The Life Of Brian

After nearly five years of this I'm a little lost for things to say. I think it's time I set myself a little project to get me going again.

So, for the forseeable future, I will dedicate this blog to my life story. Starting right from when I was a cute little tot. How does that grab you?

They say everybody's got a story to tell and this will be mine. You will laugh, you will cry.

No, bollocks will you cry.

You'll laugh.

Not with me.

At me.

I Don't Do Facebook

I am a hypocrite. Banksy really pisses me off for hiding his/her real identity from the world. Yet I refuse to join Facebook as I don't want my own name out there, having to make friends with people I'd rather not be friends with.

The rush for Facebook Vanity URLs is presumably now over. It's too late for me to be the biggest "Geoff Twat" on the internet. Let some other Twat be the biggest Twat. See if I care.

From what I've seen of Facebook it seems to be populated with:-

1. Pictures of groups of pissed young women with red eye.

2. Pictures of groups of pissed young men with red eye.

3. Pictures of groups of pissed young women and pissed young men together with red eye.

4. Pictures of wedding parties on tropical beaches, including the bride's two young children from her first marriage.

What a load of bollocks! But then again I don't see what you bloggers get up to on there. Am I missing out?

Terrible Middle Class Humour

Reading John O'Farrell's An Impartial History Of Britain Or 2000 Years Of Upper Class Idiots In Charge I am struck by a surfeit of terrible middle class humour. It's there on every page, sometimes more than once a page. It is too much to take.

In my lifetime, I have been bombarded with terrible middle class humour. Time and time again I have sat down to watch a tv show and there it is, terrible middle class humour, sniggering at itself, thinking it's clever, thinking it's funny.

I bought this book last year at a reduced price. I haven't felt so short-changed since that awful Bill Bryson one.

Now where's my Jim Davidson autobiography?

Teenage Angst

Although a lazy sod at home, at work I work hard. I work to pay the bills. Job satisfaction involves getting some figures to agree.

Today I googled someone who went to the same two schools as me. He's a professor now.

He had enthusiasm for his subjects. Straight A's at A Level. Degree, postgraduate degree. Enthusiasm all the way through. He must have had it, mustn't he? You don't get to be a professor without an enormous amount of enthusiasm for your subject.

Some people just naturally fit in with the way the world's been constructed. I'm incredibly jealous of them.

Last week I was asked if I've always liked figures. I said no, I've never liked them, but I can live with them. I like words and music. But words and music don't pay the bills. Unless you're very lucky or very talented.

Why couldn't I have been born with enthusiasm for things that I could earn money from rather than things I've spent thousands on? Why did my parents have to have me?

Everything's so unfair.

Farage Balloon

9.05 p.m...

"Oh, it's that programme with Meera Syal. I like her. She's a good woman and really intelligent. Her husband's good as well. Do you like him, Geoff? He's got a new show starting soon, Sanjeev."

9.30 p.m...

"It was such a long list, wasn't it? Too big for the booth. I was looking at some of the names. Did you see Labour had three Indian names? That settled it, I wasn't going to vote for them. It took me ages to find UKIP. They weren't called UKIP, though. They were called the UK something or other."

Don't Believe The Hype - Broadstairs Is Crap, Too

Isn't the weather glorious? OMG!

It's days like these that I wish I was by the coast. But not any old coast.

The papers show pictures of crowded beaches. Usually Bournemouth, sometimes Brighton. You know, an easy day's return from London.

There's nothing more unappetising to me than a day on a crowded beach. You need space on a beach. You need to be able to walk along it without having to slalom burning bodies.

I want to be by the coast but I don't want crowds. I want a nice walk along a deserted beach, a nice walk along a not too vertiginous cliff top and a nice few hours sitting, reading, listening to the waves.

I'm bored with the seaside in Kent, though. I've had enough of my previous favourites, Deal and Reculver. The driving there and back isn't worth the mediocre views. I'd rather spend the day in our garden, even with the smell of wafting barbecued meat assaulting my delicate nostrils.

Later this month we're off to Anglesey for a week. The views are splendid there. There is room for us to walk and relax.

