Blue Birds

A short interjection in amongst all my lovely fictional posts. Otherwise you'll forget who I am!

My long affair with the British public house is finally over. Saturday night was several beers and one violent stare too many. I had to concentrate on my friend's face in order to avoid eye contact with a drunk man with an evil look. And I swore I'd never drink in the same pub as my dad ever again!

As for the beer, I felt sick all Sunday and all I could manage that evening was a soothing gin and orange. Wine? Oh yes, wine too. But the rush I used to get from beer just isn't there any more. It's been replaced by nausea.

In other news, my mum's friend's over from Canada, mainly to see Vera Lynn in concert. At 92, I doubt Vera will be up to much singing. But I'm sure it will be an emotional afternoon and a jolly good sing-song, though the audience will mainly be the sons and daughters of Vera's Wartime fans.

Vera's chart comeback makes me wonder who was the Vera Lynn of our War, The Falklands.

Clare Grogan, perhaps?

The Nostradamus Eleven

Nostradamus (pictured above) is probably most famous for his amazing prophecy which predicted the Second World War, to be instigated by an evil, shady character called Hister (our "Hitler").

What is less known is his prediction that an England football team would win the World Cup. Incredibly, the old goat kept a notebook in which he wrote down the names of all the players in the 1966 England World Cup Final team, other characters involved in the competition and even drew remarkable sketches which, thanks to modern computer technology, have recently been transformed into monochrome and even colour photographs!

So, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I am pleased to present to you...

ALF RIMSEY'S GOLDEN WONDERS


Head Coach: Alf Rimsey


Gordon Bonks


George Coben



Jackie Chilton


Bobby Mayre


Ray Wilkins


Alan Balls


Nobby Steel


Martin Peterson


Bobby Chilton


Roger Hunter


Geoff Hister

Nostradamus had such incredible powers he even foresaw that the cup itself would be stolen and then thankfully found by a remarkable animal...


Dog, Biggles, with owner and World Cup

And who could forget the mascot of that great tournament?


World Cup Wally

The Edible Shrinking Man

I walked through the open microwave oven door.

"Do me!" I said.

"I can't do it," she said.

"Shut the door and turn the dial!"

The oven ceiling was a good two inches above my head. I was ready for death, though I could have done with a plastic horse to sit on as the plate rotated.

"If you loved me you'd do it!"

Margaret rushed out of the kitchen in tears. Left me all alone.

What had made me think she could kill the man she loved? She'd stayed with me, hadn't she? Through months of watching me shrink from a six foot hunk to a five inch mouse. I jumped out of the oven and made my way to the intercom.

"Margaret, I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

She came and got me and put me on my chair in front of the plasma tv. The big screen.

"So, what's it to be?" she said, sorting through the DVDs. "Gulliver's Travels?"

I shook my head forcefully. I'd had enough of that shit, night after night.

"Inch High, Private Eye?"

She gave me that smile she gave me when she told me she was pregnant, all those years ago. She couldn't have! How could she have got it? It wasn't out for another three months by which time I'd be the size of an ant!

I couldn't contain my glee.

"You've got it! You've got it!" I jumped up and down for sheer joy.

"That's why I couldn't cook you, my darling. Maybe after we've watched this a few times, eh? Maybe when Graham comes round on Sunday. We'll watch this for the last time, all together. Then I'll do a nice roast. With all the trimmings."

The Greens' Staycation

Mr & Mrs Green planned their staycation with military precision. Each day they were to rise early, take breakfast on the patio, pack their rucksacks with books, sun cream, hats, umbrellas and medication, and take a gentle stroll to the train station with plenty of time to buy tickets for their destination.

The Greens were not affected by the credit crunch. They just wanted a carbon-neutral year. They wanted the local economy to benefit so their budget was to be without limit. By not spending all that money on travel and accommodation, they could do whatever they wanted to, without reason.

Mrs Green fancied the London Eye. Mr Green didn't so much as he had a terrible fear of heights. He didn't mind flying but those pods looked so exposed up there!

On the other hand, Mr Green liked the idea of the London Aquarium. But guess what! Mrs Green had a fish phobia!

But, of course, the beauty of a staycation is that all that money saved on fares and hotels can be spent on things that don't damage the environment. And it so happened that Mr & Mrs Green knew exactly what to do to ensure they both enjoyed every second of their two weeks off.

They would spend the money on seeing a hypnotherapist to conquer their fears.

So for the equivalent of two weeks in the Bahamas they got to go on a big wheel and see some cunting fish. And it pissed down with rain most of the days.

The Busker

An old geezer once asked me to play some Dylan. Wrong generation, mate. Your classics are not necessarily mine.

The oldest song I play is Every Breath You Take. Most of my set is stuff from the 90s. Losing My Religion, High And Dry. I might even throw in the odd Wonderwall or Don't Look Back In Anger to please the masses.

I had this group of lads once, stopped and sang along. Wanted me to do an Oasis medley. I didn't mind doing it. It was a laugh. You don't get many laughs as a busker.

Sometimes you might see a married couple and you get eye contact with the woman. On her way to M&S or Sainsbury's, the old man in tow. At that moment you feel like you're singing just to her. That's a sweet feeling, that connection. A sweet feeling.

Nothing Idyllic (For Liz Jones)

Country life is not for the faint-hearted, It is red in both tooth and claw. Yet it happens time and time again that a city dweller has a totally unrealistic chocolate box idea of the country and without a great deal of research foolishly ups sticks and moves to what they think will be a rural idyll.

But there's nothing idyllic about mucking out your own husband's shit. Nothing idyllic about having a ewe vomit into your face as your husband pulls out a bloody, gunky newly-born lamb as his shit runs down his legs into his Wellington boots. Nothing idyllic about having to drive 30 miles to a chemist for Imodium as your husband sits in the back of the Land Rover, shitting into a bucket. Nothing idyllic about having your husband shit on you during intercourse as he cannot control his bowels as he ejaculates. Nothing idyllic about hosting a dinner party round the Aga and as you tuck into your organic lamb you hear your husband in the adjoining lavatory, evacuating for England. Nothing idyllic about having lunch in a quiet country pub and your husband coming out of the Gents letting loose a noxious smell which permeates the bar for the next 20 minutes.

No, country living is no bed of roses. But I would not want it any other way.

Billy Bus

Billy Bus was a big red beast, a gentle giant. He moved through town with extra special care, looking out for pedestrians and other vehicles, never jolted forward like some other buses, and treated all his passengers the same, from the most courteous to the very rudest. He bore vandalism, sex, violence, fast food and body odour like the trouper he was. He never complained but worked hard from morning till night.

About a year ago, some middle class fucking cunt wrote a children's book about him and made a fucking fortune. The stories are currently being made into a very profitable television series.

Did Billy get any of the proceeds? Did he fuck! He continues to work as hard as he ever did for absolutely no reward.

The Face Off

They were in the pub, the rugby crowd. Having a good time with their pints and their rugby songs. The landlord had never had any trouble with the rugby crowd. Boisterous, yes, but good humoured.

Then things turned nasty.

A gang of golfers walked in, fresh from the links. Every one was in a bad mood as they'd each shot a 10 on the 18th hole. They were spoiling for a fight.

The smallest golfer caught the hooker's eye. They were brothers and hated each other for their choices in life. The golfer had left school at 16 to become a plumber. The hooker was a chartered accountant. They both had large houses on the same estate, but never talked to each other, were never at the same family gatherings. The last time they'd spoken there'd been blood.

"Alright, lads," said the landlord. "What can I get you?"

"Little drinks for little balls," said the hooker, looking directly at his brother.

"Now come on, lads. We don't want any trouble, do we?" said the landlord.

"We all shot a 10 on the 18th," said the smallest golfer. "Our weekend can't get any worse. We've come here to drown our sorrows. We don't want any trouble, either. But if trouble comes looking for us..."

"Hear! Hear!" said the other golfers, as one.

The rugby crowd put their pints on the bar. Each of them stared daggers at a separate golfer. The hooker had fratricide in his eyes.

"Come on, lads," said the landlord. "Let's settle this like gentlemen, shall we? What about a nice game of darts? Winning team gets a free round."

Suddenly, in walked Mr Cockle, Purveyor Of Fine Seafoods.

"Seafood!" he growled, in such a smooth, sensual way.

The tension was broken, the brothers' stares melted, the rugby crowd picked up their pints, and they all mingled like long lost friends, feasting on whelks.

Antisocial Basterds

You've probably guessed by now that the scenes described in the last couple of posts on this blog didn't really happen. Real-life events are so unreal at the moment that the only way I can conceive of responding to them is to write fiction. So please bear with me as I go completely mad.

I've got a two week break coming up and will be taking another "staycation". I have the following activities penciled in. Will we enjoy ourselves or are there other things we could be doing or seeing within an hour or so's train ride of London?

