Life on the Dole - A Part-Fantasy

Well, Geoff. How are you getting on on the old king cole?

Well, it's been six weeks now. I am dutifully applying for at least six jobs a fortnight as the Job Centre Plus demands, whether I want them or not. I don't want any of them but I don't want some more than I don't want others.

No fucker gets back to you. I say no fucker but actually one fucker did get back to me and I went for an interview yesterday.

The life was sucked out of the room. I was told the shit parts of the job which were many, I was told they had between 600 and 1,000 clients and I was thinking there's a fucking big difference between 600 and 1,000. I would be spending a lot of my time chasing up these clients to get their paperwork in on time then I would spend a lot of my time contacting clients to try to get them to take their paperwork back.

So I decided against this job and trotted along to the Job Centre Plus in the afternoon for my third fortnightly appointment.

"Since you haven't got any accountancy qualifications, what about this job?" said the woman seeing to me.

I said, that's in Orpington, a town an hour away by bus, an hour away by train, it would take me an hour and a half to get to work.

She said I was obliged to travel up to an hour and a half to work. Orpington was OK.

I said it was a 40 hour week for £7 an hour.

She said I was obliged to work a maximum of 40 hours for a minimum of the minimum wage, £5.93 per hour. She said the object was to get the jobseeker off jobseeker's allowance and into a job. She said if I'm low-paid I may be able to get other benefits.

I said you're only giving me £68 per week for 26 weeks. I've paid tax and national insurance for the past 29 years. I said I'm doing this so I get my full pension.

She said have you checked how much pension you'll be getting? Go onto the internet, type in "Google" and type in "pension forecast".

I said can you write that down because I don't think I'll be able to remember that. Do I have to turn on the computer first?

She said yes, maybe you could go on an IT course. A lot of our older customers have trouble with computers, how to turn them on, how to turn them off, etc.

I said that would be good because though I've got a computer at home I haven't got any qualifications in using a computer and a course showing me how to use a computer would be very useful especially since I bought it seven years ago and still haven't worked out how to turn the fucking thing on. And I have spent the past 29 years in accountancy blagging my way as I don't know the first thing about it so maybe I can go on a course to, I don't know, I don't know what's done nowadays with all these new fangled machines, did you know when I was made redundant some cunt nicked my favourite abacus?

"So what about we go for this job in Orpington?" she said.

Aimless (2)

I apologise if you were reading this blog a couple of years ago when a lot of the next few sections of the story were told. But this is the new, improved version!

Also, I am putting my podcasts on a new blog, latest one here.

Anyway, enough of that. The story continues...

My mum and dad met at the Embassy Court in Welling. This was the local place to see and dance to the bands of the day. This was my dad’s music, The Ted Heath Orchestra, big band shit like that. My mum was a big Sinatra fan.

My dad and his friend would stand at the front, close to the band, their necks jerking back and forth like pigeons’ necks, in time to the music. The equivalent of our later headbanging except there were plenty of women around in the dance halls of the day to admire their smart head moves and smarter Tony Curtis haircuts.

My dad was still doing National Service, in the Air Force, when my mum and dad got married. They lived for five years in my dad's parents' home. No room to swing a cat but it was the only way they could save up enough money to get a deposit on a house. In the end, my dad was lent most of the deposit by a man whose gardening he did. They were on the housing ladder and moved to Welling.

When she was pregnant with me, my mum worked at the Atomic Energy. Her best friend at the Atomic was carrying at the same time. A girl. We were the children of the future.

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.

The first thing I can recall is riding my tricycle, legs pumping away like manic sausages, heading along the pavement to greet my dad as he came home from work, a packet of Murraymints for me in his jacket pocket.

I don't remember our dog. Dino was named after the Flintstones' pet dinosaur and his favourite meal of the day was a packet of my mum's cigarettes. The cigarettes were essentials. The dog wasn’t. The dog had to go.

Dino went to a good home and I was allowed my own space. I soon learned to play alone, happy in the company of Baby and Daddy Mugger, my two pandas. My mum often brings up Baby Mugger, even today. Baby Mugger was the child I never had.

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

When I was four my dad got a job as an engraver on the south coast and we upped sticks for Christchurch.

