Claire from Sunderland makes a valid point in her mobile phone text which was published in yesterday's Metro.
"So the credit crunch has claimed its latest victim. It is hoped a tax increase for the wealthy will help us out of it but I object to Lina McDaid's comment (Metro, Thu) that those earning £150,000 a year should pay more 'because they can afford it'. Why should someone who's worked hard to earn a top salary be forced to subsidise those who maybe haven't worked so hard? I admire those who've done well and think they should be allowed to enjoy the benefits of their labour."
OK, Claire. Say you're "earning" £160,000. An extra 5% on that £10,000 equates to £500 per year. That's £1.37 per day, 0.3% of your gross annual salary.
Say you're "earning" £180,000. That's an extra £4.11 per day, 0.8% of your gross annual salary.
No, it's not fair. It seems the harder one works, the more one gets paid and the more one subsidises those who have earned less money because they haven't worked hard and possibly now are unemployed because of their sheer laziness.
Just imagine what a £160,000 per year executive could have done with that extra £1.37 per day! Imagine how much more they could have enjoyed themselves! An extra tuna and sweetcorn sandwich, maybe!
No wonder Boris Johnson is worried about those "creative" business people who could be driven out of the country because of Darling's persecution.
I see a documentary on Neil Young and I have to play everything we own by him. We don't own Let's Impeach The President but found it amusing watching him play it to an split audience, some cheering, some shouting expletives. Seeing an irate, old Republican Young fan after Neil's concert saying Neil could "suck my dick, motherfucker" creased me up. I love it when twats feel they're being ripped off.
I haven't included any Neil on this post. Just a couple of the songs I've been listening to recently.
We bought a Todd Rundgren compilation some time in the 90s. Every now and again I've played it, hoping that this would be the time I'd *get* it. This time I did.
Before, I thought it sounded like Todd was making up the songs as he recorded them. But the more I listen to them the more they get under my skin.
The song on this post, the most immediate song Todd ever recorded, is I Saw The Light, apparently about his main sexual partner, uber groupie Bebe Buell. There could be circumstances where a man or woman might think of their other half when listening to this song. It's a beautiful love song. They may think of love and romance and fidelity, being with that one person for rest of their life as they've seen "the light". Ignoring the fact that it was written by and about a couple whose sexual proclivities would have made Caligula blush.
China Crisis were an odd couple. That's them above looking very smart. I drove all the way to Essex University to see China Crisis, the week after The Smiths had played there. I was pissed off at the time that I was friend enough to drive people to see a second rate synth pop band but not worthy of seeing a major cultural event (with gladioli). But I'm having the last laugh. I'm listening to China Crisis now in the knowledge that they were a better band than The Smiths ever were. And I saw them at their peak!
Betty bought the cd about four years ago and I only found it recently. I had probably made several jokes about having to see the awful China Crisis instead of The Smiths. It was one of my "unlucky me" stories. So even if I'd found it I wouldn't have played it before I decided to confront my China Crisis demons.
African & White is marvellously nonsensical and nonsensically marvellous. Is it about Ian Smith? Who knows? Maybe it's about Tony Greig, a paean to the controversial all-rounder. Or maybe Manfred Mann?
All of a sudden, I don't know why, I'm reminded of the Microdisney album, We Hate You South African Bastards. I saw them live once. They were bloody awful.
After watching John Lennon live at Madison Square Gardens from 1972 the other night I decided I really ought to get a more comprehensive compilation than the one we own.
So I went on the Amazon site, in the music search section, and typed in "john le". Amazon would complete the rest.
Obviously John Lennon would come out on top as the most popular search?
Wrong. It's John Fucking Legend!
OK, I thought to myself. I wonder who would be top if I typed in "the"? The Who, maybe?
No, it's The Fucking Killers!
So I've decided to try first letter only, going through the alphabet. Here's the results of the most popular searches with a brief description (some with Betty's help) of the type of person who may be looking for the albums of the artist or band...
a - acdc - 49 year old male. Single/married with five children. Still has now too small denim jacket with band logo patches smelling of 30 year old patchouli oil in wardrobe. Heavy drinker. Will play air guitar at weddings. Often wakes up dreaming he is choking on his own vomit.
b - beyonce - 25 year old female. Young mother. Thinks Beyonce has the greatest soul voice ever. Ever.
c - coldplay - 46 year old man. Divorced, three children. Depressed but not suicidal. His children do not understand him. He does not understand his children.
d - dido - 46 year old woman. Housewife. Conservative. Aga owner. Enjoys hosting dinner parties. Heavy wine drinker. Fantasises about Sean Bean in britches.
e - enya - 66 year old woman. WI member. Golf widow. Enjoys Antiques Roadshow and My Family.
f - fleet foxes - 37 year old man or woman. Member of Greenpeace. Says they're "not really a vegetarian because I eat fish. I just couldn't eat anything with legs." Single.
g - girls aloud - 14 year old girl/46 year old man. Schoolgirl/ex-student. Fashion conscious/post-punk irony conscious. Girls Aloud wannabe/Girls Aloud wanna shag.
h - high school musical - 14 year old girl. Interested in boys, especially American boys with no brains.
i - il divo - 65 year old grandmother. Babysitter. Total TV Guide subscriber. Husband has Three Tenors cd and can't believe his wife buys this insipid imitation of the real thing.
j - jonas brothers - 14 year old girl. Interested in boys, especially American boys with no fucking brains.
k - kings of leon - 21 year old supermodel. Didn't like the Kings' old hairy look but thinks they're gorgeous now. Thinks Sex on Fire is the most sexy thing she's ever heard, not realising it's about an STD.
l - leona lewis - 46 year old woman. Sets Sky Plus to record daytime tv. Thinks Leona Lewis is the best British soul singer ever. Ever.
