Too Much Too Young

There is an outcry amongst good-thinking people about the 4ft tall 13 year old father who got his 15 year old girlfriend pregnant "during a night of unprotected sex". A whole night? A 13 year old whose voice hasn't broken? That's pretty good going. I bet he was a sensitive lover, too. And I bet he needed some deep-voiced Barry White soul to set the mood.

Then I read that he's from Eastbourne. And it all kicks into place.

Say you're a young boy on your first walk to the front at your seaside home town. What should be an exciting fun-filled day is totally spoiled by the sight that greets you on the prom. Thousands of motorised wheelchairs, driven by 95 year old 1 m.p.h. maniacs and stationary contraptions containing what my mother kindly describes as "the waxworks", staring into nothing but God's endless gullet.

A young boy experiencing this would vow to never get old, to get the stuff of life over as quickly as possible, become a grandfather at 26 and leave a young, good-looking corpse!

Plutonium Blondes

There's a battle going on in my head. Two songs I heard this week, each song just once, one on the tv, one on the radio. One I hate, one I love.

I wake up with the one I hate going round my head. I try to force the one I love to come to the fore. But the one I hate is always there, gnawing away.

The eighties.

So much to answer for.

Football Is The Loser

It was a sad day for English football when Peter Shilton took Bobby Moore's record for the most number of England caps. But he WAS a goalkeeper and DID play into his late fifties and Ray Clemence WAS shit so I wasn't completely surprised.

But yesterday was an even sadder day as David Beckham equalled Bobby's record for an outfield player.

Bobby was a footballing god. The coolest, calmest footballer ever to put on an England shirt. He could read forwards' intentions so quickly he knew what they were going to do before they did.

Beckham is a one trick pony. He has a sweet right foot. He can cross a ball in open play and he is very good at set pieces. But he is no Brooking, Hoddle or Gascoigne. He doesn't take your breath away with his dribbling or quick thinking defence splitting passes. He is good at what he does but what he does is very limited.

He prostitutes himself in the media. He bores us senseless with his family pictures and his meat and two veg bulging in his girly white pants like gobstoppers in a greedy boy's cheeks. His tattoos and hairstyles have been laughable. His boots are like ballet pumps. In fact he wear a tutu on the pitch. He prances up and down the touchline, lifting his skirt when an opponent comes near him, pulling his girly pants up as high as he can. As he prepares to take a free kick or a penalty he lifts his skirt in front of the opposition's wall or goalkeeper, pulls his pants up over his manhood, lifts his penis and displays his clean shaven golden balls, freshly painted along with his finger and toenails in the changing room before the match. It is blatant gamesmanship, which namby pamby referees nowadays ignore as it is all part of the "modern" game.

Beckham is not fit to lace Bobby's boots.

Brain Food

From today's Metro...

The Mediterranean diet may be good for the brain as well as the body. Eating the way people do in southern Italy can help reduce the risk of an elderly person's mental decline turning into Alzheimer's disease.

High consumption of white bread, ham, cheese, pizza, tiramisu and ice cream, plenty of strong coffee and forty cigarettes a day could cut the risk of developing the ailment by half, according to researchers at New York's Columbia University Medical Centre.

"Well, fuck me," said sufferer Arthur Grinley, 87 from Haywards Heath. "If I'd known about this fifty years ago I wouldn't have been a bleedin' brown ricer for most of me adult life."

Lay, Lay, Delay

How bloody naive am I? Watching The Doors live from 1968 on Sky Arts the other night I was wondering where the bass player was. Was he hidden backstage? It took me ages to work out that Ray Manzarek was playing the bass lines on his keyboard.

Of all the sixties bands, only the Beatles outdid The Doors in the classic albums stakes. Six great albums with Jim at the helm. That's some going in only five years.

Sky Arts are also giving us the Classic Albums series. The Band's The Band was one. Not a classic album, really (you could maybe cobble one together with its best songs and the best from Music From Big Pink). But me and Betty both like The Band and whenever they're mentioned we always seem to get onto the Bob Dylan question.

You see, Betty doesn't really *get* Bob Dylan. She likes a few songs and liked his drug addled performance from the 1966 tour. But that's about it. I almost *get* him. I don't understand the lyrics but love the songs and what he does with them.

