BBC1's The One Show has a new website. And the website has a couple of blogs. One called The Beauty And The Beast where you can read all about Christine's and Adrian's love lives.
I'm joking.
But there is a Poetry Corner where ordinary members of the public can submit poems on the theme of "My Passion" to literary giants Gyles Brandreth and Roger McGough. If they like your poem, they'll put it on the blog and if they really like it a lot it may well be read out on the show.
My passion is, of course, Gyles Brandreth. And this is my ode to the great man...
O Gyles Brandreth You've smelly breath Of that I have no doubt
Cos when you speak You spring a leak And all this shit comes out
Or maybe I should submit my Liverpool Poets poem from October last year...
If it wasn't for the success of the Fab Four The Liverpool Poets would be dead poor And instead of publishing yet another edition McGough would be dying from malnutrition
Or what about a poem rhyming Christine Bleakley and beating on the bottom with a Woman's Weekly?
Some time ago I vowed never to give my opinion of Amy Winehouse's music again. Let's just say some people love it and some find her recordings as bland as Red Leicester cheese and her live performances as aurally painful as a wailing foghorn.
Why not get an opinion from an expert? Sylvia Young, head teacher of the Sylvia Young theatre school says, "I've always said she's a cross between a young Judy Garland and Ella Fitzgerald."
Sylvia may be on to something. If you were to perform a scientific experiment and fuse two of the greatest distinctive voices of all time, who knows what kind of mess you may achieve?
The answer to the previous post was Rhossili Bay on the Gower Peninsula in South Wales. But everywhere looks the same in my photos so it could have been anywhere on the British coast.
*******
It's my sister's 40th birthday in a couple of months. She's been to The Ivy before and she wants to go again.
We don't want to go. Betty says Rod Stewart takes his daughters' boyfriends there and grills them (ouch!). If they like football they're acceptable.
I don't want to be in the same room as Rod Stewart. I've eaten in the same rooms as Roy Wood and Paul Shane. That's enough of the bright lights for me. Besides, those were bog standard curry houses where I felt at home. I wouldn't feel at home in The Ivy, tarted up in expensive new clothes and spending loadsamoney on sausage and mash or whatever shit they serve up.
I don't know what's wrong with our local Chinese. That's where we usually go. 40 isn't such a special number. Life begins at 40? Bollocks, does it! Nothing changes whatsoever. There are no landmark ages. 18, 21, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90, 100, 110, 120, 130, 140? Who gives a bollock?
We go away and I take a few photos. We don't see the sun. That's how it's been this year, a couple of nice days all summer.
To get to the place above I drive for an hour and a half, along windy roads, keeping a wary eye on the oncoming traffic.
We get out of the car, take a deep breath and walk. The sea air calms me down. I love the views. We walk for a couple of hours, take a few photos. They're all as shit as the one above.
Then it's back in the car for a stressful hour and a half drive back to where we're staying. The views and the fresh air are forgotten as my daily afternoon slump takes hold and I'm desperately trying to concentrate on not hitting another car. I hate driving so much but how else do you get to the places you want to go, the places of peace and oneness with nature?
The next day it pisses down and I think "fuck it" and drive home along busy motorways, a sleepy automaton on auto-pilot.
Dr Roger Tackley has retired from his £120,000 per year job as a consultant anaesthetist and opened his own hairdressing salon.
He left the NHS because he was frustrated with all the red tape.
Apparently Roger, 56, and his team of stylists specialise in futuristic hair styles.
How far in the future it remains to be seen.
******
10cc were once described by Garry Bushell as "The Jewish Beatles", precursors to the "Oi Vey!" movement featuring bands such as The No Foreskins.
10cc is the volume of semen produced by the average human male in one ejaculation. I say the average male because there are exceptions to the rule. It is rumoured that Jeremy Clarkson's emissions can only be measured in a quart pot. 10cc, for Clarkson, are a "small, insignificant band". I do not agree.
The following is a list of my ten favourite 10cc tracks. Kek is compiling our favourites, not to find the most popular 10cc track, but as a much more interesting project. Everybody's got an opinion on 10cc, haven't they?
Show us yours!
MY TOP TEN 10cc
1. I'm Not In Love 2. Donna 3. Rubber Bullets 4. Une Nuit A Paris 5. Silly Love 6. The Wall Street Shuffle 7. Art For Art's Sake 8. Somewhere In Hollywood 9. The Worst Band In The World 10. I'm Mandy Fly Me
*******
We're off tomorrow for the week. A minute hole in the blogosphere will be created.
Vote here for the one film you'd wish to share with future generations.
There are so many films I want to share as I'm such a caring, sharing kinda guy. I can't choose one, not even from such a wonderful list chosen by the BFI's selection of celebrities.
(Bollocks to Hitchcock and yes, Matt Lucas, Billy Elliot really is the best film ever made. You're so right!)
I'm having trouble here, but from the list supplied four stand out to me.
The Battle Of Algiers
Once Upon A Time In America
A Matter Of Life And Death
Tokyo Story
But which of these four would I gift to our children's children?
Can you help me out here? I want to make someone happy.
By the way, Valerie and her Week of Wonders is nominated by Sigur Ros, the only indie musicians asked. Why not The Pigeon Detectives?
Our Saturday evenings have taken an exciting new turn for the better recently. At 6 p.m. every Saturday on Red TV (Sky channel 186) we tune in to Mike Read's Pop Quiz. This is a new version of Mike's old BBC show, featuring two teams of three. The contestants are not pop stars like in the old days, though. They're members of the public with varying degrees of knowledge about the history of pop music.
We missed the first few episodes but were soon hooked on the extremely amateurish production, muffled sound and chronically embarrassing credits featuring Danny Devito, Mark Knopfler and a clowned-up Elton John.
The questions range from the easy to the impossible. The impossible include clips of 1950s stars playing chicken in a basket shows in the 1990s. Obscure doo wop is not my forte.
One of our favourite rounds is the Hangman Round. And it was the Hangman Round a few weeks ago which seems to have done for Mike's show. I think he's given up as the last few weeks the programme has either been cancelled or they've shown repeats of earlier shows.
What follows is a transcript of the show that destroyed one of a generation's greatest deejays. I have not transcribed the whole round, just the pertinent parts. The evil team named themselves Scallywags. And they certainly were...
Mike closes the previous round. The back left hand side of his "hair" is sticking up alarmingly.
MIKE READ: ...there it is, yes, Cliff Richard and Carrie. So two points there...We head onto the Hangman Round now...So, Scallywags, would you like to pick a letter for the first act/artist/singer, male, female, could be anything?
SCALLYWAGS: S for syrup.
MIKE READ: S. OK, well, there we are. Some S's in there. A whole bunch of S's.
A LITTLE LATER...
MIKE READ: ...as we go into number 3. Come on Scallywags, er, pick a letter this time. I'm sure you can actually balance this out nicely. What letter are you going for first? If you pick one letter in here it might give you a lot of help.
SCALLYWAGS: Er, I'll have a W for wig, please.
MIKE READ: A W! No, there is no W but always worth going for a crazy letter. No W.
A LITTLE LATER...
MIKE READ: ...let's see if you can do it with this next one as well. Er, we'll let you go off first this time, so if you want to pick a letter for the last Hangman?