I loved Christchurch. My dad went 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. My white body went brown in the sun and I felt more comfortable exposing the upper half of my body than I have since. I had a Batman outfit in which I ran down Bournemouth High Street, oblivious to the crowds.

My dad loved it there, too. He enjoyed the job 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. She was lonely.

Two incidents stick out in my mind from then. I was scared shitless by the steam and whistle of a steam train going under a bridge we were standing on. And I was scared shitless when I was left alone in the house with my cousin one day. She got it into her head that there was an intruder in the house. Silly girl.

Despite those couple of frights I remember it as year of comfort and security. With my mum I was safe, happy playing by myself in the living room, listening to the sounds of food being prepared, rooms being vacuumed and the quiet druggy sound of the radio.

I had no friends and I couldn't have been happier. But my mum was going mad with loneliness. So we moved back home.

We weren't able to get our own place straight away. We spent the next several months at my dad's parents' council house. Yes, back there again for my parents. Even more crowded now and not good for anybody's nerves, especially since my parents had now had a taste of independence.

I went to the chip shop on a Saturday with my dad, watched the wrestling and checked the pools with my grandad. But my happy days with my mum, just the two of us, were gone. I remember being ill most of the time, lying in bed, afraid of the wallpaper.

Shapes moved. They became three-dimensional. They throbbed, heaved, backwards and forwards, side to side, span and spiralled.

I started school, a tiny school around the corner. I immediately contracted measles.

The wallpaper had a field day and the bastard measles perforated my eardrum. As my mum and dad argued, my grandparents argued, the one unifying force was the sick, weak child in the box bedroom. Come on, Dad. Hurry up and get a deposit on that dream house!

Staycation

As part of an all-out assault on your patience I have decided to produce some podcasts perfectly unsuitable for BBC Radio. I was going to do videos but couldn't bear to look at myself. It's bad enough having to listen to my own voice!

Don't worry, I haven't given up on the memoirs. The next installment will be along soon. Anyway, turn the lights down low, close your eyes and prepare for the sexiest voice on the internet.

Aimless (1)

My mum was born in 1931, in Cornwall. My grandad had his own coffin-making business. My nan was a housewife.

My grandad had been in the Great War. He’d been gassed in the trenches. He never talked about it.

My mum had an older brother and two younger sisters. Her brother used to catch rabbits and keep ferrets on his person, under his clothes. All four children were given 'opening' medicine by my nan. They’d get caught short in the fields and have to use dock leaves to wipe their arses.

My nan didn't think much of life. Her most common saying was ‘Life is hell on earth'. As her family were always pretty well-off in the scheme of things, there must have been a depressive streak running through her. She was certainly not one to think of the deprivations of others less fortunate living lives that could truly be called 'hell'.

During the Second World War, my grandad joined the army but was discharged quite quickly. They didn't want old'uns like him. He moved to Welling in south-east London where he lodged and worked locally as a clerk of works.

My mum, meanwhile, was living the idyllic Cornish life, far away from the action. I have an image of my mum running on Marazion beach as a German bomber flies overhead. Jerry looks down and waves.

My dad was born in Bexley in 1932. Born in the same council house he grew up in, the one his mum eventually died in. My dad’s dad was a labourer for the council. He could have been a footballer. Arsenal wanted him but he chose the security of a steady council job.

My dad used to say my grandad was as fast as a whippet and, being small, would run with the ball between big centre halves’ legs. Centre halves were giants back then.

My dad’s mum, like my mum’s, was a housewife. She was more cheerful than my mum’s mum.

My dad’s childhood was idyllic, too. He loved the countryside. A teacher once addressed him in front of the class and said he knew that all my dad wanted was to be in a field, alone, miles from anyone and anywhere.

My dad was evacuated to Derbyshire during the war. Bexley was close enough to London to be bombed. My dad loved Derbyshire. I never knew a place with beautiful countryside that my dad went to that he didn’t love, that he didn’t want to move to.

The war ended and my mum’s dad sold his coffin-making business in Cornwall and bought the house he was staying in, in Welling. The family moved from Cornwall for good. My grandparents knew there was nothing in Cornwall for young women. My mum would have had to marry a farmer, muck out for the rest of her life. The girls wanted more than that. They wanted work, glamour, lights and life. Life, not the slow death of the countryside. Not the sort of place my dad dreamt of.