1. Oxford
2. London Zoo
3. Inglourious Basterds
4. Little Venice Circular Walk

These are all daytime activities, of course. Evenings are for sitting in front of the telly, drinking ourselves into oblivion. Antisocial basterds that we are.

Bob Boskins

An old actor friend of mine died a few weeks ago. At his funeral there were all these luvvie types saying how he would have wanted us to celebrate his life, not mourn his death. You know the scene from Four Weddings & A Funeral? Just like that, it was.

This twat in a beret got up and performed a poem. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." His was a very soft voice which did not rage well but there was not one dry eye in the house, save mine.

It was a Humanist funeral, full of smug cunts. A Dawkins-lite tosser in a cream suit took the service. Fuck knows how he managed to sneak Darwin into it, but I suppose the deceased was a bit ape-like.

The spit of Bob Hoskins, in fact. I used to call him the cockney Bob Hoskins. I did this short at film school, Bob Boskins, in which he played the leading role. You've seen Being John Malkovich? Based on Bob Boskins, that was. Did I get the credit? Did I, fuck.

So they played a Rufus Wainwright song as we all took a few minutes to remember our friend. Rufus Wainwright. I hate him. My dead friend hated him. He obviously wanted me to suffer because he knew all those luvvie types like all that fake emotion.

Bastard.

Four Hands

"Free Kleenex tissues!"

It happens about once a month. I exit the train station and they're there, blocking the pavement.

"Free tissues!"

Free tissues. A little pack of Kleenex tissues. The anti-viral sort that kill germs.

Not very useful for me. I use more toilet paper than I do tissues most days. And I don't think anti-viral tissues are suitable for wiping your arse.

"Free tissues!"

People are lapping them up. Look at him! That bloke over there! He can't get enough free tissues. He opens one of his packets. He takes out a tissue. He holds it to his hooter and blows. He feels good. He feels so good he might wipe his arse on one of the tissues later. I wouldn't if I were him. But I think he's going to. You don't get much for nothing nowadays and what you do get you've got to get maximum value out of it. Not only blow his nose and wipe his arse, he may well have a little wank into one when he gets home. Just a little one, half a teaspoon or so. They're not mansize you see, but they will kill 99% of the germs in his jizz. If only he could do all three at once. Blow his nose, wipe his arse and have a little wank. But he'd need four hands for that. Count them.

Flags And Blood

I am not "West 'am". No matter how much I love the team I have never and would never fight for its name. Whatever that means. My relationship is with the team and the team alone. I am not a supporter. I am a fan.

When I've been to matches I've felt conscious of people around me. But I get so lost in the game that what they're saying or doing doesn't interest me in the slightest. Chants are background noise. I'm there but it's as if I'm watching it on tv. I feel tuned in to what's going on on the pitch and I block out everything else. Even the annoying bloke with the loud voice in the row behind me.

I am a fan. A supporter is a different animal. He or she feels at one with their fellow supporters. At its extreme, this feeling translates into a violent pride in their own people and an antipathy towards others. All the more so if the others are as close as family. Family who choose to wrap themselves in a different flag.

All this bollocks about going back to the dark days of the 70s and 80s! Proud allegiance has always been and always will be dark.

Wave a flag and you've got blood on your hands.

Conkers and Clackers

Primary school was kind of OK. I wasn't bullied by any of the boys and even made friends with a few of them. The one Asian kid's school life was probably hell as I don't remember anybody making friends with him.

I was, however, once bullied by one of the girls. Lesley gave me a Chinese burn. So I told my mum and one afternoon by the school gates my mum got hold of her by the arms and shook her. She wouldn't touch me again.

Apart from that one incident I didn't have any dealings with the girls. I didn't play kiss chase.

In the year of the clackers we crowded into the shelter out of the rain at playtime and made a cacophonous noise. Knuckles were hurt and eyes were dislodged. I was very nervous of clackers but didn't want to show it. I closed my eyes and clacked for England.

More hand pain came with the conker season. Clackers were banned by the government but conkers remained as part of the playtime syllabus. I went to the park with the twins and we'd throw branches up at the massive horse chestnut trees, bringing fresh conkers down in their dozens. We got pretty accurate at throwing. Conkers were either put in the freezer section of the fridge along with the ice pops or pickled in large jars, along with the onions. You had to do something to your conker to prepare it for battle.

My literary life was gathering pace, too. I soon grew out of Peter and Jane and moved onto comics. None of those namby pamby children's books for me. I read Whizzer & Chips from cover to cover but never considered myself a Whizz-Kid or a Chip-ite. I was my own man.

I read other comics, too. But never the super-hero type or that prat Roy of the Rovers. Mine were more down-to-earth, prototype Viz comics. My favourite character was a boy who could only play football in his unwashed bare feet. You'd see him in the bath, his feet on the rim, nice and dirty.

Education, Education...Oh, please yerselves

Good luck to all the students who've just received their A-Level results (even the twats amongst them). I remember the complete and utter sense of joy when I opened my envelope. I leapt in the air with the other girls in my school as we all got straight As and all looked forward to a life of privilege.

I was thinking there must be some people who, even in their 20s, 30s, 40s and higher, are interested in how their old school does each year. They have a sense of pride or disappointment or pride mixed with disappointment or maybe anger that in their day their school's results weren't as good because teachers back then were so fucking hopeless they couldn't even sew their own leather patches on their jacket elbows let alone get the brightest young people of a generation into the best universities.

I was most impressed this year by the poor East London boy who got into Cambridge.

Surprise, surprise, throwing the equivalent of £24,000 a year's worth of education at a poor kid, you end up with a similar result as you do if mummy and daddy pay for their little cherub's future. It seems the experiment worked and we now know we're all the same under the skin.

Books For Blokes

What about those Bloomsbury Good Reading Guides. Useful, aren't they?

The one I find most useful is 100 Must-Read Books For Men.

Cos I'm a man, you see. You can tell just by looking at me.

The book's recommended authors include Lance Armstrong, Len Deighton, Tony Parsons, Jeremy Clarkson. Yes, it's really arty, as you'd expect a book with the name "Bloomsbury" on the cover.

And just imagine my testosterone going into overdrive as I ambled through the library at the weekend. After flicking through Wife In The North in the Quick Choice section, my eyes alighted on a sign.

"Books For Blokes".

I was like a pig in shit. James May, Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, Peter Crouch, Lee Sharpe, Jonny Wilkinson, Chris Moyles, George Lamb, Graham Norton. The literary taste of every man in Britain was represented. I took an armful to the self-service machine and withdrew those books in such a manly way the young female library assistant literally fainted at my feet.

I think she'd been reading too many Mills & Boons.

Don't You Find The Weeks Are Getting Shorter?

Hi there. It's good to be back and it's good to have the football back. Good luck to all your teams and look out for Carlton Cole this season. The big man is either going to be immense or he's going to snap his cruciate ligament today against The Wolves and leave us with no centre forward.

This week I have been reading Rog's recommendation, Billy Liar. I like the book a lot but once again it's let down by the blurb on the cover. "Dictator, soldier, cripple, successful novelist, convict; this is Billy, a hero for our times." Um, no, not really. Just a selfish young man trapped in a shitty life.

Last week Tim tweeted about how good The Korgis were. So, with just their most famous song on Spotify, I took a chance and bought their Very Best. And very good it is, too.

Here's a truncated version of their first hit which you won't find on Spotify. Apparently it's "un tema que popularizo Rod Stewart". So it wasn't a hit in Spain, then?

Ladybird, Ladybird, Fly Away Home

We found our dream house, a three bedroom semi. Large garden for me to run around in. This was 1966, a year of affordable housing for an ordinary single income working family. You would need three incomes nowadays to get anything similar.

I was back on familiar ground. Back to the three of us. So much more civilised.

I started school again. Even though it was a small school, I hated being with all those children. And the teachers were so old, older than my parents.

The alphabet was drilled into us. The times table was, too. We started to read about those lovely children, Peter and Jane. Peter and Jane loved each other like most brothers and sisters in fiction. I wonder where they are now? Do they still keep in touch?

The Peter and Jane books were published by Ladybird. A different Ladybird made children's clothes. And then, of course, there were the real ladybirds in the garden in summer. Of the three, I preferred the insects. Ladybird books and Ladybird clothes weren't particularly exciting. They weren't alive.

I "played" with the girl next door. Meaning we were put together so one of the mothers could be free for a bit. I was still in my own little world and wanted nothing but my own company.

Eventually I made some friends. Or rather they made friends with me. The twins were nine months younger than me and in the class below. They were cousins of my second cousins so I guess that's how we ended up together. I was a spoilt only-child and had toys and they liked to play with my toys. One of them was more boisterous than the other and broke a lot of my toys.

I started supporting West Ham as West Ham had won the World Cup for England. Bobby Moore was my favourite player as he was the world's best player. My choice of football team wasn't based on geography or tradition. My dad had been a Charlton supporter because they were the nearest team to Bexley. I was a glory hunter, just like those Cockney Reds. All I could see in front of my eyes was a future of trophies and winning heroes, crying with joy. A lifetime of success.

