Sheer Heart Attack

Yesterday was UK Day on Heart 106.2. They restricted their playlist to songs by UK artists. Of course this meant a hell of a lot of George Michael and Elton John and Shine by Take That getting at least double its usual 54 plays in the day.

The morning's Guess the Year spot featured the year pop music got really shit. Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, Kajagoogoo, Karma Fucking Chameleon by Culture Club, the beginning of the slide towards shitness for David Bowie (Let's Dance) and the Human League (Keep Feeling Fascination).

Yes, it was 1983.

Sometime during the morning they announced that sometime during the day there would be four songs in a row by artists hailing from England, Nothern Ireland, Scotland and Wales, respectively. The first person to ring in with the correct identities of the artists would win £1,000!

This was really going to brighten up my day.

I made a game plan. The English singer or group was going to be the most difficult one. England has produced so much crap pop music over the years, the list would be longer than my arm.

Northern Ireland is a different matter. Not a lot of rubbish coming out of Northern Ireland that gets in the charts. What about songs that I'm really sick to the back teeth of? Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison and Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol. Yeah, it had to be one of those two. I'd go for the Morrison even though I hear the Patrol's song at least ten times a day.

What about Scotland? There was only one contender, only one Scottish band who were shit enough for this competition. No, not the Proclaimers or Texas, shit as they are. No, it had to be the Wets. Fucking Wet Wet Wet, bane of my fucking life. They take a great song like Love Is All Around and make me hate it. Scum.

Wales? Tom Jones? Sex Bomb? No, I hadn't heard that for a few years. Charlotte Church? Nah, haven't hear her much either. It had to be old croaky voice herself, Bonnie Pissing Tyler.

Cut to the chase.

It's 3 p.m. and no sign yet of anything from Northern Ireland. Take That are all over the radio like a rash. Here come the Pet Shop Boys.

Snow Patrol! This could be it! Pet Shop Boys, Snow Patrol...Come on, come on!

Simply Fucking Red!

Lemar, English. Sybil, English. Queen, mostly English. Singer with the eye patch, Gabrielle, that's her name, English. Paul Young, Jesus save me, Paul Young, English...

Van the fucking Man! Brown Eyed fucking Girl! Van, You The Man! Game on!

Come on the Wets. Come on you wank stains! Paul Young, Van The Man, The Wets! It's...

The Wets! Game fucking on! That £1,000 (well, £500 as I'm sharing this with my work colleague who's going to make the phone call) is going to sit very nicely in my pocket.

Shut up Wets. Get it over so we can make the phone call. It's going to be gruff-voiced Tyler. It's going to be Tyler it's going to be Tyler it's going to be Tyler. It's...

Tyler!

Quick, phone! Dial that number dial that number dial that number!

Engaged? What do you mean engaged?



After all that it turned out there was something wrong with the phone lines and nobody got to win the £1,000. It's being saved for another day, another competition.

For Weddings And Blue

Heart are playing my daily dose of Build Me Up Buttercup by The Foundations.

I can't stand this song. It makes me think of a wedding reception with some wanker of a pissed up uncle embarrassing himself on the dancefloor. Just horrific.

On further investigation I discover the song was a highlight in the film There's Something About Mary. You know, the one in which Cameron Diaz uses semen as a hair gel. Hilarious!

It's a shame this fashion didn't catch on: rampant, unemployed teenage boys could have been utilised by barbers to shoot the contents of their loins into freshly cut boyband hair.

Just think of the benefits to the environment!

Maybe It's Because I'm A Londoner

When I was a nipper,
We went to see the clipper.
Now I've burnt her bits off,
Cos she bored me fuckin' tits off.

The Seven Ages of Rock - Part One: The Birth of Rock

Rock began with The Who. There'd never been that kind of showmanship before, such wanton onstage destruction. Hendrix took Townshend's guitar bashing and made it his own. Ooh look, there's Jimi setting light to his guitar at Monterey!

Back in the USA, Hendrix loved those white guitar players from across the Atlantic. Beck and Clapton were taking the blues and making them accessible to a British audience. Their guitar heroics were wowing the kids.

Big Chas Chandler brought Hendrix to England. Hendrix blew away those white kids. He got up on stage with Cream and played so brilliantly, Clapton was left speechless and shaking in the dressing room.

Let's hear what Jeff Beck said about him in one of the programmes old pieces of footage:-

"The fact that he was doing things so upfront and so wild and unchained and sort of...that's what I wanted to do, but I'd been British and a victim of the class system and whatever, you know, the poxy old schools we used to go to. I couldn't do what he did. And I just went away from there thinking I'd better think of something else to do."

Sorry, Jeff. You can't blame your lack of genius on your upbringing. Maybe if you'd joined the Air Force like Jimi you would have turned out wild and untamed? No, I didn't think so! You're a decent guitarist. Let's leave it at that, shall we?

Hendrix was so enamoured by Dylan, he took Blowin' in the Wind to a Harlem discotheque. The dj put the record on and Jimi was chased out of the place.

He didn't really belong in discos. He belonged with the white kids who couldn't dance to save their lives. Actually, is there any evidence that Hendrix himself could dance? Although in his early career he played backing guitar for various blues, soul and R&B bands, there's no evidence that he knew how to strut his stuff. Maybe his two left feet led him to play with the English boys.

This programme, the first in a series of seven, is a pretty earnest opener. No wonder when it is overseen by and features many earnest quotes by Charles Shaar Murray. A very serious rock journalist, Mr Murray. No room for fripperies here.

Tragically, when the drugs and the darkness took over, Jimi couldn't hack it and choked on his own vomit.

I suppose they had to bring that up!

Has Anybody Seen Jose's Dog?

Confessions Of An Armchair Football Fan - Part Two

Before I start boring you to death, just a word to say that Search Me is back. I will try to update it regularly from now on whilst trying to coax Betty back to do a few posts. She's got so much into the Atwood that her hair's turned all long and grey this week and she's started knitting me an itchy jumper which I don't want. This reading isn't good for us. We need to be at the coalface of blogging, continually failing to get shortlisted for Post Of The Week.

Ah, the football...

In the olden days there was Match of the Day on BBC and The Big Match on ITV. I'd avidly watch both these highlights of Saturday's matches. I knew every player in every team. I even quite liked some teams other than West Ham. I liked Burnley as they played in claret and blue. I liked Stoke City because we had a classic League Cup Final against them when Bobby had to go in goal. I liked Tottenham Hotspur because Martin went there and they played entertaining football. I remember one match with Spurs I saw on The Big Match which was full of mud and rain and great football. I had two posters on my bedroom wall, one of West Ham, one of Spurs. We both played the game it was meant to be played. We were the entertainers.

I suppose I stopped watching the football highlights of matches not involving West Ham in 1982 when my dad had a phone call in the middle of Match of the Day from his secret fancy piece. All hell was let loose and I missed the rest of the football. Other teams didn't seem to matter anymore. I have only ever watched matches involving the Irons from then on.

Rupert Murdoch's Sky has, of course, revolutionised the way we watch football. There are highlights of all Premiership matches and several live ones. Yes, live ones! There is even a new viewer called the "neutral". You will often hear a Sky commentator say, "that was a great game for the neutral."

The neutral will watch any old shit, all two and a half hours of action and analysis of a match he is not emotionally involved in. Highlights I can understand, if you've got the time. But a neutral can watch and enjoy a whole game of football, dispassionately.

I've nothing against neutrals. They're decent men in the main. It's just not for me. I need the sweating, the shouting and the heart rumbles. I need to roar like a lion when my team scores. I need to shout obscenities at the referee and opposition players, manager and especially chairmen. Especially chairmen like Dave Whelan of Wigan.**

If I did all this at a live match I'd be banned. I wouldn't do it. In company, I'm a civilised member of society. At home, though, I am a beastial real man, an Iron John.

