fucking geoff

Bad Bowie

I love Bowie. I love his Alvin Stardust phase, his Great White Shark phase, even his Laughing Policeman phase. In fact, I love every phase he went through before Let's Dance (his biggest selling album, and the beginning of cack-Bowie).

But at the weekend, Bowie had me seething.

Transferring CDs to Windows Media Player is usually a piece of piss. Apart from Windows occasionally not agreeing with the CD track listing, that is. But Bowie's CDs are a different kettle of fish.

Because every CD you try to rip comes with a BowieNet program which, if you don't go into it and see all that David has to offer, freezes your computer.

So a program that David developed in his Swiss hideaway laboratory in 1991 makes what should be a simple operation a pain in the arse.

Why, David? Why do you have to have your multimedia empire and sell us outdated software? You don't get other has-been rockers like Macca or Jagger or Dave Grohl at the forefront of yesterday's technology.

The Bowie net I'd like to have seen would have been a nice strong one that covered him in 1981 and only let him out for interviews and copulation. He might have grown fat but at least he'd have all his own teeth.

Geoff's Blogging News

It's been a good old week in Geoff's world of blogging, at last some recognition for a couple of my favourite blogs.

First Corrie Canuck is acclaimed in The Guardian.

Then Caroline is shorlisted for a bloggie.

We are taking over, I tell you.


And guess what?...

I receive a phone call from a man claiming to be television personality Loyd Grossman. He certainly sounds convincing. He says I've been nominated for a prestigious blogging award ("blorging aword") and that the ceremony will be televised. He says he will email me with the details.

When I ask him what I am up for, he says..."Most erotic blog, Geoff."

Of course, I am shocked. Me, up there with the likes of Girl With A One Track Mind and Abi Titmuss Blog? Geoff's Dreams? Geoff's Erotic Dreams? How am I turning people on?

I scan my posts...Nothing vaguely sexual there. I know I get some very rude searches but that's all part and parcel of being a blogger. I bet even the most po-faced political or pious religious blogger gets the odd 'tit wank' on their stats.

It can't be my profile. Come on, a 44 year old wet blanket who portrays himself as Rip Van Winkle and whose interests include Sherlock Holmes, Ingmar Bergman, and Mogwai? Who's going to get off on that?

If it's not in the words, it must be in the images. A beautiful French bulldog, a close up of an orange arsed fly, some spurned Hampshire sheep, the turkey girlfriend of James Blunt. Unless this is some kind of weird bestiality cult blog awards...but then it wouldn't be televised and surely Loyd Grossman would have nothing to do with it.

Ok, they've made a mistake. But what if they've made a mistake and I win?

I'll have to stand up in front of millions of people and try to be convincing. As if I'm articulate and confident and sexy and my words give people a tingling feeling in their private parts. But my writing's more Windy Miller than Henry Miller and my voice is more Martin Freeman than Morgan Freeman.

No! I can't let this happen. Once I get the email I'm going to reply straight back to Mr Grossman and say he can stick the whole thing through his keyhole and up his arsehole. You've got the wrong man, Loyd!

I check my inbox. There it is...

"Dear Geoff. Congratulations on your nomination for one of our prestigious blogging awards. The panel feel that without a doubt, yours has to be one of the most erratic blogs we have ever read..."

Erratic?...Oh, Loyd, you and your funny way of speaking! God, I feel such a fool! Of course I'm erratic. I'm probably the most erratic blogger out there.

Yes, I'll accept your nomination. Yes, I'll come to the ceremony. Yes, I'll behave in an erratic manner. I'll have one big nutty breakdown when I accept my award. Because I am going to win...

Aren't I?

Fruit Cocktail

I've lost count of the number of times drink has made me sick. I haven't got my dad's capacity for alcohol, just one in a long list of things I'm glad I didn't inherit. If I drink too much, I'm sick. I've been sick on bacardi, vodka, lager, bitter, white wine, red wine...(the very worst incidences have been after an evening of red wine). But the first time was on cider. And you always remember the first time, don't you?