Which makes me think that there are lots of different ways that people react to Bob Dylan. You can like his songs, but only done by other people. You can like his lyrics but not his songs, in the same way I like Leonard Cohen. You can like his acoustic stuff but not his electric stuff like the bloke who shouted "Judas!" Or you can like his electric stuff but not his acoustic stuff like I did up 'til last year. You can like everything he's ever done, including the latter strangled voice stuff. Or you can just like his 60s and early 70s stuff, like me. Of course, he could give you the absolute creeps and you'd rather stick knitting needles in your ears or listen to Trout Mask Replica on repeat for 48 hours. You could think the young Bob Dylan was sexy. Or you might prefer the young John Taylor from Duran Duran.

Only in the last case would I question your sanity.

So what about it? Where do we stand on the Bob?

Bollocks To Them All

Claire Rayner on Comment Is Free, demanding her mates a say on Thought For The Day.

Just a few points, Claire.

1. "Yet the National Secular Society and the British Humanist Association, representing the 46% of the British population who belong to no religion..." No you do not. You represent yourselves. Don't bring me into it.

2. "The BBC can't claim it is offering what most people want. The secular society points out that its 46% of the population is more than all the minority faiths put together." If the BBC just offered what most people want, imagine how shit its programmes would be. One of the good things about the BBC is that they cater for minorities.

3. "Among Today's 6.6 million listeners there could be considerable interest in secular humanism. They need to know about groups where they could feel at home." For heaven's sake, Claire, do you really think people listening to Radio 4 who have an unnatural obsession with not believing have never heard of the BHA?

By the way, Claire. When Thought For The Day is broadcast, at 7.45 a.m. I'm either just about to board a train or taking a couple of paracetamol in bed. I couldn't give a toss what's on the radio. But I'd rather listen to Thought For The Day than the presumably secular Chris Moyles Show. Just.

Revenge Of The One-Eyed Scotsmen

Clarkson, I'm watching you.

Dead Of Night

At 2 o'clock this morning, Lord Tebbit rose from his coffin and spoke into his dictaphone, accusing the BBC of double standards after the corporation had sacked Carol Thatcher from The One Show after she had referred to a tennis player as a "golliwog" in the green room.

"It seems very odd that (Jonathan) Ross can be back broadcasting having made obscene insulting remarks on the air, and Carol Thatcher, who said something which is ALLEGEDLY highly offensive BUT WHICH I RATHER DOUBT WAS MEANT TO BE SO, in private, should be banned. It is probably a bit of a way for the BBC to get back at Carol's mother."

Speaking as a licence payer, Norm (as I'm sure you'd want me to start), now the annoying bitch has proved herself to be racist I never want to see or hear her on the BBC ever again. If the BBC had wanted to get back at Carol's mother they would hardly have employed the twat in the first place. And no, I don't like cricket, but if I did I'd support the West Indies just to spite you, you small-minded little Englander prick of a man.

Highlights Of A Weather-Enforced Day Off Work

1. Loose Women. Geoffrey Hughes advertising the two-hander he's in at the Oldham Coliseum. Yes, a two-hander at the Oldham Coliseum, missus! Carol McGiffin, 48, (from Maidstone, like Chicory Tip) showing off her engagement ring like a stupid teenager. Carol was previously married to Chris Evans so let's hope she's developed taste in men over the years.

2. The BBC News and the commuter who was angry at the authorities' lack of response to the snow. "There are no gritters! It's like a third world country!" Would any of you like to suggest which third world country the South East of England resembles?

3. A search on my blog for "Lennie Peters and The Krays". "Sounds like a band," said Betty. Probably one that would play the Dirty Water Club.

The Lederhosen Ones

Maidstone's finest, Chicory Tip are the Christmas regulars at the village hall my mum and stepdad occasionally frequent. On Saturday, though, it was the turn of a "German" oompah band.

One of my dad's favourite old phrases was "Oompah! Oompah! Stick it up your joompah!" Which is what I'd say if I were invited to such an event.

The oompah night started off well with cold meats and apple strudel for afters, but degenerated into audience participation and the wearing of silly hats. Six people on my mum's table were really getting into it, loudly banging their licked-clean spoons in time with the music, downing the brandy and cokes like there was no tomorrow.

The 2009 Bloggies

The Bloggies are blogging's equivalent of The Oscars. Awards for blogs are about as ridiculous as you can get. They're rewarding failure. Writers and directors of Oscar nominated films are rich. They've made it big. Their awards are recognising their success. Same with music awards. The artists have sold their music by the truckload.