And don't you just know it will be pissing down.

Stonehenge

Does the idea of seeing Spinal Tap live appeal? Bad enough in a venue but standing in a field?

Thousands of people will be able to experience the Tap this summer at Michael Eavis's Funny Farm. Of course, any entertainment on show in the film was to be gleaned from offstage areas. A shit rock band trying to be funny onstage is just a shit rock band trying to be funny onstage.

I've seen some unintentionally funny bands in my years of gig-going. There was the craply-caped Rick Wakeman, Yes starring The Buggles, Genesis with pervy little Phil in his raincoat, the very hairy ponce Sammy Hagar, the very hairy ponces Rush, The Tolkeinesque Enid, the preposterously portentous Comsat Angels, the ridiculously "wasted" Wasted Youth, the comically "lovesexy" Prince, the pretentiously ironic REM...

I could go on. Of course Spinal Tap will think they're going to be the funniest thing at Glastonbury. But with Tom Jones, Tony Christie, Status Quo, Blur et al on the bill they won't even come in the top ten.

Which unintentionally funny bands or artists have you seen live? i.e. the opposite of The Grumbleweeds.

The Karaoke Crowd

We went out for a quiet drink. But the karaoke crowd took over the pub.

A middle aged man set up his computer, speakers and microphones. He played snippets of songs. And in between he sang a few and invited his following to come and have a go.

Karaoke deejays have people following them from pub to pub. These people are not talented enough to win through the early rounds of Britain's Got Talent. But in their heads they're David Gray or Neil Diamond or the girls from ABBA. In their stupid self-centred heads.

They take it seriously. They feel the anticipation as they mentally prepare for their next time on stage. Because they do have several chances each to show off as the evening progresses. Their fellow karaoke creeps cheer them on, applaud them off. The deejay pretends he's reading out the next singer's name as if he doesn't know him (19 times out of 20 the singer is male). He does know him, of course. They're all part of the same strange family.

I imagined them all getting together for a karaoke family funeral. Then, as if by magic, some dickhead started up Robbie Williams' Angels. I could see the coffin and the tears as the karaoke family swayed in their seats, arms aloft, as the young singer belted out an off-key version of that death classic. It's exactly the send-off Neil Diamond/Elvis Presley/Gene Pitney/Roy Orbison would have wanted. And his manner of death, a massive coronary on the karaoke stage was exactly how he would have wanted to go.

Yes, we did get Babylon and Wonderwall and Amarillo and 500 Miles. It was so fucking predictable. The twats had absolutely no imagination. At least the bloke who looked like Ian Curtis could have done She's Lost Control, really lost control and fucked up his dad's laptop.

Take It To The Top

There were a few low points during Sir Ranulph Fiennes conquest of Everest. Fiennes was in constant contact with his team at base camp who captured the lowest, bleakest point on tape. The point where his lungs were bursting, he could see barely a yard in front of him and his comfortable home in England seemed a million miles away.

"I don't think..." he said, "I can carry on. More than man can take. Stress affecting all. Even Sherpa tensing."

Election Special

Remember when I said I was going to publish my book of poems?

Well, when it comes down to it I can't be bothered. They're throwaway, anyway. Not the sort of poems that Phill fucking Jupitus or Griff fucking Rhys fucking Jones could get their teeth into. I'm a pleb with simple tastes, no potential literary giant.

What's really occupying my mind is who to vote for. I don't know why I'm getting all uptight this time round. Is it Labour or Lib Dem or Green on the pro-European side? Or will I go anti-EU and vote for Arthur Scargill's or Bob Crow's party.

Tony Benn's supporting communist/capital punishment fan Crow. Tony Benn's a very nice man, a Christian David Attenborough. How can a nice Christian get into a political bed with an atheist who believes in an eye for an eye? It's all very confusing.

Scargill's a nutjob who's still fighting the miners' strike. He's preaching solidarity with the Tolpuddle martyrs, apparently unaware they died in 1968.