And it's all thanks to Rupert Murdoch.


** Admittedly I'm the same when I watch Later With Jools.

Confessions Of An Armchair Football Fan - Part One

I inhabit a strange world.

What did you do on Sunday afternoon? I bet you didn't spend what should have been a relaxing afternoon with sweaty armpits, a shaky leg and a loud, foul mouth in front of an unsuspecting television set.

Such is the life of an armchair football fan.

I say "fan" rather than "supporter". A supporter spends big money going to the matches and cheers on his or her team in the flesh. I've probably been a supporter less than 30 times in my life and then I've always been too self-conscious to swear or sing. If every supporter was like me, players would turning to their managers and, like actors, asking "what's my motivation?"

I may not be a proper supporter but I am a "fan", as in "fanatic". My waking hours are always being invaded by thoughts and worries about my team. The worry seems to have got worse as I've got older. And watching my team in important matches, like on Sunday, I am a nervous wreck.

Yesterday I was asked why I support who I do. I don't really know. It started so long ago and I was so young.

As a teenager, my dad used to go and see Charlton play, but he never really had any strong feelings about any team. He was not a fanatic. So it wasn't as if when I announced to him I was a West Ham fan he disowned me or anything. Besides, I was only 4 at the time.

It was the World Cup in '66. Bobby was the captain. Geoff and Martin scored the goals. Geoff was a "Geoff" and so was I. There was really only one team to follow.

The above is not what I remember. It may not have happened that way. But this is the only logical conclusion my grown up mind can come to. This is what I assume happened to my vulnerable infant mind.



To be continued (if you're unlucky)...

Rock Gods Go Shopping

Rob Tyner and Fred "Sonic" Smith are in Asda, Heaven branch.

SMITH: I quite fancy getting some strawberry and some raspberry.

TYNER: Fine, Fred. I like both those.

SMITH: Then again. I do like blackcurrant. Maybe one strawberry one and a blackcurrant one.

TYNER: Whatever, Fred. I ain't that much of a raspberry lover, anyway.

SMITH: Or apricot. What about an apricot one and a blackcurrant one?

TYNER: I thought you wanted strawberry!

SMITH: Can we have three, Rob?

TYNER: Fuck man! Do what you fuckin' like! Just do what you fuckin' like, man! Just pick out the jams, motherfucker!

Excuse me, second homers. I'm trying to sleep on this train

We're off to the South of France next week. Just 5 days away. Easyjet flight down to Nice airport. We've got our own place there. It's beautiful. So peaceful. We were there at Easter.

Lovely part of the world.

We're just 25 minutes from Nice airport.

That's good, isn't it?

Never any trouble with Easyjet. Straight through. Couldn't say the same about British Airways, though. Wrong terminal with BA. Easyjet, just straight through, 25 minute drive from Nice airport to our place.

My parents are at the foot of the Pyrenees. Lovely situation, overlooked by the mountains. They're country people. They like the country. More so than the beach.

Never any trouble with Easyjet. Straight through. Just a 25 minute drive from Nice airport and we're in a different world completely. We're renting it out this year. Not strictly renting. More lending it to friends and family. We're not looking for an income from it, just enough to keep it ticking over.

We've got a little place down on the coast - Broadstairs. We had a lovely week at Easter. The kids loved it. Superb weather. It was a real English seaside break.

I like Broadstairs.

Broadstairs is nice.

Oh, here we are. Waterloo East.

This is me. Great to see you again.

Yes, you too. Take care now.

And you, old man.

Bend Over And Kiss Your Balls

Last night we watched a documentary on Saki. I haven't read any Saki for 25 years and the Complete Saki is waiting for me in the bedroom as soon as I've finished the Complete Sherlock Holmes and the Complete MR James Short Stories - bloody hell so that means I'll be reading it in 2012 then.

After Saki, we watched Ruddy Hell! It's Harry and Paul which forces the odd laugh from our miserable mouths.

After Ruddy Hell! It's Harry and Paul, we watched the majority of Greg Rusedski's interview on Jonathan Ross. Wossy likes to think he's a tennis player as do a lot of these rich celebrities with nothing but time on their hands and money in every orifice. Well let me tell you, if I had as much time and money I would thrash Wossy and his mate Cliff Richard with one hand tied behind my back. You can't buy talent, matey.

After Greg Rusedski, we watched a bit of Later With Jools. We were beginning to fall asleep as Tinariwen strutted their stuff and Betty continued to sleep for the next hour.

I woke up in the middle of a fascinating Snooker World Championship Semi Final between John Higgins and Stephen Maguire. These guys nowadays certainly know how to sink their balls. As with the tennis, however, the personality seems to have gone out of the sport. Higgins and Maguire are efficient machines. Yes, the nerves are there but none of the excitement.

I once saw Graham Miles play an exhibition frame at a Warners holiday camp. The sexual tension was there for us all to see as he almost humped the baize in his tight trousers, the light from above glinting on his balding pate. It was a religious experience for me and for the next week I wanted to be a snooker player when I grew up with all the glamour that entailed.


Graham Miles (left) - for MJ

Blue Is The Colour (Stick Your Blue Flag Up Your Arse)

I hope you'll all be voting tomorrow. We Londoners will be going up the old apples and pears without having put our crosses on any bits of paper as we're not included this time round.

On their route to winning the next General Election, the Tories need a good showing tomorrow. According to today's Today show on Radio 4, 40% of the vote isn't enough. No, they need to be aiming for 42, 43, 44, 45% of the vote. To achieve this, David Cameron "has to break out of the wine bars of Southern England."

Silly me. I was under the impression that wine bars died out at about the same time that Sade's pop career took a nose dive. I didn't realise there was a thriving wine bar scene and that these establishments were hotbeds of political discourse, where discussions about that bloody socialist Gordon Brown's "stealth taxes" raged into the night. Where battle plans were drawn up to fight New Labour and the Lib Dems on the Green issue, aided by the pamphlet "How to save the planet by making the rich richer and the poor poorer."

I must get out more.

From The Heart

Toby Anstis, my old friend at Heart 106.2, has just found out that "LOL" doesn't mean "Lots of Love". It means "Laugh out loud".

Actually, although I'm LOLing at his naivety, I also originally interpreted it in the very same way the first few times I saw it on my computer screen. It took me some time to work it out, I just thought people were being extra friendly due to an excess of Ecstasy tablets or something.

It disappointed me that crude, cynical humour rather than beautiful, spiritual love was being spread over our brave new technological world.

Surely there should be a "lots of love" type sign-off for non-misanthropes like me and Toby?

Human Footprint - Channel 4

It's Channel 4 so it's a not-too-serious ("fart", tee-hee) look at how much we consume, how much waste we produce during our lifetimes.

Of course for the planet's good it would be better off if none of us were ever born. From the moment we start shitting into disposable nappies we're damaging the environment. By "we", I mean us Brits. This programme is the consumption story of the average British person's life, "from the cradle to the grave", not that many of us start off in cradles and end up in graves nowadays.

The figures are taken from simple statistics. And first they have to explain to us dim-witted viewers what exactly an "average" is. I'm quite happy to let that nicely-spoken Scottish Dr Who, David Tennant (who's doing the voiceover) tell me what I already know. But they have to rope in an expert, a PhD from the LSE, who says...

"The point of an average is that it is collated from a sample which has lots of people in it and then you divide in order to try and make that relevant to one person. Obviously there is no one person who lives this life where they produce X amount of excrement and they consume so many gallons of milk and smoke so many cigarettes, there is no one person who does that, so in that sense it represents nobody's life. But if you were to extrapolate this to the whole population then in some senses it does represent what we're all doing."

