Andy Mule - Don't let the bastards grind you down

???????

2012-02-12T02:33:00.000-08:00

Are we all part of a higher consciousness, even though most of us are blissfully unaware of it?
Do we live in a world which is to all intents and purposes a matrix like facade?
Are the shadowy"powers that be" desperatly clinging onto some great knowledge?
Are we being kept dumbed down to prevent us from discovering the truth?
Could we all be living in a eutopian paradise now, with free and endless amounts of energy that the "powers that be" have supressed?

Or are we, as Franky Boyle suggests, just super evolved monkeys, clinging to a rock hurtling through space?

Fucked if i know!

Faith or fear.......

2011-02-16T06:08:00.000-08:00

I have never really in any way understood the notion of giving oneself to an ideology or whatever, without first embarking on at least a minuscule amount of investigation. This is what vast swathes of the population of this planet do of course. Some believe in this, some believe in that, but whatever they believe in, none of them have any actual evidence that what they believe in is indeed real. This is what we call faith.

This to my mind is madness! Ok, I can understand a human being turning to some kind of God in times of great peril for arguments sake, this could be deemed to be natural and fair enough, but that is about as far as I am prepared to give quarter.

I have just watched a documentary on North Korea. It was astounding, sad, depressing, incredible, and at times perversely amusing. I am not going to delve into the history of this country etc. as I am sure McAdam is having to be restrained by his handlers as we speak! I can hear him now "Let me at him, I have got facts and figures that will make his puny head explode. Let me at him!" (Sorry private joke again - how are you Steve?) But all I want to do is discuss the unnerving connection between faith and fear.

The country is ruled by an outright dictator that goes by the name of (Accessing google for correct spelling!) ;) Kim Jong-il. To my mind he is quite clearly mentally ill! and yet he is allowed to swan around the place dictating here, and tyrannising there. I have never understood how one person, and lets be honest, sexism aside, they are usually men, have been able to persuade so many people to follow them to the ends of the earth (Possibly quite literally in this case!) without someone saying "Hang on this bloke is a fruitcake." There are a many examples of this kind of thing, Adolf Hitler and Simon Cowell being just two.

I suppose it is the old "Emperors new clothes" scenario. Many think that he is bonkers, but who dares say it first? Fear, he rules by fear.

The documentary was following a Nepalese doctor who wanted to operate on blind North Koreans who suffered with cataracts, but a film crew was covertly filming as they went on their "Journey." The doctor operated on over a thousand patients in ten days, a feat that should have had the recipients of his skills worshipping him. As the bandages were taken off and people that were previously blind found that they were able to see again, did they thank the doctor?.......no, they fell to their knees in front of a portrait of Kim Jong-il thanking and praising their "Dear leader" as they call him. Tears rolled down their faces and hands were outstretched as they sang the praises of the short arsed little twat that had caused their blindness in the first place. Years of malnutrition etc. had played it's part in causing these people to lose their sight, and this was as a direct result of this little bastard's policies. Yet they praised him for returning their sight to them, incredible.

By the way, Kim Jong-il lives in the lap of luxury. The rulers have a policy that North Korea will be totally self sufficient. They will import nothing, and will be totally self reliant. This of course doesn't stop the poisoned dwarf from importing hundreds of American Cadillacs, and being one of the worlds biggest collectors of fine brandy! As seems to be traditional for all tyrants "We are all equal, but some are more equal than others."

North and South Korea are of course separated by the 38th parallel, and just before I go, let me share with you what must be one of the strangest, saddest and most amusing things I have seen in a very long time. At the main border point, North Korean guards stand one side, and South Korean and American guards stand the other. They basically spend all day sort of staring each other out! There is a sort of hut come porta cabin in the middle where they sometimes hold meetings if there is something important to discuss. This American soldier had something "Important" to tell the North Korean guards, and so went into the hut and phoned them on the special 1960's wind up Russian phone that is in there. The North Koreans wouldn't answer the phone! "Ner ner ne ner ner!"

So in the end the American soldier, with the aid of a megaphone and an interpreter, said "Will you please pick up the phone! To which the North Koreans pretty much said "No shan't" and stuck their metaphorical tongues out! So the American soldier read out the "Important" message while the North Koreans basically wandered about with their metaphorical fingers in their ears going "La la la, can't hear you, la la la!" I love it! Two countries that are almost on the brink of nuclear war, resorting to the playground!

