The Corner Of My Eye

The train is only six carriages long. I sit in one of the seats in a row of three, facing the opposite window. A young man sits next to me, and next to him, his girlfriend.

He is a sniffer. One of those who have a runny nose but no will to blow it. They prefer to sniff up the same pool of liquid snot at thirty second intervals throughout the duration of the forty minute train journey.

So I look at him out of the corner of my eye, with disgust.

And there I see his girlfriend's hand. Not only is he a sniffer, but she is a thigh holder. Her hand rests on the inside of his thigh, about an inch from his meat and two veg.

The hand only leaves its resting place in order to turn the page of her magazine, then goes straight back to base, giving a little rub as it arrives.

Does he enjoy this proximity as he sniffs in his snot? In full view of a carriage full of commuters?

And what is she saying to us? "This belongs to me, ladies and gents"? "So hands off"?

I'm sure she asks him in a whisper at one point if he has a tissue.

I'm not so sure she wants it for his nose.

Lies, Damned Lies, And Sadistics

Isn't it a good feeling when your stats go through the roof?

I'm averaging about 60 a day and feeling really smug.

That is until I check where they're all from.

90% of them are searches for...

Lyrics to Sandi Thorn I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker With Flowers In My Hair When The Head Of State Didn't Play Guitar

Yes, that's Sandi T H O R N.

Not only have you got fucking awful taste in music, you can't even hear what the DJ is saying.

It's T H O M

As in Y O R K E.

You know, the one with the dodgy eye out of Radiohead? The one who sounds like he's in pain?

Just go away and leave me to my coterie of like-minded bloggers.

Yes, that's B L O G G E R S.

I Dream Of Psycho

As I reach the foot of the hill, I am confronted by a group of teenage boys. They surround me and one of them snatches my scarf. They each take it in turns to wear my scarf, taking the piss out of me as they do. We all walk towards my mother's house, me in the centre of the gang.

The boys' leader asks me to give him my hat. I say that he can have it if they all leave me alone. He promises they will.

I give him my hat and he puts it on his head, dancing around shouting, "Look at my hat! Look at my hat!" The other boys then take it in turns to do the same. They don't leave me, they carry on walking with me trapped in the middle.

We are in my mother's street. I can see her house in the distance, just past the woods. And I think about the man who lives three doors down from my mother. He is a retired police officer, nicknamed 'Psycho'. I think if I could lead them to Psycho's house, then he could save me from these bullies.

We reach the end of the woods. Suddenly, out of the woods steps my stepdad together with Psycho. I am safe! Psycho asks the boys what they are doing harrassing a poor defenceless middle-aged man like this...

The boys run away.

All except for one, the largest, slowest, most innocent looking boy. I grab hold of him. I am bent on revenge. I ask Psycho to hold him still. He holds him in a head lock and I kick the boy with all my might.



I am half awake but I know I'm in pain. It's my toes. I have kicked the radiator, hard.

Betty is now half awake, too.

"Are you alright, dad?" she asks in her half dream state.

"Eh?"

We are now both fully awake.

"Are you alright?" she asks me.

"I kicked the radiator," I say. "I'll be alright."

"I thought you'd fallen out of bed," she says. "Sorry I called you 'dad'."


For a moment there I thought we were turning into our grandparents.

Happy Days

Ooh! Geoffrey's holiday snaps! How exciting!



He looks like Robbie. But does he sound like him?



Ibiza Town. Just like I pictured it.




Dalt Vila 1 Our Poor Old Legs 0




Very Edward Hopper. Quick, get Athena on the blower.




Wolves not allowed in Ibiza. Not even on a lead.




But deer allowed in New Forest. Come on, chaps. Don't be shy. You can have some of my Oriental Ginger Ice Cream.




All chavs are bastards in Bournemouth. Yeah? So I suppose all students aren't wankers?


*******


And as a special treat...

Distraught by the axing of Top of the Pops, I have decided to follow in the footsteps of Performance Poet/Comedian Phill Jupitus, Performance Poet/Comedian Mark Lamaar, and Performance Poet/Comedian/Actor/Crackhead Craig Charles.

I have performed the poems
I have told the jokes

Now it's time for me to be a BBC deejay like the aforementioned jokers.