The Grim Reaper

The phone rings. I pick it up.

"Hello, this is Terry from Uncut Magazine. You were previously a subscriber."

"Yes."

"We don't like to lose our readers. We're offering you the next three months of Uncut for only £5."

"No, thank you."

"Oh. Can you tell me why you stopped subscribing to Uncut?"

"I was just bored with it, basically."

"Oh. Thank you for your time."

I am amazed this magazine is still going. Those of its readers who aren't stopping their subscriptions must be dying off. Yes, Allan Jones has 8 million stories to tell, but they're all exactly the same. Allan gets pissed with Nick Lowe or Elvis Costello or Ian Gomm or Wreckless Eric or Billy Bremner or the bloke who played the drums for Ducks Deluxe. Big deal, Allan.

The magazine's obsession with so-called "Americana" was bordering on the insane. Bands who get audiences of three perennially single middle aged men wearing Bob Dylan 2005 Tour t-shirts and reeking of onions were getting double page spreads! The reviews always included "stunning" returns to form by artists who peaked in the 1960s and whose new albums were recorded on life support machines. The covers featured close ups of male artists so old that we were actually on a government register as corpse fetishists.

So, no, I didn't take up Terry's offer. For music was my first love. And it will be my last.

But it's gotta have some life in it for gawd's sake.

OU Pretty Things**

"In the darkly-comic Hangover Square, Patrick Hamilton brilliantly evoked a seedy, fog-bound world of saloon bars, lodging houses and boozing philosophers, immortalizing the slang and conversational tone of a whole generation and capturing the premonitions of doom that pervaded London life in the months before the War."

Christ, it's no wonder I only got an 'E' for my English Literature 'A' level.

1. I didn't get the humour.

2. I didn't recognise the seediness.

3. I don't remember any fog.

4. I think saloon bars are sophisticated, especially in comparison with public bars.

5. I don't remember the characters philosophising.

6. Was there any slang? I can't recall any.

7. How did these few selfish people represent a whole generation?

8. Were they that bothered about the forthcoming war?

Still, that is the blurb on the back of the book. I was inside the main character's head, saying "Kill them, kill them, kill them." and "Run away, run away, run away." I got completely immersed. I didn't see all the things you're supposed to see as a student of literature.

And that's where my problem lies, where I don't fit into the world of literary education. I am either swept along by a book or I couldn't give a shit. Usually it's the latter.

And speaking of education, did you see the documentary about the Open University? Lenny Henry said that without his extremely hard-earned OU degree he would never have played Othello. Why? Because doing a degree made him into a natural actor, I presume.

Not only is he a new Gielgud, but Lenny now understands every nuance of every Shakespeare play, as mere mortals who haven't done a degree could never do.

Myleene Klass is also doing an OU degree. I just don't know where she gets the time as she is such a busy lady. If I were even half as busy as Lenny Henry or Myleene Klass there is no way I'd find the time to study for a degree.

Kudos to the pair of them.



** Title copyright Betty

I'm An Edinburgh Man, Myself

What a load of bollocks in today's Guardian about increased ticket sales this year for the Edinburgh Fringe.

"This increase in popularity is also put down to greater numbers of "staycationers" - people having their annual holidays at home, as well as the need to find an escape from the recession through comedy, theatre and the arts."

I think what we have here with these fucking staycationers and the fashionably frugal Cath Kidston frock-botherers is the pampered rich middle class playing at being affected by the recession.

You're spending your "annual holiday" (as if you only have two weeks off a year) "escaping the recession" (as if you don't do that every day you're in paid employment) "through comedy, theatre and the arts" (as if anybody on jobseeker's allowance could afford any of these poncey evenings out).

Why not spend your time off turning off your computer and your Sky tv, shopping for tins at Lidl and getting a book out of the library? Pretend you really are unemployed.

Cameron Crow

The David Cameron smarm offensive on Absolute Radio (previously Virgin Radio for those who give a fuck about U2) included not only a dig at something he quite clearly doesn't understand but also a bit of a grovel to government-maker Rupert Murdoch.

Apparently Cameron "loves" Sky Plus.

Nice one, cuntchops.

Christian O'Connell himself was being a bit of a crawl-arsing bastard (my dad's turn of phrase) and the two chaps got on like a house on fire.

Cameron even had time to appeal to thick female students when he lied that he was a big fan of Paolo Nutini.

As we all know, anybody who likes the deeply cerebral Radiohead's noodlings would hold no truck with sincere Scottish blue-eyed soul, possibly the worst form of music in the history of the world.

Back To Bexley

I am more like my dad than my mum. Quiet. Though he had more of an adventurous childhood. He had a best friend to be adventurous with. Quietly.

In Christchurch I had no friends and I couldn't have been happier. Then all of a sudden we were on the move again. My mum had really had enough of being starved of adult company. A quiet husband wasn't enough for a fiercely sociable 34 year old woman.

So we moved back to the borough of Bexley. But we weren't able to get our own place straight away. We spent the next several months at my dad's parents' small terraced three bedroom council house. This was punishment for my mum for bringing us back. And not particularly pleasant for a young child used to space and privacy.

My dad's parents were quiet, too. My grandfather relaxed by doing the pools and watching the wrestling. The pools and the wrestling seemed to take forever, all Saturday. My grandmother seemed to spend all her time in the kitchen, boiling socks. Fish and chips from the chip shop was a weekly treat.

I remember by bedroom wallpaper most of all. It scared the shit out of me when I was ill. And I seemed to spend most of my time in that house with one sickness or another.

Shapes moved. They became three dimensional. They throbbed, heaved, backwards and forwards, side to side, span and spiraled. The wallpaper was alive and its only reason for being was to drive me mad with nausea and fear.

I started school, a tiny school around the corner. I immediately contracted measles. The wallpaper had a field day and the measles perforated my eardrum. My mum and dad were arguing. My grandparents were, too. They were all only keeping together for the child. The sick, weak child in the box bedroom.

Come on, Dad. Hurry up and get a deposit on that dream house!

Libraries Gave Us Power

In response to a complaint about our library's self-help service, a council spokesman said the following:-

"The use of self-service enables staff to perform more customer-focused functions within the libraries, such as helping choose books and offering guidance on the use of the public computers."

I don't need to use the public computers but any suggestions on which books I might enjoy reading are welcome.

So the next time I see my favourite library assistant I will ask her if she could point me in the direction of suitable books. I'll say I'm 47 years old, I enjoy intelligent films and television, have extremely catholic taste in non-bland music, and am leaning more towards non-fiction as I get older though I have recently enjoyed reading the library's stock of John Wyndham books and am currently enjoying Patrick Hamilton's Hangover Square. My political views are pretty left wing for this day and age, I do not wish to read about sport as the only sport I like is football and footballers' autobiographies are notoriously fucking brainless, I hate Jeremy Clarkson with a passion, Stephen Fry, though I think he's a nice chap, bores me senseless, comedians and journalists are mostly a bunch of tossers, I went through a period of reading plays in my 20s but I've grown out of that now, same with Philip K Dick, I do like a bit of poetry but couldn't sit down and read a whole anthology, I am not interested in anything a man of my age is supposed to enjoy such as cars, trains, Brunel, DIY, finance, religion, eighteen year old girls, murdering the mother-in-law, koi carp or fucking Wii.

"Please, Mrs Library Assistant? Can you point me in the right direction?"

Blind Date

Hattie Lancaster, 33, PR and Marketing Executive

Mark Barrett, 32, Systems Analyst

MARK ON HATTIE

First impressions Friendly and outgoing. I was very nervous and a bit tongue-tied to begin with so I was relieved she took the initiative.

What did you talk about? Anything and everything. From Rothko to Andy Murray's chances of eventually winning Wimbledon. And music. We were both at the same Animal Collective gig!

Any awkward moments? I dropped my fork on the floor but the waiter was nearby and quickly gave me a clean one.

Good table manners? Excellent.

Best thing about her? She was funny and interesting. And she has a lovely smile.

Did you go on somewhere? She had to be up early the next day. So, no.

Marks out of 10? 8.

Would you meet again? Yes.

HATTIE ON MARK

First impressions? He seemed a little nervous. A friendly face, though.

What did you talk about? Music, mainly. And Andy Murray for about half an hour.

Any awkward moments? He sneezed into his hand then asked me if I had a tissue.

Good table manners? I've seen a lot worse. And a lot better, I'm afraid.

Best thing about him? He likes some good music.

Did you go on somewhere? I had a long journey home and had to get up early the next morning.

Marks out of 10? 5.

Would you meet again? I may see him at a gig. But, no, there was no spark between us.


Mark and Hattie met at some poncey expensive middle-class wanky restaurant in London.

