A National Treasure

Richard Hawley's an acquired taste. A taste I try to acquire every so often but just can't quite.

I was listening to the songs on his myspace the other day. Probably the fourth time I've heard them.

"You've got a better voice than him," Betty said to me. "But he's a more passionate singer. You're detached from the songs."

Not that I've got any songs of my own. I sing covers - in the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom and the living room. I don't sing in the loft as I'm usually puffing, blowing and swearing when I'm up there.

I once dreamt I went to Richard Hawley's house. It was large and sparsely decorated. Massive rooms contained nothing but Marshall amps. He lived near a railway track and took us for a walk through his orchard to watch the trains go by. All the time we were there he never sang a note. He was overbearingly serious.

How many times does one have to experience an acquired taste to acquire that taste? I'm willing to give Richard Hawley a few more goes. He appears on the new Elbow album so I can't avoid him there. Unless I skip that track which wouldn't be the done thing as albums are meant to be listened to from start to end. The track with Richard Hawley on is my least favourite track on the Elbow album.

Then again, some people might say Elbow were an acquired taste and that Richard Hawley has a wonderful immediacy.

So is this acquired taste business a load of old bollocks? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and everybody has different eyesight which changes over the years. Unless you're the Jean-Michel Jarre fan I used to know, in which case Jarre is God, always will be and nobody else comes close.

Lord, I Have Seen The Light!

And verily did God scoop the mighty Jesus fish from the River Cray, suck out its eyes so it could not see the Devil Livingstone's ungodly work, and parachute it to earth on a fluffy cloud where it did land in the Garden of Weedin' as Betty and Geoff did innocently sleep.

The Jesus fish did transmit pure thoughts to Betty and Geoff's ungodly widescreen tv and behold, a message from God emitted from the mouth of The Chosen One.

O Alan, we are with you, O Champion of London’s most vulnerable – the unborn, the elderly, the refugee.

May every London bus have two signs on its rear -

1. A Jesus fish

2. An "Unborn Child on Board" sticker

Earworm Alert

"This is my least favourite song ever!" I hear from the other office as Smooth plays Don McLean's American Pie.

I agree, it is pretty shit. But it doesn't come close to my least favourite.

I haven't got one, though. I've got so many to choose from.

So I set myself a task. To compile a Nightmare Playlist. Twenty songs (not including novelty records and not having the same artist more than once) I never want to hear again. From the mawkish to the "right on".

So here goes...

1. I Will Always Love You - Whitney Houston

2. There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart) - Eurythmics

3. True - Spandau Ballet

4. My Heart Will Go On - Celine Dion

5. Fields of Gold - Sting

6. Easy Lover - Phil Collins & Philip Bailey

7. Rock DJ - Robbie Williams

8. Brown Eyed Girl - Van Morrison

9. Dancing In The Moonlight - Toploader

10. Somewhere Only We Know - Keane

11. Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol

12. Hello - Lionel Ritchie

13. Isn't She Lovely? - Stevie Wonder

14. 500 Miles - The Proclaimers

15. Sexuality - Billy Bragg

16. London Calling - The Clash

17. 1973 - James "The Cuntster" Blunt

18. Lady In Red - Chris De Burgh

19. It Must Be Love - Madness

20. Sex Bomb - Tom Jones

Christ, what a CD that would make. Have I missed any out? Can you think of a worse playlist? Have you got a least favourite song? What's your favourite crisp flavour, etc, etc...?

Growing Old Gracefully

So we drive 165 miles to visit a 92 year old woman who's lost what little English she had due to two recent strokes.

She can't see us as she's possibly blind in both eyes now, and although we are accompanied by a man who speaks her language, she doesn't acknowledge us. She is not making sense anyway. Her mother and Tito are still alive, if not living together. There is somebody in the home who won't stop singing in Serbo-Croat.