m - metallica - 46 year old man. Married with two children. Electric guitar owner but does not play any more. Thinks Metallica are great and everything else is shit. Is confident his daughters will grow out of Girls Aloud and will listen to his Metallica albums when they reach puberty. Enjoys Jack Daniels "irresponsibly".
n - now 71 - 14 year old girl. Interested in boys. Fearne Cotton wannabe.
o - oasis - 40 year old man. Could have been a professional footballer if it wasn't for "that" injury. Top man to his mates. Thinks Paul Weller is a "fucking god".
p - pink - 40 year old ex-glamour model. Wants to "get the party started" but hasn't got anybody to get it started with. Borderline alcoholic.
q - queen - 50 year old married couple. Two cats. Ten guns. Poster in bedroom of Brian May with his leg cocked up. Still not convinced Freddie Mercury was gay.
r - razorlight - 23 year old female. Pretty. Music tv presenter. Would like to be seen out with Johnny Borrell. Not jealous of Alexa Chung. Oh no, not at all.
s - snow patrol - 46 year old man. Divorced, three children. Depressed but not suicidal. His children do not understand him. He does not understand his children.
t - take that - 32 year old woman. Single mum. Interested in "girly" nights out. Favourite is "little" Mark Owen. Goes out with short men who if she squints really hard look like a distant cousin of "little" Mark Owen.
u - u2 - 27 year old Australian woman. Sits on her boyfriend's shoulders at live gigs. Smiles a lot at just about anything.
v - van morrison - 69 year old sweatshirt-wearing expatriate Irishman with auburn, frizzy beard.
w - will young - 46 year old woman. Divorcee. Proud grandmother. Spends money she used to spend on cigarettes on the lottery. Her diary for early 1992 is filled each day with the words "Gareth Gates is a stuttering shit" followed by the words "Take that you stuttering shit" on the night Will won Pop Idol.
x - x factor - 99 year old great grandmother. In intensive care. Wheeled to tv/computer room once a day.
y - yes - 50 year old prog man. Lives with mother. Has worn out old cds. Poor personal hygiene.
z - zz top - 46 year old man. Likes grizzled artists with beards. See Seasick Steve, Grandaddy, Willard Grant conspiracy, etc. Uncut subscriber.
We have cds by four of the above bands/artists. Girls Aloud, Kings of Leon, Oasis and Yes. Which is not bad going. How many do you have?
So who was the Greatest? I would have said Ali, right up to watching this documentary.
Ali was the most entertaining sports personality ever?
I used to agree with that, even though I've hated boxing for many years. But Ali was bigger than boxing? Ali was an artist?
In his first fight with Ali, Joe Frazier pummelled him and won on points.
In their second fight Ali held Frazier by the neck and won on points.
In Manila...
Joe Frazier was almost blind in one eye from the early sixties. In spite of this massive disadvantage, he became world champion. In Manila, with a few rounds to go, with Joe on top, his other eye became closed up. The penultimate round saw Ali half-murder the blind man. Now both Ali and Frazier were exhausted from the heat and the punishment they had meted out to each other. If Joe had come out for the final round, punching into darkness, Ali would have killed him. The man in Joe's corner was certain of that. He'd seen six deaths in the ring in his lifetime. He didn't want Joe to be the seventh.
They stopped the fight. Joe was furious. He hated Ali so much...
In the run-up to the fight, Ali had called Frazier ugly and stupid. He had called him an Uncle Tom, a gorilla. Frazier was sponsored and supported by white people. Pro-Vietnam War, anti-civil rights Republicans. He had a white girlfriend.
Ali was the darling of the rest of us.
But were there thinking grown ups around then who felt distaste at the gorilla comments? Who knew all about Ali's beloved Nation Of Islam's thoughts on integration, about Ali speaking at a Ku Klux Klan rally because of a shared ideology?
I was not a grown up at the time. I did not think about things. Ali goofing around with Parkinson and Carpenter was entertaining and made me laugh. I really wanted that beautiful, funny, light skinned black man to kill that ugly, stupid, dark black Uncle Tom gorilla.
Joe now thinks the beating he gave Ali in their fights contributed in some way to Ali's Parkinson's. He's glad. He thinks Ali is paying for the way he was when he was younger.
Christ, boxing is disturbing enough as it is without all this on top! Suffice to say if someone asks me who is the greatest sports personality of all time, I won't be plumping for Muhammad Ali.
"...and he doesn't care about rock 'n' roll at all..."
"The ascendence of the people is an indication of the level to which rock has sunk. It's appearance and artifice. There's nothing, I believe, truly committed about either a Bryan Ferry or a David Bowie. It's much more using of rock for their own ego-aggrandisement rather than a belief in the music they are working with."
That was Lester Bangs on the Glam Rock programme in the series All You Need Is Love.
This is the first criticism of artists in the whole series. This is the present day mid seventies. We are waiting for a new musical form to blow the old status quo out of the water. We are waiting for Whatever You Want.
Lester met Ferry at a party. Ferry had little to say to Lester. Lester took this as intellectual poverty, a great disappointment to hear nothing passionate and real from a man Lester had held up as a musical hero after the release of Roxy Music's first album.
So Bowie and Ferry are not great speakers. So what? They're entertainers, Lester. You wouldn't expect Liberace to talk about how much he "believes" in his music. He's in it to show off, to be loved, to be desired by a gaggle of old women!
The same programme showed Gary Glitter, giving his all to an audience of young girls. And they were loving it! There he was, his great hairy gut pushing for freedom from his tight jumpsuit, his nipples red and raw from the friction. And the silly moos were crying "Gary! Gary!", tears of love rolling down their chubby cheeks. Bloody hell, I wonder how those women feel if they see themselves now!
I said to Betty, "Was Adam Ant influenced by Glitter? The two drums and all?" We agreed he must have been. Even going so far as having a Gary in his band, the estimable Mr Tibbs.