It was a schoolmate's 18th birthday party. I guzzled a couple of pints of Strongbow, a drink my dad was really into at the time. The prog rock was making us feel drowsy, all 20 teenage boys and 2 teenage girls. I'm sure we were all bored shitless. I've never been to a party where I haven't been, so I must have been then.

And then someone put on Freebird by Lynyrd Skynyrd, the band who didn't get to use all their air miles. And Freebird is their classic. It starts off slow but it builds into a monstrous 24 hour guitar solo, ideal for air guitar and headbanging nonsense.

So you've got 20 young wankers, bored shitless, and suddenly there's a chance for a bit of exercise, for us to let those so-called raging hormones free. Right foot forward, head bowed, right hand holding an imaginary plectrum, left holding an imaginary guitar neck...And let those flowing locks fly.

Except my locks aren't flowing, they're barely down to the collar of my cheesecloth shirt. But the head bangs away anyway, the brain thinking of those poor ol' southern boys plummeting to earth, as free as a mortally wounded bird.

And then the cider begins to make its appearance. Strongbow. As strong as your thirst. Put hairs on your chest this stuff son. Dry, fizzy and appley, and here it comes. Excuse me. Out to the garden.

"And this bird will never cha...a...ange".
"Eurrghhh!"...That's better...Shit, no it's not.
"Eurrghhh!"...That's better...Shit, no it's not.
"Eurrghhhhhhhh!"...

I think that's all of it but I feel fucking awful. I go inside. The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway is on the turntable.

"I need a lie down," I tell my host. He gives me his bed. I lie down and die.

So since that day, not a mouthful of cider has passed my lips. The smell of it reminds me of my first time...

But here in the fridge is a can of Merrydown cider, left over from a visit from our cider drinking friends. And the use by date is only just up! It would be a waste of money not to drink it, wouldn't it?

Merrydown cider. One can and you're merry, four and you're down. But one won't harm me, will it? I've got to banish this cider demon. I've got to drink the Merry down.

I open the can. I pour a glass. It smells of sick and piss. It looks like fizzy urine. I feel sick. But I feel brave. I haven't got to get up early tomorrow. I've got the dentist first thing. He'd want me to be brave.

I drink some. It tastes like Babycham. Babycham for men. Except without the big men's fuck-off cherry. Mmm, nice.

Still smells of sick, though.

A Crap Joke That Will Only Work Today

Arctic Monkeys out tomorrow!

(Police to release Pete Burns' coat).

Toothpaste Trouble

I'm fed up with being unable to find my favourite toothpaste, mentadent p. Only Boots seem to stock it now and I can't be bothered to go to Boots.

So I'm going to try mentadent SR (formerly Gibb's SR). I don't know what it tastes like, all I know is that it's a damn sight cheaper than 'p' and 'p' hasn't been doing me many favours recently, what with all my visits to the dentist and all.

But what does the 'SR' stand for? I really really hope for the sake of my physical and mental well-being it's...

Smiling Righteously.

Hallelujah.

Or halitosis?

We shall see.

We Have Been Watching - 1

Tony Blair Rock Star

The story of the coolest boy at public school Fettes. Tony was so cool he wore his hair longer than the regulations allowed and once he snuck out to go to an Elton John concert. Cool or what?

The boy moves to the big city, ingratiates himself with some new ex public schoolboys, promotes some gigs attended by public schoolkids, then off to Oxford where he impersonates Mick Jagger in front of a band of ex public schoolboys.

The poor actor playing him must have needed post-production therapy to get rid of the rictus grin.

Celebrity Big Brother

Preston's going to win. Teenage girls love him for the way he treats 22 year old teenage girl, Chantelle. He's lovely.

And he's so handsome and talented, says recently evicted Rula Lenska. Talented? Has she heard the Ordinary Boys? Phillllllllllll Jupitus likes them for Christ's sake!