It's utterly crazy, the guards from both sides stand only feet apart. My God I would be so tempted to dip a toe over the line when they weren't looking! "Invading, not invading. Invading, not invading!"

I think I will leave it to Team America to finish this post with the poisoned dwarf wandering around his palace singing "Ronry, yes I'm so ronry!"

Faith or fear?.......

PS. Gotta go, i have just seen McAfam's parachute open.

Food for thought.......

2011-02-12T03:15:00.000-08:00

When I re-kick started this blog, i was determined-ish to make it more high brow, more intellectual, more refined, with less cursing and ranting. I don't think that decision should preclude me from the odd rant though. So a subject dear to my heart will be getting "Muled" today.

Food, or more to the point, the cooking of.......

I don't think that anybody who watches television, can deny that over the last decade or so there has been an acceleration in the number of "How to cook stuff" programmes that adorn our screens. On the whole, if you are a sensitive soul like me, I think it would be fair to say that they are maddening.

What's even more maddening, is that I frequently find myself watching them. The event that has inspired me to put fingers to keyboard is the impending 'Masterchef'.

This is a program that I love to hate, this is a program that encompasses just about every bloody irritating, annoying, infuriating, petty, incredulous thing that winds me up about cooking on TV. Don't get me wrong, there are many others, but this one takes the biscuit.

It is hosted by an Australian chef and a sort of mockney green grocer! possibly two of the most irritating men on our screens today. For those of you out there with a sense of purpose in life I will sum up the premise of the programme. Members of the public turn up and cook stuff, and the Aussy chef and the green grocer then tell them that they haven't seasoned it properly. Yep, that's about it. It's a knockout competition, and at the end of what seems like a life time, one contestant is crowned 'Masterchef'. Of course as is the way these days, there is a celebrity version as well. This is for celebrities who's careers have faltered, and were not famous enough to get onto 'I am a celebrity, get me out of here'. Then to top it all off, we have 'Masterchef, the professionals' This is where Professional chefs turn up and cook stuff, and the Aussy chef and the green grocer tell them that they haven't seasoned it properly.

I could go on and on and list every little nuance that makes my blood curdle, but what's the point. I am not going to single out 'Masterchef' for a muling, they are all just as bad, and they all know who they are.

I think the best way to do this is just to simply do a list of "Why's"

Why do chefs have to have their nose's 2 inches from the plate when they are assembling their creations?

While i am at it, why does all the food have to piled on top of one another?

Why is it so important that some sort of schedule is adhered to? It's all rush rush rush isn't it, shout shout shout. Ok, people don't want to hang around for hours on end when dining out, but i don't understand why such a strict time line is so critical. A fine example of this is thus: If a contestant on 'Masterchef' reaches the dizzy heights of whatever round it is blah blah blah, they have the "Privilege" of cooking for some food critics. This is a job I have never understood what so ever. It largely entails men that resemble Jabba the Hut sitting around stuffing themselves, and musing about things not being seasoned properly. Anyway, if one of the contestants is failing to adhere to the schedule all hell breaks loose!

The Aussy chef and the grocer cast evil glances at the offender, and sometimes if they're really late (Two minutes seems to be the breaking point) they have to embrace each other for support. The tension becomes so great, that a good hard physical embrace is the only thing that can stop them from crumbling.

Then it happens, the moment that every contestant throughout the history of 'Masterchef' fears, They are told to go and tell the waiting guests that their main course is going to be two minutes late. I say tell them, actually they usually spit the words at them. It's usually the Aussy chef that does the dirty deed. You can see the hatred in his eyes, you can detect that this cardinal sin, this heinous crime has clawed at his chefy soul with such vigour, that the only way to vent his anger is to glare at the perpetrator with a look of pure disgust and tell him or her to "Go and tell them, go and tell them what a disgusting creature you are. Bow down before them, prostrate yourself, and throw yourself upon their mercy. Tell them that their food will be two minutes late. GO!.......GO NOW YOU HIDEOUS FIEND"

So off the poor little soul trots, his head hung in shame. Trembling and sweating he gulps before he enters the sacred chamber of the eating Gods. An uneasy silence falls upon the room as the contestant stands before them head bowed. His mouth dry, his voice cracking, he speaks......."I am so sorry, your main course is going to be two minutes late."