So basically, this programme is about nobody. Yet it is about us all.

Work that one out!

I can't be arsed to write any more about it - all you need to know is here. They really shouldn't have bothered with the waste of space "arresting art installations" or making the programme at all come to think of it. The web page is good enough. The statistics aren't particularly "mind-boggling" unless you've got a mind that is especially prone to boggle at some silly numbers that mean fuck all.

Why not calculate your own human footprint? Unless you've got something better to do like cut your toenails (which would grow bloody long if you didn't cut them, apparently).

Doh!

Tears Of A Clown

Annie's come up with an excellent and novel way of listing her blogroll. We're all film stars!

I've always wanted to be a glamorous film star. A Hollywood heart throb such as Clark Gable. A cool dude like Humphrey Bogart. Dammit, even Rock Hudson would do me: the ladies loved him!

Or what about Frank Sinatra? Yeah, Frank Sinatra, and Betty could be my Ava Gardner.

You have to click on each one of Annie's links to find out who's who. I went through them from top to bottom. I thought I wasn't there, but I am.

So which gorgeous hunk of manhood does my blogging persona most resemble?

Apparently, him.

And Betty is her.

We certainly are a couple of swells!

I've Been Ill But You Don't Care, You've Just Ignored Me: Yes, Me!

Me: ill


He tried to be witty,
They thought he was shitty,
They all left his blog in a drove.

They said, "Call that humour?
I've seen funnier tumours,
You're less funny than Michael Gove.

The nun and the monk joke,
The fictional speech bloke,
Were too much for your readers to bear.

We're off to a good site,
We can't take any more shite.
Delete yourself, see if we care.

You peaked with Geoff's Dreams, son,
Yeah, those days were real fun,
When blogging was all fresh and new.

You had it all mapped out?
Geoff, you're just clapped out!
You've bitten off too much to chew.

Why not try myspace?
Though a picture of your face,
I doubt would go down a treat.

While all your old blogchums,
Their dads and their mums,
Laugh at you at a blogmeet."

Great Speeches of the 20th Century

The Guardian is printing a series of Great Speeches of the 20th Century. The following extract is taken from a speech made by the great orator, Sir Kingston Burchill, on June 4th 1969...

"...we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in our trunks, we shall fight in our bikinis, we shall fight with our handkerchiefs folded upon our heads, we shall fight with our trouser legs rolled up as we paddle in the shallows, we shall fight with 99s dripping down our forearms, we shall fight with spades in our right hands and buckets in our left, we shall fight with the Welsh Dragon flying on top of our sandcastles, we shall fight as we apply calamine lotion to our babies' arms, we shall fight even as we are buried to our necks in sand, we shall fight with our beachballs and our frisbees in the air, we shall fight as we bowl Grandad out for a golden duck, we shall fight as we stub cigarettes out in the sand and shake salt onto our bitten tomatoes, we shall fight as we turn rocks to get at crabs...

...we shall fight our brothers and sisters for they are spiteful little spoilt little brats who knock over our sandcastles;

we shall never surrender...

for we are good little boys and girls."

Headline from Inter-Monastery Indoor Athletics Meet:-

100 Metres: Monk Second To Nun

Highlights Of The Bits In Between The Working During My Working Week

Ooh, Barbra Streisand. 65, eh?

Yeah.

She looks like Carol.

Carol?

Our Carol.

Does she?

She's got Carol's mouth.

Does Carol look like Barbra Streisand?

PAUSE

Not really.


*******


I am doing one of the quizzes I am OK at. Work out the band name from the clue.

e.g.

Cinema Tunes = Roxy Music (OK, I didn't get this one)

Australian Coils Youth = Bruce Springsteen

Greenhouse Plants = Hothouse Flowers

Come on, you must have heard of the Hothouse Flowers!

I come to the following clue:-

Very Hairy Beasts.

Ah, Super Furry Animals, of course!

No, not of course. You see, that might have been the answer in the quiz's original form. But this quiz has seen too many contestants asking "Who the fuck are the Super Furry Animals?" Contestants who have heard of the Hothouse Flowers but haven't heard of the best UK band to come out of the 90s. Nannies and grandads.

So the answers have been changed, I am wrong and the answer is...

Very Hairy Beasts = The Monkees.

Pah!

Meet The Foxes

I read that I was going to be moved, my mascara would run when the pregnant vixen and her partner were ruthlessly baited and shot.

But foxes don't get me that way. I like to see them but I like to keep my distance from them. I don't like them shitting in our garden.

Urban foxes are vermin but they're good looking vermin. But this programme isn't really about the foxes themselves. It's more about their human neighbours' attitudes and reactions to the ginger beasts.

The human characters in this programme include...


1. The spoilers who treat the foxes as pets, feed them and film them.

2. The annoyed but fox-friendly neighbours who are fed up with constant shit in the garden but want the foxes to be taken away to a nice place in the countryside.

3. The concerned people who have an injured fox under their decking.

4. The people who think foxes are their enemies.

Numbers 2 and 3 could be considered pretty normal. Not wanting to harm the creatures but not willing to share their lives with them too closely.

Number 1 are a nutty couple but what's wrong with a bit of nuttiness in this crazy mixed up world?

It's family number 4 which deserves a kick up the arse.

They are trying to be 'green', keeping their free-range hens, producing their own free-range organic eggs.

The hens aren't hidden away in a top security barn, but in full view of any intruders behind some crap chicken wire. And the silly family blame the foxes!

'Green' is the right word for this family. Trying to be partly self-sufficient in Stoke Newington of all places! This is The Idiots Guide To The Good Life.

Daddy buys some new hens from his farmer mate and some lion shit fox-deterrent.

And, surprise surprise, the fox breaks through the crap chicken wire at night and assassinates the whole lot of them. We do not see whether the fox has state of the art wire cutters or whether he just uses his sharp teeth. My money's on the teeth.

The family are distraught and at the end of their tether. The teenage daughter strokes her (presumably bird-loving) cat as she says how much she hates foxes. Daddy says how what the fox did in killing for killing's sake was just so "unnecessary". An Idiots Guide To The Good Life, imposing human morals onto animals.

Daddy is driven to desperate measures. The fox has to die.

Along comes the bald headed assassin with a licence to kill. After a week of enticing the fox and his pregnant partner into the garden with fresh meat, the bald headed assassin sets up shop in Daddy's spare bathroom. Daddy strokes the gun/phallus, wishing he could have a go himself as years ago he'd shot animals in the rainforest. As with Sting, those days in the rainforest were presumably the best of his life.

The fox pair are shot efficiently. Job done, problem solved?

Of course bloody not. It's not long before new foxes are coming into his garden to have a look at his hens. Because contrary to Daddy's logic, killing one or two does not give an example to the remainder of the foxes in the area.

What a shame the foxes can't learn human morals, eh Daddy?

We've Been Reculverised

Yesterday was another unseasonally warm day. God bless Global Warming.

Here we are at the unfashionably unhip North Kent coast. We walked all the way from Reculver to the furthest east Herne Bay gets. Here's Betty, reading her copy of Shaggy Blog Stories (available at all good internet book selling sites called 'Lulu')...





And here's one of me, taken above the hips, reading my own copy. Don't I look a studious young fella?





Of course, what do you get below the hips?

The groyne!





We had to take extra care on the way to and from Herne Bay. The suicide statistics in North East Kent are similar to those of accidental death...





The part of the coastline we walked is called the 'Wantsum Walk'. It is so named because whenever you come across a group of hard kids, they ask you if you "wantsum, you fackin' cant?"