SCALLYWAGS: Er, can I have a haitch for, er, hairpiece?
Jonathan Woodgate, talking about Dimitar Berbatov's surly, sulky attitude since being made aware of Manchester United's interest in signing him...
"It doesn't give out a great message and hasn't exactly boosted the reputation of professional footballers in this country."
Yes, this is the same Jonathan Woodgate who was found guilty of affray before a brutal attack on an Asian student in January 2000. An attack so vicious that Jonathan's mate was sentenced to six years jail after being found guilty of causing grievous bodily harm with intent and affray.
Aah, but he was only young then, wasn't he?
Maybe Dimitar should have worked his bollocks off like James Milner did the other night for Newcastle against Coventry.
And then a couple of days later get the move he wanted to a club who "valued" him more, i.e. Aston Villa.
A translation from footballers' language: a club which "values" a player more is a club which can afford to pay higher wages. Yes, even more obscenely high.
We've actually got round to watching a couple of recent films on DVD in the past couple of weeks. Both films included hangings.
Control ended with Ian Curtis hanging himself with the kitchen washing line. We didn't see him hanging, not even just his legs and feet. His suicide seemed to come out of a mysterious place as his depression didn't really seem that bad. Maybe his death was a massive surprise for those who knew him. I read Deborah Curtis's book some time ago and can remember very little of it. In the film, he seems to be torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool. But not really a suicidal one. Film Rating: 6/10
The Last King Of Scotland included a hanging for Amin's extremely irritating, thick as two short planks yet irrestible to attractive women, Scottish doctor. Hanging was too good for this cunt. He was hung up by the tits then set down, half dead. I'm surprised Amin didn't cut his balls off. After all the randy medic had made one of the president's wives pregnant. And guess what? The twat not only survived but got away! Amin's previous personal doctor sacrificed himself to patch up the dumbfuck and smuggle him into a line of French hostages of the PLO. All so the git could tell the world just what life with Amin was like. As the world only believes a white man! Watching the film, I was under the impression it was based on fact. It wasn't, it was originally a novel. What a load of bollocks! We learnt more about the Uganda of that time from the documentary on John Aki-Bua we saw just before the Olympics. Film Rating: 2/10
As me and Betty are normally anti-social people, August is turning out to be a bit of a hectic whirl.
Apart from the bi-weekly visits to my old mum, a couple of weekends ago we met up with some relatively recent friends and this coming Saturday we're meeting a very old friend.
This has resulted in Betty cutting my hair twice in August. The hair had grown so fast down the back sides of my neck Betty informed me the grey monstrosities were beginning to look like Rhodes Boyson's sideburns.
I can't believe I used to spend money getting my hair cut. Once I pushed the boat out and went to Demop which was about as trendy as you can get in the 80s. It was so trendy I bet Robert Elms was a regular. The haircut lasted for as long as it took to wash it out the same evening as I'd had it cut.
I went for a while to an old fashioned barber's near Waterloo. Then I went for a while to an old fashioned barber's near Covent Garden. Then I went for a while to a modern Gentlemen's barber's near Charing Cross. Then I went for a while to a local old fashioned unisex hairdresser's. Then I went once to the local place known as the Little Barber. He wasn't little, didn't even need to stand on a box, and he smoked like a chimney.
"Anything you'd like on your hair?"
"What, apart from all that ash?"
Then one day I bought some hair clippers and Betty's been doing a very good job ever since.
When I was very young and my mother took me to the barber's I refused to have my hair cut unless I was outside. So the barber wheeled the chair onto the pavement and cut my hair in full view of passers-by. I must have been a right little exhibitionist.
Have I really grown out of that exhibitionist streak?
Our bank holiday viewing has included a documentary on the Marx Brothers. A chance for me to bring up my embarrassing morning assembly reading in my late teens.
Us sixth formers took it in turns to read something that meant something to us. One boy read a Bruce Springsteen lyric which only I recognised and which was about as punk as it got at our school. I decided to be a bit subversive.
"The following is a quote from Marx..." I said, pausing. "...Harpo Marx."
Nobody laughed.
Of course they may have laughed if instead of reading out an actual quote from Harpo Marx, I had produced a horn from behind my back and honked my way through the ordeal. The headmaster would have grappled with me for the horn and teachers would have thrown off their leather elbowed tweed jackets and wrestled me to the ground.
Instead, I read out the quote to a cavernous silence.
The Government wants to give us an extra Bank Holiday day. But they want to make us work for it.
"The challenge in adding an extra bank holiday is to find a day that celebrates national identity in an increasingly multicultural Britain," said James McCoy, senior leisure analyst of Mintel, the company commissioned to survey 2,000 people.
41% of those surveyed wanted St George's Day, April 23rd.
38% thought Remembrance Day, November 11th, would be a better day.
The problem with St George's Day is that the sort of people who celebrate it would not necessarily celebrate a multicultural Britain. Street parties controlled by knuckleheads singing "Engerland! Engerland! Engerland!" would be a bit of a step backwards.
I'm all for Remembrance Day being chosen. I would celebrate "national identity in an increasingly multicultural Britain" by having two minutes' silence at 11 a.m. The rest of the day I would treat as any other bank holiday, battening down the hatches, keeping away from people.
*******
The constant news about every step of Gary Glitter's release and rehabilitation (ha!) is really getting on my tits. Who gives a shit about Gary Glitter?
Maybe the kid from my primary school.
One day two kids had a fight. They wanted to prove who was the best pop star. One fought for Marc Bolan. The other fought for Glitter. Neither won as the fight was broken up by a dinner lady.
I wonder at what point in his life the Glitter fan stopped fighting for his hero? Is he still doing it now?
I went to the dentist's again yesterday. He gave me a check up in a world record time of 8.97 secs. Then I saw the dental hygienist for the last time. She didn't know it was the last time she would see me as she gave me a lecture on how I should be flossing or at least using the little tepees that she demonstrated on me, drawing copious amounts of blood from my gums.
"YOU REALLY MUST DO THIS EVERY EVENING, LOOKING IN THE MIRROR AS YOU DO IT, MAKING SURE YOU GET EVERY TINY AMOUNT OF PLAQUE OUT OTHERWISE YOU ARE GOING TO LOSE ALL YOUR TEETH. IT WILL BE A LOT OF HARD WORK BUT IT WILL BE WORTH IT IN THE END. I WILL SEE YOU IN THREE MONTHS BUT IF YOU WORK REALLY HARD EVERY NIGHT ON THAT PLAQUE, IF YOU'RE A VERY VERY VERY GOOD BOY YOU MAY ONLY HAVE TO SEE ME EVERY SIX MONTHS BY THE YEAR 2054."
"Thank you, goodbye, you controlling bitch. You can take my plaque but you'll never get my love."
*****
Richard Dawkins (yes, him again) in the final part of his Darwin series is filmed at a gathering of American atheists.
"Here they treat me like a rock star," he says, modestly.
"Do you think someone gave him a blow job in the toilets?" I ask Betty.
"And someone shared their cocaine with him?" she replied.
Gabby Logan's just read out the countdown to the greatest Olympians as voted for by BBC Sport.