And what about naughty Labour? They took us into an illegal war, don't you know? Blood is on Labour's hands. Gordon Brown shook hands with the devil Bush! So the Lib Dems are telling me. And the Lib Dems have got criminals talking with victims in Chard and reoffending in Chard is down to approximately 0%. It brings a tear to my eye. Just imagine a rapist sitting down with his victim, promising he won't do anything she doesn't want next time.

The Greens want to stop all animal testing on drugs. I'm not so sure that is a very good idea. I'm pretty certain the drugs I take were tested on animals. "Yes, but humans are very different from animals. You might as well test drugs on vegetables." Yeah, right.

Oh dear. What is one to do? Who are you going to vote for? And why?

Election Fever

My mum and stepdad read the Daily Mail.

She's angry about MPs.

"You can't trust any of them. They've all got their snouts in the trough. All that taxpayers' money. That's your money, Geoff. Just who are you supposed to vote for? The British Parliament is totally immoral and corrupt."

"So who are you going to vote for, Mum?"

"Your stepdad reckons UKIP."

Toryzone

"I really like this song," said a work colleague.

"I don't," I said.

"It's Ronan Keating. It's lovely."

"It's shit."

"But it's about his dead mum."

"Why didn't you say? I thought it was fucking awful. Now I think it's poignant."



Last night we had the sound turned down on the tv as David Cameron spoke sincerely into the camera for the Conservative Party Broadcast.

Funny Ha Ha Or Funny?

The retiring journalist is holding court. She's going to continue to write, she's known nothing but writing since she was eighteen.

She looks at me.

She says she's going to write something funny.

I am not sure whether she's ever written anything funny. Or how difficult it would be to start writing funny stuff in your later years if you never have before.

I don't know why she looked at me. I've never said anything funny to her. And she's never seen any of my writing.

Maybe she thinks I appreciate funny writing.

I do. But it's got to be funny.

La Mort

Last night I dreamt I was on my death bed. I was surrounded by all the accountants and trainee accountants I have known in my working life.

I think I can read this dream. But just imagine if it were to become real.

Suffice to say I don't want accountants surrounding my death bed. In fact, I don't want people at all. I want a solitary robin, singing his little heart out, perched on my window sill. He'd look at me with sympathy and I'd breathe my last.

How To Save The World In One Easy Lesson

We sat through Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth in three sittings and are now crossing our fingers that Greenland doesn't disappear as if it does it will be a very bad thing for the world because lots of people will be living in water and swimming with the fishes.

In his bid to save the world, Gore has spent years flying all over the place, his slideshow in tow. Let's hope that, unlike Icarus, he doesn't fly too close to the burning sun.

The audience in each country nod sagely and go away to prepare for green power. What we need are leaders of the free world who are obsessed with light bulbs and standby lights, the little things in life that could make so much difference. You could imagine Al Gore as President of the United States, flying the world with a supply of energy-efficient light bulbs, giving the Queen and the Pope tickings off for their wastage, getting out his MacBook and showing them illustrations of the consequences of their evil reliance on chandeliers and security lights.

The MacBook is the portable computer of choice for the likes of Al Gore, Stephen Fry and David Attenborough. They are all filmed looking seriously into their laptops on planes, at home and in public buildings. I have a MacBook but have yet to look serious in front of it whilst being filmed. This is one of my major ambitions in life.

Take It As Read

How fast do you read? Could you read a book in a day? Could you really take it all in?

I know there are people who can do this. Surely they must be speed-reading, getting an overall impression, not giving themselves time to get truly involved. Where's the pleasure in that? Books are there to be read at your leisure. It's not a race.

Since joining Twitter I've learned to speed-read tweets. Something like this...

whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares? lol. whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares? lol. whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares? lol. whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?

I'm joking. I don't lol that often. And I do care.

When it comes to blog posts I quickly scan the whole post then decide if the subject matter is of interest to me. If it's not I move onto the next blog on Google Reader. I read the ones I'm interested in at my leisure.

Move along, now. Nothing to see here.

Drukqs

At the beginning of this month I went to pick up my repeat prescription at the chemist's. They'd neglected to order one of my items. I had enough of these pills to keep me going for a couple of weeks so I came back in the middle of the month to get them.