Lester was spitting at the times. He's funny and entertaining to watch. But railing so at the seventies it makes you wonder what on earth would he have thought of the soulless mid eighties if he'd survived that long? He was listening to Human League's Dare at the time of his drug-induced death. That's a classic album but Lester probably hated it with its uncommitted synth pop and the LP's cover picture of the completely vacuous, artifical singer in in girls' make up.
Misery lurks at every corner I turn. I piss on blind optimism. This recession's going to be shit.
This week I received a Les Paul compilation. His work with Mary Ford far outshines his earlier collaborations with the likes of Bing Crosby and Kay Starr. Les's multi-tracking techniques make for wonderfully spooky sounds. And when Mary sings the following Jimmie Davis lyric, the miserable me knows just what she means...
I wish I had never seen sunshine I wish I had never been blue I wish I had died as a baby And then I'd have never known you
The first three lines, anyway. The whole chorus could apply to a few people I've met in my life but not anybody I've loved.
Existential poet and Portsmouth manager Tony Adams is another who thinks deeply, too deeply for his own mental welfare. Watching the Sky highlights of the West Ham v Portsmouth goalless draw this morning, the hapless, depressed players going through the motions in front of advertising hoardings that shout TACKLE BOWEL CANCER, I hear the commentator, John Anderson, say the following...
"Tony Adams admitted that he is a loner who doesn't really like people and would be happy to walk his dogs, never see anyone and then die. Which is a fairly gloomy prognosis in anyone's book, but that's what he said. Let's hope he doesn't mean it."
Maybe Tony would like to be eaten by his own dogs, on lonely windswept wasteland.
Life is all about survival of the fittest, after all.
I wholeheartedly agree with the following choices made by my fellow southern knobjockeys (see last few comments here)...
Radiohead - Creep Pink Floyd - Another Brick In The Wall Billy Joel - Uptown Girl Dodgy - Staying Out For The Summer Bruce Springsteen - Born In The USA Stranglers - Golden Brown Underworld - Born Slippy Prodigy - Firestarter REM - Shiny, Happy People
In addition, I'd like to offer...
Jeff Buckley - Hallelujah John Lennon - Imagine Yes - Owner Of A Lonely Heart Bob Marley - Three Little Birds Status Quo - Whatever You Want Peter Gabriel - Sledgehammer Van Morrison - Brown Eyed Girl Smokey Robinson - Being With You Simple Minds - Don't You Forget About Me David Bowie - Let's Dance Marvin Gaye - Sexual Healing UB40 - Red Red Wine Stevie Wonder - I Just Called To Say I Love You Dire Straits - Money For Nothing Talking Heads - Road To Nowhere The B52's - Love Shack 10CC - Dreadlock Holiday Donna Summer - Hot Stuff
It's ninety years since the end of World War One and Dick Dastardly is long dead. The pigeon was a brave American so how come Dick was English? Did he have Hun blood? We need to be told.
The opening credits are brilliant. The glorious music, based on Tiger Rag, and the hilarious visuals. Just how much did Dick's government spend in pursuit of that pigeon? They tried to nab him, grab him, jab him, even "tab" him, all to no avail. They didn't, however, try to stab the little sod. And the pigeon always got through enemy lines.
These opening credits are the best thing about the show. Same with Wacky Races. Same with James Bond films. Same with Doctor Who. They whet your appetite for something good which never arrives.
The opposite is true of The Office, Early Doors and The Sopranos. Shit opening credits and shit music are prologues to excellence. Even fast forwarding through Tony Soprano's interminable journey home has wasted hours of my life. But at least I don't have to listen to that bleeding song.
"Woke up this morning, got myself a gun..."
Oh, do fuck off.
It's rare that the whole thing works in tv drama, where the starter and the main course complement each other. I, Claudius did it. John Adams does it. For films you can't beat Hitchcock and for comedy series' you'll never surpass Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads? Perfection.
I don't think I have an unnatural obsession with Prince Charles and what he does or has done to him on the throne (the only type of throne he's ever likely to park his bottom on).
So why does Google think I'm the expert?
If you ask Google the question "does prince charles wipe his own arse?" two of my posts come first and second. This one will join them in a top three, I'm sure.
My first answer to the question is "I don't think he does. Have a good weekend."
Whether the questioner will have a better weekend imagining a servant inspecting the prince's back passage, I don't know. It may play on his/her mind.
My second answer to the question is "if you're in any way dissatisfied with your arse-wiping experience."
It is useful to know that if you want your bottom wiped more thoroughly you should get yourself a servant.
A few weeks ago the Queen visited Google's UK headquarters. She was shown a computer and asked to type in a question. The question she typed was "does prince charles wipe his own arse?", knowing full well he does.
It feels strange. It feels like we should be celebrating but I don't know who "we" are. Not the people I talk to, that's for sure. Nobody gives a damn.
When Thatcher resigned, most of the people I know were sad. Now Bush has gone they are indifferent. Bush has gone and McCain didn't win. Two reasons to celebrate on my own. And hopefully Obama will stop mentioning "the middle class" every ten seconds now. Hopefully real change will come. So why do I feel so pessimistic?
One reason is that the last couple of days on Smooth Radio they've played Marvin Gaye's version of Abraham, Martin & John. Are they the Smoothsayers? Has there ever been cause to look to the future with optimism? How many people's lives will change for the better? Come on, Barack. DO SOMETHING.
******
I know you've all had other things to think about but I bet you're secretly wondering how I'm getting on with my legs. Triumphantly, so far this week my thighs have not ached. I put this down to a little daily drinking. On Monday evening I had a little brandy. Last night I had a little gin and orange. Betty said the only time she ever drank a measure of gin she was psychotic. "Don't be silly" I said. I'm only having the one.
Last night I woke up at midnight and saw a mouse climbing the wall.
The train before was cancelled. This one is packed. Twenty minutes into the journey, the train is stopped by a passenger. Someone has been taken ill.
We are kept informed by the driver. We'll have to wait at the station 'til an ambulance turns up.