Unsurprisingly there are a few Brits in the list, including the greatest oarsman of all time, Sir Steve Redgrave, at number one. Yes, an English rower at number one! I'm sure if you were to ask the world's population who is the greatest Olympian of all time the name Sir Steve Redgrave would ring out time and time again. Mobbed wherever he goes throughout the world, the golden river god wants for nothing as ordinary mortals bow at his feet and shower him with gifts.
At number two is Jesse Owens. Who, with his glorious performances at the 1936 Berlin Olympics, "put an end to the idea of Aryan supremacy".
Thanks for that, Gabby. I know you didn't write it but you could have refused to say it.
The young man on the train in the seat behind me is talking to a friend on his mobile phone. He's just quit one band and is looking to form another. He's not sure about rehearsal space as his musical partner is lukewarm about using his own place. What they really need is some new blood, a couple of musicians they can blend with (preferably with premises to practise in).
"I bought a Loot last week," he says.
"Blimey, that's different," his friend presumably replies.
"It's no different from the others. It's crap."
"Why did you buy a crap lute? Didn't you try it out in the shop?"
"I just paid for it and took it home."
"You didn't try it out? You wouldn't buy a guitar without playing it. Or a mandolin. Why a lute?"
"No, a Loot. The paper. I was looking for musicians. It was crap. There were only two heavy metal guitarists looking for bands and two bands who said they had recording contracts lined up looking for keyboard players."
I love Sally Shalam. My Saturdays wouldn't be complete without reading about one of the lovely weekend breaks she's had in southern England.
Today we read about Chaffeymoor Grange in Dorset. A three night weekend sets you back at least £4,200 in September. Sally goes with her chums in high summer.
"It just needs more people," says one of Sally's friends of the property which sleeps twenty. Sally and her party number under ten. It would cost them probably at least £500 each for three nights' accommodation (if they were to pay, of course).
"After supper, the women settle by the blaze to play cards, as rain lashes against mullioned windows. The men push off into the games room to play pool. It's like being in Peter's Friends (without the weird stuff)."
I've never seen Peter's Friends as I couldn't give a flying fuck about Cambridge University graduates having a reunion. But I wonder what weird stuff goes on? Naked punting in the bath? Oh Sally, you've really whet my appetite, you saucy minx.
"We might even book a re-run at Chaffey next year."
We're extremely sad to hear the news that four-eyed "karaoke" Howard Brown is to be replaced as the face of Halifax. Apparently his cheery demeanour is contrary to the mood of the nation in these credit crunch times. All other singing staff are also no longer required.
The new Halifax adverts will feature Shakespearian actors. Halifax staff were screen tested for the roles but were unable to pull off the gravitas.
I went to bed last night with ten comments on my last post. I woke up this morning with four.
I phoned Betty and she said she'd post a comment to see if it worked.
Her new comment was emailed to me. I now had five comments on the post. Except the fifth comment wasn't Betty's new one but the original fifth comment I'd received a couple of days ago.
Betty tried again. Her new comment was emailed to me. I now had six comments on the post. And the sixth comment was the original sixth comment I'd received a couple of days ago.
Betty realised she was pushing the comments along. So she sent four more comments. And one by one the old ones came back. And now I'm back to the ten comments I had last night.
Shit, I hope Blogger isn't going to start messing me around. We had enough problems last year with Betty not being able to post anything on Blogger using our home PC.
What is it with computer programmers? As soon as they "fix" something they unfix something else.
Actually that's a lie. It did not engage me one iota. It was an English middle class Ghost without the raw sexual magnetism of Patrick Swayze, the most beautiful man who has ever lived, the epitome of raw, animal, male manliness. Alan Rickman? Give me a break! I'd like to see Alan flaming Rickman lift a woman over the threshold and get a good old manly sweat going on top of her, muscles bulging like fuck.
But didn't I cry over Juliet Stevenson's grief? No I bloody didn't. It was hardly Breaking the fucking Waves, was it? Not that that made me feel anything, either.
Hard bastard, aren't I?
So we come to Distant Voices, Still Lives which I hadn't seen since it was originally out.
"Classic film," I said to Betty before watching it. "A real tear-jerking working class story. Made all the more poignant because the writer and director, Terence Davies, died tragically young."
"What did he die of?" said a morbid Betty.
"Cancer, I think. He was famous for his trilogy, you know. Known as the Terence Davies Trilogy. It's recently been released on DVD."
So we watched the film.
What I'd found unbearably beautiful twenty years ago I now found unbearably mawkish. Had I changed that much? What had happened to that sensitive young man?
Still, poor Terence Davies. When did he die? Was it the big C? Let's look him up, shall we?
Nope. He's not dead. That's Bill Douglas. Of Bill Douglas Trilogy fame. Now he was a great film maker.
******
Later, we watch a documentary on The Carpenters. And the tears come.
When Wogan's eyes are smiling He'll play some shit by Sting. In the lilt of Wogan's laughter, You can hear Katie Melua sing. When Wogan's heart is happy, All the world seems dull and grey. And when Wogan's eyes are smiling, Sure, you just wish he'd go away.
Terry Wogan followed by Jimmy Young. Radio 2 always seemed to be on during my school holidays. My mum had the same holidays as me. Those were the dinner lady years.
I do so envy those born later whose mums would listen to the groovy sounds of Radio 1.
I'm joking.
My dad never listened to the radio at home. Maybe it was on at work and he never told me about it. He did seem to know a bit about modern music. He must have heard it somewhere.
Great, isn't it? But what is an Oxford comma? Shall I tell you?
Imagine you are a man who is getting dressed for the office in the morning. Do you put on (in strict order)...
pants, vest, socks, shirt, trousers and tie?
Or...
pants, vest, socks, shirt, trousers, and tie?
See the difference? See the Oxford comma in the second example?
My old English teacher drummed it into us that there should never be a comma before the "and" in a list. Now and again I throw one in to be a devil.
The song's author, Ezra Koenig, was inspired to write it when he discovered that there was a Columbia University student group which named themselves "Students for the Preservation of the Oxford Comma". Hence the first line "Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?"
I certainly don't. Life is too short for getting all excited about other people's use of grammar. I've never read Eats Shoots and Leaves and I don't intend to. In fact, if I were ever to open a greengrocer's shop I'd call it The Rogue Apostrophe Greengrocer's and make sure it was fully stocked with potatoe's, green's, green bean's, tomatoe's, and (note the Oxford comma) asparagus tip's for the grammar stream.
Here we go again. We've had ducklings, a duck, pigeons, a seagull. Now we've got another juvenile seagull on top of the building outside our office fire escape window.
Like all those others, it can't fly away. Poor fucker.
Women are clucking around it, talking to it like it's a human baby, feeding it fishy cat food, keeping its bowl (yes, its bowl) topped up with fresh drinking and bathing water.
The RSPB say there's a bloke in Yorkshire who's a volunteer who may be able to arrange for another local volunteer to take it to the coast and release it into the wild. That's what happened with the other seagull - you'll see it at Hastings next time you're there. The Society say that if it is uneconomical for someone to come (credit crunch alert!) it shouldn't be fed out of a dish but food should be spread all over the roof, dotted around in small portions so the bird gets used to the scavenging lifestyle. Its mother may encourage it to fly and, who knows, it may take off.
The fat fucker's had six tins of cat food in two days!
The women have not called the RSPCA as "they put birds down".
What to do? What to do?