Preface to 'Aimless'

You know what? I've done over 16,000 words now but I'm missing getting a response from you lot. Writing is a lonely business when you're just writing for yourself. I like to communicate. Oh, how I miss work and its cut and thrust. How I wish I were there now, stressed up to the eyeballs, listening to bullshit.

So I'm going to serialise my life story on here. Right from the very beginning. I hope you'll have the patience to see it through and not desert me as the going gets tough. When I've finished I'll probably self-publish it, something to show the nurse in the old people's home. She or he will say, 'Geoff. At least nobody can say you didn't live a life. Of sorts. No, really, it's very interesting. Honest, it is.'

My Life Story - Excerpt

MJ kindly requested an excerpt from my ongoing autobiography which I am currently doing instead of getting off my arse and finding a job like the benefit scrounger I am. So here is a bit I wrote yesterday, a taster for the best-seller it is sure to be, giving a glimpse of the tragedy to come which would divide our happy nuclear family forever, oh spare me the violins!

80s pop was beginning to break out of its gloomy shell and bright young things were getting more and more outlandishly dressed and fresh-faced. At about the same time in the NME there were articles on two new bands, ABC and Haircut 100. I thought ABC’s cycling outfits were ridiculous and the Haircuts had nice jumpers and sensibly high-slung guitars and were more becoming of the modern pop star. Michael was of the opposite opinion. So I chose Haircut 100 as my prediction to be the next big thing and he chose ABC. This was before either of us had heard a note of their music.

If we’d been kids, ten years younger and more boisterous, maybe we’d have had a fight to decide it like the Gary Glitter boy and the Marc Bolan boy. But we didn’t even have a bet as we knew pop music was to be enjoyed, not to get into arguments about. I have never judged someone by their musical tastes, maybe some light teasing about Cliff Richard or Wet Wet Wet, but as with your football team, I don’t mind who you support as long as you don’t force me to experience them.

So who won between the two bands? ABC were the more popular, I’d say, and made more money. But Martin Fry is still doing those chicken-in-a-basket 80s nostalgia tours whereas Nick Heyward is known as one of the greatest thinkers of his generation and is always being asked for quotes on a whole myriad of subjects.

I was totally bored with my course by now. I’d chosen the wrong subject for the second year in Econometrics with its particularly pointless equations. But I was still there, hanging on, not wanting a job. I needed something to tip me over the edge and make me give up.

It was the day I bought the 12 inch single of ABC’s Poison Arrow. I’d cycled to Cloud 9, all the way to heaven, and back and played it and added it to my growing collection of pretentious early 80s 12 inchers. It was a Saturday evening. I’d had my chips and was settled down in front of Match of the Day. My mum and sister were in bed and me and my dad were watching the football, him shouting out the usual ‘It’s “one-all”, not “one-one!”’ at the blasphemous commentators and ‘Don’t tickle it, it won’t laugh!’ at the hapless “fanny” players. My dad was quite sober that night. A usual night would involve me leaving him downstairs at 11 p.m. so he could eat his one meal of the day in peace, his boiled hearts or kidneys or other muck straight out of the saucepan he’d cooked them in. I’d wake up a couple of hours later to the sound of the television’s high pitched tone, I’d come downstairs, see the red dot in the middle of the screen and turn off the TV. He’d be slumped in his armchair, mouth open, snoring like a good’un and I’d shake him awake with difficulty and coax him to go to bed. Once I came downstairs after being woken up by the TV and found him drowsily pissing into the kitchen sink. When I told him he was disgusting he said his dad used to regularly spit in the sink and spitting in the sink was much more unhygienic than pissing in the sink. I begged to differ but I wasn’t going to make a scene.

His pissing wasn’t confined to the toilet and the sink, however. Once he had a slash out of the bedroom window and woke my mum up. I don’t know if he told her that his dad used to spit out of the bedroom window and pissing out of it was more hygienic, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

So, there we were, father and son watching the football, a happy picture of family male bonding. And the phone rang. He got up so quickly I guessed he had been expecting the call. And he was sober. I heard the mufflings of a short conversation coming from the hallway and he came back in and told me he had to go out.