Yesterday I went to pick up a new supply of everything. The chemist said I was too early, I'd have to wait 'til the 15th or I could put my repeat prescription in jeopardy. I told her I was running out of one part of my prescription and the 15th would be too late. It was their fault I didn't get my full prescription at the beginning of the month. She relented but warned me of the possible consequences if I ordered too early in future.

So for next month I said I would like all the items on my prescription. She said I could have them all except for the hayfever nasal spray. Because it had been over six months since I'd ordered this item I would have to see my doctor to get it back on the repeat prescription.

I said the drug is for hayfever! For most of the year I don't get hayfever! Why should I order this drug in the middle of winter? I don't get hayfever in winter! What a stupid rule! Etc, etc.

But rules are rules and I'll have to waste my doctor's time in the next few months. Not just yet, you see, as I have a nice big stock of last year's over-ordered hayfever drugs at home. I hoard them like a squirrel hoards its nuts, bury them underneath more drugs, filling up the cupboard like a junkie.

I love that spray. I can't get enough.

What A Waste

I wonder if there's a Brazilian one-man air conditioning repair company called Jesus Of Cool?

Anyway, my mum phoned me up on Saturday to tell me she'd heard The Blockheads on Jonathan Ross's radio show. The new singer sounds just like Ian Dury, she said.

My mum still has me down as a massive Ian Dury & The Blockheads fan. Oh, and that "gravely voiced" Tom Waits.

It's been a long time since I listened to either. What I was listening to in the early 80s was limited to the records and cassettes I had. I couldn't afford a large, eclectic music collection. Even so, my mum's memory is selective. I had a reasonable number of albums for someone with little disposable income.

Reasonably well off young people these days have it all. A whole swathe of popular music available for free on the internet. Back then I took what I could from what was currently being pushed in the NME. The 50s, 60s and 70s were confined to history. Just imagine if NME readers nowadays stuck to the current indie music, ignoring pop's great history. What a boring generation they'd be!

A Shyness That Is Criminally Vulgar

Last night I was thinking, as you do, about the autographs I have owned. I've seen plenty of celebrities but never asked for an autograph for myself. I was always too shy and my mum and dad asked for me. In fact I didn't want them to but they felt they had to. Part of being a parent is embarrassing your children in front of all and sundry.

When I was five we were at a local fete and Eric Sykes was there. He was there in some official capacity so I presume his services were paid for. My mum dragged me up to Eric. I didn't know much about him but he signed his autograph for me. "To Geoffrey, best wishes, Eric Sykes".

Then when I was about seven a Tesco supermarket was opening in Crayford. My mum thought it would be a good idea to go along to the opening. Two Millwall footballers, Dereck Possee and Eamon Dunphy were there in an official capacity so they must have been paid for their services. My mum dragged me up to the two men and they signed their autographs. "Derek Possee" and "Eamon Dunphy". This was in the days before I wouldn't piss on a Millwall player if he were on fire.

Then when I was about ten my dad took me to Loftus Road to see Q.P.R. v West Ham and sitting behind us was the great Frank Lampard. (His son, the current scumbag Chelsea player will always be "Junior" to me). My dad turned to Frank and said "Frank, can we have your autograph, please?" Frank obliged and wrote "Frank Lampard".

In each of these cases I was egged on by my parents to ask the other adults for their autographs. In each case I was terrified I might have to, almost to the point of tears and my parents asked the men themselves. But each time they convinced themselves they were doing it for me, the boy who was too shy and needed to come out of his shell.

Britain's Got Shite

Britain's Got Talent makes stars of ordinary people.

A person who is talented at something possesses an unusual innate ability in their field.

Enrico Caruso was a talented opera singer. Paul Potts isn't.

Gene Kelly was a talented dancer. George Sampson isn't.

Judy Garland was a talented singer of songs from musicals. Susan Boyle isn't.

John Coltrane was a talented saxophonist. Julian Smith isn't.

Both George Best and Vinny Jones could play football. George was talented. Vinny wasn't.

Britain's got a load of Vinny Joneses all being told they're George Best. And the British public are happier watching Vinny Jones than George Best!

That's just not right.