*****
12.15 p.m.
A bloke from the office next door turns up with an RSPCA warden. She picks up the screeching bird.
"I see you're feeding her," she says. "Do you want me to leave her here?"
"Where would you take him?"
"To a wildlife sanctuary," says the warden. "Do you want me to take her?"
You haven't got a hobby. You do nothing with your spare time.
We do. We watch telly. We read. We listen to music. We blog.
Yes but you don't communicate with other people.
Blogging is communicating.
Yes, but it's not face to face. I don't know any other couples like you. Most normal couples have a social life. They meet up with other couples. They go round to other couples' houses. They entertain.
What have we got in common with other couples? Come to think of it what have I ever had in common with most people? Besides, I've got my friends.
Which you see how often?
They're miles away! How often would you see your friends if they moved hundreds of miles away?
We're always making new friends. We've got friends from dancing. Friends from bowls. Friends who we meet on holiday - we're always chatting to new people when we're on holiday. Tell me, Geoff. Are you really happy? Are you really really happy with your life?
Outside of work?
Yes, of course.
Yes.
You need a hobby, though. One where you meet people. Golf.
I hate golf.
You used to play sports. Tennis.
That was for the competition. I didn't make any friends from tennis.
It's forty years since Tommie Smith and John Carlos gave their Black Power salute on the Olympic rostrum, the most enduring image in the history of the Games.
The documentary, Black Power Salute, filled us in on the background and the characters involved in the event.
It also introduced me to a new villain. Avery Brundage was the International Olympic Committee president at the time. He was fiercely against involving politics in sport and expelled both Smith and Carlos from the Olympic Village and then made sure they were suspended from the US Olympic team.
Back in December 2006, I unfairly wrote a very unflattering review of The Victorian Restaurant, Bexleyheath. Since then my review has not left the front page of Google searches for the restaurant and people have been reading the post in droves.
Today I had my first comment from one of my new readers. They wrote the following...
"I can tell you would not know a first class meal at a resonable price if it bit you on your Burburry cap covered empty heads. Stick to MacDonalds you cheap, moronic, unappreciative egits.
By the way the Victoria Restaurant is a fantastic place to eat, we had our company Christmas do there and found the food, wine, surroundings and staff to be excellent."
I must say I am humbled and I wish to put on record that my experience in the restaurant was tainted by a brain disorder that was shortly afterwards corrected by some very strong prescription drugs.
That December I was in the grip of an irrational hatred for French food. Frogs' legs, snails, foie gras, petits filous, anything French in fact. That day I purposely ordered an English roast, knowing full well that this was the equivalent of choosing omelette and chips in an Indian restaurant. This marked me out as common to the core and fully deserving of a teaspoon of the head chef's spunk mixed in with my gravy. Not that that sort of thing actually goes on. I mean, can you imagine Gordon Ramsay knocking one out into the watercress soup as he effs and jeffs his way through a tense evening populated by incompetent staff and rude customers?
So, dear readers, if ever you're in Bexleyheath, come and join me for some top notch French cuisine. The Duck A L'Orange sounds right up my rue!
I don't believe in superstitions but I've had a few over the years. Usually of the sort, "if I don't throw this piece of paper directly in the bin, I've got a terminal illness." I've never missed unless I've tried the old "if I throw this piece of paper directly into the bin, I've got a terminal illness." OK, I can change my mind when the paper's in mid-flight.
When I was a young teenager I had a book written by an author who'd died of a terminal illness. I couldn't bring myself to read it and kept it on top of the wardrobe, back picture cover down so I couldn't catch whatever had killed him.
In recent years my main one involves my funeral tie. If my navy blue funeral tie falls off its tie rack, it means someone is going to die. It does fall off occasionally, but as yet the funeral I'm expecting to attend in the near future hasn't happened.
This proves to me that superstition is nonsense.
I've also yet to be convinced that the future can be "read" by "chosen" people. A work colleague of mine has just been to see a Tarot reader. She was told that there are going to be six redundancies at work in August and that in the end our department will be one of the last ones to go.
This is patently nonsense. It's not August, it's September!
This drama was about Thatcher's early political years. Her failure to get selected to be a candidate in East Kent, her success in capturing Britain's most eligible divorcee Denis, her success in producing two beautiful twins and her eventual success in winning over the Tories in Finchley (with a little help from the lovelorn (yes, lovelorn) Ted Heath....
Yes, it was more a comedy really. Including really hackneyed jokes foretelling things that were to happen later in the evil family's life which I won't bore you with here.
What was disconcerting, however, was that she was played by the outstandingly beautiful Andrea Riseborough...
Jesus, I fancy Thatcher!
"I wonder if anybody's ever pleasured themselves to a picture of the real Thatcher?" said Betty.
"And anticipating the moment of release shouted 'MAGGIE! MAGGIE! MAGGIE!...'"
"OUT! OUT! OUT!"
N.B. The retiring Member for Finchley was played by the increasingly jowly Geoffrey Palmer (who I once saw in Tesco's)
"I can't believe it," I said. "Not another book deal for a blogging middle class English woman. This one sounds even worse than the rest. Speaking as a husband, son and a father..."
"You're not a father. Are you?"
"OK maybe not. But how on earth does this twat represent bloggers? I've got absolutely nothing in common with her. She calls it work! Work! It's not bloody work! It's a bleeding diversion from work! I'm going to do a post about this. About how all the published bloggers are middle class women. What about the working class male bloggers, eh? What about blogs such as...as... MY BIRD IS A SORT!"
"OK."
"Or GEEZER WITH A PERMANENT HARD ON."
"FIRST BEER OF THE DAY?"
"PROUD SCOUSER IN THE COSTAS."
"WIFE IN THE DOCK."
"Yeah, what about them? Middle class wanker publishers."
So we booked a table at a Soho restaurant for Saturday evening. Not realising Saturday was Pride London Day. As opposed to London Pride Day which would attract streets of Keith Flett lookalikes.
We walked through Soho as the party was winding down. Or was it winding up for the night to come? Well, we walked through Soho in a bit of an alcoholic daze, unfazed by the bloke pissing against a wall and the broken bottles underfoot. In the restaurant, we sat at a window table so we could see younger people drinking, chatting, kissing, hugging, punching and littering. A glass or a bottle was thrown at the restaurant window. I felt bloody old.
At 9.30 precisely, the street cleaners came and removed all the rubbish from the street. A little later the fire brigade turned up to sort out a gush which was making a bit of a river of one side of the street. They came, they went and everybody carried on doing what they were doing.
I'd chosen the restaurant from the Time Out Guide 1998. Back then, Phill Jupitus was a regular. The food was supposed to be decent and the portions were meant to be large, plenty enough for a man of Jupitus' girth. Of course we didn't see him there and no wonder, for he would have needed ten main courses as his starter.
We left the restaurant, unsatiated, and walked back through the partying crowd, just avoiding stepping in a drunk young woman's vomit. We missed our train by 30 seconds. With half an hour to kill we went to the nearest pub where they graciously relieved us of £9.50 for two glasses of wine.
We stepped off the train the other end and my stomach was demanding more food. So into the kebab shop it was for a nice hot portion of chips. While we were waiting for the order, a very unusual family got out of a cab and joined us at the counter. Dad had a head like a violent billiard ball and big earrings. Mum and the kids looked like they'd stepped out of a 1973 holiday camp. This was obviously the climax to their night out. Kebabs and chips to take away.