These aresholes look at him as if he has just said "I have cut out your children's livers, and fried them with some fava beans!"

For fuck's sake.......IT'S ONLY COOKING.

I fully expect that one day a hapless contestant will enter the room to find the critics covered in cobwebs, their appearance akin to that of an Auschwitz Jew!

Why is this pedantic punctuality so critical? When real people go out for dinner in the real world, I am pretty confident that they don't sit at the table spitting at their wife "This main course is thirty eight seconds later than I thought it was going to be, what is the world coming to Margeret?"

When did we start accepting huge plates and tiny portions?

Why do chefs bang on about "Pan frying" things? what else are you going to fry it in?

Why do they drizzle and not just pour?

Why do I hate the phrase "Fine dining" so much? Is it because they expect plebs like me to be happy with "Average dining?"

Why does some wine go with some food? This REALLY gets up my arse. On some cooking shows, the God like chef will "Give birth" to a masterful creation, and then a wine "Expert" will be dispatched to find the relevant wine to accompany it. WHAT??? What does this mean? There will be some tweed suit wearing, cravat adorned cock standing in an off license, waxing lyrical about a "Fruity little white, that is just cheeky enough to bring out the best in the dish." I will say it, i will say it now, and i will be bold enough to say it on behalf of the nation......."FUCK RIGHT OFF!"

In the real world real people don't think like this. Yes there will be some pretentious tossers that think they know all there is to know about wine (There is nothing to know. It's grapes!) but on the whole, we all just want a glass of nice tasting plonk that helps the steak go down.

But in TV land, they are all in the pretend kitchen in the studio marvelling at how the lemony zinginess of the white, brings out something blah blah blah in the whatever.......In the real world I don't think George is spitting out wine all over the restaurant floor, coughing and saying "Dear God Margeret, this wine is in no way complimenting my chicken dippers"

Oh look, it's lunch time. Well I'm off to have sausage roll chips and beans. I may even have a glass of wine out of a box! That will show them.

It is at this point in the proceedings that i give the cue to Mr McAdam to enter stage right with a list of facts figures and corrections! I am fully expecting to see my next blog covered in red ink! E- see me boy. (Private joke, sorry ;) )

Bone appetite.

Set phasers on stun.......

2011-02-04T05:44:00.000-08:00

Since quitting my job.......what? oh you don't really want to know all the gory details do you?.......oh ok, a quick summary.

Mid life crisis (Reginald Perin Style-Though clothed)

Some appalling management decisions (I can say it now, ah the freedom!)

Dogs

Auditing

Anxiety

stress

Right that about sums it up, back to it.......as I was saying, since quiting my job, I have had some time on my hands. Some of that time has been taken up with household chores, and a great deal of the rest with my ever growing fascination for all things U.F.O!

This really is a tricky one for me, half of me is a weary cynic, and the other half a kind of maybe believer. You see, even the half that believes is half cynical, so what does that make me, you do the maths.

I have actually seen something strange in the sky. One night about eleven pm I was outside trying to encourage our Jack Russells to urinate, when my attention turned to the stars. I often do this as the heavens are a truly wondrous spectacle. It was a semi cloudy night, and out of the corner of my eye something caught my attention. I peered harder, and there, either in or above the clouds, was a light. "So what," you might say, the night sky is full of stars, some of them very bright. But this light was different, it was nearer, it is hard to say how far away it was as there is no point of reference in a cloudy night sky, but it didn't look far away. It was much bigger than the stars I could see, and because of the clouds, it was fuzzy, not clear and concise. Then to my astonishment it divided into four lights spaced at twelve, three, six and nine o'clock, and rotated counter clockwise one hundred and eighty degrees. It stayed like this for a few seconds, then closed to a single light again. It repeated this over and over again.

I rushed in and woke up my wife, so that she could confirm what i was seeing. She agreed that yes it was there, and then declared that she was going in because it was cold! I on the other hand was not going to miss a single second of what might be a close encounter. I dragged a deckchair from the shed, and settled down for what must have been half an hour. The "U.F.O" gradually moved away towards the north west, and eventually faded from view.

Now, can I categorically state that this was an alien craft full of little green men, of course not. But I have mused over this on many occasions, and I continually fail to come to a logical earthbound conclusion.