My Life Story

It doesn't get much cooler than this



This is the life. I am spending my days lazing around and writing my life story. It's a dull life I've had but why would anyone want to read about an exciting life? They'd only get jealous.

I've done 10,000 words so far and I've got to my mid-teens. So 30,000 words to go and 35 years. Can I write that much? I'm going to need an awful lot of padding, going off on tangents, making up lots of dialogue. But now I've got a bit of time to myself I actually believe I can do it.

And where I used to think whatever I'd written in the past had been the finished product, I know this is only the first draft, to be played around with, fiddled with until I've got something to show the world.

Of course next week I'll probably be rolling on the floor in despair.

The Power Of Positive Thinking

So there we have it. 25 years in the same office, many happy years, though recently unhappy, I've been luckier than most.

25 years ago we had six full-time staff in our department. Now, we get a lot more work done with one full-timer and two part-timers. From next week, apparently, optimistically, that full-timer will be replaced by a part-timer. And that's me gone.

Computerisation is great. I wouldn't be able to do this without it, find new friends and show off in front of them. But it's replaced so many jobs over the years. Good, honest hard work is out and creativity is in. I don't mean traditional creativity like making music or art or literature, a much more modern kind of creativity, a knowing look, a bright spark in the eye, a brain trained in business becomes a brain that is so open to so many opportunities it can hardly contain itself within the brittle skull surrounding it. Why don't we do it this way? Have you thought of doing it this way? What about this, what about this, what about this? So many creative ideas flooding from the business brain, spreading over the boardroom table it's difficult to keep them apart. But do you want to? Maybe the ideas all interlink and organically grow into one big idea and we can see the big picture and we look up to the sky and look and look and realise just what a gigantic wonderful world this is and we're so lucky to be a part of it especially in this day and age when creative people are at the hub of a future that can only be sunshine and flowers and positive thinking is going to make it that way and this PowerPoint presentation is going to prove it, you bet it will.

Here Comes The Summer

Now I've got some time at home, thinking what I want from a holiday, a nice walk by the sea and, er, whatever else people do on holidays, so I go to the travel agents and say I want to go somewhere where you can have a nice walk by the sea, thinking somewhere with a long prom like Brighton. She says she likes Puerto Pollensa in Majorca, yes it's very nice there, or maybe Benalmadena on the Costa Del Sol from where you can walk by the sea all the way to Torremolinos if you so wish and I'm thinking do I really want to walk by the sea seven days in a row and I'm thinking, no, I don't really.

And I've seen my fill of cathedrals and ruins and mounds and ancient drawings and mosaics and fuck me, do I really want to go to a monastery at my time of life and I don't really want to taste alcohol I want to guzzle it down with gusto.

But I do want to walk by the sea and I will, on a nice day, get the train to Brighton and walk along the prom to Hove, turn around and walk back again and get the train back home in time to have something nice to eat and to guzzle down some alcohol and watch the bleeding telly cos that's what I like to do, OK?

Climbing Up on Hampton Hill

I have been feeling a little heavy recently, too much comfort eating, possibly comfort drinking, too.

So I was at my mum's last Sunday and I mentioned this to her.

"There's some scales in the bathroom, underneath the thing. You're better off bringing them downstairs and putting them on a hard surface. The kitchen's best."

So I went to the bathroom and got the scales from under the thing, took them into the kitchen and stepped on them. Thirteen stone!

"I'm a couple of stone overweight, too," said my mum.

So I've cut out a lot of wheat. Two slices of bread a day in my lunchtime sandwich. Then I started on the Ryvita. Ryvita, Ryvita, Ryvita. I mentioned my new health kick on Twitter. Beverley replied to me. Bev's alright...

@RyvitaCrunch Beverley at Ryvita @geoffwetblanket have you had a look at our website? Might help inspire you x www.ryvita.co.uk :-)

I suppose if I were a musician or an artist, inspiration would be easy to find. But being a dieter, looking at pictures of cardboard with white stuff on them doesn't get my creative juices flowing.

A week into my diet and I'm off the Ryvita and into Oatibix. The view from the top of Hampton Hill is superb.