They seemed to be regulars. All it now needed was Phill Jupitus to walk in to make it the perfect evening.
I haven't watched any of Wimbledon this year. Neither has Betty. Yet we both used to be big tennis fans. What happened?
I'll tell you what happened, kids. Are you sitting comfortably?
The inch that changed tennis forever happened, that's what happened. I bang on about this every Wimbledon-time. Though it applies to any of the other just as important as Wimbledon tournaments around the world.
The article I've linked to seems to think it was a good thing. Well they would because they sell the monstrosity that is the modern tennis racquet. Let me take you back to a time much gentler than the current time.
There was a ten year old boy called Geoffrey. His dad's friend played social tennis. No, this was not a euphemism for swinging...
Geoffrey's dad's friend was a very nice man. And he offered to teach the boy how to play tennis. He leant him a racquet, very similar to his own. He showed him the basics.
After a few elementary lessons, Geoffrey was able to hit the ball against a wall. He practised and practised against the wall of the garage bordering the local field. He could hit the ball harder and more accurate. He was ready to play with other people.
Meanwhile, Geoffrey's friend had been taught a few elementary strokes. He had practised, too.
So they joined a club together. They joined the junior section of their local tennis club. There was no tuition there. The kids were left to get on with it.
So Geoffrey and his friend played against each other. Hour after hour, game after game, set after set. They developed well, with their own individual styles. As they got older, they were invited to play with the seniors. They could hold their own as they had the individual techniques to surprise their stronger opponents. They both specialised in a heavy topspin forehand, though they could vary their strokes using drop shots, lobs, slices, etc. They only went to the net when forced to. They hugged the baseline.
Then came the extra inch.
Suddenly, racquets became wider. There was more room for error. What used to be a balls up with the old racquet became a winning shot with the new. Slow, considered skill was out, POWER was in.
Everybody started buying the new bigger racquets. They became more confident, more powerful players overnight. More aces were being hit. Serve and volley was where it was at. POW! POW! Baseline players with old-fashioned smaller wooden racquets were getting blasted off court. Taller players were at an advantage. They could serve, volley and smash. The little guys couldn't use their guile any more. A game of chess became a game of real war.
I miss the days when you could measure the correct height of the net by laying one racquet horizontally on top of a vertical one. When the game was hypnotically beautiful, to play and to watch. The game lost me a long time ago. And it's not having me back.
Some useful information I learnt from watching Tuesday's episode of Criminal Justice. If you're ever banged up in prison, tell them you're a Mormon. That's the wonderful Pete Postlethwaite's line, anyway. If you say you're a Mormon you won't get the revolting prison tea, but a delicious mug of hot chocolate. But isn't there caffeine in chocolate, too? Ours is not to wonder why.
This reminds me of some more advice I was once given. If ever you're in hospital, say you only eat kosher food. It's brought in from outside and is hot and delicious. The only thing is, if you're unlikely to make it out of hospital you get a visit from the rabbi. Who'll probably ask you if you're eating well.
By the way, star spotters, guess which one of the following I just made eye contact with in the street...
1. Mitch Winehouse, leaning out of his cab, buying a copy of The Evening Standard.
2. Leonard Cohen, combing his hair, looking at his reflection in the window of Currys.
3. ABC's Martin Fry walking towards Covent Garden, in conversation with an attractive young lady.
My mum has recently started a diary. So has my stepdad. They're to remind them of what they've done in case they forget. They haven't got blogs, though. My mum's glad I've got a hobby but a little concerned about what sort of people I may be mixing with. "They could be swingers, or anything," she's said.
Of course you can never tell who's up to what. I was once in a pub with a young man from work, his father, and his father's male friend. We were all peckish so one of them suggested we go for a meal. On the way to the restaurant, I was asked "Are you sure you want to do this? You know what this is about, don't you? It's not just a meal, you know." I graciously made my excuses and had a bean burger at Burger King.
So how would you react if you had heard that someone you know may be, say, a swinger? Just supposing, of course. I'm not saying that I'm in a similar situation at the moment. Oh no, far from it. How would you act in their presence?
Would you...
a) Whistle the tune to the Jungle Book song King of the Swingers?
b) Whisper in their ear, "Come on, big boy, show us your car keys"?
c) Continue to act as if you know nothing, trying but failing not to imagine exactly what goes on?
Betty: Is there something wrong with me? I can't understand why people like her.
Geoff: I can understand why people like her. I can't understand why intelligent people like her.
Betty: It's like, if you were in a bar where she was performing, you'd carry on your conversation.
Geoff: She's the new Sade. Coffee table music.
Betty: It's like the 80s all over again. When pop music was very polished, accomplished and boring. I hate pop music now.
Geoff: I bet this is going to go on for the full hour. They're not going to show any Elbow or Hot Chip. It's the BBC trying to outdo ITV. If she hadn't been on that Nelson Mandela thing we wouldn't get a full hour of this...Well, actually we probably would. Because everybody's supposed to think she's some sort of genius.
Betty: I'd prefer James Blunt to this. At least you can laugh at him. He's a Tim Nice But Dim figure to me. This is just depressing.
Geoff: It's a choice between this...Joan Armatrading...The Wombats...Sod it, we're watching The Wire.
Boz has kindly handed me the meme baton. His own choices are great so go check 'em out.
So I must "List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs."
Although my spring sprung many moons ago, I can still dream...
1. Rush - Closer To The Heart A week in Cornwall with nothing but Planet Rock to listen to may have been depressing but it made me re-evaluate my past. I still liked quite a few of the songs including this wondrous Yes rip-off. And any radio station that has Alice Cooper and Rick Wakeman as DJs can't be all bad.
2. Spiritualized - Soul On Fire He nearly died, you know! Just think how good he could be if he was clean!
3. Sex Pistols - Bodies Not an "abortion" song, a "Pauline" song. For more information, read "more info" on the YouTube page.
4. David Bowie - John, I'm Only Dancing We can't get this version anywhere, just the inferior one on The Best Of David Bowie 1969/74.
5. Grandmaster Flash & Melle Mel - White Lines I've heard this by accident three times in the past few weeks. Is it linked to a new film or something? I wasn't too keen on it when it first came out but I love it now.
6. Scooter - Jumping All Over The World To celebrate Germany's forthcoming triumphant Euro 2008 victory. As a result of my recent reading and watching, I can imagine a troop of Shane MacGowan's uncles and the puppets from Team America dancing to this. The chorus is, of course, lifted from the sublime A Glass Of Champagne by the brilliant Sailor. Now there's a solid gold classic.
7. Quiet Village - Too High To Move From one of the albums of the year by Brighton's answer to The Avalanches. What the fuck happened to The Avalanches?
I hereby hand the baton to those of you on my sidebar who haven't yet done this. I'm nosey that way.
It started so well. The weather and the scenery were beautiful.
Absolutely gorgeous
We were really relaxed and laid back.
The foot that launched a thousand ships
Then came the dark clouds.
If Anton Corbijn sold holidays...
And with them came a cloud over my mood. A mini nervous breakdown, caused by the following...