Only, my musical tastes are too MOR for the BBC.

So welcome to the world of Geoff's Number Ones. The songs that are number one in my chart each week. You'll be able to listen to them for as long as they're my number one. This may be for longer than a week. Or it may be for just a week. Yes, it's that crazy.

And this week, pop pickers, straight in at number one we have Baby I'm Yours by Barbara Lewis. This Van McCoy song was made a hit by Peter and Gordon. I haven't heard that version and the only Peter and Gordon I knew were my dad and his friend. And they were more into Ted Heath than whatever was in the sixties charts.

Barbara's lovely performance can be found on Soul Diva Sessions: Classic 60's & 70's Ladies Soul With Attitude, an album we played and thoroughly enjoyed in the car on the way down to the New Forest. The soundtrack for the rest of the break was Ibiza - The History Of Trance which we listened to in England as we didn't get the chance in Ibiza to see the sun go down and then come up again with thousands of beautiful people half our age to a soundtrack of chilled-out beats.

No, instead we got a mid-evening glimpse of Nigel Fear and his one-man Shadows impersonation in the hotel bar.

Apache!

Fishy Fingers

Q: What smells of rotten cheese, shit, puke, and gets in your hair, on your glasses, on your lips, on your teeshirt and up your arms?

A: A tin of Sainsbury's exploding tuna.

I explain to Customer Services. She has a stony face.

"Do you want your money back, then?"

"Erm, yes please."

"Oh. It's saying item not found. Barbara, do we know anything about these packs of tuna?"

"They've been recalled. It's about the third page in."

"Oh, yeah. Poor quality."

Poor quality? I still stink of shit and vomit even after my bath and they say it's poor quality?

"Give him his 99p."

She gives me a pound coin. She doesn't ask for the fucking change.

We're a Couple of Swells

A few words just to say we're off again tomorrow for a couple of days breathing in the New Forest air.

In the meantime, here's a picture of me with historian and Ibizan author, Isidor Macabich. We're both known for our sardonic senses of humour and tendency to rust if pissed on.

There'll be more pictures of our holiday when we get back at the weekend.

Oh goody.

Here Comes The Summer

So we're winding down for the holidays and this'll probably be the last post for a couple of weeks. For on Monday, we're off to banging party island Ibiza for a week.

I'm looking forward to seeing all my old dj friends (DJ Horny, DJ Clammy, DJ Spanner and Judge Jules) as we have it large in the wee small hours on a beach that's been reclaimed from the sea especially for us.

I'll be djing at Manumission next Wednesday. Of course Wednesday is Indie Retro Nite at Manumission, the one night of the week when there isn't live sex on stage involving a bald old git and a young glamour model. Lots of fun for the party-goers, however, as I will be playing an uplifting set including Love Cats, The Passenger, and Jump Around to a crazy mixed-up middle-aged ex-student audience. If you're coming, don't forget Strongbow is only €6 a pint so drink sensibly!

There's a special treat too, as next Wednesday is a Britpop Special. We have a special 4 song set by a reformed Gay Dad and Louise Wener will be autographing copies of her latest novel in the foyer.

In the meantime, why not tell me this...

If you were to be a popular musician, living or dead, who would you choose? Me, I'd like to be a younger version of Robert Wyatt, composing and recording at home with a keyboard and a lot of electronic effects. I couldn't be doing with all those jazz musicians, though.

Keep it pop!

Doesn't He Look Young?

Although I spent most of the 80s being mistaken for this poxy joker, more recently I have been compared to celebrated counter tenor, Andreas Scholl (above). For those of you poncey music fans who live in the London area, I'm not lying when I say that Andreas is to give a recital at the Queen Elizabeth Hall on 11th June. I'm not going as I'd only be mobbed by autograph hunters.

Actually, I look bugger all like the bloke, although we do both wear glasses.

At my place of work, however, I am known as a celebrated tenner counter, as I am the man who deals with the petty cash.

I am celebrated because I count the cash with such consummate style. I always make sure the Queen's head is up the correct way and facing the ceiling, and I do not lick my fingers.

I am available for performances any evening or weekend.

You supply the notes.

I bring my own box.

Bragging Rights

Smiling sweetly, she thrusts a leaflet in my hand.

