by playing (I've had) The Time Of My Life by Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes. Surprisingly, I've only heard it once today.

So far.

Immortality Awaits

I've done it. I've sent the following to that One Day In History thing. Nobody will read it of course.......

Apart from the incident with the carpet fitter slicing through the cable which connects us to the internet, today is just as nondescript as any other working day. It is so boring, I have decided I may as well read the contents of last Saturday’s shopping list.

So here it is, a typical weekend list for a typical married middle aged couple with no children:-

1. BGTY COTTAGE CHEESE £0.83
2. BGTY CHK/M/SALAD £1.70

'BGTY' is Sainsbury's low fat 'Be Good To Yourself' range. Tesco have 'Healthy Eating', ASDA have 'Good For You!' In 2006 we believe that if we have a diet low in fat, we will live longer. Why we want to live longer, I don't know. An extra ten infirm years on a meagre pension is not particularly inviting. Trans fats are currently in vogue as THE KILLER FATS. Sainsbury's hope to rid all their own brand products of trans fats sometime next year.

No. 2 is a chicken, mayonnaise and salad sandwich, by the way.

3. HAM AND MUSTARD £1.10
4. CHICKEN WRAP 2 @ £2.10 £4.20

These are three more sandwiches to go with the BGTY one. All four together constitute our daytime meals.

5. * C/F DT/COKE 2L 2 @ £1.36 £2.72 ***MULTIBUY*** -£0.42

This is two 2-litre bottles of caffeine-free diet coke. Although I'm not so sure you'll be eating cottage cheese in the 22nd century, I am sure you'll be drinking Coca Cola until a few madmen decide to blow up humankind.

6. BROWN RICE £0.89

Brown rice is thought to make you healthy. It also helps you stay regular.

7. CHKN ROGAN/JOSH £2.99
8. JS CHKN JLFZI & RICE £2.99
9. ALOO SAAG £1.56

Food which has its roots in the Indian sub-continent is the most popular food in Britain. Fish and Chips had their day some time ago now. JLFZI is short for Jalfrezi.

Although white British people are happy to eat curry, don't be fooled into thinking we are an intergrated society. Ignorance and prejudice is still rife.

10. THE GUARDIAN SAT £1.30

The Guardian is the most radical of the readable national newspapers. It is extremely middle class and comfortable, like a boring old pair of fleece-lined slippers. We get it every Saturday, almost exclusively for the television listings.

11. THINK 21 Cashier Confirmed Over 16 *PARACETAMOL X16 2 @ £0.47 £0.94

I think this means the cashier has confirmed that I look over 16, therefore I am able to buy headache pills. Whether she thinks I'm 21, I'm not so sure. I do look a lot younger than my 44 years, however. I need these pills for my hangover.

I do hope the above has been informative to you and that it hasn't taken up too much of your time as you lie on your back reading this on those tiny little monitors on your 3-d glasses, sipping organic champagne and listening to Sting's classic Lute Classics 4 album from 2010. You've really never had it so good, you know.

Me, Next Door, And A Cow

If you want short, stilted conversations which stop with an awkward silence, I'm your perfect neighbour.

Our noisy neighbour left a few months ago. Whether it was under a cloud, I don't know, but I'm more than happy he didn't make good on his promise to let me try out his rusty old Mini which he was going to soup up. The Mini disappeared then he did.

So in move a nice quiet couple - the woman keeps herself to herself which is how I like it. The man, however, is more sociable and attempts to bond with me.

So here I am, performing the annual vacuum of the inside of the car, and he appears from behind me and says would I mind if he puts in a flower border between our two miniature lawns. Of course I don't mind.

We ask each other how we're getting on. I ask him whether he hears much noise from us. He says "no". He asks me if we hear much noise from them. I say "no".

He says, "Because I like my music."

I spot a chance to make more than idle chit chat. Music is an interest we have in common. Experience tells me I shouldn't ask the next question but I jump in with both feet.

"What sort of music do you like, then?"

I HATE it when people ask me that question. Because I always know we'll have nothing in common. So why am I being a prick and asking him the same question?

"I like all sorts. I like Pink Floyd."

He is a young looking sixty, or "I'm sixty but I don't look it, do I?" as he told us the first time we met him. And if he's sixty, he must like the Floyd from way back.