1. Work frustrations rearing their ugly head. 2. The dead atmosphere in the village's one horse pub with its loop of The Eagles Greatest Hits Including The Really Shit Stuff From The Eighties and the seventies menu including gammon with pineapple rings. 3. The small claustrophobic rooms in the cottage. 4. Being woken at 6.30 each morning by the clippety clop hooves of a ghost horse. 5. The shit radio reception in the cottage, giving us a choice of the appalling Virgin or the "Take me back to when I was a miserable fifteen year old" Planet Rock. 6. The shit television reception in the cottage which made all the Euro 2008 matches look like they were being played in snowstorms. 7. Our dirty clothes getting locked in the cottage's broken washing machine. 8. A hairy coastal drive in which I thought the car was going to break down stuck on the edge of a cliff as I attempted a tricky seventy-three point turn.
We left for home six days early.
Those of you who aren't going on holiday this year can laugh your tits off. Go on, it's funny. Those of you going somewhere more sensible, I salute you.
Something Alexei Sayle said in interview with Mark Lawson. Something along the lines of "You can't be a real writer and host game shows at the same time."
I've never read a novel by Stephen Fry so I'm not really qualified to agree or disagree with Sayle. But I did accidently turn QI on for a couple of minutes at the weekend and wasn't really surprised by the level of sixth form debating society smugness on show.
I confuse Mark Lawson with that journalist who told the Scientologist "YOU WERE NOT THERE!" I kept expecting him to interrupt Sayle with those words. But Sayle was talking about his life and he was there.
He said Ben Elton decided he was going to be famous early on and everything he does is in the pursuit of fame. Ben will never be satisfied. I regularly see young women on the train reading Ben Elton novels. It never seems to be the same one. I'm sure that would satisfy most ugly middle aged men.
I have never attempted to read a Ben Elton novel, or an Alexei Sayle one. I did once try a Rob Newman one but couldn't get into it. I have never read a David Baddiel novel or a Frank Skinner novel or a Dawn French novel or a Jennifer Saunders novel or an Adrian Edmondson novel or a Lenny Henry novel either.
I wonder if any of you have ever read a novel written by one of the New Wave Of Alternative Comedians? Jo Brand? Arthur Smith? You know, one of those.
It has been announced that Gillian McKeith has been employed by the Royal Family as their personal health advisor.
Here we see the first interview for the post of Royal Faeces Inspector.
The job is live-in and commands a salary of £12,600 per annum. The Queen is interviewing candidates herself as she wants someone she can look in the eye and feel comfortable with.
The credit crunch is biting or the credit bite is crunching, whatever, and people are losing their homes and first time buyers can't afford mortgages. Of course, it's been coming a long time as house prices have been obscene for a very long time and they've just been getting more and more obscene year by year.
BBC's The Money Programme and Panorama investigate by snooping on a few people's lives.
Except they don't choose people who you may feel sympathy for, people with mortgages at an almost sensible multiple of their salaries (I say "almost sensible" because it has been impossible for some years now for most people to afford a property with a wholly sensible mortgage).
The programme makers choose people like:-
1. The 19 year old boy who lives with his parents. His girlfriend and young child live with her parents. His parents are willing to give him the deposit on a house but mortgage lenders consider him too big a risk. He won't rent because renting is "dead money". This "dead money" bollocks has obviously been drummed into him by his stupid parents who got married at 12, had 16 children and still managed to buy their first home outright at the age of 21!
2. The young couple with a young child who are renting a tiny, damp flat in the very expensive town they grew up in. They deperately want to buy a property. The problem is their combined income is just about enough to keep them in a tiny, damp flat in the very expensive town they grew up in.
3. The family with the 125% mortgage, living in their "dream home" which they bought at the time when house prices peaked.
4. The 23 year old estate agent who has two mortgages. One on a one bedroom house for himself. The other on a one bedroom flat which he can only rent out at a rate which doesn't cover the mortgage he's paying on it.
5. The divorcee mother of one who expects to be able to pay the mortgage on a three bedroom semi all by herself! Is she crazy?
The only thing you can glean from these exposes is that we are living in idiot Britain. Nowhere did they say that house prices are absolutely fucking obscene and that a lot of decent-earning, sensible people are going to lose their homes or cannot afford to buy. No, they choose bleeding idiots for us to feel superior to.
Dumbing down cunts.
******
N.B. Betty's latest post doesn't seem to have been picked up by Bloglines. Has anybody else had this trouble? Is it something to do with her old skool template? Or has she been barred for taking the piss out of Lily Allen?
I'm going through a bit of a "blogging's a great way of making cyber friends but what, honestly, have any of us got in common?" phase. I haven't even got much in common with my real life friends, let alone you bunch of self-publishing egotists. Reading the Dawkins book doesn't help because I don't think I've got much in common with other atheists, either.
Take the British Humanist Association, of which Dawkins is a "distinguished" supporter. "The Humanist view of life is progressive and optimistic, in awe of human potential, living without fear of judgement and death, finding enough purpose and meaning in life, love and leaving a good legacy." So says President Polly Toynbee.
My view of life is pretty much the opposite to that. I am no optimist and I'm not going to leave a good legacy. I'm going to go out in an orgy of drink and drugs, not marveling at Mother Nature through Darwinian spectacles.
And as for the Association's "distinguished" supporters. Sirs, Lords, OBEs, MBEs, CBEs. Sir Jonathan Miller CBE! Come on Jonathan, you can do better than that! Sir Jonathan Miller CBE, GCE, BSc, Phd! There, that's better.
"What's the point?" you may ask. "Isn't it preaching to the converted?"
Well, I suppose it is, though I never had to be converted. But so what, anyway? I will read it then I will forget about it. I won't become any more of an atheist for reading it. I won't start arguing with the religious people I meet, asking them for evidence of their God.
I will not wear one of Dawkins' hoodies...
or stick a Darwin fish on my car...
...to proclaim my atheism to the world. I don't take pride in my disbelief. I have never believed in the supernatural. So what?
I'm enjoying the book, especially the arguments for God's existence. There really are some hilarious ones, such as Pascal's wager and Stephen Unwin's Bayesian argument. Why try to justify faith?
Dawkins comes unstuck, though, with his knowledge of popular culture. He asks the question why is the Cluedo character known as the "Reverend Green" in all English speaking areas other than North America, where he is known as plain "Mr Green"?
The answer is, of course, that the Reverend Al Green would sue, not wishing to be associated with a character who bludgeons posh English twats to death with a length of lead piping in the conservatory.
Though I've never watched it, as far as I can tell from reports, Britain's Got Talent consists of hula hoopers, acrobats, karate kickers, dancers, all-rounders, swing singers, opera singers, pop singers, whistlers, spoons players, gurners, teeth chatterers, cheek slappers, cooks, magicians, funny walkers, contortionists, garglers, plate spinners, pie eaters, beer drinkers, balloon shapers, bubble blowers, animal tamers, impressionists, ventriloquists, mind readers, spiritualists, hummers, buzzers, farters, spitters, archers, darts throwers, knife throwers, fire eaters, directory rippers, arse kickers, cellists, violinists, pianists, guitarists, washboard players, rappers, scratchers, strippers, pole dancers, sheep shaggers and car fuckers all competing for one place on the Royal Variety Performance, in front of the ever watchful eye of Simon Cowell.