It's a leaflet advertising a gentlemen's hairdressers I used to go to.

Friendly & Professional Hairdressers
Have a Haircut from our mainly Lady Barbers
Specialists in Long and Short Styles


My hair's short but I don't think I've ever had a "style", unless you count the time I went to Demop, the same week I bought a pair of trousers from Demob. What a cool dude I was that week!

Now my trousers are from M&S and my hair is cut by Betty with some Phillips clippers. It's neat, tidy and presentable, and it's done by my favourite woman with loving care. Not by a stranger, no matter how scissor-gentle or alluring she may be.

So I don't need to go back to my mainly Lady Barbers. A good job because I might get the urge to ask just how many of them are Ladies.


*******


I would be extremely happy if I never saw or heard Billy Bragg ever again. He's there on the Bob Dylan documentary, he's there on Question Time, he's there on the early evening local tv news, he's there on Cup Final Day for Christ's sake.

And the other night, while I was on the blog, he was featured on BBC Radio 6's Tom Robinson Show. And why is he everywhere? Because he once bought John Peel a mushroom biryani. The BBC = The Boring Boys' Club.

It's like the 90s never happened. Tom 'Motorway' Robinson telling us what a treat we've got later on. What's the treat, Tom? Billy Bragg live from 1995! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

We hear an excerpt from Sexuality, or "A nice big mugga tea," sung by an Essex builder as it translates to my sensitive ears. A nice big mugga tea wiv the miwk of 'uman kindness, Billy me old china.

Has there ever been a more depressing voice in music than Billy Bragg's? Couple that with his jarring solo electric guitar and all you need to add is a bit of Ben Elton stand-up to the bill and you're in 80s hell. No wonder the Tories lasted so long!

I'd even take a supergroup containing Sting, Annie Lennox and Phil Collins over the Bard from Barking.

Bard?

Should have been barred years ago.

I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker By Sandi Thom

[chorus:]

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

In '77 and '69 revolution was in the air

I was born too late into a world that doesn't care

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

I know what you're after, Sandy. The nihilism of punk mixed with the let's all love one another message of flower power. Lovely thought. But I'm afraid there's never been revolution in the air in the UK. Unless you mean the Thatcherite revolution which didn't reject old greedy capitalist values but turned them into a religion.

When the head of state didn't play guitar

Not everybody drove a car

It's true, neither Harold Wilson nor Jim Callaghan played the guitar. Harold played the squeezebox and used to keep Mary up all night. Jim played the mouth organ at the 100 Club R&B nights. That's R&B as in old style rhythm and blues, Sandi. And not everybody did drive a car. Although you may be surprised to learn that many people today either cannot afford to or don't want to drive a car.

When music really mattered and when radio was king

When accountants didn't have control

And the media couldn't buy your soul

And computers were still scary and we didn't know everything

Once again I agree that we didn't know everything then. But do you really think we know it all now? There's a lot of things out there still to be discovered, Sandi.

[chorus]

When pop stars still remained a myth

And ignorance could still be bliss

And when God saved the Queen she turned a whiter shade of pale

She's always been pale, Sandi. She's not one for lying in the sun.

My mom and dad were in their teens

And anarchy was still a dream

So your mum and dad are about my age? We didn't really dream of anarchy. They're having you on, matey. All we wanted was someone to love.

And the only way to stay in touch was a letter in the mail

No no no. We did have telephones, you know. It wasn't the dark ages.

[chorus]

When record shops were still on top

And vinyl was all that they stocked

And the super info highway was still drifting out in space

Kids were wearing hand me downs

Once again I think you haven't been told the whole truth by your parents. This was the 60s and 70s. OK, if families had a string of kids, they might get hand me downs. But working class mothers had their pride. Maybe they wouldn't take their kids on foreign holidays but they would buy their children clothes.

And playing games meant kick arounds

And footballers still had long hair and dirt across their face

Come on. Have you seen Robbie Savage?

[chorus]

I was born too late into a world that doesn't care

We care, Sandy. Honest, we do.

Oh I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair

Don't Believe The Hype

I'm trying to be quick off the blocks here.

If you like Rufus Wainwright and big Antony & The Johnsons, you'll love...

Joan As Police Woman.

Then again, if like me, you can't bear them...