Bloggers aren't successful. And don't kid yourself that just because you've got a book deal you're a success. Think to yourself how many books fail, wasting paper. You're a failure as a writer if your writing doesn't make you rich. For every blogger there is always somebody better than you writing for free a few links away.

Even though I think it's a shitty idea I've still got a few questions to ask the Bloggies team.

1. Why is it that there are awards for Best Canadian Weblog and Best Australian/NZ Weblog when you've dropped the best American Weblog category? What the fuck have the Americans done to you? They've just elected a black man as President for God's sake! And you reward them by withdrawing their award? Shame on you!

2. Why are there two non-English language blogs on the shortlist? Don't you fuckers know blogs don't do subtitles? Who do you think is voting? We all speak English, knuckleheads!

3. Why has the Best GLBT Weblog category been replaced by Best Microblog? Why on earth are people who don't have much to say more important than a wonderfully creative minority? If you want to microblog, go Twitter yourself!

4. Why are there an Icelandic and a French nominee in the Best European Weblog Award? English is not their first language! A European blogger living outside the British Isles has to be an American or British ex-pat. You know the fucking rules!

5. If you're going to have a Best Teen Weblog then you've got to have a Best Oldie Weblog. Blogging is dominated by twenty somethings up to sixty somethings. Let's have some great grandmothers for a change! They've got a whole lifetime of knowledge to impart.**

Anyway, best of luck to all the nominees. I won't be voting because none of my mates are on there. They never have been. And they never will be. And in the true spirit of blogging I will only ever vote for my mates. So I will never vote. So ner!


** My favourite is I've Still Got Me Marbles, You Know written by Maud Langley, an 89 year old from Chorley.

John Martyn

Nick Drake, Tim Buckley, Clifford T Ward, Elliott Smith, Jeff Buckley...

Sensitive male singer songwriters who died too young. John Martyn outlived them all but 60 is still too bloody young to go. I only got into John a few years ago but I love his albums to bits. He'd just been made an OBE along with hundreds of other people who have never been geniuses.

The UK is very strange.

Murph

Bollocks to those book deals,
Bollocks to the Bloggies.
We've had much more fun
With our friends the doggies.

We Are The Goon Squad And We're Coming To Town

Yesterday I bought some new glasses. I asked the assistant in Boots if frame fashion had changed since I bought my last pair a little over two years ago. Apparently frames have got thicker. I opted for a thin-framed pair.

I've never been fashionable. Men being fashionable reminds me too much of Robert Elms.

Elms was spouting his usual nonsense on Style On Trial: The 70s. He said that anybody who says punk was about the music doesn't know what they're talking about. Punk was about fashion and punk fashion was over in three months. When middle class kids in Doctor Martens got involved, punk was dead.

Elms always talks as if his experience of life is the only true history. Punk wasn't just about cool kids shopping in West London. It was about kids all over the country starting bands, something which hadn't happened since the golden days of skiffle. You didn't get bands like Buzzcocks, Subway Sect and The Fall dressing in Vivienne Westwood clobber. While Elms was changing out of his punk gear into his nascent new romantic outfits, punk morphed into post-punk and pop music entered a truly great phase.

The Colin Hunt Tie

I went to a leaving do on Monday. A bit of tomato fell out of my sandwich onto my tie. It left a stain.

As my only other tie was creased I decided to buy some new ones. Imagine my delight when I found out that Tie Rack were having a 75% off sale.

So yesterday morning I changed into one of the new ties, a delightful blue one with little yellow flowers.

When I got home and started my usual moaning to Betty about my day, her eyes began to laugh as she kept looking down my front.

"Is there something funny?" I said.

"It's your tie," she said. "It's a bit...Colin Hunt."

"It wasn't Colin Hunt in the shop," I said.

"Maybe it's with that shirt. It's not necessarily a Colin Hunt tie of its own accord. It's just in combination with that shirt."

That shirt is a rather fetching blue.

"The tie just seems to stand out, like the design is three dimensional."

I took the tie off in a fit of pique and took the other new ties out of the bag. I held them up to my shirt, one by one.

"Is this tie Colin Hunt?"

"No."

"Is this one?"

"No."

"Is this tie Colin Hunt."

"A bit. But only with that shirt. Probably."

"So I've bought two Colin Hunt ties!"