Well good bloody luck to each and every one of them.
The South Bank Show on Gore Vidal ends with a bit of awkwardness between the unpredictable 82 year old Vidal and the toadying jet black haired 68 year old Melvyn Bragg.
The camera lingers on Vidal for a while and as he starts to read we see pictures of the Earth in space.
He reads the longest sentence I've ever heard, from 'The Golden Age', 2000. I think this is what he says. It's a little too much for me.
"As for the human case, generations of men come and go and in eternity are no more than bacteria upon a luminous slide and the fall of a republic or the rise of empire, so significant to those involved, is not detectable upon the slide even with an interested eye to behold that steadily proliferating species which would either end in time or, with luck, become something else, since change is the nature of life and its hope."
We see Vidal read the last few lines as operatic music accompanies a still of the man himself and as the credits to the programme roll, as we cogitate in a state of awe, we hear the following voiceover...
"Sarah Ferguson's on a mission to help a family of overweight smokers in the first of a two-part documentary. Can she battle the bulge on a budget? The Duchess in Hull, new to ITV1, tomorrow night at 9. Next here, Hitler In Colour."
"The pace of life isn't a drama here," observed my bloke, contentedly, while we slipped effortlessly from lattes to lunch at the Beach House Cafe, eating oily bruschetta and Thai cod cakes whose mint-laden mayonnaise evoked not Asia but Sunday lunch.
Truly beautiful. And the John Masefield quotes top the article off like a sprinkling of hundreds and thousands on a knickerbocker glory. And all for a mere £2,643 for seven nights in July and August. Dorset is truly God's own country.
*******
And a fantastic full page advertisement on the back page of the Guardian Review:-
"If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to." Dorothy Parker
At Barclays Wealth, we have always recognised that wealth means different things to different people. We can help protect your wealth, grow it, use it and pass it on. And if, like Ms Parker, you are a passionate believer in philanthropic causes, we can even help you give it away.
What wonderful biting wit! Worthy of Mr Wilde or, dare I say it, Ms Parker herself.
If I were John Terry tonight, picking up a copy of the London Lite, I'd be so embarrassed I wouldn't know where to turn.
"He cried all night - Chelsea skipper inconsolable" screams the headline.
I'd be thinking to myself, "Why do I always behave like a spoilt child? Everyone knows a real man cries when he wins, not when he loses."
If I were John Terry today, I'd also be hanging my head in shame. Not for missing a penalty, but for my disgusting unprovoked spit at one of modern football's great players, Carlos Tevez. I'd be worried that Fabio Capello saw my act and won't pick me for England ever again.
The London Lite has got its knickers in a twist about the amount of potential money squandered by Chelsea's inability to win the Champions League.
£5m in prize money £30m in commercial spin-offs and merchandising £20m in media rights and sponsorship £10m in increased tourism for London
Excuse me? Increased tourism for London? Who in their right mind is going to visit London just because one of its football teams won a match? I can see the logic of some idiots visiting London because of the Royal Family's presence (though nowhere near as many idiots as is claimed), but a football team?
The past couple of weeks have thrown up a similar image to this...
...on Radio One's Big Weekend.
And something similar to this...
...on Later With Jools.
Madonna is 49. Nick Cave is 50. They were at the peak of their creativity in the 1980s. Back in those days Madonna would cavort onstage in all kinds of get ups. She was known for her raunchy, high energy act. Nick Cave was known for his wild, junkie preacher show. Seeing him live was a little unnerving, as I imagine seeing Ian Curtis was to those luckier/more hip than myself.
Now they hide behind guitars. Guitars don't look right on them. Madonna was born to cavort, hands-free. Nick Cave was born to preach, hands-free. A guitar isn't performance-viagra to the middle aged pop star. It is a crutch for a failing body. A body broken and old and withered and worn.
Making pop music is for the young. And these young compatriots of Old Nick have made the album of the year so far. Well, according to the bloke in the Guardian Guide they have. And I, trend-following wanker, find it hard to disagree. Ladies and gentlemen, Cut Copy...
Betty says I have a reputation of being a bit of a Little Englander so I should mention what happened in Sainsbury's yesterday.
I was apoplectic with rage.
We were unloading our basket at the checkout, at the end of the conveyor belt. There was one person being served in front of us.
I looked up and from the checkout next to us, came a man and woman. At the front of OUR conveyor belt, they unloaded one basket. They then placed the divider on the belt. They then unloaded ANOTHER basket. And placed another divider on the belt. They didn't look back at us, at me looking daggers, apoplectic with rage. APOPLECTIC WITH RAGE.
The woman had a badge stuck to her jeans. "Open University" it said. What the fuck kind of education is it that promotes pushing in queues?
The choice of dentists in our area is as follows...
1. The dentist I've had since I was a boy. He does all his own work. He checks, he scrapes, he cleans and polishes. And he fills and extracts. He's in his 60s now and I've spent the past few years going back to him with one problem after another. A young dentist should really be taking his place but he's hanging on. As it's a bit of a journey to get there and I was having more and more time off work, I thought I'd try a nearer, more convenient dentist.
2. A nearer, more convenient dentist. He does all his own work. He checks, he scrapes, he cleans and polishes. And he fills. I'm sure he'd extract if the tooth was beyond a reasonably-priced repair. He's in his 70s now and a young dentist should really be taking his place but he's hanging on. I went back to him several times in a few months with problem after problem.
3. The second nearest, but most convenient dentist as he's open from 8 a.m. I've now settled with this one. He's young and lightning quick. His check-ups last a couple of minutes. He would fill but I'm not sure if he would extract. He's probably one of the new school who like to save teeth as saving teeth generates more income. At another dentist's, my sister has just paid £400 for a cap. My new dentist doesn't scrape, clean or polish. He has a couple of dental hygienists to do that for him.
I've seen her twice. She doesn't look me in the eye. She reads her notes and puts her mask on. She lowers me down until I am horizontal (which I find uncomfortable because of my digestive problem).
"Any problems? No? Good! Using an electric toothbrush like I told you? Good! That's much better! Flossing?"
"No, but I'm using mouthwash."
"Useless. Mouthwash won't get rid of all this. Look at all this debris between your teeth."
"I once tried flossing but I wasn't very good at it. I can't get to the back teeth."
"It's a knack. Start on the front teeth first. You'll get the hang of it. Like this. Up and down. Up and down. Like you're removing glue."
"Nnng."
"You will get the hang of it. When you pay for your visit you will purchase this special floss you cannot get in supermarkets. You will start with the front teeth. Once you have mastered the front teeth you will move to the side teeth. Up and down, up and down. Once you have mastered the side teeth you will go to the back teeth. Up and down, up and down, you will get rid of the debris. You must get rid of the debris! You must! You must! Heil Hitler!"
"Heil Hitler!"
"No, you must raise your left arm like this. Heil Hitler!"
"Heil Hitler!"
"That is much better. I will see you in three months. No longer than three months. We must eradicate this debris. Goodbye."
"Heil Hitler!"
"No, you must walk like this. Heil Hitler!"
"Heil Hitler!"
"Keep walking like this until you get the hang of it. Come on, round the room. Step and step and step, come on, lift those feet!"
Let's be having your limericks about the great man in the comments section.