For the sake of my mind, I really hope Pete Burns' 'gorilla' coat is fake.

Who Do You Think You Are?

It's Sheila Hancock's turn to trace her family's roots. Who is the woman in the picture? She finds out it's her mother's father's father's father's mother's mother's mother. And she assumes she was a wonderful woman, a real character. She cries at her grave.

How do you know, Sheila? She might have been an evil cow. She was a woman who ran her own business in the early 19th century. She may have been ruthless and a poor employer.

After Jeremy Paxman's tears at his family's poverty stricken background last week, this one seemed a bit fake and actorly.

The Root of All Evil?

Dickie Dawkins quotes another Nobel Prize winning someone or other...

"If there was no religion in the world there'd be good people and there'd be evil people, the distinction would be clear. It takes religion to make a good person evil."

So how does that make religion the root of all evil, Richard?

Can we please have a different professional atheist to be our spokesman? Just someone who doesn't think too much but shouts their mouth off. Our Ian Paisley.

Coronation Street

Sunita, laden with the twins on the way to register their births, misses the bus.

This is the first time anybody has ever missed the bus in Coronation Street. Unless they're meeting someone there, they always arrive at the bus stop with seconds to spare.

Brokeback Mountain

No, we haven't seen it yet but we know somebody who has. Apparently the audience did not comprise of the usual elderly married couples on a Thursday afternoon. Very few married couples, in fact.

But a lot of lone middle aged and elderly men, all down the front.

I Can't Do This

I'm stopping posting in my lunch hours. It's too knackering and I don't have time to read other blogs and leave my unfunny comments.

So from now on I'll be posting at weekends, just as I do with my ever unpopular dream blog. And between 1.15pm and 2.00pm Monday to Friday, I shall be watching you and making/replying to comments.

There. I feel calmer already.

I Feel Pretty

Look at me! Don't I look good and fresh and all lovely and brown and cream? And look my hyperlink (coming up). It's underlined so you know it's a hyperlink and not a grey smudge.

I feel better and happier despite the blogmeet, after which I needed seven stitches resulting from an argument over the merits of Eastenders and Coronation Street. The thug from Welling caught me with her sovereign ring just above the eyelid after I'd called Grant Mitchell a big mummy's boy. I haven't even watched Eastenders for twenty years so I was only going by what I remember.

But as you can see, I've had the Blogger painters in. And doesn't it look smart? They did it for me free of charge after cocking up the template on my dream blog. And I much prefer the dream blog now: it's all olde worlde and even looks a lovely cream on my monitor at work where once it looked a horrible green.

And now I've got rid of that 'Geoff's Telly Blog' title, I can write about anything I like. So expect some politics, some literary criticism, family matters, men's health and fashions, and Geoff's shoes.

Especially Geoff's shoes.

How to be a Happy Blogger

Just a few tips for any new bloggers out there who may stumble across this site on their way to somewhere more entertaining. I'm sure my regular four readers will know the following anyway...

1. Don't expect non-bloggers to read your blog. 99.9% of the general public use the internet purely for sexual gratification.

2. Only peruse your stats to look for amusing search words/phrases and to see who is linked to you. Stats are for statisticians, not for those whose egos bruise easily.

3. Do not check other bloggers' stats, ever. They will inevitably be more popular than you.

4. Write anything that comes into your head. The process is cathartic and there's bound to be at least one person out there who thinks the same way as yourself. Surely at least one.

5. If the quality of the comments you receive is lower than the quality of your post, you have too high an opinion of yourself. Lower it.

6. If the quality of the comments you receive is higher than the quality of your post, you have too low an opinion of yourself. Raise it.

7. Do not worry about the quantity of the comments you receive. The quality is what counts (see 5 and 6). You may think you'd like 30 comments a day, but would you be able to cope?