Ten minutes later we are still waiting. A well built middle aged man talks loudly into his mobile phone.
"It's a fucking joke. We pay two grand a year to travel on these shitty trains without a modicum of comfort."
He is sitting. Many other passengers are standing.
"Supposedly someone's been taken ill. This is always fucking happening. We don't give a fuck if someone's not well. All we want to do is get home."
We're all nodding along with him, of course. I'm not going to clap yet, though. I'm saving my "hear hear!" for the end of his speech.
"Why don't they just leave him on the platform? Then we can all go home. Why do we have to wait around for the fucking ambulance? If that was me in that situation, if I was taken ill, they could just leave me on the platform and then everybody could fuck off home. I wouldn't want to inconvenience people. We're all busy people! We've all got homes to go to!"
Hear, hear.
"I'd better go now and we'll all sit here pretending that we care about someone being ill. Won't we people?"
He finishes his phone call. The woman standing next to me is complaining that she will have travelled for three and a half hours in all today. She left home this morning at 7.40 and she didn't get into work 'til 9.30. That's an hour and fifty minutes for a journey that should last no longer than an hour! And now this this evening! It's beyond a joke!
Ten minutes later the driver announces that the young man is ok and that the paramedics have taken him to hospital. He apologises for the inconvenience this delay has caused us.
I stand up. I am lucky I am in the front carriage because I want the driver to hear what I've got to say. I shout at the top of my voice.
"APOLOGIES? APOLOGIES? WE DON'T WANT YOUR BLOODY APOLOGIES! ALL WE WANT IS TO GET HOME ON TIME AND TO TRAVEL IN A MODICUM OF COMFORT! WE'RE PAYING TWO GRAND A YEAR FOR THIS! IF SOMEONE'S ILL THROW THEM OFF THE BLOODY TRAIN! THIS IS SURVIVAL OF THE BLEEDIN' FITTEST, MATE! THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS SOCIETY! ALL WE CARE ABOUT IS OURSELVES AND OUR LOVED ONES!"
"Well said, mate," says the well built middle aged man. "Fancy a drink when we get to the station?"
"AS A MATTER OF FACT I DO!" I scream. "I FANCY A NICE PINT OF LAGER OR TWO! A NICE COOLING PINT OF LAGER! OR TWO!"
"Fucking 'ell, you're making my mouth water," he says.
"FOR TWO GRAND A YEAR YOU'D THINK THE LEAST THEY COULD DO WAS SERVE DRINKS ON THE TRAIN!" I bellow.
There is a chorus of "Hear, hear!" We pull in to my station and people shake me by the hand as I walk through the carriage to the exit doors.
I always enjoy Jools' interviews with his guests at the piano. Especially the bit when he asks them what was the first music they heard. He gets all orgasmic if they answer "Ray Charles".
This week the guest at the piano was the great Grace Jones. She didn't disappoint me.
Jools: You grew up in Jamaica, is that right? What was the first music you heard there?
Grace: Oh, boring.
Jools: Boring music? You didn't like any of the music there?
Grace: No. It was church hymns, basically.
Jools: Did your dad...
Grace: It wasn't like the Pentecostal Church like you get outside. When I was growing up, Pentecostal in Jamaica was very, like, hymns and, you know, a lot of people sang off-key...
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Jools!
The first music I can remember was the Beatles. Which is about as lucky as you can get. I had brilliant music in my head right from the off. Imagine being three years old when Duran Duran were kings of the pop scene!
ANDREW Sachs’s granddaughter yesterday defended her career with burlesque troupe The Satanic Sluts.
Georgina Baillie, 23, said: “Because we have a hussy name doesn’t mean we’re wanton girls.”
Busty Georgina said the tongue-in-cheek Goth group were from “the same great tradition of British humour as Fawlty Towers”.
This trailer for a Satanic Sluts video from 2006 has the girls dressing up in Nazi uniform. The "SS" insignia of Satanic Sluts is, I'm sure, not an accident. Although it seems Georgina wasn't in the comedy burlesque troupe back then, I'm sure she had ambitions to be.
Georgina's great-grandad was Jewish and escaped Nazi Germany with his family for England just before the Second World War. Maybe instead of Ross and Brand apologising to Georgina, she should be apologising to her grandad.
The humour in Fawlty Towers she is referring to cannot be "Don't mention the war", the only thing I remember about that overrated tosh except for the shite car-beating incident and Sachs's crap Spaniard.
We have been battered over the head with the Ross/Brand bollocks for the past week. And now a star is born! Stick her in the Celebrity Big Brother house now for Gawd's sake! Pretend you're filming her but don't.
As a seasoned hypochondriac, it's about time I go to see my doctor. Except my doctor, Dr H, isn't there any more. He left a couple of weeks ago.
While I'm waiting for a new GP to be assigned to my body and mind, I get to see one of the others at the practice. Dr C.
I liked Dr H. And I like Dr C. I've seen her before on one of the weeks Dr H was off with stress from having to see me every few days.
My current complaint is very strange.
I get these aches, you see. On a Monday night when I lie down in bed I get these aches going down my inner thighs. They go down my inner calves, too. It's like the veins are filling up with blood. I panic and the aches go down my arms. Then I get twinges in my chest. I worry Betty and keep her awake. Then I fall asleep.
Dr C asks me to get on the couch. I can leave my pants on.
She checks the circulation in my legs. It's excellent. No varicose veins, either.
She asks me to stand, holds my inner thigh and asks me to cough. I've got a little reflux in the thigh vein. Nothing to worry about though.
She asks me if I do any unusual activities on a Sunday. Horse riding, for example?
I say I don't ride a horse.
"Do I stand a lot on a Sunday?"
"No. I don't stand a lot ever."
"Why on a Monday evening? The meds you take can do funny things to the muscles. But if it was your meds it would happen all the time, not just on a Monday."