The man who took us to the home is 82. He's pretty sprightly. The only thing he's missing is a sense of direction, understandable when all this used to be fields but isn't any more by any stretch of the imagination. He knocks on three doors for directions as we wonder whether we'll reach the home before we're eligible to be residents there ourselves.

"Don't worry, you'll arrive home before dark," he says later over a calming cup of tea. We don't, thanks to the road-widening on the M1.

Meanwhile at the Masons do my mum's at, things are kicking off. The new generation of hand-shakers are getting pissed as newts, not taking it seriously. If anything they are taking the piss out of Masonry and its customs. Something I regularly do sober.

My widower uncle, a septuagenarian, slowly walks across the expanse of the dance floor to ask a young woman to dance the first dance. He picks her because she is showing a lot of cleavage. Her cups overfloweth. He holds her very close as they smooch. I'm not told what the song is. I'd like to think it's Fat Larry's Zoom. All that's visible of the young floozy is the back of her blonde and red striped straightened hair. The tart, leading him on like that!

And his best friend, who has a history of banter with my mum, decides that tonight is the night to really embarrass her. Instead of giving her a peck on the cheek, he bends her backwards and attempts to snog her. Not once, but twice. The second time he tells her she's got his juices going. They wrestle. She slaps him round the chops.

His wife says he was only getting his own back for previous mickey-taking. But this was going too far. She could have slipped a disc!

Little Frenchman

Imagine, if you will...

Marcel Proust is living in 21st century London. He has a stressful job as a copywriter. In his lunch hour he writes his weblog, Little Frenchman, exploring the themes of time, space and memory. One evening he forgets to turn his computer off. His boss look at the PC's internet site history. The next morning Marcel is sacked for writing on his blog that his boss was "a waste of time and space".

But Marcel has the last laugh. He gets an agent who advises him to turn his blog into a book. He does and it becomes a bestseller. Little Frenchman, the book, is a phenomenon.

Its success makes the news.

"Dooced Proust Rules The Roost!" screams the headline.

Strange Bedfellows: Number 1

Stay At Home, Dads!

Presenters and guests on Sky Sports News are having kittens over parents' and coaches' behaviour at kids' football matches. Parents are being given exclusion zones around the pitches so they don't encroach.

There's nothing worse than a big-mouthed dad. Walk past any kids' match and you'll hear them. The big-mouthed ignorant bullying know-nothing dads who get worked up over a piss poor British-style kick and rush game of so-called football with little skill. It's all about the winning. The fun disappeared decades ago.

"How can we ensure the parents behave?" the experts ask.

Of course the answer is you can't. You've got to keep them away. When I was a kid I would have hated it if my dad had watched me play any of the sports I took part in. Talk about embarrassment! And my dad was a placid, easygoing sort.

These poor kids not only get the embarrassment of failing in front of their parent, they get the added bonus of being embarrassed by the twat's big stupid mouth.

Money For Nothing

On the local news there's a couple who've had their house on the market for six months without a single viewing. The house is in rich rich rich London. How much and when their first ever mortgage was is not stated. I'd guess their original investment was something in the region of £6,000 and by doing fuck all apart from a bit of selling and buying they now have a house worth probably £800,000. A family home in a nice residential London street.

Now they've missed the boat. Maybe they want to retire to the country. But they're just too late. House prices are on the way down. Potential buyers are staying put.

"We do think we've missed the boat. I think if we'd put the house on the market this time last year it would have flown out the door."

Crap Nav

I go downstairs to discuss an important business matter (ha ha ha).

Just as I reach the front counter, a man enters the building.

He is Irish and is looking for Covent Garden Fruit & Veg Market. He said he put SW8 into the sat nav and ended up here.

Here is Covent Garden WC2, in the sparkling, touristy, soulless heart of London.

The original Covent Garden Fruit & Veg Market was here. It was moved to Vauxhall in 1974.

I can't help him on his way because I've no idea where SW8 is or how to get there.

Besides, even if I did know it, I am the world's worst at giving directions.