"Do you like the stuff with Syd Barrett?"

Shit. The name doesn't register. I don't think he's ever heard of Syd Barrett.

"I bought one of Pink Floyd's CDs the other day. What was it called? Had a cow on the front."

Shit, I don't remember either. I've got the CD myself. Which one is it?

"Animals?" I say.

"No, that's the one I wanted. This one's disappointing. It's really miserable....I like newer stuff as well. I like Stone Roses."

Well at least he's trying to connect. But I can't tell him I think Stone Roses are the most overrated band of all time. Why the fuck doesn't he just say "THE QUO" and get it over and done with?

"I like Coldplay too."

Bollocks, this is desperate. I can't tell him I think Coldplay are the biggest load of wank-masquerading-as-deep going. If he thinks the Floyd album with the cow on it is miserable then what the fuck are Coldplay?

"I've just bought an album they're on. It's called Festival."

This draws a complete blank with me. I presume it's an album of bands who play festivals. Oh Jesus, I'm lost. I should be the sixty year old. He should be the forty-four year old.

We're on my favourite subject, popular music, and once again I have nothing in common with anybody in the whole world.

Oh. Thank Christ. Here come a couple of lads giving out leaflets. 'CAR VALETING SERVICE'. Quick, change the subject.

"Typical. Here I am cleaning out the car, and what do I get?"




So this week I am listening to Atom Heart Mother, the Pink Floyd album with the cow.

It is a lovely album.

Oh Henry

This week we reached a milestone (or "millstone" as Alan Pardew might say).

It was "Goodbye" to the bagless Dyson vacuum cleaner and "Hello" to a brand new Henry.

Ordinary people on the internet review site were more than happy with their Henry. I know the Dyson is a design classic and all that but Henry sounds like a robust little beast with incredible suction power for his size.

And what do you think of this?

With every new Henry, they're giving away a Henry shopping bag.

Here's Betty modelling it after a visit to the town centre.



As I carried our new Henry shopping bag into Sainsbury's, HMV, Superdrug, and Sussex Stationers, people stopped me and said how much it pleased them to see that cheeky smiling face. Teenagers pointed at me and laughed. Shop assistants said how cute he was.

Now could be the time for me to get into local politics. The Man With The Henry Bag Party. Who could resist me? I could give rides to babies and small dogs, me roller skating up and down the precinct with a baby in my bag. Maybe more than one baby, maybe twins, as you can see there's plenty of room in a Henry bag.



Councillor Geoff has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?

'jamas

I haven't worn pyjamas for a very long time. I see Wyndham wears them and that's the right thing to do when you have a child. My dad just wore a vest which he tucked under his bollocks and walked with his thighs together to prevent us poor kids from seeing The Thing. When I started having wet dreams I threw away my pyjamas and imitated him.

As my father knew, an encrusted bed sheet can be hidden. An encrusted pair of pyjama bottoms cannot.

Season's Greetings

GMTV saw me off to work with a report on a Manchester family who have decorated the outside of their house with Christmas lights and decorations. The illuminations cost "a lot".

The family think it's worth sacrificing a "continental" holiday in order to put smiles on people's faces.

Looking at the family, I can't imagine them ever going abroad. They are a very old fashioned looking family. I really don't believe they are sacrificing anything. Maybe they did once go abroad and just didn't like it. The continent is not for everyone, after all.

But maybe if they had the money to spend, they would possibly be tempted to shell out on a two week break in Bulgaria. Which of course they would be disappointed by and would only be able to think of the waste of not only money but precious time, too.

No, the family have simple tastes. Christmas decorations and a week in Anglesey keep them happy. This is not a sacrificial act in order to cheer up the local populace, not an altruistic gesture for the local kiddies. The mummy and daddy are grown up kids and they want to see the pretty lights and they want to get on the telly. Both of which they've now done.

While I'm on the subject of Christmas, I wonder if the bloke I saw in a documentary last year is still eating a Christmas dinner every day of the year?

What a prat he was.

The Moment ABBA Decided On Their Band Name

INT. A SAUNA. STOCKHOLM.

BENNY: Oh, yes, yes, yes. That is so good.

BJORN: Do you want some more, Benny?

BENNY: Just one more...Oh, Bjorn! That is so good!