It was a lovely day, but visibility was not too good. So this picture of Reculver and the remains of its 14th century church is pretty shit. But it is a lovely spot on a sunny day and only an hour away by car!

Modern (American) Films Are Rubbish

Kaufman & Carrey.

I've wasted 4 hours in the past couple of years watching films in which these two names figure.

Man In The Moon - Jim Carrey playing Andy Kaufman. What an annoying tit! I don't know if the real Andy Kaufman was that annoying but if he was halfway as annoying as he was portrayed by The New Jerry Lewis he must have been one annoying arsehole.

Now here's Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Carrey! That annoying tit again!

This one's written by Charlie Kaufman who wrote that crud about the inside of John Malkovich's head.

OK, Charlie. You've got me. You're obviously more intelligent than me. You can write a screenplay the title of which comes from an Alexander Pope quote. You quote Nietzsche, too. Which puts you in the pretty damn clever class.

But you're so silly, babyish and annoying. You're playing with us, aren't you? Like a baby plays. Goo goo.

The gist of the film is, Carrey is a loser in love who sees no future with women. He meets an American Kate Winslett with coloured hair for Christ's sake. She is a GOOFBALL. Which is handy as Jim's a bit of a GOOFBALL, too. That's two GOOFBALLS falling in love.

But she falls out of love with Jim. She goes to a clinic where they erase all the memories you want to erase from your brain. She gets Jim erased from hers.

The clinic is run by Dr Tom American Wilkinson. Do Americans find the Brits putting on their accents as annoying as we find Dick Van Dyke?

Jim finds out what Kate has done so in a fit of pique he decides to erase the memory of Kate from his, too. So Tom's assistants, a right pair of GOOFBALLS, do the business. But Jim's love for Kate is so strong that his genius brain rebels against the treatment. He doesn't want to let her go, the diddums.

Meanwhile, Kirsten Dunst, Tom's young receptionist who quotes Pope and Nietzsche, decides she's not in love with one of the GOOFBALL assistants but she's really in love with Tom who is old enough to be her father. Tom's wife lets Kirsten know she (Kirsten) had some time ago already had an affair with Tom and that she had asked him to erase him from her memory.

Fuck me, what a carry on!

So Kirsten blows the business to smithereens. Just as Jim and Kate are getting together for the second time, they are both sent old tapes where they were recorded talking about why they wanted rid of each other.

Of course, love prevails. Although they know they may be destined for a relationship in which they will both fall in then out of love, they still want to go ahead with this second time round. Which is a good move for Jim as there's no way a munterface like him would hook up with somebody like Kate even with her funny hair and GOOFBALL personality.

OK, the film was watchable but just so very silly and the characters were extremely tiresomely goofy.

What really got my goat was the music at the start and end.

They take a classic song like the Korgi's Everybody's Got To Learn Sometime which already has two classic soulful versions by the aforementioned Korgis and Baby D.

And they get that wacky GOOFBALL piece of piss, Beck to record it. He, of course, turns it into a dull turd.

A complete bloody travesty.

Cheer up, it might never...yeah, yeah, yeah, I've heard that a million times

It's unseasonally warm and Londoners are wearing their warm weather clothes. As I get older I wonder more and more about t-shirts that say something. Not band t-shirts, but slogans.

For example there's this young man walking past Tesco's. He's very flirty, exuding sexuality and looking for eye contact. His t-shirt describes himself as "LOVERBOY". I invent a tragic life for him. Such upfront behaviour does not bode well for his future happiness. He is bound to be let down time and time again by lover after lover. The loverboy will not become a loverman but will be cynical in his middle age. He won't believe in love because love always disappoints him. But I don't feel sorry for him for I don't know him.

Don't feel sorry for loverboy
You know he wants the world to love him, then goes and spoils it all
Don't feel sorry for loverboy
He wants the world to love him, then goes and spoils it all for love


Then there's this young, colourfully dressed, bright eyed woman who implores us all to "BLOW BUBBLES, NOT BOMBS". A simple girl, her heart's in the right place. Why shouldn't we all blow bubbles, not only all of us peace lovers but those murdering governments and sectarian organisations, too. Hey! Instead of bombing your so-called enemies, pop a few bubbles on their noses! They'll laugh with you instead of hating you and the world will be one big, loving, happy family!

No. This girl will be let down again and again by murdering governments and sectarian organisations. She will die a cynic, like me and everyone I know.

I'm forever blowing bubbles
Pretty bubbles in the air
They fly so high
Nearly reach the sky
Then like my dreams they fade and die


*******


You may say, I'm a dreamer. Last night's dream consisted of...

A cure for cracked fingers: immerse your hand into a solution containing 5,000 mg of effervescent vitamin C. Your wounds will heal within ten minutes.

Essex, The 51st State of the USA

So we've been out for our breath-of-fresh-air, a walk in Belhus Woods Country Park, just north of the Dartford Crossing. It was the first time we've been there and I'm pleased to report nothing untoward happened to us.

There was a twice daily American Civil War re-enactment which we just missed. Skirmishes were scheduled for 11 am and 3 pm. We saw lots of men sitting by camp fires and resting in tents, mentally relaxing before the 3 o'clock skirmish. We saw a large bearded man whip his wife's arse in jest, just as his friend entered one of the event's many chemical toilets. A three man band played pipes and drums, some old Confederate tune or maybe Lynnrd Skynnrd's Sweet Home Alabama; I have no idea. The smell of burgers permeated the air, though the smell of bean farts were sadly missing.

We walked past one of the lakes and some young urchins were busy lifting the biggest freshwater fish I've seen in my life. They didn't tell us to fucking steer clear of their rods which I always expect to hear when in close proximity to hard-looking fishing boys.

Yesterday, we were given a lovely present by a lovely friend. A mini Simnel cake, complete with all eleven Jesus-friendly disciples. Look, here it is with Betty...



We'll eat it later as we're serenaded by the local family who are currently performing their annual Easter Garden Karaoke.

They really have got awful voices.

Shakespeare Was His Teenage Idol

On his jean jacket,
A badge Graham wore.
Neither 'Rush' nor 'Steve Hackett',
He was no prog rock bore.

Not the 'Pistols', 'Jam', 'Ruts',
This kid was more hard.
This boy had the guts
To wear the badge of The Bard.

He promoted 'Will Power',
A neat play on words.
In his finest hour,
He charmed the posh birds.

"Oh, Graham, you're so cool,"
They'd say with their eyes.
"You can tell that you're no fool.
And tremendously wise."

To be in one's late teens,
In '78,
Neither new wave nor prog scenes
Would get you a date.

You just wore The Bard and
Who needed luck?
Cos Will made you hard and
Guaranteed you a fuck.

Simnel Cake

Easter's nearly upon us and all our thoughts turn to food.

This year, why not make yourself a Simnel cake? A moist, rich fruitcake with one layer of the finest almond paste in the centre and another on top. Decorated in the traditional way with eleven small balls of marzipan that represent the twelve disciples, minus Judas because Judas did not like marzipan.

Not many people know that the highlight of the Last Supper was in fact Simnel cake. Jesus himself couldn't get enough fruitcake and used to lick the bowl whenever his mother baked one. It is rumoured that he came back from the dead because he thought he smelt fruitcake cooking.

The eleven disciples who liked marzipan regularly had Marzipan Nights on the first Sunday of every month. Peter was a marzipan glutton and would regularly eat whole bars of the stuff in one sitting.

Judas, however, felt a little left out. The Last Supper was the last straw for him, literally, as he was left to munch on cheese straws as the other lads tucked into their marzipan sodden treat. He never felt less like one of the chaps as he did that night.

Perchance To Dream

I'm dreaming of fish 'n' chips. I don't like fish 'n' chips. The smell is making me feel sick.