8. Accept that there are more talented bloggers out there with bigger brains and more to say.

9. Rejoice in the fact that there are thousands of bloggers out there with smaller brains and nothing to say.

10. Never blog on a Sunday or at Christmas, unless melancholy suits you.

11. Only link to sites you like.

12. Only comment on sites you like.

13. When leaving comments on another blog, don't expect a reply. The other blogger may have either a too high or a too low opinion of themself (see 5 and 6). Or your comment may be impossible to answer.

14. Do not leave the first comment on your own post, unless you have a split personality.

Enjoy yourself! It's later than you think.

Here

Here, here, here, here, here, and here.

The Last Noel

From a very close blood relative of mine, a final few words on the man Edmonds and his latest quiz show Deal for a Done Deal or whatever the bloody hell it's called, I don't really care...

"He's a funny looking little man, like a little pixie. He's short, he looks like he hasn't got a bum in those jeans, his feet are enormous, about 6 foot long, he's got a big, bulbous, fatty neck under that little beard of his...It's a good show but he does drag it out, like Tarrant does on Millionaire, keeps you in suspense. The programme could last ten minutes but he drags it out to three quarters of an hour."

There. Now you don't need to watch it.

ipod rubbish

1. Why 'ipod'? It's like 'hoover', a brand name. If you've got a pc, get yourself a Creative Zen or similar. Just copy and paste your files across. Easy, plus you've got a backup for your music files. That's what I was told, anyway. And I'm not one to argue with a computer kid.

2. When copying and pasting music files from your pc, look out for the first track on an album. If it's called 'intro', change its name to 'intro - anniemal' or 'intro - devin dazzle'. There's only room for one '1. intro' on your device.

3. Don't listen to the twats who write about the ipod as if its revolutionised the way they listen to music:-
"I could be listening to a Coldplay track followed by a Beethoven track followed by a Bob Marley track on the bus! And I've no idea what's coming next!"
Oh, jolly good for you! You really have got catholic taste, haven't you? Stars on fucking 45.

4. Don't listen to the twats at Leicester University who say that the 'ipod generation' (no such thing) don't get emotionally involved with music any more but just use it as a soundtrack to their lives. Condescending shite. My Zen's enabled me to listen to music more personally and more emotionally than I have done in years. When I've got my Engelbert Humperdinck Grado headphones on, sitting in the bath, I'm right there with the music. No distractions. Don't tell me how to feel or where to feel it.

Splosh.

I Was a Teenage Rebel

In Coronation Street, Richard Fleeshman plays Craig Harris, a 15 year old goth whose favourite band is Death Metal outfit Stench of Death.

Richard Fleeshman the actor is appearing in Soapstar Superstar. He is an excitable young boy who rebels wholeheartedly aginst his screen persona. When asked which song he would like the public to choose for him to perform on tonight's show...

1. Elton John's turgid ballad I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues

or

2. A stinky rock bollock by Red Hot Chilli Peppers...

Richard almost wets himself with excitement as he urges the public to "Vote Elton! Please vote Elton! I love Elton! Ooh, I love that song! Ooh, I've almost wet myself!"

Sweet.

The Root of All Evil?

Dear Mr Dawkins

I know I'm not as clever as you. But I'd like to think I've got what us thickoes call "common sense". So, about your programme last night...

Put yourself in their shoes, Richard. How would you feel if a religious nutter came round to your house, asking you impertinent questions about your beliefs? Wouldn't you tell them to sling their hook? I know I would. So why be surprised when you visit these crazy fundamentalists, saying things like "Your meeting reminded me of the Nuremberg Rally", and they give you short shrift?

You are on their territory. There's them and there's us. Don't tell me we can all live together in perfect harmony. We live seperate lives. Talking about religion is only going to raise our blood pressures.

And how can you say that you honestly believed that by the 21st century we would have won the argument. There is no argument. You have faith or you don't. You believe that God created humans. Or you believe that humans created God.

Christ almighty, surely you can see it's that simple.

And don't call my children animals. They're angels, right?