My interest in this subject was not pricked by this event, quite the opposite. I have had a healthy interest in this kind of thing for a while, and it merely added fuel to the fire. I did toy with the idea for a little while that it might mean that I was the second coming, but having failed miserably to turn water in to wine on several attempts, I have put this notion to bed.

So as I was saying earlier, being at home all day, my Sky box is very often tuned to the discovery channels. There are lots of programmes on these channels that deal with the subject of U.F.O's. Some of it is probably hogwash, but can it all be hogwash? Yes there are some accounts of encounters by "Billie Bob" who after downing moonshine all evening, suddenly found himself aboard the mother ship, but others who I think it is far more difficult to poo poo. Airline pilots, military pilots, police officers, and yes even astronauts! is it really fare to call them all liars? Can they really all have been hallucinating?

A lot of these encounters are not just a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of one's eye, but a prolonged and sustained "Hounding" by what appears to be persistent craft, controlled by some kind of intelligence. World war two pilots often reported seeing balls of light. Some may say that they were merely witnessing ball lightening, but these balls of light carried out manoeuvres that ball lightening simply wouldn't do. The pilots of that era coined the phrase "Foo Fighters." It was suspected that the Nazi's were carrying out all kinds of experiments during the war, some of which were on a mind boggling scale. Some believe that these balls of light may have been some kind of Nazi created phenomena, for what purpose nobody really knows, but was it?

Some Ufologists believe in the ancient alien theories. ie: that aliens descended from the skies thousands of years ago, and kick started human technology. It is agreed by a lot of scholars, U.F.O. fans or not, that about ten thousand years ago there seemed to be a big leap in humans mastery of technology. Paintings throughout history have depicted "Things" in the sky that resemble disc like shapes.

There is a tribe of people in Mali region of Africa called the Dogon people. In 1931 two French anthropologists stumbled upon them, and proceeded to befriend them. Over the next thirty years they became privy to some of the Dogon's most devout beliefs. Among others was that they were visited by aliens many centuries ago, and those aliens imparted knowledge upon them. Knowledge of where they came from etc. The Dogon told the anthropologists that they came from a star that we now call Sirius B. The startling thing is, is that not only would a tribe that live in mud huts and can only have minimal access to books at best be unlikely to know about this star, the educated world didn't know about this star! Sirius A is visible to the naked eye, but Sirius B isn't. It can only be seen with powerful telescopes, and was only discovered in 1976, forty years after the Dogon told the anthropologists about it!

There are examples of this kind of thing all over the world, and history is littered with this kind of stuff. Some say that the Nazca lines in southern Peru are a landing strip for alien spacecraft. I roll my eyes at this theory, really, if an alien civilisation has got the technical ability to traverse the mind boggling distances of space to get here, surely they would have a better method of landing than having to lower the undercarriage! I can just imagining the alien pilots of the craft bursting through the clouds and peering out of the window. "Oh bugger, no landing strip, turn it around Dave, we will have to go home!"

This is where my cynical half (Or was it three quarters, I haven't worked it out yet) starts to raise it's ugly head. Take "The Greys" for example. The Greys are the most "Common" type of alien, the one's that inhabit popular culture. We have all seen depictions of them. Large head, large black eyes, short, skinny limbs etc. Now, we are lead to believe that these beings are far more technologically advanced than us puny humans. They have somehow mastered the ability of defying the laws of physics that Albert Einstein toiled so hard over, and also are able to withstand g forces that would vapourise a human being, if some of the manoeuvres that have been "Witnessed" are to be believed. Yet they apparently haven't mastered tailoring! Why are they always naked, and while i am on the subject, where are their genitals? How do they reproduce? They can allegedly create a worm hole in the space time continuum, but can't have babies, or indeed urinate.

I could go on forever, listing examples of "Evidence" then tearing that "Evidence" down with some cold hard cynical logic, but what would be the point?

I am still in two minds about it all, or is that three minds.......or four! Lets just hope that if and when they do land, they don't ask to be "Taken to your leaders" Then we are all buggered!

"Would sir care for an after dinner cigar?......."

2010-07-10T02:32:00.000-07:00

Well, what a fiasco eh? A week ago, Raoul Moat, a violent man, was due to be released from prison. He told the warders, parole board and anyone else who would listen, that he had the intention of hurting his ex-girlfriend upon his release. The police (in all their wisdom) decided to bury their heads in the sand and do nothing, after all, they had their hands full trying to catch those dastardly bastards who will insist on eating Kit Kats whilst driving.