Paul Merton's Silent Clowns

Smile, damn you. Come on, Buster. Cheer up, it might never happen. Just a little smile. No? OK. Bloody sod you, then.

I don't want to go through all this again. Why I don't like physical comedy. But seeing Paul Merton's audience in his lecture about Old Stoneface I think I understand myself a bit better.

I don't like laughing with other people. I can sit in front of Curb Your Enthusiasm, just me and my good lady wife on the settee, and I'll have tears of laughter rolling down my face. But that's between me and Larry David.

The people in the audience watching Keaton are different. They are getting off on other people's laughter. Show me a Keaton film in the comfort of my living room and I couldn't tell you where you're supposed to laugh. Impressed by the stunts, yes, but laugh?

But when there's an audience they all seem to pick up where to laugh almost immediately. I don't know if Merton initiated the laughter himself but...

It reminds me of Billy Bragg when he's talking to an audience about some old folkie or other. He keeps his audience rapt with his witty Essex repartee. They laugh in the right places, too.

At one point Merton asks his audience to imagine how the following excerpt of Buster's film could be improved by dialogue. The excerpt shows Buster running down a hill, seemingly out of control, being chased by rocks.

The dialogue could go like this...

FIRST ROCK: Let's get the bastard.

SECOND ROCK: Stone face, my arse. He only looks like that so he can get the women.

FIRST ROCK: I bet he's had his fair share, too.

THIRD ROCK: Course he has. And do you think he would've if he'd looked like us?

SECOND ROCK: Oi, Keaton! How'd you like a real stone face?

Big Arseholes

All I have gleaned from listening to reports of the latest Big Brother are:-

1. For a dumbfuck laugh, there is a young man who has Tourette's Syndrome in the house. He spent the first evening shouting "Wanker!" to all and sundry.

2. Last night this same young man got his knob out. Apparently a contract to appear in a porn film is waiting for him to sign when he gets evicted.

From this, the Sherlock Holmes in me deduces that the porn film will be sado-masochistic, for those men who enjoy being verbally abused for their own physical self-abuse.

Elementary, my dear wanker.

Some Crazy Things You Just Can't Get Out Of Your Head

And today it's Stuart Staples of the Tindersticks singing vowels...

Ayhee Eehee Eyehi Oho Uhu

Stop it, Stuart.

Don't Badger Me

We catch a bit of Emmerdale. A man is carrying the woman who used to be Reg Holdsworth's lover in Corrie. His back gives way. The actor is recognisable as one of the Flying Pickets, the very odd-looking band who did an acapella version of honking voiced pubrockelectropop duo Yazoo's Only You. The character Mr Picket plays is a middle aged Ted with one especially distinguishing feature...

He has badger hair.

Very strong black hair with a wide streak of white running from front to back, dividing his scalp into three separate zones. I've seen this hair before.

"Remember The Mallens?" I ask Betty.

She doesn't.

I vaguely remember The Mallens. A Northumbrian Dynasty soap in which badger/men fought amongst themselves for the ultimate prize: king of the sett. A Catherine Cookson bodice-ripper, no less. I vaguely remember enjoying it.

The Mallens, however, like Leslie Thomas's Tropic of Ruislip, is one of those series I remember watching for a few weeks, then the next week tuning in to discover it had been mysteriously pulled from the schedules. It was upsetting and showed total disregard for millions of us freaky hair lovers.

Then again nothing surprises me. They'll keep that depressing shit EastEnders going forever and pull comedy classics like Eldorado at the drop of a hat.

Bastards.

Lordi Lordi Lordi

So congratulations to monsters of rock, Lordi, Gene Simmons' barmy Finnish army.

I was genuinely surprised at the result, not believing that there could be so many "ironic" voters out there in Eurovision land.

We voted with our hearts for the Nightingale of Sarajevo. Of course, nobody else in Britain voted for him.

Plus ca change...

Moog

I suppose I should be grateful to Mr Moog for giving us the Moog, the premier analogue synthesiser.

The Moog probably appears on a lot of my favourite tracks. Being a non-muso I couldn't tell you which.

But. But. Without the Moog, we'd have no Keith Emerson. No Rick Wakeman. Teenage boys with high IQs and no soul in the 70s would have had to stick to listening to guitar solos which, no matter how excrutiating, are still more palatable than monophonic keyboard wanking.