I say I drink alcohol at weekends and not during the week. Maybe it's a reaction to my body not having alcohol after the weekend. A craving manifesting itself in the troubled veins of my inner thighs.
Instead of advising me to drink every day, you know what she said?
"Maybe give up the alcohol for a couple of weekends. If you're ok on the Monday you know it's that. Then you can decide what to do in the future. It's up to you."
So I put up with a bit of discomfort, knowing it's not going to kill me. Or I forgo one of life's pleasures and watch Betty get merry at the weekend.
My mum's decorating. The room doesn't need decorating but it's being done nonetheless. On Saturday she gave me a mug she found at the back of the heavy cabinet they had to move. She'd bought one mug each for me and my sister back in 1977.
"To Commemorate the Silver Jubilee of H.M. QUEEN ELIZABETH II 1952 - 1977" it says on the side. And on the back there's a picture of the handsome Duke.
"Where's the safety pin?" I said.
We're not supposed to drink out of it. We're supposed to keep it safe. I said to Betty that maybe my mum thinks this could be the ultimate incentive for us to start a family. Because things like this should be passed down from generation to generation. It is an heirloom.
No mum, it's not going to work. In our dotage we will drive down to some godforsaken market town. It will be pissing with rain and we will jostle our way to the front of the queue to be seen by the current mug expert on the Old Tat Roadshow. He'll say "this is strictly off-camera" but he'll give us "fuck all for the useless piece of shit". Then we can go home and start drinking from it, toasting the Queen and her amazing longevity.
"It's not about Great Britain. It's about Great Butter."
That's Johnny Rotten on the current Country Life advert. "The king is gone but he's not forgotten This is the story of Johnny Rotten"
That's Neil Young on Johnny Rotten, of course.
Rotten was always the first choice for the Country Life campaign. Butter producers had always been after the ex-punk to be the voice and face of their various spreads. "Anchor In The UK" could have been on our screens back in 2005 if it wasn't for Johnny turning up his nose.
The "Great Butter" ad had been hanging round the offices of advertising agency Batchelor Scuppa Coop since the height of punk. The problem was in the 70s Britain was still seen as "Great" by the majority of the public. And back then the majority of the public ate real butter stored in larders. Fridges, like automatic washing machines, didn't really take off 'til the third year of Thatcher. Hers was a white goods revolution.
Minnie Stroney, director of Barchelor Scuppa Coop takes up the Great Butter story.
"We wanted a punk. We wanted someone who personified a Britain our grandparents wouldn't recognise. No more cap doffing. No respect for embarrassing traditions. And Johnny was always our number one."
The project was put on the back burner 'til Johnny's public rebirth in the first decade of the 21st century. But at first Johnny refused.
"At first Johnny refused. This was during the Filthy Lucre Tour. He said he could only be seen to be selling out one way at a time. But we thought the time was right. So we considered different options. We got in touch with Ade Edmondson. He couldn't do it as he is contracted solely to Peperami 'til 2034. We tried Jimmy Pursey. But he was busy doing the voiceover for a Sky Arts documentary on interpretive dance and didn't want to compromise."
But this year Johnny relented.
"This year, however, Johnny relented. The Country Life guys were ecstatic. Johnny is so much the right man for the butter demographic. There's the middle aged man who likes the real thing on his toast and loves Johnny's rebellious youth. Then there's the grandmother who hasn't stopped buying butter through the years and adores Johnny from I'm A Celebrity. We think this campaign will be more of a success than the old famous one."
"It's Country Life It's English, too From the cows to the dairy From the dairy out to you."
"That was a great ad. But it was from a bygone age. The Englishness of the product was stressed as a merit, a source of pride, as opposed to New Zealand butter or Irish butter. People nowadays don't care where things come from. Today it's all about quality and price. And Country Life has both."
"It's not about Great Britain. It's about Great Butter."
Dead-eye Dick Dawkins is at it again. Dick and his humanist disciples are going to advertise on our bendy buses.
"There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life."
Let's just break that down, shall we?
"There's probably no God." Yes, this is the best that science can come up with. "Probably". Science does not prove that there wasn't a creator. So it's basically a matter of belief or non-belief.
"Now stop worrying". Just a minute. Who's doing the worrying? Believers aren't worrying about whether there's a God. Non-believers aren't worrying about whether there's a God.
"and enjoy your life." If you're the sort of person who spends a lot of your time worrying whether there's a God, you sound like you've got a masochistic streak. So maybe you're the sort of person who enjoys this worrying.
Both the British Humanist Association and the Methodist Church believe the campaign will make people think.
It makes me think the £36,000 raised for the advertising would be better spent alleviating suffering somewhere.
I'm looking out for cases of soft paternalism: "a political philosophy that believes the state can help you make the choices you would make for yourself — if only you had the strength of will and the sharpness of mind" according to the boffins at Wikipedia. The soft paternalism king is Richard Thaler, guru to Barack Obama and David Cameron.
Today I saw the Drinkaware Trust's new advert at the station.
"I see you like to recycle...(wow you drink a lot)". Cue a recycling bin full of booze bottles.
Ever since we've started leaving our bottles out to be recycled, I've checked out other people's bins on the way to work. I wrongly associate a few empty spirits bottles with an alcoholic household. Wrongly, as I know from my dad's drinking that the experienced alcoholic isn't going to broadcast to the world what he or she gets up to in private.
Our bin is collected once a week and to the casual observer we are just about drinking within the government guidelines for the weekly consumption of alcohol for two adults who just drink at home.
But who honestly spreads the quantity of drink they consume equally over a week? Not us, that's for certain. What you see there, my friend, is a merry old time for two or a lost weekend for one.
I'm not sure this campaign is going to have the desired effect. I couldn't care less if my neighbours think I overdo it on the old sauce. Or in fact if they think I don't drink enough. Or even if they think I drink just the right amount. And I'm not going to walk out my front door and look in my recycling bin and think "blow me, I must have enjoyed myself last week."