You see how touchy I can be! Betty was only saying that one of my ties looked Colin Hunt with that particular shirt and that another tie looked a bit Colin Hunt with the same shirt. With a nice white shirt, both ties would look fine and dandy. But I wouldn't let it lie. All night I went on and on about my Colin Hunt ties. I'm sorry, Betty.

I'm wearing the slightly Colin Hunt tie today with a white shirt. I look like a dashing Member of Parliament.

Short People Got No Reason To Live

What Mick Hucknall sees in the mirror, reported in Saturday's Guardian Weekend...

"I keep reading that I'm diminutive - why do people call me that?"



"I'm 5ft 11in with size 11 feet. I'd actually like smaller feet. It might be a fetish, but I do like graceful feet, and small ones lend themselves to grace."

Maybe, Mick. But we all know what big feet on a man lend themselves to, don't we? Would you really have been such a big hit with the ladies with little baby feet on the end of your long, muscular legs?

All The Nice Girls Love A Scouser

"If you are a nice girl you like the Beatles and if you're a naughty girl you like the Stones."

Eve Pollard, talking in the present tense about the sixties on BBC4's Style On Trial.

What a load of bollocks! What the fuck have a woman's sexual habits got to do with either the kind of music she likes or the type of man she fancies?

And surely it would have been the case that most young people at the time would have liked both the Beatles and the Stones.

Of course the Beatles were better, but that goes without saying.

Back to Black

Funerals are shit, aren't they? Not as shit as weddings, but shit nonetheless.

The modern style of funeral with the picture of the deceased up front and members of the family feeling obliged to give speeches is just too tacky. Play a song by Westlife and reflect? Reflect on how crap the song is!

I still cried, of course. I'm wetter than a wet weekend, me. It was my first Humanist funeral and the Humanist chappy was very sincere and inclusive of everyone and even choked a bit when he read one of the grandchildren's letters.

But it's the dismal poor man's church-like setting. The "uplifting" or "humorous" music which is supposed to convey the character of the deceased. The creaking mechanical movement of the coffin as it jerks behind the curtains. There's just no class.

And then you file out and spend three hours looking at dying flowers, milling around like those morons on the Antiques Roadshow! Followed by some extremely awkward conversation.

More often than not followed the next day by people who went asking each other what song they'd like played at their funeral. Who gives a bollock?

I Want To Live Like Common People

Working, as I do, in an area saturated with young office workers, I often have advertisements for gym membership thrust into my uneager hand. They mistake me for someone who's got the time and the inclination to work out.

Yesterday I was handed the new advert for the latest class at Gym Box.

"CHAV FIGHTING..." it said on the front. "...Martial arts with Burberry belts and a fist full of sovereign rings".

I turned to the inside.

"The louder they grunt the harder they fall...Why hone your skills on punch bags and planks of wood when you can deck some Chavs? Welcome to the wonderful world of Chav Fighting. A world where Bacardi Breezers are your sword and ASBOs are your trophy."

I think I ought to go to this class. Just to see what sort of twats it attracts. I'll take along some of my Chav mates dressed as middle class wankers and we'll kick shit out of the twats in the changing rooms.*



*Not really. Do you honestly think I know any Chavs, dear reader?

Jesus the Jew

It was a cracking start to the new series exploring Christianity on Channel 4. Howard Jacobson didn't pull his punches and actually made me sit up and take notice of what he was saying.

Here's Howard talking to Cardinal George Cottier, former Theologian to the Pope...

HOWARD: I'm wondering how, for example, a Jew can never read parts of the New Testament without feeling more than scandalised. I mean, when John talks about the Jews as devils, for example, the children of Satan.

GEORGE: The Gospel of John isn't an anti-Jewish gospel. It is a gospel that speaks about love. And from this vision of love, one can understand, relativise the meaning of these texts. But we certainly cannot touch what is, for us, a word of God.

Hmmm. So this evening I consulted our Collins Holy Bible and read the following, which John wrote at 8:44...

"You are of your father the devil, and your will is to do your father's desires."

This, according to John at almost a quarter to nine, is what Jesus said to the Jews.

Howard's right! How can George say there is love in Jesus' words? Unless I've taken those words out of context.

Next week it's Michael Portillo who used to make me physically sick just to look at him. But after a decade of smarm-meister Blair he doesn't seem so bad after all.