Part Review Of A Book I Took Out Of The Library Using The Self-Service Machine

I am currently reading NOT IN MY NAME: A COMPENDIUM OF MODERN HYPOCRISY by JULIE BURCHILL & Chas Newkey-Burden.

Yes, that's how their names are written on the front of the book as everybody's heard of JULIE BURCHILL and nobody's heard of Chas Newkey-Burden.

It's very entertaining of course, as most things JULIE BURCHILL is involved with. Mainly because both the writers tend to see things in black and white.

There are no grey areas.

I'm just waiting for the moment when they get together on the last page and say:-

"LET'S BOMB IRAN!" just like that dickhead Kenny Everett did at that Tory Party conference.

OK, that was Russia and that was *funny*. Bollocks was it.

Peace, Julie.

Suicide Is Painless

I'm sure the verdict on Michael Jackson's death will eventually be "Death By Misadventure".

But for the so-called Peter Pan of Pop, an overdose of painkillers is somewhat less of a misadventure than, say, flying too close to the sun.

All That Dorset Has To Offer

Christchurch was lovely. I loved it. My dad went out to work and I had nobody but my mum for company. We'd go out for walks to the shops, get the bus to the seaside. I got a little brown body in the south coast sun and a Batman outfit in which I ran down Bournemouth High Street, oblivious to the crowds.

I went back to Christchurch a few years ago. Surprisingly I could kind of remember it. The waterside, the park, the castle, the high street. Most people in Christchurch are now retired. My parents' generation. In a different life we could have stayed there and I could have developed a regional burr.

My dad loved it there, too. He enjoyed working for Shand Kydd and was settled in the house and town.

But my mum hated it. She wasn't making friends. She missed her parents and sisters. As entertaining as I was, I was not adult company. I wasn't due to go to school for over a year so there were no young mothers for my mum to chat to. It was a pretty lonely existence in a very nice place.

Two memories that stick out for me from our year in Christchurch were both frightening. Once we were crossing a bridge over the railway just as a steam train whistled underneath us. And once my cousin was babysitting me and the silly girl got it into her head that there was a prowler in the house.

But with my mum in the house I was safe. Happy playing by myself in the living room, listening to food being prepared, rooms being hoovered and the quiet druggy sound of the radio.

As my mum was going mad with loneliness, I was loving my own little world.

As for my dad?

Was he in his own world, too?

Bring Back Robin Day

Last night we watched Question Time for the first time in years. Jarvis Cocker was this week's non-politician and he's usually entertaining.

Jarvis didn't really have much to say and only seemed to be on there for the Michael Jackson question at the end.

But demonstrating just how far to the right the Labour Party has gone over the years, I found myself in agreement with Iain Duncan Smith on identity cards and with Peter Hitchens re. the railways.

i.e.

Identity cards are a waste of money
The railways should be re-nationalised

It was also a bit rich of Jarvis to slag off Michael Jackson for being crap for the past twenty odd years when Jarvis himself hasn't exactly set the world alight with his solo "career".

Though still staunchly anti-Tory for most of their views I found myself getting more angry at the audience than the panel. They seemed to clap at everything like performing seals. You even get members of the audience with seemingly very strong views asking leading questions then applauding the panelists who give completely the opposite opinions. What kind of mind-altering drugs are these people on? If the Question Time audience is supposedly a cross section of the public, do we have a public of moronic floating voters agreeing with everybody then closing their eyes to place their cross on the ballot paper?

Probably.

Me And The Muggers

Dino went to a good home and I was allowed my own space. I was an only child and I soon learned to play alone, happy in the company of Baby and Daddy Mugger, my two pandas.

My first few years were spent in Welling, not far from where Kate Bush was growing up. Except she lived on a farm. A Welling with a farm is a different Welling from the Welling I've always known. Maybe she lived in a magical, invisible farm in the sky above Welling.

My mum and dad were pretty close to their respective sisters and parents so there was quite a lot of visiting. I didn't enjoy the company of people outside my immediate family. I knew most of them were nice and they gave me nice drinks and nice things to eat but I would rather have been alone with Baby and Daddy Mugger and my toy cars. I loved the shapes and colours and metallic feel of the cars and they would tootle along at a nice slow pace under my gentle guidance. I had no truck with those children who hurtled their cars along as if they were machines of destruction. Those crashing, smashing little bastards were all around but not yet destroying my toys. Not yet.

When I was four my dad got a job as an engraver for the Shand Kydd wallpaper company. The job was on the south coast and we upped sticks for Christchurch. The next year was to be one of the happiest years of my life and one of my mum's most miserable. They say you can't please all the people...

My Tiny Carbon Footprint

No, your eyes do not deceive you, we are still at home.

I woke up at three o'clock on Saturday morning and immediately had a panic attack. It's not the first time. They usually occur when I'm away from home and have had a stressful day's driving. This time it was the night before. I still don't feel right now.

So bollocks to Wales. Last time we were there I nearly killed ourselves and the people in the other car. I'm not a reckless driver but I do sometimes lose concentration when I get tired. Which is every afternoon thanks to this bloody medication I'm on.

Anyway, I'll stop whingeing and make a list of nice places I will take my lovely car in future.

1. ASDA.
2. Sainsbury's/Homebase.
3. My mum's.
4. Bluewater, if they ever show a decent film ever again.
5. Ebbsfleet International Train Station for those exotic foreign holidays.
6. The council tip.
7. The petrol station.
8. The place where they service the car.

If it wasn't for the car I don't know how I'd survive.

Look, You're Getting These For Free, What Else Do You Want?

Before I leave you for a week I have something to get off my chest.

Yesterday I took some books back to the library and picked up some I wanted to take out.

"You can use the self-service computer to return and take out books," says the library assistant at the counter where there is no queue.

So I try to scan the books I'm returning and there is a malfunction. A teenage library assistant clears it for me and takes away the book that doesn't scan.

I try to work out how to scan my library card to take the new books out. The screen demonstrates a hand feeding a card into a slot. I have a hand and a card. But I see no slot.

I go back to the original assistant. There is still no queue.

"Can I take them out here? I can't work out how to use the computer."

"It's very straightforward once you've done it once."

"Well I haven't done it once."

"Maybe next time you'll get more help."

"Is it now policy to direct customers to the self-service computer?"

"It's very easy, you know."

I was trying to bond with her, to agree how terrible it was that stupid rules meant that even though there was hardly anybody in the library, library assistants like her weren't allowed to do the job they'd been trained to do. Of course the reality was, she was thinking...

"They employ these young girls to do nothing. I'm not going to work my arse off while these young girls are walking around the library with nothing to do, getting paid for doing nothing. I've been here for five years. Does seniority count for nothing? I'm going to have it out with the senior librarian. That young slip of a thing should be explaining to customers exactly how to use the self-service computer. She should stand over them while they do it, correcting any mistakes, making sure that the next time they use it they won't come running to me. I am more important than her. I shouldn't be spending my time behind a counter checking in books and checking them out, rushed off my feet, when some young thing who hasn't been here five minutes can't even pull her finger out to help the public properly!"

Sci Fi Wi Fi

My amazing life story will have to be on hold for a couple of weeks. I'm on holiday, taking a well earned break.

For some crazy reason I fancy reading some science fiction. I've just finished Richard Matheson's entertaining yet laborious The Shrinking Man. Couldn't get on with Neil Gaiman or Brian Aldiss. Got some Wyndham and Bradbury lined up. I like them. Or at least I think I do.

Any others you can recommend? As the actress said to the bishop, I think I had enough Dick in my younger days.

Asimov any good?

Child Or Dog?

When she was pregnant with me, my mum worked at the Atomic Energy. I don't think she personally handled atoms and I don't think whatever she did there harmed me in any way. Her best friend at the Atomic was carrying at the same time. A girl.

I was born in the cold December of 1961. A Wednesday's woeful child, full of tears.

I've still got the mark where they put the needle in. Antibiotics straight into my chubby little leg. I've got the mark but not the memory. I remember nothing from baby years.

The first thing I can recall is riding my tricycle, legs pumping away like manic sausages, heading along the pavement for my dad as he came home from work, a packet of Murraymints for my consumption about his person.

I don't remember our dog. Dino was named after the Flintstones' pet dinosaur and loved nothing more than to eat my mum's cigarettes. The possible risks of having a small child and a dog together were thought insignificant. But a small child and a dog who eats your cigarettes were too much for my mum's meagre housekeeping to handle. The cigarettes were essentials. So either the child or the dog had to go...

The Life Of Brian

After nearly five years of this I'm a little lost for things to say. I think it's time I set myself a little project to get me going again.

So, for the forseeable future, I will dedicate this blog to my life story. Starting right from when I was a cute little tot. How does that grab you?

They say everybody's got a story to tell and this will be mine. You will laugh, you will cry.

No, bollocks will you cry.

You'll laugh.

Not with me.

At me.