Besides, the bins for our cans have lids on. So what do your Stella drinkers do? How on earth are they going to control their drinking?
Remember Betty's post about Judith O'Reilly's appearance on Richard and Judy?
Last night I wondered out of curiosity how her blog was getting on and, bugger me, it looks like Judith's replied here.
So, sod it, here's an open letter back to Judith.
Dear Judith
"Penpals"? Well actually you've hit it on the head. That is what blogging is about, making friends, finding things in common, having a laugh together. Just like penpals, except better, more immediate. Not a few up-themselves authors and scores of their lessers sucking up. We are all equals.
It's about finding like minds in a lonely world. A place to let off steam about all sorts of things. An ongoing dialogue over years. Yes, years.
You tell us bloggers to "Walk the walk. Blog the blog. Write your own fucking book."
I appreciate your advice to go out there and do it, Judith, but what makes you think that if I were to get a book published it wouldn't be shit? I think it would be shit. I don't want to foist shit on the public. We've all got enough of it to deal with.
There is so much shit in the world and we are absolutely bombarded with it day after day. Fucking so-called "talent" shows, fucking relocation programmes on the telly. And the bookshops! The bookshops are saturated with shit. I turn my head in a fucking bookshop and I see shelves of "real life" bollocks written by untalented, boring cunts.
I came across your rant by accident, Judith. My world of blogging is worlds apart from yours. You are a journalist who has used your blog to try out material for a book, aiming to make money. I blog to have a laugh with my friends. Who, by the way, have a fuck of a lot more raw writing talent than 99% of published "real life" authors. Politicians, journalists, footballers, reality tv "stars", comedians, glamour models, Jeremy fucking Clarkson, fuck off the lot of you! Love Geoff xxx
1. Why is Stephen Fry on absolutely everything? Even Never Mind The Buzzcocks. He is not a fan of pop music. You might as well have Vicus on there.
2. Why on earth was Will Young on Question Time? Did anybody see it? Does anybody watch Question Time any more? I haven't seen it for years.
3. How is competition better for the armchair football fan? Setanta costs £12.99 a month in addition to the cost of Sky Sports. All for a handful of West Ham matches a season and a few shite England away fixtures.
4. Why are they killing off Liam in Corrie? Betty's in love with him and I love doing really crap impressions of him to wind her up.
5. Why aren't they killing off Molly's Auntie Pam in Corrie instead? She is the most gut-wrenchingly annoying character ever to appear in the soap.
6. What's the big fuss about Seasick Steve? And why did Jools book the support band on Steve's tour? And what's happened to the *ethnic* bands he used to have on Later? And will Jools dig up his Big Band to support that silly old sweat bucket Tom Jones this week?
7. Why is Tom Wilkinson big in America? He is currently in the excellent John Adams on More 4. Did the Americans see him in The Full Monty and think he looked American?
8. What's happened to Craig Cash? Formerly writing contributor to Mrs Merton, The Fast Show, The Royle Family and Early Doors. Some truly great writing there until the unbelievably mawkish Royle Family grand finale. And now Sunshine which is just unbearably wet. What happened, Craig?
In these troubled times, I have to take vicarious pleasures, mainly from my mum's experiences on her holidays.
Last week she went on a cruise of the Greek Islands. Kind of island hopping for the financially secure retired working class lucky enough to be born at the right time to have company pensions. Not, then, your Lonely Planet set.
"I've had a cold all week so I've had to struggle through each day. It poured down in Istanbul. We went to a massive market where there were nothing but jewellery stalls. You'd hate it, Geoff. The Greek islands were lovely, especially the last one, Santorini. You can go to the top of the island by donkey or cable car. I was too nervous. Our Australian friends who we met on board took the cable car and had to wait an hour to get the cable car back down to the harbour. The staff on the ship were ok, but they weren't as caring as staff we've had on previous cruises. That's the trouble nowadays, there isn't the same level of care you used to get. We had a four berth cabin so it was very comfortable though I didn't get much sleep what with the cold. The food on board was very average. We've had better. The journey back was a bit of a disaster. The cab to the airport that your step dad booked online didn't turn up and we had to book another cab, sharing with the Australian couple. It cost us 93 euros! Then when we got to the airport they would let us take our brandy on board. All because it wasn't bought in the airport! Your step dad was furious, I thought he was going to hit the bloke who confiscated our brandy. He was swearing at him and saying how the Greeks are thieves. Then we got on the plane and I got my usual aisle seat and a toddler was sitting behind me constantly kicking the back of my seat. I was furious. I turned to your step dad and said in a loud voice, "This toddler behind me is kicking my seat!" And you know what his mother said? She said she couldn't control him. She said have I ever tried to control a child of this age? I was furious. I could have smashed her face in, the four eyed cow."
Last night I discovered a way of experiencing that holiday feeling in the comfort of my own bathroom. It will come in handy in the forthcoming years of the 21st century depression.
As you run your bath, step into it. Close your eyes and walk on the spot, splish splashing the water. It will feel as if you are walking in the shallow water of the sea on a tropical island. And the rushing water from the taps will sound like lapping waves.
Yesterday we saw the folk music episode of the great 70s music history series All You Need Is Love. Full of boring old scrote Pete Seeger talking about his gay old times with Woody Guthrie and the unmitigated joys of protest singing, Leonard Cohen's enigmatic words (which to me sound better spoken without that awful picky guitar accompaniment) and Joan Baez being Joan Baez.
Then they show a clip of Leon Rosselson playing his song.
"Who's Leon Rosselson?" I hear you cry.
Now then, don't you know Leon Rosselson?
An English songwriter and writer of children's books, he sang satirical songs on That Was The Week That Was. A kind of radical Richard Stilgoe, then. Twat face Billy Bragg took Rosselson's The World Turned Upside Down into the charts in 1985. The lower echelons of the charts, I presume.
