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!

Michael Rodd's Screen Test

Two new films for your watching delectation.

Here

And here.

One of them's even topical.

Sorry.

Hamlet Unchained

And here's another one.

The same actor as in the last one but this time with an Australian accent. Last week Steven Spielberg described him as the new greatest living actor now that Pete Postlethwaite has passed away. And who am I to argue?

Where There's A Will

This past week has been about wills. Betty's aunt died last Saturday and as with my dad and Betty's dad, no will is immediately forthcoming. She wanted to be buried in a dress which has mysteriously disappeared. And the man who helped her for most of the past eleven years wants his expenses repaying. This is all happening 170 miles away and really we just want to brush the problems under the carpet. Let's just hope social services aren't too overworked to sort things out.

So today I broached the subject of wills with my mum and stepdad. Yes, their wills are with the solicitor's. But which solicitor's? Good question!

I'm not letting you off lightly with will talk, though. No, I have another film uploaded to YouTube. It can be found here. I'd dim the lights first if I were you.

World Cup Willie

Hello! It's me again. The annoying tit who keeps posting shit animated scripts on the internet.

Still, at least I'm enjoying myself. It reminds me of when I did a serious scriptwriting evening class in the early 90s and I just brought in loads of short, crappy sketches. "Like Reeves & Mortimer," someone kindly said, but I like to think I was more influenced by absurdist theatre. Ian S Coe, that sort of thing.

Anyway, my latest "piece" is here. I've given up trying to embed them.

Happy New Year to one and all.

His Old Man

Tissues at the ready as I present my latest tear-jerking cartoon. I've even worked out how to upload to YouTube!

I promise I won't go mad and do one of these a week, but you know us boys and our new toys!



p.s. Sorry a third of it is hidden. Probably best to go to the link after all.

Boxing Day Blues

Christmas is a time for families to get together at the feet of the matriarch, even if you're feeling like shit, as I was.

We spent Boxing Day eating a mixture of salad, jacket potatoes, cold turkey and ham, pickles, quiches, pigs in blankets, apricot cheese, stuffing balls, mince pies, trifle, Quality Street, nuts, crisps and our own bile.

"I always enjoy this more than Christmas Dinner," is said every year without fail.

After dinner, the tv recorders are put to work. There's one downstairs and one upstairs.

"BBC1: 6.30, Countryfile. 7.30 Antiques Roadshow. 9.00 Upstairs Downstairs."

"I'll go upstairs and record Benidorm and Deal Or No Deal".

"What about Harry Hill?"

"No, I'm not bothered about Harry Hill."

They have 150 hours of unwatched tv on the recorder. They're going to spend the rest of the week catching up.

We, however, have caught up. Our Sky Plus box is free for the first time in years.

You can judge a Christmas by the quality of its telly. This has not been a good one.

Simply Having a Wonderful...Oh, please yerselves

I'm back!

And here's a little something for the festive period.

OK, it's not Guy Ritchie yet, but it's a start!

Brucey Bonus Tracks

I'm sitting here listening to Bruce Springsteen's The Promise, songs from the Darkness on the Edge of Town sessions, thinking Bruce chose the right songs to release back then when he blew my teenage mind, man. There's an urgency, a passion, a spirit in that album that spoke to naive boys and made us think anything was possible, that even owning a car might be romantic. Of course cars and young relationships could never live up to Bruce's billing but I still get a rush of adrenaline whenever I hear that album. The Promise is OK but not essential, a bit like the reality of the motor car.

***

I'm sure you were all riveted by the Golden Twit Awards yesterday. So pleased for Stephen Fry and the Greater Manchester Police. Fry's childish strops and the Force's kettling puns have been essential reading. And they had the gall to have "Public" awards for certain categories, as if the general public actually give a shit about nonentities' egos. Twitter's a great source of news and good for pissing around on with like minds but awards and books and sitcoms based on of-the-moment Twitter accounts? Get a life!

The Drinker's Tale

I walk into the pub. A big place with a stage where they put on entertainment. I go to the bar and the barman greets me.

"What can I get you, sir?"

There is an array of fine real ales. I can't choose, there is too much choice.

A bearded man appears to my left and says to the barman, "He's a newbie. He'll have what newbies have."

The barman pours me two halves of two different ales. Medium strength.

"You owe me 50p," says the bearded man.

Of course I don't.

I find a stool at the bar and sit alone with my two halves. Except there aren't two, there are three. Where did the other one come from and which are mine?

I spend the next hour drinking the beer. I compare and contrast, taking gulps from each of the three glasses in turn. Three glasses because I don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

I am feeling pleasantly relaxed. This is the pub I've been looking for all my life. Nobody is bothering me, nobody is annoying me.

"One two, one two."

Somebody's on stage. It's the man with the beard. He has an acoustic guitar. He starts to sing.

50p. That's all I ask,
To point you to the tastiest cask.
To cap it all you drink my half.
Do you see this fucker laugh?
When you leave you'll meet outside
Some friends of mine, you cannot hide.
They'll beat you to a bloody mess

And that's my story, more or less.

Limbo

I keep preparing myself for change but change never comes. I don't want change so I should be grateful. But this is a very strange feeling, the most weird I have felt in my life.

I never used to think of the future, just took each day as it came. Good or bad, the present was where it was at, the future would take care of itself. Now my head's in the future and the past. The present is running on empty. The future's looking stressed and over-busy or it's looking relaxed and easy. The past? I had it good though I often had it pretty bad. But I never had this feeling of strangeness.

This week I thought it was shingles. The shingles never materialised. A soreness of the midriff which lasted four days. That's it, I said, it's shingles, it's the stress. But the shingles never came. I tried not to touch my eye as I knew someone whose sight was damaged by shingles. But I'm not a doctor and I really shouldn't be diagnosing myself. It wasn't shingles after all. It was just the stress. The stress that comes not from overwork but from a lack of control.

I don't want change, change is the unknown. Frying pan, fire. Fire, frying pan. Just like that.