I Don't Do Facebook

I am a hypocrite. Banksy really pisses me off for hiding his/her real identity from the world. Yet I refuse to join Facebook as I don't want my own name out there, having to make friends with people I'd rather not be friends with.

The rush for Facebook Vanity URLs is presumably now over. It's too late for me to be the biggest "Geoff Twat" on the internet. Let some other Twat be the biggest Twat. See if I care.

From what I've seen of Facebook it seems to be populated with:-

1. Pictures of groups of pissed young women with red eye.

2. Pictures of groups of pissed young men with red eye.

3. Pictures of groups of pissed young women and pissed young men together with red eye.

4. Pictures of wedding parties on tropical beaches, including the bride's two young children from her first marriage.

What a load of bollocks! But then again I don't see what you bloggers get up to on there. Am I missing out?

Terrible Middle Class Humour

Reading John O'Farrell's An Impartial History Of Britain Or 2000 Years Of Upper Class Idiots In Charge I am struck by a surfeit of terrible middle class humour. It's there on every page, sometimes more than once a page. It is too much to take.

In my lifetime, I have been bombarded with terrible middle class humour. Time and time again I have sat down to watch a tv show and there it is, terrible middle class humour, sniggering at itself, thinking it's clever, thinking it's funny.

I bought this book last year at a reduced price. I haven't felt so short-changed since that awful Bill Bryson one.

Now where's my Jim Davidson autobiography?

Teenage Angst

Although a lazy sod at home, at work I work hard. I work to pay the bills. Job satisfaction involves getting some figures to agree.

Today I googled someone who went to the same two schools as me. He's a professor now.

He had enthusiasm for his subjects. Straight A's at A Level. Degree, postgraduate degree. Enthusiasm all the way through. He must have had it, mustn't he? You don't get to be a professor without an enormous amount of enthusiasm for your subject.

Some people just naturally fit in with the way the world's been constructed. I'm incredibly jealous of them.

Last week I was asked if I've always liked figures. I said no, I've never liked them, but I can live with them. I like words and music. But words and music don't pay the bills. Unless you're very lucky or very talented.

Why couldn't I have been born with enthusiasm for things that I could earn money from rather than things I've spent thousands on? Why did my parents have to have me?

Everything's so unfair.

Farage Balloon

9.05 p.m...

"Oh, it's that programme with Meera Syal. I like her. She's a good woman and really intelligent. Her husband's good as well. Do you like him, Geoff? He's got a new show starting soon, Sanjeev."

9.30 p.m...

"It was such a long list, wasn't it? Too big for the booth. I was looking at some of the names. Did you see Labour had three Indian names? That settled it, I wasn't going to vote for them. It took me ages to find UKIP. They weren't called UKIP, though. They were called the UK something or other."

Don't Believe The Hype - Broadstairs Is Crap, Too

Isn't the weather glorious? OMG!

It's days like these that I wish I was by the coast. But not any old coast.

The papers show pictures of crowded beaches. Usually Bournemouth, sometimes Brighton. You know, an easy day's return from London.

There's nothing more unappetising to me than a day on a crowded beach. You need space on a beach. You need to be able to walk along it without having to slalom burning bodies.

I want to be by the coast but I don't want crowds. I want a nice walk along a deserted beach, a nice walk along a not too vertiginous cliff top and a nice few hours sitting, reading, listening to the waves.

I'm bored with the seaside in Kent, though. I've had enough of my previous favourites, Deal and Reculver. The driving there and back isn't worth the mediocre views. I'd rather spend the day in our garden, even with the smell of wafting barbecued meat assaulting my delicate nostrils.

Later this month we're off to Anglesey for a week. The views are splendid there. There is room for us to walk and relax.

And don't you just know it will be pissing down.

Stonehenge

Does the idea of seeing Spinal Tap live appeal? Bad enough in a venue but standing in a field?

Thousands of people will be able to experience the Tap this summer at Michael Eavis's Funny Farm. Of course, any entertainment on show in the film was to be gleaned from offstage areas. A shit rock band trying to be funny onstage is just a shit rock band trying to be funny onstage.

I've seen some unintentionally funny bands in my years of gig-going. There was the craply-caped Rick Wakeman, Yes starring The Buggles, Genesis with pervy little Phil in his raincoat, the very hairy ponce Sammy Hagar, the very hairy ponces Rush, The Tolkeinesque Enid, the preposterously portentous Comsat Angels, the ridiculously "wasted" Wasted Youth, the comically "lovesexy" Prince, the pretentiously ironic REM...

I could go on. Of course Spinal Tap will think they're going to be the funniest thing at Glastonbury. But with Tom Jones, Tony Christie, Status Quo, Blur et al on the bill they won't even come in the top ten.

Which unintentionally funny bands or artists have you seen live? i.e. the opposite of The Grumbleweeds.

The Karaoke Crowd

We went out for a quiet drink. But the karaoke crowd took over the pub.

A middle aged man set up his computer, speakers and microphones. He played snippets of songs. And in between he sang a few and invited his following to come and have a go.

Karaoke deejays have people following them from pub to pub. These people are not talented enough to win through the early rounds of Britain's Got Talent. But in their heads they're David Gray or Neil Diamond or the girls from ABBA. In their stupid self-centred heads.

They take it seriously. They feel the anticipation as they mentally prepare for their next time on stage. Because they do have several chances each to show off as the evening progresses. Their fellow karaoke creeps cheer them on, applaud them off. The deejay pretends he's reading out the next singer's name as if he doesn't know him (19 times out of 20 the singer is male). He does know him, of course. They're all part of the same strange family.

I imagined them all getting together for a karaoke family funeral. Then, as if by magic, some dickhead started up Robbie Williams' Angels. I could see the coffin and the tears as the karaoke family swayed in their seats, arms aloft, as the young singer belted out an off-key version of that death classic. It's exactly the send-off Neil Diamond/Elvis Presley/Gene Pitney/Roy Orbison would have wanted. And his manner of death, a massive coronary on the karaoke stage was exactly how he would have wanted to go.

Yes, we did get Babylon and Wonderwall and Amarillo and 500 Miles. It was so fucking predictable. The twats had absolutely no imagination. At least the bloke who looked like Ian Curtis could have done She's Lost Control, really lost control and fucked up his dad's laptop.

Take It To The Top

There were a few low points during Sir Ranulph Fiennes conquest of Everest. Fiennes was in constant contact with his team at base camp who captured the lowest, bleakest point on tape. The point where his lungs were bursting, he could see barely a yard in front of him and his comfortable home in England seemed a million miles away.

"I don't think..." he said, "I can carry on. More than man can take. Stress affecting all. Even Sherpa tensing."

Election Special

Remember when I said I was going to publish my book of poems?

Well, when it comes down to it I can't be bothered. They're throwaway, anyway. Not the sort of poems that Phill fucking Jupitus or Griff fucking Rhys fucking Jones could get their teeth into. I'm a pleb with simple tastes, no potential literary giant.

What's really occupying my mind is who to vote for. I don't know why I'm getting all uptight this time round. Is it Labour or Lib Dem or Green on the pro-European side? Or will I go anti-EU and vote for Arthur Scargill's or Bob Crow's party.

Tony Benn's supporting communist/capital punishment fan Crow. Tony Benn's a very nice man, a Christian David Attenborough. How can a nice Christian get into a political bed with an atheist who believes in an eye for an eye? It's all very confusing.

Scargill's a nutjob who's still fighting the miners' strike. He's preaching solidarity with the Tolpuddle martyrs, apparently unaware they died in 1968.

And what about naughty Labour? They took us into an illegal war, don't you know? Blood is on Labour's hands. Gordon Brown shook hands with the devil Bush! So the Lib Dems are telling me. And the Lib Dems have got criminals talking with victims in Chard and reoffending in Chard is down to approximately 0%. It brings a tear to my eye. Just imagine a rapist sitting down with his victim, promising he won't do anything she doesn't want next time.

The Greens want to stop all animal testing on drugs. I'm not so sure that is a very good idea. I'm pretty certain the drugs I take were tested on animals. "Yes, but humans are very different from animals. You might as well test drugs on vegetables." Yeah, right.

Oh dear. What is one to do? Who are you going to vote for? And why?

Election Fever

My mum and stepdad read the Daily Mail.

She's angry about MPs.

"You can't trust any of them. They've all got their snouts in the trough. All that taxpayers' money. That's your money, Geoff. Just who are you supposed to vote for? The British Parliament is totally immoral and corrupt."

"So who are you going to vote for, Mum?"

"Your stepdad reckons UKIP."

Toryzone

"I really like this song," said a work colleague.

"I don't," I said.

"It's Ronan Keating. It's lovely."

"It's shit."

"But it's about his dead mum."

"Why didn't you say? I thought it was fucking awful. Now I think it's poignant."



Last night we had the sound turned down on the tv as David Cameron spoke sincerely into the camera for the Conservative Party Broadcast.

Funny Ha Ha Or Funny?