I wake up. Not fully awake so my drug addled mind (um, low dose tranquilisers) is not thinking logically, I've got this great idea for a sketch. It's so funny, in my half awake state, I'm almost laughing in bed at 6 a.m.

Morrissey is back in Manchester. He gets on a bus. At the back sits an old friend.

Old Friend: Morrissey! What brings you round these parts?

Morrissey: I've been promoting my new range of chilled ready meals, mate. Sausage & mash. Meat & potato pie. Fish 'n' chips.

Old Friend: Ooh, I love fish 'n' chips.

Morrissey: Me too, mate. They're me favourites. You'd love my fish 'n' chips. A moist, succulent loin of cod, fancifully fried in a light, golden batter; crisp, chunky chips drizzled with balsamic vinegar; all served with a generous side portion of mushy peas. Pucker, mate. Bloody pucker.

Old Friend: Ain't it hard to get hold of cod nowadays, though?

Morrissey: Murder, mate. Bloody murder.


The alarm goes off and jerks me out of my reverie. The working day starts here and heaven knows I'm miserable now.

The Angel Gabriel Came Down To Me

Thank you for your comments on the last post. I'm pleased to report I've now had a good night's sleep and come to my senses.

Murph was right. It normally doesn't take me my whole lunchtime to compose a post. Just that yesterday I had my serious hat on.

From now on, weekdays will be devoted to light, frivolous ten minute posts. The heavy, meaty, serious stuff ("no comments") I shall reserve for weekends.

There, I feel so much calmer now.


******


I've just received the following email from Amazon:-

Dear Amazon.co.uk Customer,

We've noticed that customers who have expressed interest in music by Yes have also ordered Genesis 1976 - 1982 [Hybrid SACD + DVD] by Genesis. For this reason, you might like to know that Genesis 1976 - 1982 [Hybrid SACD + DVD] will be released on 2 April 2007. You can pre-order your copy for just £88.98 by following the link below.

No!

No!!

No!!!!!!!

Pills For Me Nerves

"What the bloody hell's he doing, posting four posts in two days?"

Just letting you all know I'm going to take it easier from now on, just posting at weekends when I'm more relaxed and have the time.

I know the rest of you blog from Sunday night to Thursday night and I'll have more time to read your blogs if I'm not spending whole bloody lunch hours writing.

So hopefully in the future round here, less will be more.

TV For A Change

I first started this blog to review tv programmes. I would sit watching a recording, stopping and starting it, taking notes. It all became a bit of a chore. Now I try to get to the essence of things (oh, yeah?), leaving the details for when I do my retirement blog in 2041.

Now we're more involved in the reading and commenting merry-go-round of blogging, we rarely get the time to sit down and watch a programme in full on a single night. They're dispersed in half hour chunks over the week, we only catch up properly over a miniature glass of wine or two at the weekends.

Recent viewing has been dominated by the BBC's series of documentaries on the history of slavery and racism. There's an illustration of the hold of a slave ship which crops up again and again. It's a drawing looking from above down on human beings laying chained together, packed like sardines. You can't see the death and the disease. You can't smell the stench. It looks so neat and ordered, when of course it's inhumanity at pretty much its worst, planned by an ordered mind, a cruel bastard of a mind. A mind which sees other human beings as inanimate objects, tools to be used for making money.

The only programme in the series to make me smile so far featured Ms Dynamite (Ms Dynamite tee hee) travelling to Jamaica to discover some more about the Maroons, escaped slaves who fought and beat a British army of vastly superior numbers. The British didn't know the terrain and were slaughtered. (Thinking of drafted young British men being slaughtered is not the bit that made me smile).

The Maroons leader was a woman nicknamed Nanny, a Jamaican Boudica who as legend would have it used to cushion British bullets in her arse and still come back for more. The arse actually belonged to a scarecrow type decoy but the legend's a good one and is more entertaining than Superman.

The original Maroons were warriors but their descendents look as if they couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag. This, of course, may be deceptive and maybe they could still give a colonial army a pasting. Then again, no, they're too nice for that.

I have opposing feelings for Ms Dynamite. I can't stand her music but perhaps because she is not the most articulate interviewer they could have chosen, I like her. Then again I like the more articulate Moira Stuart who presented another of the films in this series. So it's not inverse snobbery on my part. Oh no. I just like Ms Dynamite and Moira Stuart.

Has Anybody Ever Seen A Pie In The Sky?

Parenting Skills in The Noughties - Number One

Explaining to a 6 year old girl...

1. Why the 80 year old woman is taking off all her clothes at a grown man's 21st birthday party.

2. Why there is a crowd of people around the woman.

3. Why she leaves her shower cap on.

Between The Covers With JonnyB

Well, we've got the book and I'm happy to be facing one of East Anglia's premier bloggers. Funny how the flat wastelands of the East of England have produced so many decent bloggers. I'm a "fen" (geddit?) of a few of them.

The general feel of the book is smooth and shiny. Considering it was produced in a week it's a fantastic achievement. How do they get these books so smooth and shiny in a week?

But seriously (God, I'm such a wag), it is a fantastic achievement by Mike and the gang who got it all together in a week and I'm chuffed to be a part of it.

Of course I've read my own contribution several times and come up with a whole host of opinions on its merits or otherwise.

"Oh God, it's shit."
"It's not bad, actually."
"That's not my voice at all."
"Actually it's the reporting of a reasonably funny incident, told in a concise, understated way."
"But it still doesn't seem like me."
"And some of those sentences jar."

Is this what proper writers go through? Does Ian McEwan or Jeffrey Archer go over everything they write again and again? Is this what you call "rewriting"? If so I'm happy to keep blogging and just churn my shit out. I couldn't be doing with all that worrying about whether this or that sentence is worthy of being published. If Penguin or Puffin or Ladybird come along and say they want to publish me I'll say they can take what they like from my blogs but they can get stuffed if they think I'm going to sit around analysing and changing things. Whatcha see is whatcha get, Mr Big Publisher!

To (Some Of) The Girls I've Loved Before

ABBA 1975



Mamma mia, here I go again
My my, such a pair of teasers
Mamma mia, does it show again?
I mean the women, not the geezers



KIKI DEE 1976



Don't go breaking my heart
I couldn't if I tried
Honey d'ya wanna get breastfed?
Baby I'm not that kind



MANHATTAN TRANSFER 1978




On a little street in Singapore
No chew-ing gum discarded on the floor
The gals move like sophisticated chicks
Though the blokes look just like a pair of dicks



NENA 1984





99 Decision Street
99 fashionistas meet
To worry, worry, super-scurry
Leather kecks off in a hurry!
This is what we've waited for
This is it boys, this is phwooar!
The sweaty trousers on the line
As 99 red balloons go by



TRACY BARLOW 2007





Bang! Bang! Tracy's silver hammer
Came down upon his head.
Bang Bang Tracy's silver hammer
Made sure that he was dead.

Who's A Fart Young Smeller?

What They've All Been Saying About My New Green Ski Jacket

That's a lovely coat!
Really trendy!
Really smart!
Really suits you!
Makes you look years younger!



What They're Really Thinking

That...




...was really not a good look, Geoff.

My Eyes Are Red, My Nose Is Blue

Well, it's a Relief that's all over, isn't it?

The highlight of last night's extravaganza had to be the Mitchell & Webb snooker song with Chris de Burgh. It really was truly fucking abysmal and Betty was the luckier of the two of us in that she fell asleep after the ten second appearance of Kate Moss on the Little Britain debacle. We didn't sing along to the Proclaimers because although we're both bespectacled we have got a modicum of musical talent in that we can do Amy Winehouse's Rehab in pub singer voices which is a damn sight more entertaining than those 1980s hasbeens with their walking 1,000 miles. If they walked 500 miles away, why didn't they carry on walking 500 miles further into the fucking sea instead of walking 500 miles back to annoy us so? Peter Kay is the most overrated comedian of all time - he just sits there in that wheelchair doing fuck all, he has never ever made me laugh, what in God's name do you all see in him? Shite, shite and more shite all night long.