I Got The Blues (Part 2)

OK, it's the second and final part of the blues competition. I woke up this morning and thought it would be an idea to do it today.

So who are these blues guys? I'm afraid there's no prize this time. Eric Clapton, who signed the CDs for the first part, has withdrawn his services as he is wont to do. I remember when he left The Yardbirds. A tragic time.

But as a special treat for you all, here's 29 seconds of that band's Jeff's Blues, lead guitar by Eric's mate, the great Jeff Beck. Just imagine this in a live setting, seguing into a 30 minute jam.

Lovely.

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Another Girl In The Neighbourhood

Just a couple of quotes I've picked up from the internet concerning the new Friday evening ITV sitcom, Teenage Kicks.

Phil McIntyre, executive producer, said: "Ade Edmondson is one of the UK's most loved and talented comedians. This is a long overdue return to Young Ones madness. I am delighted to be working with Adrian and ITV on this five-star comedy mayhem."

Adrian* Edmondson, star and co-writer said: “I think it’s misleading to suggest this show is a return to Young Ones madness. This is much more of a family sitcom. It’s aimed at anyone who’s been a parent or a child. Which, of course, is everyone…"

We saw ten minutes of this on Friday as we'd been reliably informed by the free papers that it was diabolically bad.

It was worse than that. It was a kind of My Family for the "punk" generation.

Actually, scrap that. Adrian might take it as a compliment.



* He's not "Ade" to me.

The Lunatics Are Taking Over The Asylum

Are you voting for Ken, then Geoff?

Of course.

Not Boris?

No. Never in a million years.

Oh, you've got to vote for Boris. He's such an idiot.

No, I'm voting for Ken.

Ken's in it for his mates. Boris is great. He's such an idiot. It'll be good to have an idiot in charge. Better a complete idiot than someone who's in it for his mates.

I Got The Blues (Part 1)

It's competition time again. Part one of two.

Can you work out the names of the following blues/rhythm and blues artists from the pictures?

A signed copy of Eric Clapton's Miserable Old Cunt CD to the competitor with the most correct answers.

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Soft Soap

Fills One Side Only

The inaugrual Geoff & Betty mixtape. We found Mixwit via Boggins whose own mixtape is very enjoyable.

Mixwit is a great idea but doomed to failure as it relies on the mp3s being permanently available on the internet. Of course the buggers are always disappearing so that in time there'll be nothing left on this tape. There will be the sound of silence which is probably how it should be.



p.s. If any of the songs are no longer there, skip till the next one.

Lip Up Fatty

I'm feeling a bit sensitive about my belly. It's grown over the last few months and I've received three comments about it recently. The last one was "You've got a real belly now, haven't you Geoff?"

"I've always had a belly."

"Not a noticeable one. It's a real belly now."

My spirits are not helped as I watch the disappearing back of an ex-friend as he runs past me. We used to play tennis together. Now he runs marathons like a fucking gazelle and here I am plodding along with my increasing waistband.

I think it's down to the handful of nuts I have with my breakfast. I'm cutting out the nuts. I'm sure that'll do the trick.

*******

Highlights of the excellent Tony Hancock/Joan Le Mesurier docu drama included the three uses of the "c" word. Especially Tony's drunken "Kent! What am I fucking doing in Kent? Kent! You are a cunt!"

I can relate to that. Kent is one hell of a cunt, as is Ken Stott's and my middle aged spread. But I've got a few years on him and should be able to lose it.

I never got Hancock's humour, but I got his misery. But wasn't the humour in the misery? Yes, but it wasn't funny. You had to be there, I suppose.

*******

The electricity meter reader today had some words of wisdom.

"My kids are very political. I tell them politics doesn't make any difference. It's scientists who make the world we live in. They're the ones who change things."

He'll eventually be out of work due to advancing technology and the widespread use of smart meters.

Technology. It's going to free us all.

Three and Out

Today's film review is from Keith Norman, General Secretary of the train drivers' union, ASLEF.