The man who promised to stop the rail workers from striking, who promised to rid the city of knife crime, who promised to reintroduce Routemasters, who promised to reduce your Council tax bill and give you better services, who promised to get more black men teaching black boys, who promised to plant a tree with the money he saved from scrapping the Mayor's Londoner newspaper.
Well, actually he has ditched the Londoner and planted a tree with his own bare hands.
Well, actually he didn't do any digging, just moved a bit of earth from A to B.
Anyway, here's mine...
There once was a toff with blond hair Who had not a singular care Whether young men were stabbed Or their killers were nabbed But he don't sleep at night now he's Mayor
Well what a season that was! Comfortably mid-table right from the word "Go!"
No nail-biting last-week relegation scraps. No heart-stopping promotion play-offs. Just nice relaxing Sundays watching recordings of Sky's excellent Football First highlights. No Match of the Day, with its insufferable smugness and bias towards the teams at the top.
Congratulations to Stoke City on their promotion. Stoke are my second team and the team of the mother-in-law I never met but wish I could have. Gordon Banks' fantastic save from Geoff Hurst's penalty in the 1972 League Cup Semi-Final deserved a winner's medal. And they went on to beat Chelsea in the final. Yes, the great Chelsea with all their history and glamour.
Here's looking forward to next season. The Top Four will be broken. The Nouveaux Riches are coming to get you!
We're talking about relationships, wondering what people's home lives are like and saying how we both thought we'd never find someone we could live with - soppy bollocks like that.
"But you can get too comfortable with someone," says Betty.
"How?" I say.
"There was this woman I used to work with. One day she said how comfortable her and her husband were in each other's company. So comfortable that when she took a bath, he often came into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and had a shit."
"Christ, that's disgusting," I say. "Did he purposely wait till she was in the bath?"
"I don't think so. He used to put a towel over his head while he did it. So he could concentrate on what he was doing."
"How could she say that in the office?"
"The strange thing was, the other women in the office didn't bat an eyelid. They were completely indifferent."
"Maybe that's the norm. Maybe we're not as close as we thought."
Tim has kindly set me the task to furnish you with eight facts about the phenomenon that was Madame Blavatsky. Madame Blavatsky was a real person, not to be confused with Madame Bovary who was a fictional character. But even a cursory glance at the Russian Madame's life story throws up inconsistencies and it is difficult to separate fact from fiction.
But here we go. In for a penny, in for a pound. 8 Random Facts about the great woman (at least one of which is possibly a Random Fib)...
1. Helena Blavatsky, in 1888, was the first person to use the phrase “intelligent design” to convey her understanding of evolution. The evolution of the species was guided by an underlying purposeful intelligence in nature. So, Mr Scientist, there is no “chance” about it.
2. Madame Blavatsky was a founder of the Theosphical Society whose chief aim was to “reconcile all religions, sects and nations under a common system of ethics, based on eternal verities.” The creation, therefore, of a groovy Brotherhood of Man.
3. According to Madame Blavatsky herself, she married at 17 to a much older man, stole a horse to escape from her unhappy marriage, and remained a virgin her entire life. As a true practitioner of Theosophy should “live, if the esoteric instructions shall profit him, a life of abstinence in everything, of self-denial and strict morality, doing his duty by all men,” she seems to have done pretty well to control her sexual urges.
4. However, according to other sources, she had several extramarital affairs and even mothered a child. So did she really live a life of abstinence?
5. She claimed to have had childhood visions in the 1830s of a tall Hindu who eventually materialised in Hyde Park and became her guru and advisor. From Hyde Park, she went to Tibet where she was trained by Theosophy masters from 1868 to 1870. She spread the theosophy message around the world till her death in 1891.
6. She was also an Eastern Star Freemason, a member of the largest fraternal organisation in the world that men and women can join. The order is open to people of all monotheistic faiths, so one wonders which god she aligned herself to in order to join up.
7. One of her followers in the 1980s was Roger Taylor of Duran Duran. Roger kept an inspirational photograph (see above) of her taped to his drum kit. Simon Le Bon and John Taylor found this most amusing and wrote a 5 minute jam called Wanking Over Madame B which can be heard on the bootleg album Duran Live In Bogota.
8. In her later years she gained employment as a circus performer and seance assistant. In no way does this discredit the seriousness in which her works are held. In no way at all.
That's it. I'm scrapping the Low GI Diet. I was so bloated this morning I was surprised nobody congratulated me on my pregnancy.
I'm going to try Prebio 7, a mixture of prebiotics and probiotics. The blurb on the packet says "Shhh...! The French Secret". Shhhit! Jolie Merde! I'll have a stomach like Ian Curtis in no time.
I never believed there was such a thing as middle aged spread. Until I went to buy some new work trousers a few weeks ago. It seems my waistline (and the waistband of the old trousers) have stretched by three inches in the past year or so.
"I'm spreading," I thought. "I've got to stop spreading NOW".
So how to cut down without feeling pangs of hunger? Not real hunger, of course. Rich, western world hunger, the feeling you get when you're used to overeating and now you've got to eat healthy portions.
My weakness isn't fat or sugar. I have a low fat, low sugar diet. My weakness is complex carbohydrates.
I can't get enough of bread and cereals.
So I was speaking to my old friend, Antony Worrall Thompson. "Wozza," I said. "How come you look so slim these days?"
Look at Wozza in the bad old days...
And Wozza now...
How did he get from being an overweight, unhappy misanthropist to a slim, happily full-of-energy-people-lover?
Eating slow release foods that keep you feeling fuller for longer. Throw away that Shredded Wheat, Ian Botham! Have a bowl of All Bran. Discard that wholemeal bread, Lucky Jim! Try some soya and linseed bread or a few oatcakes. Eat less, feel more satisfied and full of energy. Pour away that fruit juice! Eat real fruit. You'll be on your way to your five a day and you won't get the slumps!
That's the theory, anyway. I'm into my third day and it could be a load of bollocks but I must admit the beer I had last night gave me a sugar rush like nothing on earth. It was fucking amazing, man.
Remember those early years of Thatcher? When any semblance of socialism in our national government died? So with London today.
Goodbye, Ken. I know you couldn't do much but at least I got to vote for someone I liked and who won for a few years. Now it's back to watching the others get in. Back to cold isolation.
*****
Remember those early years of Thatcher? Remember when we bought those Kid Creole albums to take us away to another place?
I'd heartily recommend Kid Creole: Going Places The August Darnell Years 1976-1983. It's a great compilation from a fantastic period for pop music. It's alright, he doesn't sing on that many of the tracks so if you don't like his voice, get it anyway.
A few Saturdays ago we left the house for the town centre. As we walked up the street a group of eight nice-looking wouldn't hurt a fly young men were walking towards us. They walked up garden paths and gently posted whatever they were carrying through letterboxes. As we walked past one he smiled at us, a lovely, friendly, in love with life smile.
"I bet they're members of the Green Party," I said to Betty.
Later, when we got home, we discovered a leaflet urging us to vote Green.
*******
Today at work we are talking about yesterday's elections.
"Did you vote?" I ask a younger colleague.
"I didn't vote but everybody I've spoken to, literally all my friends, everybody, voted for the Greens. I was speaking to Kerry this morning and she said her and Steve both voted Green too."