Big Bruvver Is Watching.......

Sir 'Ming' Campbell - The compromise choice to take over from wild man Bad Charlie Kennedy as leader of the Christian Liberal Democrats. The 'Ming' was awarded to Menzies as he is seen as such a safe pair of hands that you would trust him to carry your most valuable crockery across a slippery, hard wooden floor. He is not so named because of his startling resemblance to Flash Gordon's nemesis.

Gorgeous George Galloway - Who is unable to attend surgery for his constituents at present as he is busy stopping the Iraq War by hypnotising the nation with his piggy eyes. Young people everywhere who previously couldn't give a stuff about what's happening in this shitty world of ours as long as they're all right Jack and Shayneeee Ward gets to Number One are signing up to the RESPECT Party in their droves as they've seen the light in George's crabby orbs.

The b/w photo on Abu Dhabi TV - I'm guessing it's a picture of a recently deceased member of the Saudi Royal Family as he was in his younger, lovely days. The picture is accompanied by a singer who sounds like he's been singing for 36 hours without a break. But don't dare go for the remote control, as you'll get your hand chopped off at the wrist.

Happy Days!

Read This Tex

Yesterday, I had an argument at work.

"I text so and so to wish them a happy new year."

"What did you do?"

"I text so and so to wish them..."

"No, you texted so and so to wish them a happy new year."

"I text."

"You texted."

"Text."

"Texted."

"Text! Text! Text! There's no such word as Texted"

I lose the argument.

I have never text/texted in my godforsaken life, and I had never felt the need to describe it until yesterday.

My brain hurted.

What's Wrong With Noel Edmonds?

What're you doing?

Watching Sweeney. Recorded it last night. He's a brilliant actor.

Dennis Waterman?

Ray Winstone.

Oh. Sweeney Todd!

Yeah. He's brilliant.

Is he?

I thought you liked him? He supports West Ham.

So does Noel Edmonds.

What's wrong with Noel Edmonds?


(What's wrong with Noel Edmonds?)

New Year Happy

I'm busy. So I'm going to cut the crap. Or should that be cut to the crap?

Over the holidays...

We watched

King Kong - Fay Wray beautiful. Kong ugly but good, strong teeth.

Corrie - Goths Rosie and Craig have underage sex. Rosie's dad Kevin furious (jealous that he never had sex till he was 27 even though he grew a moustache at 13).

Bleak House - Hi-tech and addictive, but still soppy enough to be Dickens. Some great performances, the pick of which by Johnny Vegas's cat who I'll be voting for as Animal Actor of the Year at the BAFTAS.

Yuri Norstein Animations - Wonderful adaptations of Russian Folk Tales. Great pipe-smoking, knife-toting rooster.

Jools Holland's Hootenanny - Annual knees-up for Jools and his middle-aged chums: unfunny 1980s comedians. A pissed Adrian Edmondson jamming with the Kaiser Chiefs: middle-class twit of the year.

James Last at the Royal Albert Hall from 1977 - Not only can this soulless white audience not dance, they can't even bleeding conga.

The Death of the British Sitcom - Daffy old Carla Lane complains about being dropped by the BBC. Says "The Office is for 15 year olds". Daffy, daffy, daffy old woman living in the 1970s.

We Saw

Henri Rousseau at the Tate Modern - Colonial old fool but still a genius. It takes genius to make a lion look ugly.

We Listened to

Woman Next Door - She's contacted the police about our noisy neighbour. Oh dear.

Favourite Words

"Contains Mild Peril" - On adverts for that film about the penguins that the American Christian Right think is a moral story of family values.

Shhh

As a naturally quiet, shy person, happy to see out the new year without the company of strangers, I would like to echo the thoughts of millions of quiet, shy, unobtrusive individuals throughout the world. As this day is our day, the one day in the year when it is ok to be yourself.

In the words of the sage Bono...



ALL IS QUIET ON NEW YEAR'S DAY