So sure as eggs is eggs, out he comes, stomps round the ex-girlfriends gaf, and blows her new boyfriend away, and does a pretty good job on her too. Then he wanders off and shoots a copper in a car at point blank range. Apparently, he had got it in his head, that the ex’s new fella was a copper. Apparently he wasn’t, but hey, he wasn’t going to let the facts hinder his judgement.
The tragic part of this story had just occurred, now we moved onto phase two, the farce. Raoul Moat now took off, and settled in the small Northumbrian town of Rothbury. He didn’t bother paying a visit to the local estate agents, no, he felt he wanted to live alfresco.

So off he meandered into the woods, and managed to give eleven, yes count ‘em ELEVEN police forces the slip for seven days. These are the ELEVEN police forces that have all the latest equipment, helicopters enabled with heat seeking devices etc etc and even the assistance of the SAS. Along the “Journey” the police came into the possession of various letters blaming everybody else for the predicament that Moat now found himself in. This bit stumped me a little. Now obviously I don’t know all the facts, but how did they receive this correspondence? If it was via the Royal Mail, I am surprised they received it at all, or did one of the handful of crims that were undoubtedly assisting Moat in his nocturnal meanderings deliver it to the police station by hand? If this was the case, wouldn’t it have been a good idea to apprehend the messenger, and maybe just ask him where Moat was?…….just a thought.

Well he trundled around taking in the morning air and the July sunshine for seven days, until he was finally corned on a river bank at about six thirty pm. We now enter the part that actually inspired me, nay, incensed me to write this.

Picture the scene if you will. A no doubt dishevelled, dehydrated, disoriented and slightly psychotic Moat is laying on the grass of the river bank with a gun pointed at his own head. He was apparently completely surrounded by police officers, armed to the teeth with all the latest assault rifles and sub machine guns. Some of the officers were only twenty feet away. Now in the good old days, the days where Gene Hunt and the like were on the beat. The days when coppers were proper coppers, you know the one’s that actually wanted to apprehend scum, and took pleasure in doing it, not just float through a career in the police thinking up poncy initiatives and all the rest of it, they would no doubt have shouted something at Moat like “Put the fucking gun down fuckface, or we will shoot your fucking arse off.” At which point Moat realising that the police were proper police, and weren’t going to fuck around, would have given himself up. Either that, or he would have entered such a state of psychosis that he would have pointed the gun at someone, and then been duly shot.

Fast forward to 2010 where human rights and health and safety are far more important than arresting scumbags, and the scenario is oh so very different. Now I am no expert on apprehending armed villains, but they were twenty bloody feet away from him for Christ’s sake. Apparently a tazar might have made a muscle spasm and ended up with him unintentionally pulling the trigger, and blowing his own head off (Like that wasn’t go to be the absolute inevitable end result anyway) so that was out of the question.

For years special forces around the world have had things called stun grenades, or ’Flashbangs’ They do what it says on the tin. They make a deafening bang and create a blinding flash, thus disorientating the miscreant for a fraction of a second, which is just enough time to give the assaulters the tactical advantage. So why not chuck half a dozen of those at him (Remember, they are only twenty feet away) and while his ears are still ringing, and he can’t see, rush at him (Remember, they are only twenty feet away!) whack him on the back of the head with a truncheon, and say “Your fucking nicked my son.”

Sigh, this is 2010, so they entered into six hours of debate with him! I could understand the softly softly approach if he was holding a gun to the head of a hostage, but he was holding a gun at his own head! So he had effectively taken himself hostage, and the police were trying to persuade him to let himself go! You could not make it up. “Trained negotiators” were speaking to him. Just how much training does one need to ask someone “If they want tea or coffee” Yes I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, reports were coming in that they were giving him food and drink!!!

Miss Marple and myself were watching all of this unfold on sky news (There was nothing else on, on the nine-hundred channels available!) The inevitable Psychologists were rolled out in front of the camera. Is it just me, or is psychology really just stating the bleedin’ obvious? There they are spouting forth with “Moat is a man that likes to be in control” - really! “He is blaming everyone else for this situation” - really! Well thanks for that insight. Where would we be without you?
So, back to the hotel, sorry siege. Yes he was being offered sustenance. I had visions of a little butler shuffling forward with a pad and pencil taking his order.