Don't get me wrong, we weren't actually watching it but watching a docudrama on the independence and division of India, just watching Comic Relief during breaks for urinating and refilling wine glasses. Betty thought Lord Mountbatten was quite dishy (well, actually the actor playing him). Gandhi wasn't played by Sir Ben Kingsley which I found disappointing as now my last image of Sir Ben is not of a blacked-up peacemaker but of a violent psychopathic gangster in Sexy Beast. Makes you wonder what would have happened if Ray Winstone was in charge of India's independence.

Still the funniest things to come out of my blog are the searches people use to get here. Here are the latest:-

1. Kung fu drawstring trousers
2. Does Noel Edmonds drink urine?
3. Grayson Perry posh bastards house
4. Does Prince Charles wipe his own arse?

I don't think he does.

Have a good weekend, y'all. I'm back to work on Monday for the run-up to the dreaded end of year.

Lovely.


*******


UPDATE SUNDAY 18TH MARCH 2007 6PM

I've just woken up from my afternoon nap and that pissing song is still in my head. I don't see why you should be spared from this crap. Here's the link to the video if you want to see why I'm thinking about emigrating from this freakishly humourless land.

LOOOOOOOOK! THERE'S THE KRANKIES, EVERYONE!

Shaggy Blog Stories

It's out! It can't be bought at Sainsbury's!

For every book sold, £3.63 goes direct to Comic Relief.
To buy, it costs £12.72 including £3.76 postage and packing.
Which may not seem very charitable but it's better than 10p from a £2.00 sandwich at Sainsbury's.
And if it's going to be done, it's the best return you could hope for.
The publishers are making nothing out of the sales but publicity.
The contributors are making nothing out of the sales but a wider audience.
Shit, I'm not selling this very well, am I?

Yes, there are the usual A-list bloggers there but also a lot I haven't heard of before. And as far as I know this is the first anthology of (hopefully funny) bloggers' writing ever assembled in Britain. So I'd probably buy it even if some of the money wasn't going to charity.

What I mean to say is...

BUY THIS BOOK!

I Can See Clearly Now...

"I bet you get a good variety of background music in this job," I say to the window fitter.

"Yeah. The bloke yesterday, the old bloke who had the dirty house, he asked us if we liked trad."

"Trad jazz?"

"Yeah. He played it really loud. It was blaring out. He played the whole album."


I asked him about the background music because the window fitters were probably earlier having a good laugh at our choice of television programme to watch as they put in the windows upstairs.

We've got a lot of catching up to do so we watched two old documentaries, one on the Chelsea Hotel, the other on the background to the Lou Reed song Walk On The Wild Side.

The first documentary had a very camp man taking tourists round the hotel, singing and namechecking Brendan Behan, Oscar Wilde and William Burroughs amongst others. As he walked past some painters and decorators on the stairs he compared their work to Jackson Pollack.

We saw Burroughs and Andy Warhol at a dinner party, talking about chicken-fried steak, Quentin Crisp talking about his hair products, and Jobriath singing a super song about naked brunch. the documentry also featured a glorious sequence showing Viva's daughter watching her mother give birth to her on video. The birthing screams reverberated round our house and sounded like a long loud orgasm until the baby started to cry.

The Walk On The Wild Side documentary included interviews with several transexuals from Warhol's gang including discussions of "giving head" to sailors.

Unsurprisingly, with all this going on, the window fitters finished fitting the windows in record time. I bet they can't wait to see what we've got in store for them when they do the doors tomorrow.

Lovely Days

It's lovely today. It was lovely yesterday. Too lovely for March, maybe.

Yesterday we went for a walk at Trosley Country Park. It's been spruced up since we were last there a few years ago - new toilets, a new cafe. The cafe was busier than the walking trails.

"Come on, let's off-road," I said. And we took the "B" route, all the way down the hill, through several fields, not knowing whether the route was two miles or nine. After about an hour and a half we seemed to be heading back towards the car park. Up, up, up, then across.

"We've reached the woods now," I said. "I'm glad those trees are there because I wouldn't fancy walking on the side of this steep hill with nothing to stop my fall."

We came to a clearing with nothing to stop our fall. Eyes down at the path, not left to the less than gentle slope. Past a braver young couple sitting on the slope with their even braver dog chasing his tail.

I'm such a wuss with heights. My legs turn to jelly, I can't go on, I can't go on, I can't go on.

I went on and we made it. A lovely day with a bit of nervous excitement added.


*******


Today is a lovely day. We go to the dentist's. The receptionist is wearing sexy boots and her cleavage is overspilling. An old man comes out of the torture room and after picking up his cap from under one of the chairs, pays his £50 in cash. There goes his pension for this week.

"Can I use the facilities?" he asks the receptionist.

"Of course you can," she says.

He goes into the toilet and clatters about a bit. I hear running water. He comes out and leaves without another word.

I bury myself in my Sherlock Holmes in case the receptionist thinks I'm looking at her tits. I hear the drill start up.

"Filling for Betty," I think. "That means one for me too."

Our dentist enjoys filling teeth. It's good to see someone taking pleasure in their work.

Me, I take pleasure in my days off.

Mallard In Love

I am a mallard in love
And I'd do anything
To get you into my wings
And hold you within
It's a right I defend
Over and over again
Waddle, I do!

Yeah but, no but...

Think you can do better than Little Britain?

So do I.

But then I look in my archives and I don't see much humour, just anger and spite.

Still, I've chosen a post for this. Why don't you?

Just don't expect me to watch it on the telly.

The Hunt For Middle England

The hunt is a BBC4 90 minute documentary in which stand-up comedian and actor (in the great The Thick of It) Chris Addison searches for the place called Middle England and the people who inhabit it.

The problem is, nobody wants to admit to being a Middle Englander. Chris tries shouting in the street, going on a local radio phone-in show, and advertising in the Daily Mail, all to no avail. Absolutely nobody comes forth.

He tries:-

The Women's Institute
The National Trust
A book club in a Lincolnshire village
The set of Midsomer Murders
A golf club in Guildford

The interviewees admit to a lot of things, seem to have all the supposed characteristics of being Middle English, but never ever call themselves such. At the end, Chris comes to the conclusion that although Middle England is more a state of mind than a specific place or type of person, maybe actual Middle Englanders have emigrated. The programme runs out of time and he never gets to go abroad.

Of course Middle England is not a place. People are not Middle English. The term was made up by the media to make us feel that there are a decent, hard-working, right-thinking silent majority of people out there. When the media reports that politicians want to win over Middle England, they mean only one thing. Politicians want to appeal to the floating voter.

Floating voters decide elections. They have no strong allegiance to Labour or the Conservatives or the Lib Dems. They are disillusioned with the current Government. They are always disillusioned but they have to weigh up whether they want to see a government from a different party.