Leon's song featured on the programme isn't satirical but it is bitingly radical.
Here's the words to the first verse and chorus. Imagine a young man with big glasses and a bobbly jumper, sitting down with an acoustic guitar, a voice like Mrs Mopp (according to Betty).
Take it away, Leon. Deep breath as you've got a lot to fit in. OK? No, wait. Are you sure? This is a bloody long verse. You are ready? Go, Leon, go!
If prime ministers and advertising executives, royal personages and bank managers' wives, had to live out their lives in dank rooms, blinded by smoke and the foul air of sewers, grot on the walls and rats in the cellars, in rows of dung (citation needed) houses like mouldering tombs, had to bring up their children and watch them grow, in a wasteland of dead streets where nothing will grow...
Bloody hell, that was a good'un. Now for the chorus. Slower, deeper and more meaningful, now. Pause between lines. Let....them....sink....in.
Buttons would be pressed, rules would be broken, strings would be pulled, magic words spoken, invisible fingers would mould palaces of gold.
It's National Poetry Day tomorrow. Asked to explain her choice of Maya Angelou's Phenomenal Woman, Geri Halliwell says "It's pure girl power." What the fuck?
Scribble Leon's song at your place of work tomorrow! Fight the powers that be!
I've never before tried to collate them. I've probably forgotten a few but I remember where I saw each and every one of those who I remember.
Chance sightings of people in the public eye. Don't you just love it when it happens? And don't you think later of the things you would have asked them if you'd only had the guts to go up and speak to them?
Here's a couple of lists of people I've seen, where I've seen them and what I wished I'd asked them...
PEOPLE IN THE PUBLIC EYE I'VE SEEN IN MY LUNCH HOUR OR ON THE WAY TO OR FROM THE BANK
1. Peter Stringfellow, walking towards Covent Garden. "I'm guessing you're wearing tight leopard-print pants. You are, aren't you?"
2. Frank Skinner, walking towards Covent Garden. "As you delight in telling your audience about your love for it, do you also talk to your priest about anal sex with the ladies? If so, does he approve of it as a contraceptive method?"
3. Martin Fry, walking towards Covent Garden. "Do you think you are able to influence events psychically? If not, why when I bought Poison Arrow, on the very same day did my dad leave home to live with a tart?"
4. Dennis Skinner, crossing the road at Trafalgar Square. "You're the Beast of Bolsover. Why don't you rip Margaret Thatcher's neck open and do us all a favour?"
5. Lenny Henry, filming a scene under Charing Cross Station. "How can you laugh when people are starving?"
6. Geoffrey Palmer, shopping in Tesco's. "Bit of a cock-up on the catering front?"
7. Robbie Williams, crossing the road at Trafalgar Square. "Will you have your song Angels played at your funeral?"
8. Anthony Howard, walking towards The Strand. "Why should I take you more seriously than Kermit?"
9. Matthew Kelly, in a health food shop in Theobalds Road. "If you're Game For A Laugh, why not try the aduki bean pie?"
10. Boris Johnson, cycling towards Whitehall, twice! "Why don't you wear a helmet, twat head?"
11. Jack Straw, walking extremely quickly towards Whitehall. "Why did you allow Pinochet to return to Chile?"
12. Kevin Kennedy, walking past my office. "How's the music career going, Kev?"
PEOPLE IN THE PUBLIC EYE I'VE SEEN ON MY DAYS OFF WORK
1. Trevor MacDonald, in the National Gallery. "What's it like to share a few bongs with the nation every night?"
2. David Hepworth & Mark Ellen, standing around, arms crossed, wearing suits with orange shirts, in Soho. "If there's a good face for radio, is there a good voice for print?"
3. Roy Wood, eating a curry in the West Midlands. "Do you really wish it could be Christmas every day? You'd prefer roast turkey to a nice chicken dansak?"
4. Pete Townshend, walking the streets in Cambridge. "Still not dead, Pete?"
5. Christopher Quinten, wearing a silver bomber jacket at the Wimbledon tennis championships. "I'm guessing you're wearing tight leopard-print pants. You are, aren't you?"
6. John Peel, at a Fall gig in Cambridge. "Why am I not surprised you're here?"
7. Lemmy, playing Space Invaders of a venue's upstairs bar whilst NWOBHM band More rock the place's foundations. "Why don't you shoot them with the pus from your boils?"
8. Paul Shane, eating a "chicken tikka masala" in Llandudno. "Go on, Paul. Do You've Lost That Loving Feeling. Please? Pretty, pretty please?
9. George Melly, waiting for a train at Diss railway station. "Can I try your hat on?"
10. Vini Reilly, taking twenty minutes to order a large, crusty baguette and a mountain of cress in a cafe in Manchester. "Do you want a hand with that?"
11. Jim Davidson, telling jokes to his mates, outside a pub in Bexley. "Do you know why the BBC have over the years spent part of our licence fee keeping a known racist and homophobe in the lap of luxury?"
12. Ken Livingstone, not seen but heard in a Tottenham Court Road cinema. "What names did you give your newts?"
13. Dermot O'Leary, walking in Soho. "I've got no personality. Can you tell me how I can become famous?"
14. Bob Geldof, fingering and eating fruit from an outdoor greengrocer's stall in Faversham, accompanied by his lovely young family. "How's the music career going, Bob?"
15. Paul Gambaccini, in the cafe of the NFT. "Was Limahl ever too shy?"
You will notice that every single one of them is male. I did once see an actress who had a minor role in Coronation Street in a queue for jacket potatoes but I can't remember her name.
Why do I not see famous women? Are they better at disguising themselves in public?
I've been on my sickbed and been listening to The Ultimate Yes. Prog Man would be proud of me.
It's a great primer for a great band. Except, of course, for the deeply shit Trevor Horn/Trevor Rabin stuff.
Can anybody tell me why Trevor Horn is so lauded?