1066 Country

Yesterday we took the train to the coast. I used to drive to the coast but I get too tired nowadays on longer journeys than a few miles.

The train to Hastings was air conditioned. The air conditioning smelt of sweat but what do you expect in standard class?

Our nostrils were not given a rest all day. Toilets, fish, chips, fish 'n' chips, fish 'n' piss, barbecued meat, the wonderful smells of our seaside resorts.

As usual in Hastings, I decided to head for the cliffs. Except this time I couldn't find the way up. My memory's not what it was. So we turned back from the full car park and headed for St Leonards.

Past the burnt down pier, the people's pier, we walked along the prom prom prom, past sunbathers, lone young men with guitars, a group of people singing Tainted Love, big men cooking meat on barbecues and many lager drinkers. It was St George's Day and your racist little Englander would have been disgusted by the ethnic diversity on show, families from differing backgrounds brazenly enjoying themselves on a beautiful day on a relaxed not-too-crowded beach. Of course the pictures in the papers always show young blondes on Brighton or Bournemouth beaches on work days with unseasonally hot weather or a sea of bodies on the same two beaches on weekends or bank holidays.

Brighton and Bournemouth, young blondes splashing with joy.

What's wrong with a tattooed drunk with 9% lager and a pitbull snarling at the camera, UK Subs and The Vibrators at the local pub and chips gorged in their thousands?

Show us as we are.

1976

1976 was a pivotal year in the history of pop music. Top of the Pops didn't speak to the kids, it was full of acts yer gran liked. Our Kid! The Old Grey Whistle Test was all West Coast hippy nonsense. Noodle noodle noodle. The kids' older brothers' music. There was nothing for the kids. Nothing I tell you.

Britain was ready for an explosion, a revolution, a movement the kids could really get excited by. It was about getting back to basics, the roots of rock 'n' roll, "here's a chord, here's another chord, now go and form a band."

Punk took the nation by storm. The kids were united and they would never be divided. They spat, they pogoed, they took drugs that made them spit and pogo, they called Bill Grundy a dirty old man, the kids were public enemy numbers one to a million and adults didn't know what to do, they were running scared, they were holed up with their James Last and Judge Dread albums, throwing their car keys into the middle of the room, hoping to God for some middle aged thrills with Brenda from number 7 as Brenda's children played their Damned single and threw up out of their bedroom window.

So a time of adult promiscuity and teenage anarchy was raging as Brotherhood of Man took the number one spot with a song about snogging a three year old and God you felt your whole world was on a knife edge as you taped Yes off the radio and snuggled in the corner of the room, big headphones hiding your waxy ears and your dad said "Have you heard about this thing called Punk? Apparently they can't play their instruments."

And you thought what a big deal it all wasn't and 35 years later you can't believe just what a load of shit the media comes out with about nineteen bloody seventy-six.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The Wisdom of Kirsty Young

"Public spending is being cut by £81bn (nearly 6% of total national income) within 4 years, pushing up unemployment by half a million in the public sector plus adding nearly a further half million in the private sector whose jobs depend on public expenditure." Michael Meacher yesterday (thank you Vicus for alerting me to the existence of his blog, ooh ages ago now).

The Kirsty Young presented series The British At Work has been a load of union-kicking nonsense. The unions were "on top" till the 80s when employers got "on top", did they Kirsty? If by "on top" you mean protecting jobs and working conditions I suppose they were "on top" but that all went out the window in the 80s.

Kirsty proved she knew fuck all about what was going on in her own generation with her take on the lyrics to the single Wham Rap! and the image of the band Heaven 17 on the cover of their album Penthouse and Pavement.

In Kirsty's world, Wham Rap! was about finding a job you like in Thatcher's land of opportunity. Of course the song is really about the impossibility of anything but a dead-end low-paid soul-destroying job or the possibility of rejecting this and having some self-respect on the dole. Better to be out of work than doing long hours of shit for peanuts.

In Kirsty's world the "message they are giving..." on the cover of Penthouse and Pavement "...is very clear: BUSINESS IS NOW COOL AND SEXY."



Fucking hell, woman. You really don't get irony, do you?