The retiring journalist is holding court. She's going to continue to write, she's known nothing but writing since she was eighteen.

She looks at me.

She says she's going to write something funny.

I am not sure whether she's ever written anything funny. Or how difficult it would be to start writing funny stuff in your later years if you never have before.

I don't know why she looked at me. I've never said anything funny to her. And she's never seen any of my writing.

Maybe she thinks I appreciate funny writing.

I do. But it's got to be funny.

La Mort

Last night I dreamt I was on my death bed. I was surrounded by all the accountants and trainee accountants I have known in my working life.

I think I can read this dream. But just imagine if it were to become real.

Suffice to say I don't want accountants surrounding my death bed. In fact, I don't want people at all. I want a solitary robin, singing his little heart out, perched on my window sill. He'd look at me with sympathy and I'd breathe my last.

How To Save The World In One Easy Lesson

We sat through Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth in three sittings and are now crossing our fingers that Greenland doesn't disappear as if it does it will be a very bad thing for the world because lots of people will be living in water and swimming with the fishes.

In his bid to save the world, Gore has spent years flying all over the place, his slideshow in tow. Let's hope that, unlike Icarus, he doesn't fly too close to the burning sun.

The audience in each country nod sagely and go away to prepare for green power. What we need are leaders of the free world who are obsessed with light bulbs and standby lights, the little things in life that could make so much difference. You could imagine Al Gore as President of the United States, flying the world with a supply of energy-efficient light bulbs, giving the Queen and the Pope tickings off for their wastage, getting out his MacBook and showing them illustrations of the consequences of their evil reliance on chandeliers and security lights.

The MacBook is the portable computer of choice for the likes of Al Gore, Stephen Fry and David Attenborough. They are all filmed looking seriously into their laptops on planes, at home and in public buildings. I have a MacBook but have yet to look serious in front of it whilst being filmed. This is one of my major ambitions in life.

Take It As Read

How fast do you read? Could you read a book in a day? Could you really take it all in?

I know there are people who can do this. Surely they must be speed-reading, getting an overall impression, not giving themselves time to get truly involved. Where's the pleasure in that? Books are there to be read at your leisure. It's not a race.

Since joining Twitter I've learned to speed-read tweets. Something like this...

whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares? lol. whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares? lol. whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares? lol. whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?

I'm joking. I don't lol that often. And I do care.

When it comes to blog posts I quickly scan the whole post then decide if the subject matter is of interest to me. If it's not I move onto the next blog on Google Reader. I read the ones I'm interested in at my leisure.

Move along, now. Nothing to see here.

Drukqs

At the beginning of this month I went to pick up my repeat prescription at the chemist's. They'd neglected to order one of my items. I had enough of these pills to keep me going for a couple of weeks so I came back in the middle of the month to get them.

Yesterday I went to pick up a new supply of everything. The chemist said I was too early, I'd have to wait 'til the 15th or I could put my repeat prescription in jeopardy. I told her I was running out of one part of my prescription and the 15th would be too late. It was their fault I didn't get my full prescription at the beginning of the month. She relented but warned me of the possible consequences if I ordered too early in future.

So for next month I said I would like all the items on my prescription. She said I could have them all except for the hayfever nasal spray. Because it had been over six months since I'd ordered this item I would have to see my doctor to get it back on the repeat prescription.

I said the drug is for hayfever! For most of the year I don't get hayfever! Why should I order this drug in the middle of winter? I don't get hayfever in winter! What a stupid rule! Etc, etc.

But rules are rules and I'll have to waste my doctor's time in the next few months. Not just yet, you see, as I have a nice big stock of last year's over-ordered hayfever drugs at home. I hoard them like a squirrel hoards its nuts, bury them underneath more drugs, filling up the cupboard like a junkie.

I love that spray. I can't get enough.

What A Waste

I wonder if there's a Brazilian one-man air conditioning repair company called Jesus Of Cool?

Anyway, my mum phoned me up on Saturday to tell me she'd heard The Blockheads on Jonathan Ross's radio show. The new singer sounds just like Ian Dury, she said.

My mum still has me down as a massive Ian Dury & The Blockheads fan. Oh, and that "gravely voiced" Tom Waits.

It's been a long time since I listened to either. What I was listening to in the early 80s was limited to the records and cassettes I had. I couldn't afford a large, eclectic music collection. Even so, my mum's memory is selective. I had a reasonable number of albums for someone with little disposable income.

Reasonably well off young people these days have it all. A whole swathe of popular music available for free on the internet. Back then I took what I could from what was currently being pushed in the NME. The 50s, 60s and 70s were confined to history. Just imagine if NME readers nowadays stuck to the current indie music, ignoring pop's great history. What a boring generation they'd be!

A Shyness That Is Criminally Vulgar

Last night I was thinking, as you do, about the autographs I have owned. I've seen plenty of celebrities but never asked for an autograph for myself. I was always too shy and my mum and dad asked for me. In fact I didn't want them to but they felt they had to. Part of being a parent is embarrassing your children in front of all and sundry.

When I was five we were at a local fete and Eric Sykes was there. He was there in some official capacity so I presume his services were paid for. My mum dragged me up to Eric. I didn't know much about him but he signed his autograph for me. "To Geoffrey, best wishes, Eric Sykes".

Then when I was about seven a Tesco supermarket was opening in Crayford. My mum thought it would be a good idea to go along to the opening. Two Millwall footballers, Dereck Possee and Eamon Dunphy were there in an official capacity so they must have been paid for their services. My mum dragged me up to the two men and they signed their autographs. "Derek Possee" and "Eamon Dunphy". This was in the days before I wouldn't piss on a Millwall player if he were on fire.

Then when I was about ten my dad took me to Loftus Road to see Q.P.R. v West Ham and sitting behind us was the great Frank Lampard. (His son, the current scumbag Chelsea player will always be "Junior" to me). My dad turned to Frank and said "Frank, can we have your autograph, please?" Frank obliged and wrote "Frank Lampard".

In each of these cases I was egged on by my parents to ask the other adults for their autographs. In each case I was terrified I might have to, almost to the point of tears and my parents asked the men themselves. But each time they convinced themselves they were doing it for me, the boy who was too shy and needed to come out of his shell.

Britain's Got Shite

Britain's Got Talent makes stars of ordinary people.

A person who is talented at something possesses an unusual innate ability in their field.

Enrico Caruso was a talented opera singer. Paul Potts isn't.

Gene Kelly was a talented dancer. George Sampson isn't.

Judy Garland was a talented singer of songs from musicals. Susan Boyle isn't.

John Coltrane was a talented saxophonist. Julian Smith isn't.

Both George Best and Vinny Jones could play football. George was talented. Vinny wasn't.

Britain's got a load of Vinny Joneses all being told they're George Best. And the British public are happier watching Vinny Jones than George Best!

That's just not right.

All Our Yesterdays

When I was at school it was all the fashion to paint our haversacks with pictures of our favourite pop star, album cover, etc.

A small gang of us were big Tomorrow's World fans. And we were in love with the gorgeous Judith Hann. My friend Stuart was a talented artist and he painted beautiful portraits of Judith on all our bags. How proud we were to display our sexy bags to the other boys, dull in comparison with their botched Yes logos and rudimentary Ozzy Osbournes.

After a year, however, the paintings began to fade, through wear and tear. Stuart volunteered one weekend to repaint our bags with our favourite Tomorrow's World presenter.

He turned up at school on the Monday with a batch of the most beautiful Judiths we had ever seen. Mine even looked like she was winking at me and Graham's was most lascivious!

But when Stuart tentatively revealed to us the picture on his own bag, we had the biggest surprise of our young lives. Because this was the day our friend Stuart came out to the whole school. His favourite Tomorrow's World presenter was not Judith Hann. Oh, no.

That was the day our friend made a Rodd for his own back!

It Wasn't Just The Police

The Hillsborough Disaster was not an accident, but it was waiting to happen.

You read about fans of other clubs than Liverpool being involved in crushes in the Leppings Lane end in previous Cup semi-finals. Fans were segregated and herded into areas they maybe didn't have tickets for. They were herded in like cattle with no escape route as Sheffield Wednesday's board, like many others, had decided to erect wire pens to keep the fans from invading the pitch. Did they forsee the possibility of fans invading the pitch to save their own lives? If they didn't they must have been pretty fucking thick.

It would be impossible to have complete justice for the tragedy. Unless you could imprison a Thatcherite mindset.

Alex, Vic and George

So I finished the Alex James book. I didn't throw it out the window when Keith Allen made his unwelcome appearance and I trawled my way through Alex's flying lessons, his falling in love with the lovely lady he made his wife, his buying his very big house in the country and his soppiness at the birth of his beautiful children. Where was the cheese, Alex? I expected cheese.

And in just over a day (extremely unusual for me) I have read Vic Reeves' Me:Moir, the story of the first twenty years of his life. I liked Vic before and I like him even more now, though I am jealous, once again, of reading about somebody who grew up with friends who wanted to form a band.