Floating voters ask themselves:

Will another party be tougher on crime or immigration? Will they be less sleazy or two-faced? Can they be trusted to do the right things, the good things? The Tories were in for too long and got too big for their boots. Now the same's happening to New Labour. It might be time for Cameron. Why not? Give him a chance. Fresh broom and all that. He's got a fresh face just like Blair had ten years ago. Oh dear. Blair had a fresh face but look where that got us with all this crime and immigration. Can Cameron be trusted? Can a fresh face be trusted? What about an old face like Campbell's? No. What am I thinking of, why would I want the Liberals in, they haven't been in power for 100 years. No, it's between Cameron and Brown. Brown? He's an old fashioned socialist! He'll tax us to death! Unless he has a strong Chancellor. What about the NHS? It's terrible the way hospitals are nowadays. Do I trust the Tories with the NHS? Well, they can't do a worse job than Labour, can they? And they will be tougher on crime. And immigration. But what about litter? The streets are a mess! And there's road charging! I'm totally against that! Labour just tax, tax, and tax again. Stealth tax! But I want to reduce my carbon footprint. Oh, it's so confusing. The Greens are nutters. All veggie nutters just like my niece. Did you know she refused to eat her nut roast at Christmas just because my wife poured gravy on it? Well scrape it off, you silly girl! Europe! God, I forgot Europe! How could I forget Europe and their centralising decisions, taking away decisions from us! Decisions, decisions...Blair hasn't done such a bad job. I'm always impressed by him, even with all the crime and the immigration. Oh God, politics! No, I couldn't vote for Brown. No way could I vote for a Scot. Oh my God, I sound racist. Why shouldn't I vote for a Scot? There's nothing wrong with Scots. Cameron's a Scottish name! Cameron, Brown, Campbell! They're all Scots! Right, I'm voting Cameron! Cameron it is then! That's it! Get the Tories back in! Sort this country out! He is very young though, isn't he?

Yeah, let's get Cameron in. Sort this country out.

Middle Englander = Floating Voter = Blairite Tory

Bet You Don't Get This One

Who Is The Celebrity?

The highlight (in fact the only thing worth reading) of the London Lite evening free paper is the celebrity puzzle. You have a few drawings which make up a celebrity's name. The celebrity can be alive or dead.

So you may get a drawing of a man mowing the lawn followed by another drawing of a man mowing the lawn followed by a drawing of a baby sheep. Put them together and you get Mow Mow Lamb.

You may get a drawing of a severed head followed by three drawings of planks of wood. Put them together and you get Head Wood Wood Wood.

Geddit?

I thought I'd give it a go.

OK, people. Can you tell me who is the following famous celebrity? And is he or she alive or dead?

Flights Of Fancy

I'm afraid I upset one of my anonymous commenters with my post on darts players. I had the cheek to suggest that darts players may not be blessed with that skin deep phwooooar factor. According to Anon, there are lots of good looking guys out there on the circuit, including Wes Newton, Adrian Gray, Johnny K and Ray Carver, "just to name a few." Well that's enough for me to be going on with, so, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...



Johnny K




and Ray Carver.


They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder but there's no denying the je ne sais quoi these guys have. It's the steady eyes that look into yours as if you're the only human being they have ever wanted. Catch one of these guys' eyes over a crowded room and you'll be putty in their hands. They're used to concentrating on small areas from the distance of a couple of yards. Just imagine if they locked in on your dilated pupils. You'd feel ravished before they spoke to you.

Gently Does It

Yesterday I made a decision to go on a permanent go-slow, just like those naughty 1970s trade union members. In fact I feel a bit naughty doing it, myself. But I don't feel guilty.

You see, I've been trying to pack too many things into too few hours, scowling through the day. Something's gotta give and it's not going to be me.

So I'm going to do everything at a slower pace from now on, and that includes blogging. I may not write so much. I definitely won't read so much and I'm not going to feel guilty for not keeping up with forty odd blogs. The whole blogging thing was becoming a chore and the laughs were becoming few and far between.

Anyway, must go and check on my Bloglines. Hope there's not too many because I've only got half my lunch hour left.

Oodles of Googles

I think we're all due a little light relief. So how's about some highlights of recent searches for this blog?

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?

1. Victorian armpit hair

As we know, the Victorians loved their armpit hair. In fact, Queen Victoria used to amuse herself by seeing just how long hers would grow. The only time she ever smiled was when she was once mistaken for a yeti on a state visit to Tibet.


2. Bear in the window of a house on the beach in Walmer Deal

There aren't any actual houses on the beach at either Walmer or Deal. I seem to remember there is, however, a little fisherman's shack. Maybe this fisherman has a pet bear who sits in the shack watching Grizzly Adams DVDs, maybe peering out every now and again if the fisherman is late coming home.

3. Keith Allen eating chips

Not hard to find, you would have thought. The co-composer of Vindaloo, World In Motion and other songs produced to attempt to make the English feel good about themselves. If I was searching for this image I might type "Keith Allen stuffing his pug-ugly smug arsehole of a mouth full of lardy shite." But I'm not so I wouldn't.

4. Nick Rhodes erection

So much less common than Keith Allen eating chips. The last time Nick had a hard-on in public was at the 1983 recording session where he produced Kajagoogoo's Too Shy. For a laugh, Limahl and the two Nicks (Beggs and Rhodes) sprayed one of their many cans of hairspray down the front of their trousers. If you listen to the track closely you can hear laughter in the background of the chorus.

5. Man rude to Jeremy Kyle said he had big ears

In the words of Contains Mild Peril (as summarised by Google):-

What is the world coming to when a rude young man thinks he can push people...the people on the Jeremy Kyle Show. "You wait till I see him," said my aunt.

Did I really say that?

Jack's It

If you missed the first programme in Michael Cockerell's series Blair: The Inside Story, I'd recommend catching the rest of this history of our Tone's ten years in office. I'm sorry you missed the quote of the week, the following rubbish from Jack Straw concerning the death of the Princess of Our Hearts:-

People forget, almost ten years down the track, just what a national trauma it was for everybody. You'll remember the astonishing floral tributes: a great symbol of beauty in the future which was the idealised version of Princess Diana who'd been crushed to death in a rather seedy car crash in Paris.

First of all Jack, I don't forget what the reaction was like ten years ago. A lot of ordinary people were in shock. And a lot of ordinary people were like me and my friends: totally unaffected by the woman's death but extremely annoyed by the over the top reaction of the press and the falsity of our fresh faced young arse licking prime minister.

I do remember the floral tributes, though I only ever saw them on the telly. As far as "a great symbol of beauty in the future which was the idealised version of Princess Diana" goes, I'm sorry Jack but I don't understand what the bloody hell you're on about. You'd think a politician of your experience would be able to communicate with the public in a straightforward way but you're just not making sense, man.

And by calling the car crash "seedy" I think you're putting the blame on the evil paparazzi and the press's hunger for the exposure of every little bit of Diana's life, the press that drove her to her death. When in reality if the bloke driving her car hadn't been driving too fast on drink and drugs she may still be alive today living happily ever after at Mansion Al Fayed.

Peace, Jack
:)

Union Jacked Up

Roger Black's Olympic Challenge
28 February 2007

In a landmark new series for BBC Radio 4, Olympic Silver medallist Roger Black takes on one of Britain's most urgent challenges - to get the nation's kids fit for the 2012 London Olympics.

Roger calls in the Army to help him prepare his class for their first ever inter-school sports competition.




So Jamie Oliver's got our kids healthy, now good old Roger Black's on the scene to get them all fit enough to take part in the bloody 2012 Olympics.

Of course it really is a fucking "urgent challenge" to get Britain's kids fit for the Olympics. And where better to monitor their progress but on a Radio 4 programme. Let's face it, all kids listen to Radio 4.

Since retiring from his "job" as an athlete, Roger has worked as a BBC athletics know-it-all and is apparently an accomplished motivational speaker and conference host. In this morning's preview to the programme, Roger said he wants to teach kids to lose as well as how to win.

Do kids really need to learn how to lose? Losing's all a lot of them know. Does losing a fucking stupid race to a naturally talented athlete make you understand what it's like to lose, say, a member of your family? The deaths and rejections of loved-ones are all part of losing, Roger. Can you really say your stupid races are lessons in how to deal with these losses?