“What can I get you sir?”
“Have ye got any lobster?”
“Oh I am sorry sir, the lobster is off. We have some rather nice veal.”
“Yeah all right, I’ll have it medium with some French fries and lightly sautéed wild mushrooms.”
“And to drink sir?”
“Chateaux nerf du pape, ‘85.……obviously.”
“A very good choice sir, perhaps sir would like to listen to our string quartet while he waits for his food?”
“Yeah, that would be reet grand kidda, oh, and have you got a pillow for me heed, this grass is getting damp.”
“Of course sir…….A pillow for Mr Moat, and bring on the string quartet. Perhaps sir would enjoy a massage, I am sure he must be feeling a little tense.”
For fucks sake!!! What is going on in the world???

Apparently drinkers from the local pub had started putting out deck chairs so that they could take in the unfolding drama with a pint! That was until a party pooping health and safety obsessed policeman told them to go back inside.

Just when you thought things could not get any more weird, ridiculous, pathetic or down right silly, a pissed up Paul Gascoigne Arrived!!! He was claiming to be a good buddy of Mr Moat, and was offering to help “Talk him down.”
LOL, every bloody thing today is just Hollywood isn’t it? In the good old days, you didn’t get celebrities turning up at an armed siege. I suppose it is a shame he shot himself really. If only he had given himself up, he would have undoubtedly only got a couple of weeks detention for killing someone, and maiming to others, and he would have been out in time to be the star attraction in “I’m a celebrity, get me out of here”! Jordan would have unquestionably dumped the cage fighter and shacked up with “Moaty” ITV2 would have been hot on their heals for a reality show, and the autobiography would have been in W H Smiths for Christmas.
Stop the world, it’s gone way past my stop!

Bless you Mr Wallace.......

2010-02-21T13:02:00.000-08:00

“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom” Very noble words there from Mr William Wallace, very noble indeed, load of old idealistic bollocks obviously, but never the less, very noble.
Many an armchair ranter, or a bar stool commentator has said that “The bloody Germans might has well have won the bloody war, for all the freedom we enjoy now.” Truer words could not be spoken could they, for today we enjoy no more freedom, than if fritz had been goose stepping up and down the high street for the last sixty-five years.

Ok ok, our lack of freedom today may be a surreptitious one, rather than an in your face “You vil be shot” kinda one, but in some ways I think that is worse. Churchill and other pontificators gave us lots of speeches about how we must fight the oppressors, and not give in to tyranny, but what bloody good did it do us eh? Because it’s still there, and always will be.

It’s just that today it takes different forms, instead of having an MP40 shoved in your face, and being told in no uncertain terms to comply, today we are dictated to by little clipboard Nazi’s.
Trust me when I tell you, that you are in no way free. Try walking out into the countryside (the very countryside that my grandfathers fought to keep free) and pitching a tent for the night. I can guarantee that some little man will emerge from the bushes, clipboard in hand and issue you with some kind of fixed penalty notice, for “Unauthorised pitching of a temporary abode.” Ask the lady who stood on a street corner in London, holding up a list of names of the soldiers that have been killed in the Iraq/Afghanistan war, if she felt free when she was bundled into the back of a police van.

I suppose what prompted me to write this, was my own gradual realisation that my “Freedom” was not all that it seemed. Just little things, but those little things add up, and one comes to the sorry realisation that we are all just prisoners really. Prisoners of the growing controlling, paranoid, state that we used to believe was the land of the free.

I remember when I was a wee lad, me and my little mates used to go and play in a place that we used to call “The woods.” What happened to them eh? We don’t have “The woods” anymore do we, no, we have ‘Nature reserves’. You know those places that used to be the woods, where anyone could go, and do whatever they pleased. Nothing ever really bad happened there back then, kids would pretend to be soldiers, courting couples would enjoy a moment of innocent bliss. Deer would run free and frolic in the autumn mist, and just occasionally someone would leave a porn mag laying there!
Never did really understand why that would be, especially as they had probably gone to great lengths to acquire it in the first place. You know, hanging around in the news agents until the shop was empty, lurking around until the male assistant was available, all of this to then just go and leave it in the woods? Anyway, I digress. So, the woods were just the woods, nobody really knew who owned them, nobody really cared. Did it matter? No, not one little bit. But somewhere along the line, the woods were taken over by some kind of foliage fascists! And now we have ‘Nature reserves’. sigh.