Finally in my trilogy of three autobiographies, it's George Melly's, as recommended by Arabella. Yes, I'm keeping the least flamboyant, most conventional character 'til last. Come on, George. Don't let me down.

This Is The Sound Of My Soul

Terry Hall's appearance on Later With Jools was heartwarming for us old miseries. I know he never smiles whilst performing but he looked so pissed off throughout the whole show he negated any enjoyment anybody might have gained from any of the music on offer.

Why The Specials are back together playing live, God only knows. Jerry Dammers sensibly doesn't want anything to do with it. High octane ska is best performed by young energetic musicians to an audience of skinny rude boys, not by a band in their fifties egging on middle aged fat fucks like Phill Jupitus and his ilk, all struggling to breathe as they pound the floor with the full force of their furred arteried bodies.

Turning back the years is the last thing Terry wants to do. Why can't we let him sit at home with his feet up like the rest of us middle aged curmudgeons?

One of the free papers gave ABC five stars for their live performance this week. And Martin wore his lurex suit! This is the sad chicken-in-a-basket circuit that The Specials are now joining.

And of course there's Spandau fucking Ballet. Tony Hadley, fresh from appearing at last year's Gala at the Tory Party Conference, will sing hits such as True and Gold in front of audience after audience of cloth-eared morons all over the country, reminiscing about the absolute low point in pop music history as if it were somehow a good time to be alive!

Ice Cold With Alex

More words of wisdom from our learned friend and Blur bass player, Alex James.

"I was a hedonist. I wanted to get drunk and be irresponsible."

Prat.

"I saw life merely as an opportunity to have as much fun as possible. All young people do, I think."

Wrong. We weren't all fun-loving, Alex. Many of us were depressed, you know.

And on why festivals became the place to be seen for hordes of middle class students in the 90s:-

"I think it was because the best music attracts the prettiest girls and when the pretty girls come, everyone else soon follows."

I think you'll find, Alex, that the best music in the 90s was in the clubs. And I'm at a loss to understand why being a pretty girl means you've got good taste in music. And does everyone follow pretty girls? I thought only creepy men followed pretty girls?



To be continued.

Sky News Live Today

Bad spelling is a must for the common man or woman's funeral. And Jade Goody's was no different. From the "Gran Daughter" flowers to the "Your Special" written on a girl's balloon, this was a funeral for the uneducated. Which makes it all the more special that so much of Jade's money is going towards private education for her sons.

Then there was the "Marmite" flower arrangement. People either love or hate Marmite, say the adverts. People either love or hate me, like they love or hate Marmite, said Jade.

Yes, Jade was like Marmite. You either loved or hated her like you loved or hated Marmite. Or maybe, like me, you are totally indifferent to Marmite and were totally indifferent about Jade.

Am I allowed to take this position? Is it allowed to not really be bothered about Marmite or Jade Goody? Do I have to feel strongly one way or the other? Marmite's a very ordinary foodstuff. Jade was a very ordinary young woman. Ordinary doesn't really move me.

This Is A Low

The two loves of Alex James' life are Graham Coxon and cheese. He's ended up with just one of those but anybody in their right mind would choose something tasty over a myopic ex-drunk.

I'm reading Alex's autobiography and not liking him one little bit. He talks about the students at Goldsmiths College while he was there as cultural revolutionaries who bestrode "the ultimate decade of the last millenium" like colossuses. I presume by "ultimate" he means the last. Because Britpop and Britart was mostly a load of old cack, wasn't it?

He talks about Charles Saatchi being extremely "clever" because he saw the potential in Damien Hirst's art.

"No one's right all the time, but some people have a knack for picking winners, and they become winners themselves."

What bollocks! As if Saatchi wasn't already one of life's privileged winners and able to influence by his wealth alone!

More on Alex in future weeks.

Thought for the Day

You know those World's Best Dad mugs? Patently bollocks, aren't they? There's only one world's best dad, whoever he may be.

And so many dads have got them, you've got to wonder how many of them are less World's Best Dad than World's Biggest Cunt.

There have got to be dads out there who, when they're not being great dads, are absolute cunts. And it goes without saying that a lot of these dads are closer to being the world's biggest cunt than being the world's best dad.

So next time you see some big cunt slurping his tea out of his World's Best Dad mug, remember he's unlikely to be the world's best dad. He's just a cunt with a mug.

My Blog's New Manifesto

Would your blog be more or less entertaining if you just wrote an online diary of your working life?

Mine would be a must-read. But I'm not going to do it, of course. I'm not that stupid.

So what you get is a mixture of tv reviews, news commentary and the strange things I'm told or overhear or see. Not really about the stuff that affects me directly.

Why not continue as before?

Because I'm finding it an increasingly arduous task to do the things this blog was set up for. I'm getting bored of waffling on about stuff off the telly. I can comment more succinctly on Twitter. I can get things off my chest there without having to construct something deep and meaningful, making my brain ache.

So from now on, expect ill-thought-out opinion and observation, not long-winded review. There are too many words in the world as it is.

Strike!

Last night we watched a talking heads programme in which ex-strikers told us their memories.

There were some surprises.

As a rookie reporter, the odious shit Kelvin MacKenzie had once been on strike. But he spoke with relish about how when it was his turn to be on the management's side in the Wapping dispute he would goad the print workers by sticking two fingers up at them as he drove past the picket lines. People were losing their jobs and he was laughing at them.

As an angry young pilot, Norman Tebbit had withdrawn his labour. But of course the boot was on the other foot when he became Secretary of State for Employment and he presided over the destruction of the working class. He said he was perfect for the job as he had inside information on how unions work, having once been an active union member himself.

Then there was Eddie Shah, once a less than enthusiastic striker, then the enemy of the print workers union as he started the shite Today newspaper using new technology. Shah hates union leaders with a passion and told a story of how five coffins were once sent to his home, one for each member of his family. Whether this was an action perpetrated by union officials, Shah didn't say. But he hates them anyway.

There were women, too. The women of the Dagenham Ford plant, fighting for equal pay with the men. And Anne Scargill, fighting to keep coalminers and their families alive and well during the 84-85 miners' strike.

Back to the men's world, there was the gravedigger who described probably the most animosity aimed at strikers by the general public. But what else can you do, working in appalling conditions with bosses who don't give a shit about your health or welfare?

(This got me thinking, wouldn't it have been funny if, as well as rubbish piling up on the streets, bodies were too? Imagine those documentaries. "The 1970s. 3 Day Week. Petrol shortages. Energy crisis. Rubbish and bodies piling up on the streets. We were ready for a change. A revolution. Four skinny white boys who were hanging around a clothing store called Sex...etc, etc").

And finally there was the miner who appeared on The Tube with The Redskins. He stepped up to the microphone, ready to cut through all that 80s new pop shit with his words of working class solidarity, backed by a soulful socialist worker skinhead combo. And what happened?

The microphone didn't work.

We Have The Actors, Why Not The Writers?

Twitter seems to have thinned things out. I continue to flit between twittering and blogging. But there's less of me here and more of me over there. And my attention span is getting even shorter. I can't read too much, I can't write too much. So why don't I shut up and get on with it?

I've written enough about the first Red Riding on here. The second and third episodes were probably even less entertaining and the various strands didn't really come together satisfactorily. It was a mess which left me not caring what the fuck it was all about. Let's just forget about it and watch something decent.

Like Mad Men. The second series is as good as the first. I can watch this beautifully written character-driven stuff 'til the cows come home. What's particularly galling is that we can't seem to do this stuff in the UK. The Americans hit us with superbly crafted stuff like The Sopranos, The Wire and Mad Men. What do we have? Piss poor adaptations of sensationalist novels.

A Dose Of Reality

Jade Goody's funeral, on April 4th, will be a "Jade Goody production", according to her publicist, Max Clifford.

Large television screens are to be installed outside her local church for the thousands of members of the public likely to turn up.

The funeral will not, however, be broadcast live on Channel 4. Davina McCall will not whip up the crowd into a frenzy of tears. Attendees will not hold up signs saying "Hello Mum" or "Living The Dream".

It will be a dignified affair. Big Brother obsessives have grown up a lot over the last few months. They now know it's no good living the dream if the dream ends up as a nightmare. Look at Chantelle, falling in love with gorgeous posh Preston, ending up with that little London runt Jermaine.

Life is shit for almost everybody and fame doesn't change that. Reality has kicked in for the reality massive. They will never again be able to watch a young woman on Big Brother without thinking of the future consequences. They will never want to get too attached to strangers ever again. If you hurt when a stranger hurts just how much are you going to hurt when someone close to you hurts?

Britain has grown up.

No Pets, Please

As I was stroking my sister's dog I was told I look so natural with a dog by my side. My family have given up hoping that I might produce offspring and now are trying to urge me to get a pet. They think, to make my life complete, I need to look after another living being.