Music and Me

I used to think I was going to be a musician, a writer of songs and a star. No I didn't, I was fooling myself. I haven't picked up that ol' geetar for nigh on 25 years.

But recently, what with all this new technology and whatnot, I have begun to have dreams that maybe there's something there, maybe I've got the music in me. I've downloaded an app for this thing which has three synthesisers, sequencer, etc. The manual's fifty pages long!

Then I think who am I trying to kid? Whenever I hear somebody's music, somebody who blogs or who tweets, I think, yeah, well, you're alright and I'm glad you've got a hobby and all that, but you're a better blogger or tweeter.

It's so easy to expose any old shit on Twitter, not much harder to do any old cock on your blog, but when you say to the world "This is my music" you really are laying yourself open to comparisons with stuff that actually sells. I know I haven't got a hope in Hell of selling any of my music because I just haven't got that star quality, the gift of writing a catchy tune, so I'm sorry but you'll just have to put up with my bollocking words for the next however many years. I'm not going to be the next Mungo Jerry whoever he is, so this is it, this is all you're getting.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

New App

I've got this new app, you see, which means I can blog from my iPhone. This is the future, man, using the one finger I use to point accusingly at animals.

"Did you do that, you naughty boy? You're going to be in trouble."

I don't know how this is going to turn out or what to touch next - it's either "Done" "" or the little camera symbol. I'm guessing it's "Done". Any ideas what happens if I press the other two?


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A Hairy Escape

Last night I had a bad-trip dream.

I walked into some kind of market and was accosted by a woman standing outside a building. I seemed to be on a promise but she asked me to do something before I could go inside with her. She was a kind of hippy woman but not too smelly. I said OK I'd do whatever she wanted.

She went inside and came out again with people I could only describe as her sisters. Her older sisters, hairy and more smelly. Men appeared around me who looked like this...



They smelled to high heaven, too. They were chewing heavy wholemeal bread which I could see was what the commune were selling at the market as the bread was stacked high on a stall.

My new girlfriend handed me a false beard. She said I was to wear it before I could get access. The beard was made from hairy pubes, earth-mother minge hair presumably donated by the ladies present. Don't ask me how I know none of it was from the men but I just did, OK?

Then the eldest woman present brought a bowl containing a placenta to the proceedings. Don't ask me how I knew it was a placenta, I just did, OK?

I put on the minge beard and the placenta was handed to me to cuddle. Meanwhile, the men (see above) were watching me intently, chewing their bread. And the women looked at me with maternal pride.

So the dream ended.

But in real life, here's my latest film. Don't all rush at once.

Who Am I?

True Grit is an excellent film. I can't remember the John Wayne version and I've never read the book but it's just the sort of film that young teenagers should love rather than all that Harry Potter and Twilight nonsense but they won't of course because they've been brainwashed by the media.

We only go to the cinema once a year or so now. So it's good to see the trailers for forthcoming films.

A constant theme in these films seems to be identity. Something changes in the male protagonist's brain and he can't remember who he is or he can remember who he is but can't remember what happened to him or his identity has been stolen by another man or he has become another man with only his name remaining.

You can see his moronic face looking into space and hear his moronic brain whispering "Who am I?" to itself.

If only his mum hadn't forgotten to wash his PE kit with his name sewn into it.

Club Mellow

My latest film is here. I've given up trying to embed them and I can't upload this one to YouTube for some reason.

And as an extra bonus I've been sifting through the thousands of films on the site and actually found a funny one here! Xtranormal is not a social networking site so it's difficult to find stuff you'd want to see. But there have got to be some gems amongst the dross and I'm making it my life's work to find them.

The Olympic Stadium Fascination

One news item we Londoners can't get enough of is the battle for the Olympic Stadium. It's on the local news almost every evening and the selflessness of the owners of the two clubs involved brings a tear to the eye.

Here is my take on the ridiculous saga, including another appearance by my favourite actor, the sexy topless French footballer.

Designer Cake

That's it. I've definitely had it with football. I cancelled my Sky Sports subscription last week but I had to give a month's notice. Today's match was so fucking awful I would rather have been watching the Superbowl cheering on the New York Dolls or whoever's playing this year.

Anyway, my latest video is here. I'm not going to stop doing them just because you don't like them, you know!