BJORN: That seems to be the last of the coal, anyway.

BENNY: Did you get to speak to Stig last night, Bjorn?

BJORN: I did. And Stig has some big ideas for our next gig.

BENNY: I don't dig Stig's big ideas. Remember when he wanted us all to wear hot pants?

BJORN: Stig's no prig. Neither am I, Benny.

BENNY: You've got a good figure, Bjorn. But do you really think the world is ready for my big ass?

BJORN: I suppose not. But three out of four isn't bad.

BENNY: OK, then. Hit me with Stig's marvellous brainwave.

BJORN: He says at our next gig...We'll have our initials in lights behind us on stage. The first letters of all our first names will be the new name of the band! 'BABA'!

BENNY: 'BABA'?

BJORN: Yes, 'BABA'.

BENNY: Oh great idea, Stig. And we can call the first album '40 Thieves'.

BJORN: Great minds think alike, Benny.

BENNY: Calm down, Bjorn. Sit down and cover your modesty. You and I have some talking to do.

Heart Of The Country

Once Upon A Time In The Midlands is probably Shane Meadows' least interesting film. But it's still got something that a Mike Leigh film will never have.

Real characters. Actors acting like real people.

That's why I wouldn't cry at a Mike Leigh film or laugh at a Peter Kay or Paul Abbott tv comedy. And Abbott used to write for Corrie - what happened there?

Once Upon A Time In The Midlands isn't that good, but it did make me laugh and cry. Shane's better films don't have the Robert Carlisles and the Kathy Burkes and the Ricky Tomlinsons.

God, don't you hate people who speak of actors as if there's more than one of them?

They do tend to feature thinking women's crumpet and best British actor of his generation Paddy Considine, though.



Paddy and Shane met at Burton College.

That's Burton College, Burton.
Not Burton College, Oxford.
Right?

Ham

It's bloody England again this afternoon.

Do I really have to watch it?

After the high-living Swede and his lover boy Becks, we get Steve McClaren the plain-talking Yorkshireman who is only a few months older than me but looks and sounds like he's from a completely different era. Just looking at him makes me think of ham sandwiches with little bits of bone in.

Croatia coach and ex West Ham idol Slaven Bilic has the following to say about England:

"England were shit at the World Cup. I really can't understand why they played so defensively. But they were the same recently against Macedonia."

He's right. But it's always been that way. Ron Greenwood developed attractive footballing teams at West Ham but bloody boring England ones. El Tel and Sven got a couple of cracking performances out of England but they didn't last.

What chance Macca and El Tel? The dour boy and the wide boy?

GET IT WIDE! GET IT WIDE! FRANK! GET IT WIDE!


***FULL TIME UPDATE***

England 0, Macedonia 0

BORING! BORING! BORING!

Where Do You Fit In?

I can tell by the response to my and Betty's recent posts that British bloggers are happier slagging off so-called "chavs" for being "chavs" than the middle classes for being obnoxious cunts. Understandable, as British society is extremely divided and we all know where we feel most comfortable.

I know British bloggers are viewed from the outside as almost exclusively white middle class Green Wing watchers, but how do we, the bloggers ourselves, see ourselves?

The following is a list of class categories drawn up by Professor Adrian Plum of the University of Life, East Grinstead, West Sussex. Where do you fit in?

1. Upper class toff
2. Upper class scum
3. Middle class professional
4. Middle class snob
5. Middle class wanker
6. Middle class scum
7. Working class hero
8. Working class diamond
9. Working class scrubber
10. Working class scum
11. Chav scum

I see myself as a former working class hero. However, like John Lennon I have risen from the ranks of the hard-working working classes to become a pithy commentator on society. A middle class wanker, in other words.

Furthermore, I have learnt this week that as I work in the field of accountancy, often having to deal with some very pleasant people who happen to be accountants, I am even more of a wanker than I thought I was.

Check Me Out

On the other side of the coin to our local ASDA, is the Tesco Metro near where I work.

In Tesco Metro, you get a much nicer class of customer, of course. Nicely brought up, with nice accents.