You have to be born a certain way to be an athlete. You can't learn how to have the right lungs or physique. Roger has done very well because he's a natural fast runner with the gift of the gab. Well, well done, Roger. Jolly good for you! But just what will you be able to motivate the kids to do? Run and lose? Great, yeah, a great lesson for life, there. They knew they were going to lose anyway!

I wish I was a kid again and you were trying to motivate me with your ridiculous Army back up. Is Prince Harry involved? Great example he is to the kids with his Nazi clothes and his SAS ring of steel around his puny royal body. You couldn't motivate me in a million years. I am one of the unmotivatable. So ner!

Sport is sport. That's it. If you're good at it, good luck to you. If you enjoy watching it, good luck to you. It is an escape from the thing we call life.

Period.

When I Grow Up, I Want To Be...

The meme of the year so far, created by Tim Footman, this one dedicated to the Snowman himself. See if you can spot the dedication...

Seven Things I Have Wanted To Be:

1. Footballer. The new Bobby Moore. Except my mum sewed my number 6 on upside down.

2. Songwriter. Trouble was I could only write shitty cod reggae. I took a tape of mine to an independent record company. They said the lyrics needed some work. It would have been kinder to be crueller.

3. Writer. I've written since my early 20s, never completed anything except for a shite play.

4. Fitter.

5. Happier.

6. More Productive.

7. Comfortable.


Seven Things I Have Been:

1. Money collector for a football pools company.

2. Supermarket shelf stacker.

3. Drugs tester (greyhound piss).

4. Tote cashier (greyhound stadium).

5. Insurance clerk (bored out of my fucking brain for a month).

6. Auditor.

7. Bookkeeper.


OOH, THE GLAMOUR! NURSE, THE SCREENS!

Brucey Bonus (300th Post - Thank you all for reading, I don't deserve you)

I'm listening to Bruce, my hero in my late teens.

I didn't get to see Bruce until The River tour. He was tiny on that stage, up the other end of Wembley Arena. It might as well have been Fozzy Bear & The Sesame Street Band for all I could see and hear.

This was before Bruce pumped up his body and his sound. Before the air-punching Born in the USA. Before the American right saw a chance to muscle in on Bruce's new anthemic rock.

The Bruce songs of my youth are all about the working man. The blue collar worker who works damned hard at a shitty job and can only break free at night or at the weekend.

My life has never lived up to Bruce's songs. I'm definitely white collar and my weekends have never consisted of burning up/sweating it out on the streets or wild partying. I've always taken it as easy as Val Doonican or Perry Como.

In Bruce's song Independence Day, he's leaving his dad, breaking free from the family, making his own way in the world, away from the older man he resembled a little too much.

In my case, it wasn't me but my dad who upped sticks, took permanent leave from the family. I was left with his old responsibilities. I have never lived a Springsteen song. And I'm so grateful because if I had I'd now be divorced with five kids, a knackered old chevy and several broken dreams.

And bollocks to that for a game of soldiers.

Uncle Giles

A shameless promotion for the blog of a friend of the family.

Giles has started writing again after a traumatic few months. I tried to help him upgrade to New Blogger and I totally cocked it up, so here he is at his new address.

He is a very open emotional man who wears his heart on his sleeve so I wouldn't be surprised if he wins Post Of The Week sometime in the near future.

Selling Sausages By The Pound

The smell in Asda today is foul, although the smell in Asda today is not fowl but definitely porcine.

On special offer is the sausage apparently voted the country's best: the Porky White.



The woman speaking over the tannoy doesn't tell us who voted and which other brand of sausages were included in the shortlist of best English sausages. Was Porkinson's there? Or does Prince Charles have a special sausage in his Duchy range of organic good-for-you foods? Or were they just voted above plain old Wall's bangers?

Anyway, Porky Whites are the best. They just don't smell very nice. At Asda they are offering little portions of the PWs on sticks free of charge for Asda's hydrogenated fat saturated customers to sample. The portions look undercooked but they are being gobbled up. Most consumers return the sticks.

Whilst in Asda we buy some bog roll. We like the soft stuff as we have sensitive arses. In fact my arse has been known to weep in front of paticularly moving films.

This is our current bog roll of choice.



The reason I am none too impressed is because the hard looking little bastard on the packaging is apparently the new "MD" of the bog roll company. Apparently he will get back to you if you're in any way dissatisfied with your arse-wiping experience. I don't believe them. I can't see a psychopathic little shit like that manning the phones or dictating an apology to his secretary/mother. He's more likely to send his own shit wrapped in a paper nappy, recorded delivery to the poor sod whose arse was cut open by the shards of glass inserted in the bog roll by the same evil child.

Put On Your Dancin' Shoes

I've just looked at myself in the mirror and I didn't like what I saw. An accountant who dances like a social worker.

Where did that come from earlier today? Saying I was in a dancing mood and asking for emails? Post-Ikea stress disorder probably.

Still, the song I was dancing to is here and if you want to dance like a social worker I suggest you listen to it. It's off an album called The Rough Guide To Highlife which is well recommended although this is the only track including those 80s keyboards that wallys used to play like a guitar.

DJ Jazzy Geoff

So I'm halfway through my week off and what have I done?

1. I've been to Ikea to get a new table and chairs. I've sweated over flat packed wood to put together said table and chairs...

Oh yeah, when is 40mm not 40mm?
When it's 45mm, Ikea you silly meatballs.

2. I've visited the local recycling centre (tip) to dispose of the knackered old cheapo Argos table and chairs. Get away with you, cheap rubbish!

3. I've invited a man into the house and given him a deposit on new windows, door and patio doors.


******


Yes, I've been an adult. I hate being an adult on my days off. I don't like spending money on tables, chairs, windows and doors. I like spending money on CDs and DVDs. I am 15 and my pocket money doesn't stretch to furnishings, please Mummy surely this is yours and Daddy's responsibility.


******


At least the rest of the week is to be devoted to more fun pursuits. And first, in response to a very listenable 60s female French singers compilation my friend did for me, I've decided to return the favour: my first ever CD compilation for somebody else.

I'm confident it's going to work. I'm not confident that he'll like it but it's going to work for me and that's the best I can do. I know what he likes and what he doesn't like. But not what he might like. We've got a hell of a lot of music here and I'm going to try to make this as eclectic as I can. A real mish mash of musical styles. A cornucopia of groovy sounds.


******


I'm kidding myself, aren't I?


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UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE

To celebrate me finishing the compilation CD for my friend I feel like dancing.

If anybody else wants to dance email me and I'll send you a track that makes me dance every time I put it on. Six minutes of dancing feet!

I'm a crazy guy!

The Ballad Of The Boy With A One Track Blog

You turned on the computer
Your eyes and nose full of snot
Your toast strategically placed beside the mouse
Your jam it was apricot
You had one eye in the mirror
As you watched yourself toss off
And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner
They'd be your partner, and

You're so vain
You probably think this blog is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this blog is about you
Don't you? Don't you?


My writing several years ago
I remember was still naive
Well, you said that I'd make such pretty prose
With a 21st century Jeeves
But readers come and readers go
They don't give a stuff for me
I had some dreams once that they'd leave a comment
They'd leave a comment, and


You're so vain
You probably think this blog is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this blog is about you
Don't you? Don't you?


...............


Well, I hear you were in the Blog Awards
And of course you naturally won
With your blog about having it off non-stop
As if it were really fun
Well, your book's out now and you've got your fame
And your mug is on tv
On some shitty wanky arts show or Richard and Judy,
Richard and Judy, and


You're so vain
You probably think this blog is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this blog is about you
Don't you? Don't you?