You probably know by now my historical association with Yes. My teenage years were dominated by them. I formed school friendships on the basis that those spotty boffins were fans of the band. I wonder how many of those old chums supported Yes through the 80s?
Then came a new wave of pub rock. Graham Parker and The Rumour, Dire Straits, Elvis Costello, Any Trouble. These were my new kings. Skinny white men with balding pates. Yes were consigned to the back burner until...
A few years ago I saw Prog Man wearing a Yes t-shirt. All those teenage yearnings for complicated guitar work and nonsensical lyrics came flooding back. I fell back in love with Jon Anderson's Lancastrian eunuch burr, Steve Howe's flights of fancy, and Chris Squire's liquid bass.
Yes were the soundtrack to my teenage years. Everybody's got one band or artist. Who were yours? Were there others at your school with similar tastes? Did you bond with them? Or were you an individual, piping up for your own personal Be Bop Deluxe or Al Stewart? And how do you feel about them now? Did you go off them or have you stayed true to the cause?
We know him as "Prog Man". He wears a different t-shirt every Saturday. Usually a prog band tour t-shirt. Though I have seen him wear a Who t-shirt (not prog) and a Doctor Who t-shirt. He is always alone.
On Saturday I noticed he was wearing a Jethro Tull Tour 2002 t-shirt.
"Mmmm, Jethro Tull," I thought.
"Come on," I said to Betty. "We're going to HMV to buy Jethro Tull's Greatest Hits."
"Just because you've seen Prog Man wearing a Jethro Tull t-shirt?" she said. "It's not going to be Yes all over again, is it?"
Living In The Past is a compilation of the Tull's early stuff. It's very good except for the two long live jams in the middle. What was it about the early 70s and tedious jams? We were listening to the double CD of George Harrison's All Things Must Pass the weekend before last. The extra tracks on the end are extended jams. Studio jams maybe, but jams none the less.
They should take a hint from Status Quo. Yes, Status Quo. The Best Of The Early Years by the Quo is jam-free. It's a whole bunch of classic pop songs, several even resembling the greatness of the early Bee Gees. The reviewer on Amazon is of the opinion that some of the tracks "are on a par with many tracks on Love's classic Forever Changes album."
High praise, indeed.
If you haven't got all three of these, your collection is not complete.
Ever since giving up using antiperspirants some years ago after a rather nasty stickiness under my right armpit developed, I've experimented with different types of "natural" deodorants.
I used Trust for a few years. You put it on once every five days and you "trust" it to work. It does to a certain extent. In times of stress at work, however, you can just sense the body odour breaking through.
I've tried PitRok, Bionsen, Thursday Plantation Tea Tree Roll On and Body Shop For Men. Once again, at times of stress they all let you down. The other people in my jury group probably still remember me as "the nervous-looking guy who smelt of fresh sweat. Not revoltingly unpleasant but he really could have done something about it".
Back when I was becoming a meat eater again after years of vegetarianism, I had a problem with chicken. In those early days of meat-eating, chicken made my face muscles twitch. I was getting used to a different kind of protein and my body was reacting appropriately. Something similar happened to me with antiperspirants.
I tried antiperspirants on a regular basis, about once every three months. Each time I got a very unpleasant reaction, a dragging ache emanating from the armpit area. The ache kept me awake and I always went back to my more "natural" deodorants after a few days.
Recently my stress levels have risen again and I've been scared of going near people. This time I thought "fuck it, either I go to Lush and stink out the whole of the office or I bite the bullet and force my pathetic body to accept antiperspirants. I did it with fucking chicken, surely a grown man can handle a bit of discomfort for a while."
So I bought a jar of Arrid Cream.
"Safely checks problem perspiration" "Unperfumed and non-irritating" "Will not stain or harm clothing" "Keeps you fresh all day long"
"Use every day to be sure you are safe from perspiration problems, safe from odour. Apply under arms. Rub in well. Wipe off excess."
And guess what? After a few days discomfort I have broken through the barrier and my body is accepting the cream with no side effects. I feel so confident. I can go into meetings, bust some balls, lean over women's shoulders to explain spreadsheets, hug sales staff when they make a deal, punch the air when profits are up, abseil, build bricks above my head, shoot paintball and get the boss in a headlock as we role play without fear of alienating myself because of poor personal hygiene.
Watching Soul Brother Number Two, Wilson Pickett, on the weird and wonderful series All You Need Is Love: The Story of Popular Music, I got to thinking about other musical artists and songs with names and titles associated with unions.
There's Gary Puckett (b. Pickett?) and the Union Gap.
There's There Is Power In A Union by Billy Bragg.
There's Union City Blue by Blondie.
There's Part of the Union by the Strawbs.
My dad was a union man (at a non-union firm). He loved the Strawbs song as he loved his solidarity with his imaginary comrades. But were the band taking the piss? "The sight of my card makes me some kind of superman"?
Strawbs. True socialists or piss-taking wankers? What do you think?
I'm not really much of a fan of modern horror films but Eden Lake seemed like it might be a laugh. And it was.
A middle class twat and his trusting teacher girlfriend go off in his gas guzzling Land Rover to experience nature in the middle of a forest in the English Midlands. Sat nav gets them there, his wanky macho scuba equipment and all.
Little do they know that the local village is home to nasty wonderfully stereotypical nightmare working class scum whose children are rampaging feral youths led by an absolute psychopath.
This is modern Britain, exactly why we're afraid to leave the sanctuary of our homes and cars.
*****
Watching the first of BBC's new Tess of the D'Urbervilles production I swore blind that the villain Alec D'Urberville was too young and too clean shaven. He should be 42 years old, evil-looking, with a moustache, I thought.
I studied the book for A-level all those years ago. I remember reading it in a park in Shanklin, Isle of Wight, with my top off in the sun, hoping to draw admiring glances at my physique and intellect. None were forthcoming, of course.
A little internet research tells me that Alec was 24. Presumably not moustachioed, either.
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.