But nice people can have slightly annoying habits, too. Such as:-

1. Not saying "thank you" to the cashier.

2. Speaking on their mobile phone throughout the transaction, not even looking in the cashier's direction.

3. Saying "Give me..." or "Get me..." when they should be saying "Can I have..." when asking for something.

4. Not saying "please" at the end of a sentence asking for something.

5. Saying "Excuse me, I was next," when they're in another fucking queue, accusing ME of queue jumping when there are TWO queues for TWO tills, not one queue. It's not the fucking Post Office or your bank, it is a superfuckingmarket with ONE queue per till. If you choose the wrong fucking queue, it's your own fucking fault. OK? **


**Being well brought up, too, I capitulated and still beat the tosser out of the door.

Brenda and Tom: A Touching Real-Life Story From Our Correspondent In Spain

It's not what it used to be, this little part of the Costa Del Sol. It's not what it was this time last year.

It's all too much now. Too many buildings both built and being built, too many holidaymakers spoiling what used to be a peaceful little holiday resort. The recent influx of Spanish holidaymakers is particularly noisy. Unlike the English, they talk at such a volume. Constantly.

That's not to say the English tourists and the ex-pats don't enjoy themselves to a degree. The weather's still lovely, you can still see the sun rise from the comfort of your bed in the morning, and there is still a thriving local entertainment scene.

At the hub of this scene is a young Welshman whom I shall call "Tom". Tom was a plumber back in Wales, but he wants to be a star. He's moved his young family to Spain to build an audience, doing what he loves doing: singing for women of his mother's age.

Women like "Brenda".

Brenda is Tom's biggest fan. She follows him everywhere. She giggles when she asks him to sign an autograph. To every woman over a certain age she meets she says, "You really must see Tom." She wants to spread the word.

Seeing Tom live is an experience. We go down some steep steps into what feels like a cave. Once downstairs, though, it's like a dingy northern working men's club of the 1970s.

Tom works his audience. He sweats buckets. He wipes the sweat with a clean handkerchief. When the handkerchief is sopping wet, he asks the audience for something dry to wipe himself with.

Brenda volunteers with a tea towel. The tea towel has illustrations of sheep on it to remind Tom of back home in Wales. He wipes himself down with the tea towel, teasing the women of his mother's age. He loves this job and he has a belief that one day he will be famous. He doesn't want to go back to being a plumber.

Brenda says she can't believe Tom hasn't got anywhere. All he needs is that one break. I ask her if he's thought of going on X-Factor. She says he did, but Simon Cowell was rude to him. Said he had one of those "typically loud Welsh voices". Simon Cowell is an ignorant pig.

Tom will make it. He's got too much talent for it to go to waste.

Plugs

Remember the post I did back at the beginning of August concerning the death of the Betty/Geoff blog Search Me? Well, we couldn't let it lie. We had to go back and revive the dying beast.

It's bigger and better than before (only because Betty is the only one who has done any posts recently). Don't worry, I'll be along soon to balls it all up.

And talk about nepotism! I'm now going to order you over to a couple of our friends' blogs just in case you didn't go there last time we mentioned them.

There's Fears Forever, Glenda's shrine to the wonder that is Tears For Fears' Roland Orzabal. This week Glenda's found true love so I think we all ought to be immensely happy for her.

And there's Farmer Giles' Cock Blog, a weekly interactive haven for bird lovers to revel in the delights of nature.

That is the last I will mention of any of those three blogs as they've got to stand on their own six legs from now on.


*******


As a special Sunday treat, one of my dear friends has agreed to appear sporadically on this blog. Nigel Coupling was one of the original Liverpool Beat Poets and a good friend of Cilla Black until he gave it all up to be a psychiatric nurse. He's recently retired from the profession and he is tentatively dipping his toes back into the water of verse.

Today Nigel would like to present to you all his poem, Doris:-


DORIS

Doris Spokes, the cycling psychic
pedalled to the shops one day.
When slowed down by PC Mike Dick,
said, "I know what you will say."

"You're going to say you want to pick
the brains of your dead Uncle Ron."
"No," he said, "you're fucking nicked,
for cycling with no knickers on."


Nigel says, "eat your heart out, Roger McGough." (They don't get on).

My Prog Roots Are Showing

Classic rock guitar hero, Jan Akkerman



Another post inspired by a podcast.

This time, a big up to The Rockmother and her impeccable choice of the Dutch medieval banquet of prog that is Focus.