The film looks like a disgusting piece of propaganda dreamt up by the kind of wankers who have a go at train drivers for making them late for work in the morning.

Here's the trailer for the film. Mackenzie Crook's come a long way since The Office, hasn't he?

And any film with Imelda Staunton and Kerry Katona just has to be...

Gawd help us.

Careful With That Axe, Eugene

Did you hear about the gig where Charley Pride supported The Fall?

No? Bloody sod you, then.


*******


Whenever I turn the telly on in the evenings nowadays, I always seem to get this image...





...as if it's there in the box, breathing through the air vents, lying in wait for me.

It disturbs me in a way I can't describe. Something to do with mortality and stifling dreams. A complete lack of joy. Such a long, pointless existence which even death cannot relieve. A look in the mirror that says "kill me now and kill me painfully so that at least I can feel something for once in my life."

Angry Of Bexley

The Tory leader of our council is going all green. He's pictured in the latest council magazine wearing a green tie. There's another picture of him further into the magazine wearing a suit and open-necked shirt, just like Davey Cameron. But the green tie made the biggest impression on me.

The Tories have kept our increase in Council Tax below the rate of inflation for the second year running. They've been able to do this thanks to the following...

1. They're axing meals on wheels for the 420 people who use the service. Hot meals delivered to those in need are being replaced by a choice of frozen meals (presumably to be stored in those large chest freezers that the poorest and most vulnerable members of our society have in their spacious kitchens or utility rooms). Not only will the recipients have a "bigger menu choice and better value for money", they will have "added freedom when it comes to deciding what time to eat." Those who need help cooking their meals will, of course, be able to read detailed cooking instructions on the packaging. And if they can't open a bag of frozen peas and boil some water to go some way to their five fruit and veg a day, well, isn't that what families and neighbours are for?

2. "Our improved recycling service means that residents in most houses and maisonettes in the Borough will have their recycling collected every week. As there will be less waste (what's left) this will be collected fortnightly."
We're being given new bins to store our reduced amount of waste. The trouble is, I don't really understand the logic. Why, because they will be collecting paper and glass and plastic bottles more regularly, should our unrecyclable waste be reduced? Unless we're not currently being good recyclers. But even a cursory glance at other people's bins on collection day will indicate that most of us are already doing what we can. And a collection once every other week of stinking rotting rubbish sticking out of the tops of bins is not going to be doing too much for our environment. It might please the local rats, though.

The Battle For Haditha

The UK's greatest film director of recent years is Nick Broomfield.

Nick's been making outstanding documentaries for years. But his last two films have been docu-dramas. And if you've been annoyed in the past by Nick's less than sexy voice or his less than sexy demeanour, please watch Ghosts and The Battle For Haditha because he is not seen or heard in these films.

Nick tells it like it is. There is no poncing about, no actors trying to find their characters by over-the-top acting in a Mike Leigh way. This is real.

The reality of the war against terrorism is clear in The Battle For Haditha. When your enemy is among the civilian population how do you react when one of your colleagues is blown up? A group of young men, ready and pumped up for revenge in a battle situation, hit out indiscriminately at the locals, killing innocent men, women and children, the only "enemy" they can see. The killing of innocents, of course, makes excellent propaganda for the insurgent recruiters, making sure the war on terror will never go away.

Corporal Ramirez is a young man, fucked up by all the death he's seen. He leads his men into battle. (He leads the mass murder).

The officers are pleased with the Marines' response. They'd acted as a finely honed fighting machine should.

"Royal Marines, outstanding job. Corporal Ramirez, you handled yourself like a true professional out there. I'm gonna promote you to Sergeant and I'm gonna recommend you for the Bronze Star. You kept your head in the Game and you kept your Marines alive."

There was a cover up. The official line was that it was a real battle, that the Marines fought back bravely and took the lives of many insurgents. Until the cover up was exposed and Ramirez and his colleagues were accused of murder.

Just to fuck them up a little more.