It's sad to see Mr Moog, only months of life left in him, playing a tone-deaf Ol' Man River on his beloved Theremin near to the river by his home.

An experimental Russian musician who was involved in the early stages of Moog development would have preferred the instrument to be keyboard-free, presumably just twiddly knobs and slides.

Which would have done me just fine.

This Week I Have Been Listening To Joy Division

It's been a couple of months since I started my higher strength drugs regime and I must say I'm feeling like a new man.

I'm sleeping like a baby, albeit a baby on elephant tranquilisers, whenever I get the chance to close my eyes. I am able to drink tea for the first time in years (my favourite being Assam), and this helps me to fight my general tiredness. I'm even able to take real cows' milk with my breakfast cereal and gulp my way through a Muller Light yoghurt after my one-thirty sandwich.

But considering I'm taking larger doses of anti-depressants, I'm not getting any more cheerful. Not that I was depressed in the first place, but it would be nice to walk around with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

See, I Told You No More Football

Episodes 6290 and 6291 of Corrie (how do I know? - Sky+ balls-up) showed us the best of Roy Cropper.

After spending the night sprucing up the cafe to win over the Environmental Health Officer, Roy showed the man round whilst sporting what seemed to be a new extremely smart, slick hairdo complete with side parting.

Of course, once the officer had left, allowing Roy to reopen the cafe, Roy's hair was back to normal, although maybe a tad shinier than usual.

And later, when explaining why he reemployed Vera after unfairly partly blaming her for the mess the cafe got into while he was away, he compared Vera to HM The Queen:-

1. He's not sure why she's there.
2. He gives her too much money for what she does.
3. He's not actually that keen on what she does do.

BUT - for some inexplicable reason, she draws in the punters.

And that's as near to a republican manifesto you'll get on a British soap opera.


*******


In other telly news - the Hovis advert has gone all countryfolk on us.

The same hilly, cobbly street, the same brass band musical bollocks, but no longer the eeh bah gum when I were a lad from oop North ecky thump. Oh no, the voiceover is all oo ar, oi loikes moi bread to be olemeal, oi doz, and this week oi 'ave been mostly eatin' 'ovis.

Is it just the South who've got this new accent? This reminds me of the Bacardi advert in 80s cinemas where the cockernee voiceover was for the Dog 'n' Duck dahn the 'igh street apples 'n' pears me old china. Then I go to Edinburgh for a short break and it's The Thistle and Sporran in Sauchiehall Street och aye the noo there's a wee bit a dirt in ma eye and I canna get it oot.

Why can't these bastards speak the Queen's English?

For Christ's sake get Brian Sewell in before it's too late.

One Last Post About Football

Of course everything looks better in the morning and I can draw comfort from my supposition that it's not just me who had a miserable night but also fellow Hammers fans Noel Edmonds and Russell Brand.

That's enough about football, folks. But before I go, just a couple of gripes I have about the current language of football on tv.

1. A player is never his exact age. A 21 year old is described as "21, 22". A 24 year old is "24, 25." Even one of yesterday's heroes, born-leader and future England captain, Nigel Reo-Coker couldn't describe his own age. I don't wish to be known as "44, 45", thank you very much.

2. Pundits and managers can never say the truth about the Premiership. They always say "the top 4 or 5 clubs", trying to infer that it's a slightly more level playing-field than it is. EVERYBODY knows it's the top FOUR clubs. Chelsea, Man U, Liverpool, Arsenal, and that one of these FOUR clubs will win the League or the Cup. That's the FOUR richest clubs, right?*

Tomorrow I'm going to stroll into work at 9.45 a.m. and explain that I start work at 9, 10 o'clock.


* Quote from the actor John Simm in UNCUT Magazine:-

"PET HATE - I'm beginning to really hate Chelsea Football Club because I just hate the fact that they've bought all their success. It really annoys me. We (Liverpool) are nearly catching them up, and I hope we do. It's just so annoying because they're going to go out and buy more of the best players in the world and buy people out of their contracts. I just hate the marketing of it all. It's just horrible. I'm not being bitter or twisted, but it's ruined the Premiership."

Piss off, John. You spoilt brat.