But hold on a minute, RoMo! Focus are MINE. I discovered them. ME!

All mine. The classic rock guitar hero that was Jan Akkerman. And the controlled lunacy of Thijs Van Leer, his flutey noodlings, his blood curdling yodelling....


*******


A fresh faced Geoff heard Focus and knew he wanted to buy his first LP. My mum didn't have the first idea of where to buy a Focus album but she was determined to buy me one. She's good like that.

Walking past our local music shop, I saw Focus in the window.

"I want it, Mummy."

The next day she bought it for me.

It wasn't an LP, though. It was a book of Focus sheet music.

We got our money back, and of course we did work out that in order to buy a Focus LP, one goes not to a music shop but to a record shop.



Happy days, aren't they, your twenties?

Far From Good

Modern films are rubbish.

If I were even more of a ponce I'd say "modern film is rubbish".

The evidence stacks up year after year.

Blockbusters are shit.

American 'independent' films made by music video directors are shit.

Contemporary European art house cinema? Oh come on, you can't compare it with the films of the 60s, 70s, or even 80s. Kieslowski was the last great Euro giant who died too young - ooh, now I'm getting poncey.

OK, there are a few good Iranian films but...

Why watch a film you'll only watch once and react by saying, "Well, that was alright, I suppose."?

Because film critics are still around saying things like "a tour de force" and other such codswallop.

Far From Heaven is a homage (an homage?) to All That Heaven Allows by the great Douglas Sirk.

In the Time Out Film Guide, reviewer Geoff Andrew creams his corduroys about this film.

I say it's as tame as Cindy, my deceased bitch.

Far From Heaven is set in late 50s New England - in the autumn of course, so the colours are really really sumptuous and gorgeous and out of this world.

The man of the family is a top salesman who shags men in secret. His housewifey wife finds this out and simultaneously falls in love with the family's black gardener who happens to be cultured (i.e. white, middle-class cultured).

The husband falls in love too, with a young blond man. He leaves the marital home.

"Society" won't allow the nice housewife to get together with her potential lover.

God, I'm bored describing it.

By Popular Request (So If It's Shit, Don't Blame Me) - The Moment Bands Decided On Their Definitive Names: Number 2 - Genesis

EXT. A PUNT. A SOUTHERN ENGLISH RIVER.

GABRIEL: Pass the cucumber sandwiches, old chap.

BANKS: Peter, old chap. I was lying in bed last night, fully awake. Desperately trying to think of a name for the band...

GABRIEL: Oh, fiddle de dee. I've dropped my crust in the water.

BANKS: 'There's Always Been Ethel' just sounds a trifle too wordy, Peter. Besides, people may confuse us with The Enid.

GABRIEL: I don't see why. Enid and Ethel are completely different names. I should know. My nanny was called Ethel. And I had an Aunt Edith.

BANKS: I think we need a one-word name. Something easily remembered.

GABRIEL: 'Ethel', then.

BANKS: But then people would confuse us even more with The Enid. And they might start calling us 'The Ethel', Peter.

GABRIEL: Oh, fiddle de di, Tony. What in heaven's name are we to call ourselves?

BANKS: That's it, Peter! You've got it! What in heaven's name!

GABRIEL: 'What In Heaven's Name'? Sounds like we don't know ourselves, old chap.

BANKS: No. Something Biblical. A new beginning. From out of nowhere. A new kind of music. Rock but not as we know it. The birth of a new...

BANKS/GABRIEL: GENESIS!

GABRIEL: By jove, I think we've got it! I can see us now! Thousands of teenage A-level students watching us give the show of a lifetime! Costume changes galore! Lights, greasepaint and honest sweat! A theatrical and musical tour-de-force! Teenage boys singing about being lawnmowers!

BANKS: I'd sit down if I were you, old chap. Low bridge ahead.

Trench Song

"It's like Fred Karno's army."

That was one of my dad's stock phrases, along with...

"Horses eat it, pigs shit in it," whenever I said "eh?" instead of "pardon?".

"Don't tickle it, it won't laugh," whenever I didn't kick the football hard enough.



And it is, indeed, like Fred Karno's army...