Fortunately, when it comes to children and animals me and Betty have pretty similar outlooks. We don't get on with children. We never have, not even when we were children ourselves. OK, I suppose I don't mind children if they're quiet, if they keep themselves to themselves, if they're seen but not heard. But you don't get that a lot nowadays, more's the pity.

We don't get on with cats. Cats give me the creeps. Their suspicious feline movements, their smarmy furry sidling up to your leg, their viciously digging claws, their disgustingly rough tongues, the revolting way they lick their privates, their innate need to kill. If cats were human they'd all be locked up and in straitjackets.

Dogs are a different kettle of fish. We love the sight of a good dog, though not a rubbish little yappy one like a Yorkshire or Cairn Terrier. And dogs seem to like me.

I think dogs know I'd let them get away with things. I'd let them run wherever they'd want, shitting and pissing, sniffing and tasting wherever they'd choose. With our 1980s dog, Cindy, I'd let her shit anywhere in the park, though thoughtfully she never defecated on the football or cricket pitches. I wasn't going to pick it up, it would have made me retch. Of course she'd shit in our garden, too. I'd spend hours going round with a spade, scooping it all up, plopping it in a bucket and tipping it into the sewerage system.

Dogs' waste, vets' bills and the inevitable illnesses and death are what stop me from getting one of these beautiful creatures. And the responsibility, of course. Responsibility for the two of us is all I can muster.

So, no, no children, no animals for the rest of our lives. Nothing to make our lives complete.

The Damned United

"But, Geoff. You like football. You like films. Why not go and see The Damned United?"

Because I am loyal to the families of my heroes. If the Clough family say the book is a load of old shit and as we all know films of books are very rarely as good as the books, just what is the point?

I will go further and say if any currently or previously working class person does go and see this film they will be betraying their forefathers and mothers. Let's have some solidarity with the Clough family, people.

Besides, the actor playing Billy Bremner looks like Bob Mortimer in a joke wig.

D.I.V.O.R.C.E.

I'd already spoken to my mum earlier in the day. But she phoned back early yesterday evening to tell me my cousin's husband had left her. He'd been having a secret affair for a year and straight out of the blue he left, leaving his middle aged wife and their child. My mum said she was shocked. Of all the marriages in the family this was the one she thought would last. I don't know if all those marriages included mine. I never know with her.

How was I supposed to feel? I'll tell you how I feel. Quite good about it, really. Good to hear about a marital break up in another part of our extended family. First it was my parents, then my sister. But those splits were subject to my dad's influence, weren't they? Everybody knew he was the lowest of the low, going off with a woman twenty-odd years his junior. And it was his blood that made my sister leave her husband.

Well, it's time for my extended family to join the modern world. Divorce happens. Yes, it's painful for the people concerned but we're talking about human beings here, not devils and saints. The question is, will my cousin's husband join my dad in the devil corner? Probably. One tends to see things in black and white from the moral high ground.

Paul O'Grady/Old Lady

My stepdad got tickets off the internet for Paul O'Grady's television chat show. The retireds like Paul O'Grady now he doesn't dress up as a woman.

So off they went to that London, using their free transport passes and joined the queue to get in. But why were there two queues?

The woman in front of my mum said the other queue was the "Priority Queue".

After a while they found out what that meant.

The people in the Priority Queue went in first. Then a few people from my mum's queue were let in. Leaving lots of disappointed pensioners with promises that they shouldn't worry, next time they would be in the priority queue.

So a wasted journey for many, including the old woman who'd got three buses with her son as she was too infirm for the rigours of train and tube travel.

On the back of my mum's tickets, in small letters, it does explain that entry to the show is not guaranteed. Talking to a work colleague I have since found out that this is exactly what they do for Loose Women shows, too. It virtually guarantees a full house.

I am so angry at this I could spit. How Paul O'Grady can treat people who have fought in two World Wars in this way is absolutely disgraceful. O'Grady, if you're reading this, let me tell you now, I will never watch your show. Even if you're still on the telly when I'm retired, I'd sooner watch some cooking bollocks presented by someone with no personality than a so-called man of the people who has absolutely no scruples about wasting the time of hard-working ordinary people.

Mr Bean Goes To Hell

My memory of 1974 is pretty poor. But I'm sure that year wasn't as boringly brown as in this first part of Red Riding. And I'm sure a lot of the police were bastards. But were they really as violent and diabolic as in this fiction?

And as Betty said, the main character was wearing "one of those jackets the young men always wear when they make dramas about the 70s these days." Not a leather bomber in sight.

As with Life On Mars I came away thinking, like the journalist who had a go at the scientologist, YOU WERE NOT THERE!

The story was particularly unbelievable. Sean Bean was not only a nasty successful working class property developer who terrorised his way to wealth, he was a child rapist and murderer, too.

I think.

I wasn't sure by the end.

The police, who knew all about Sean's evil ways, beat up the investigative journalist and gave him a gun to kill Bean. They couldn't do it themselves, you see. They were in too deep.

And for a man who was Yorkshire's answer to Al Capone, it was bloody easy for the wimpy, badly injured young journalist to breach Bean's security and shoot dead his two bodyguards then Bean himself.

This week's Yorkshire Ripper case should be interesting. Sutcliffe will seem like a pussycat in comparison to Mr Bean.

Once Upon A Time In The West

My stats tell me I had 174 unique visitors yesterday, a massive increase on my usual small readership. Which only goes to prove THE POWER OF TWITTER and the insignificance of day to day blogging.

Still, let's get back to normal.

We're not having a holiday this year, this year being 2009 Worry About The Future Year, so we have to take vicarious pleasures. The 2-part series Touring Britain with David Heathcote (repeated at 11.30 on BBC4 tomorrow night) was a pleasure. In the first part he used an 1887 Baedeker Guide to tour the north west of England and in the second he used a couple of 1930s Shell Guides to tour Dorset and Cornwall.

What about that erection, eh?




I was already enjoying David's company but when he got to Padstow I began to like him even more. It took him an age to find somewhere to park and walking round Padstow's crowded streets he could take it no longer.

"Padstow: it's rammed with people of the most obnoxious kind. And it sucks."

The guide David was using was written by John Betjeman.

"The thing about the Betjeman entries, it's all about the buildings, it's not about the people at all. Sometimes it's the people that are the problem. I feel like the worst kind of inverted snob, but right now, I couldn't give a stuff about Padstow."

The guide Betjeman wrote in the 30s described the "unspoilt Cornish experience". A time when a village like Polperro was actually lived in all year round by real families. A time before landowners sold people's homes to the new landlords of holiday homes and the rich second homers. A time before the village died.

Titter Ye...Oh, Please Yerselves

Inspired by Shaggy Blog Stories, TwitterTitters is a book of comic writing, all the proceeds of which (less the production and postage costs) goes directly to Comic Relief.

You can read about it here and buy it here.

I won't be buying a copy as I bought two copies of Shaggy Blog Stories (embarrassed by the unfunniness of my own story and slightly amused a couple of times at others), I thought Phoenix Nights was bollocks and Chelsey: OMG! looks like a load of old shite. Maybe some of you lesser known *writers* are in it and can persuade me to fork out the nine quid.

But if it takes your fancy, go ahead and buy it. Christ knows Twitter's got to be good for something other than mentioning how you didn't get to sleep last night and that you're having a nice cheese and tomato sandwich for lunch.

Soap On A Rope

Talking about Coronation Street today, I was told it was "downmarket". In comparison to University Challenge and QI.

Well, I suppose it is. You don't need to be brainy to watch it. But you can be.

Craig Charles, hyper-intelligent renaissance man, poet, author, comedian, DJ, actor, cokehead, has been having the piss taken out of him by supposed "Corrie fans" at the football.

"I’ve never had any problems like that with Red Dwarf fans, they’re generally intelligent people," he said to The News Of The World so it must be true. "Maybe not so much with Corrie, it’s kind of lowest common denominator stuff!"

No, Craig. Corrie's humour is subtle, requiring a more mature intelligence than a comedy made for teenage boys whose balls haven't yet dropped. Stick to your turgid Funk & Soul Show and your audience of three ageing talc-addled Northern Soul bores.

Are You An Underachiever?

I have to battle against thinking I am. Thinking that would be boasting that I'm capable of actually achieving something of artistic merit and it was just down to my lazy attitude that I've never made something of my life.

I could have been a musician, a film director, a screenwriter, a novelist. All these things I could have been but I've just been too lazy to find other people with the enthusiasm to help me.

See? It's a good case for the prosecution.

Rather than make my own art I take great pleasure in criticising other people's. Is this healthy?

Well, look at all the tortured artists. There's no way in the world I'd want to be one of those. Satisfaction in your own art can't last forever. Unless you're completely up your own arse. And who wants to be Bono?

So give me the lazy life with full reign to think and observe without the drive to be someone. The drive that screws people up.