We are Fred Karno's army, we are the ragtime infantry.
We cannot fight, we cannot shoot, what bleeding use are we?
And when we get to Berlin we'll hear the Kaiser say,
'Hoch, hoch! Mein Gott, what a bloody rotten lot, are the ragtime infantry'

Classified Results

The Office 6, Extras 8

Ex-public schoolboy Joe Strummer 2, Ex-public schoolboy Nick Lowe 8

New Labour 1, Lib Dems 1

Liverpool 2, Man U 5

Atheism 10, Agnosticism 4

Work 3, Home 10

Prague 7, Bruges 9

Tea 7, Coffee 0

Wool 8, Polyester 0

Trifluoperazine 10, Duloxetine 0

Sherlock Holmes 10, Doctor Who 0

White Wine 7, Red Wine 10

'Ronnie'

Listening to Bob's Cod Pod Cast (I know, Scritti Politti are too classy to be cod reggae)......

(By the way, I STILL don't know where the "cod" comes from in cod reggae. I know cooked cod is white, but is there any black fish to contrast?)

......I am inspired to reminisce about a man from my past.


*******


He was a small man. A bespectacled Ronnie Corbett-like who was married to a friend of my mother's. He was probably about the age I am now. I think the couple were childless. Just like us.

'Ronnie' was a friendly chap. He took me to play golf. And he invited our family round for afternoons in their fashionable seventies living room, possibly with drinks for the adults, I can't remember.

But I do remember his record collection.

He had every Judge Dread (I hope you're mature enough to keep your eyes on the audience in this video) album, and nothing else. This probably meant only a few records, but I remember it as a substantial collection.

He would play them to us. And laugh. Tears of joy would roll down his face at each double entendre, at each blatantly rude verse. Because Dread was rude. And little 'Ronnie' had a rude sense of humour.

We were not an uptight family. But suddenly the visits stopped.

Had 'Ronnie' suggested a more adult party without us kids? A Judge Dread themed party? With shed keys thrown in the middle of the room?

I don't want to know.

Lavas' Retreat

We've got the travelling bug.

Today, I booked next year's holiday.

We're going to Moulton-Under-Foot, famously known as the Pompeii of the Cotswolds.

We will be staying in a lovely little 15th century cosy cottage with a 'wood burning effect' stove and a 5" Four-Poster Bed.

The owners live at the bottom of the garden in a brand new complex.

To Lovers' Island and Back

Think of the greatest love stories the world has ever seen, and try to imagine what kind of a world it would have been if these men and women had not exchanged bodily fluids:-

Taylor and Burton



Moss and Doherty



The Krankies



Llanddwyn Island is not really an island. It is a peninsula, named after St Dwynwen, patron saint of Welsh lovers.



Dwynwen was chaste. She was chased round the island by horny old Prince Maelon.

"Come on darling, just a quick one while he's away."

"There is no 'he'. And anyway, who do you think you are, Pete Townsend?"

"If you want me to be. And you can be my Princess Margaret."

"Oh do bugger off, you old goat. I'm going to live by 'ere as an 'ermit."

"I'm off to blimmin' Bangor then. At least the women put out there."

"Even the blimmin' sheep won't have you. You reek of cider and B.O."


Llanddwyn Island is beautiful. When the sun's out, the walk from Llanddwyn Bay to the edge of the peninsula is the most beautiful walk in the world.




And then you're on it, on the island, heading towards the edge of the world.





Which, to leave you in suspense, will be posted on Betty's site in the near future.



How To Get There
As you enter Anglesey, turn left towards Llanfairpwllgwyngyll. That's Llanfairpwllgwyngyll. Don't ask any locals the way. Continue along the A4080 till you reach Newborough. Now you're lost. Ask someone in the street (not one of the hard looking teenagers sitting on the low brick wall opposite the pub) how to get to the beach. They will tell you to turn at the road next to the White Lion. Drive up this road till you reach the toll for the car park. You'll need two pound coins and Bob's your uncle.


*******


On our way back from Anglesey, we stop off at our second favourite place in Wales: Thomas Telford's enormous erection, Pont-Cysyllte aqueduct.



Picture not author's own. What do you think I am, a fucking bird?


Doesn't that get Jeremy Clarkson creaming his jeans? Why not walk along it and enjoy the view!






Don't jump in the water.

It's a long way down.

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.