You know the kind of thing, lots of trees, but even more signs. “DON’T WALK HERE” - DON’T STEP THERE” - “KEEP YOUR DOG ON A LEAD IN THIS AREA” - “DON’T LOOK AT THESE PLANTS” - and my absolute favourite “THIS AREA HAS BEEN CORDENED OFF, TO PROTECT THE TREES FROM DEER MOLESTATION” !!!!!!! What the fuck is going on? This gave me visions of gangs of terrorist deer, all going along, and when nobody was looking, trampling on some bushes, giggling and then running away. Or maybe two deer in the dark of the night, maliciously hacking down trees just out of spite. The poor deer must have wondered what the bloody hell was going on, when the nature Nazi’s turned up and started fencing off great swathes of the forest. I would imagine that deer’s being well, absolute deer’s! Probably tried to reason with them. Told them that they had been living in the woods for centuries, and despite man’s interference, they and the trees had managed to co exist quite nicely thank you. I then imagine them being told by some green fleece wearing little Hitler to “Fuck off.”

I took a trip out to one of our local “Nature reserves” the other day with Ronnie and Reggie. I got all the way there, only to be greeted by hoards of green fleece wearers. All the entrances had “Police keep out” tape wrapped around them, and there was a sign saying “KEEP OUT - DO NOT ENTER. THESE WOODS ARE CLOSED DUE TO DEER MAINTANENCE. DO NOT ENTER.” What in the name of Christ is deer maintenance? I imagine the deer are asking the very same question. Perhaps it’s more sinister than I imagine. Are there lines of deer, all trudging slowly towards a gas chamber, while green fleece wearers spit at them. Male and female deer being separated, the males being driven away never to be seen again, while the young one’s sob uncontrollably. I have a message for the green fleece wearers…….”FUCK RIGHT OFF AND LEAVE THEM AND US A FUCKING LONE.”

Some bastard tried to recruit me once you know. Miss Marple and I were in ‘Pets at home’ and some green fleece wearer sidled up to us, and basically tried to persuade us to join her cause. She had a little stand and everything. Full of leaflets and brochures, explaining all of the “Good work” they did. She was very persuasive, I was starting to be sucked in, she started filling my head with all sorts of “Anti deer propaganda” explaining how they were “Running riot” in the reserves, and how they had to be stopped, thankfully the sun glinted off of her swastika necklace, and I came to my senses…….phew!

Just one more example before I go ( I am on a roll). About three or so years ago, after many what can only be described as pathetic attempts to stop smoking, I finally did it. I don’t know how really, but by some miracle, I did. I contacted our life insurance company to tell them that I was now a good boy, and ask them if that would mean that my monthly premiums would be reduced. The person on the end off the phone sounded very disappointed, and told me that I would have to be a very good boy for a year, not smoke at all, and at the end of that year a Nazi would come to my house and do all sorts of ghastly tests on me, to see if I was telling the truth.

I didn’t smoke for a year, and a Nazi did indeed come to my house. She made me do a wee into a bottle, tested this, tested that, blindfolded me, held a dagger to my throat, and made me swear on the bible that I would never ever smoke again as long as I shall live. After she failed to “Break me” she informed the insurance company that I was now a good boy, and the insurers begrudgingly reduced my premium from £4000 pounds a month to £3999. Thanks.

Now, my point is this. Let’s say for example that in seven years time, on Christmas day, by some miracle I am enjoying myself. There I am, swigging away, laughing, joking (I know it’s far fetched, but work with me will ya) and generally having a jolly good time. Somebody say’s ”Do you fancy a fag?” and I, caught up in the moment, agree. I smoke the fag, and then the next day I kick the bucket. Now we all know that that one fag didn’t kill me, anyone with an ounce of common sense knows that one fag in ten years won’t kill you. but what do you think Mr Insurance Nazi is going to say when the tests show that I had smoked. That’s right, insurance policy null and void, big smiles all round at Nazi insurance headquarters, and no dosh for poor old Miss Marple.
Again, where is my freedom? I am being dictated to by a fucking insurance company. I can’t even have one fag in ten years, because some little clipboard wielding, pedantic Nazi say’s I cant.
Mr Wallace, I think you need to revise your little speech somewhat, how about this…….”They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom…….oh they have, sorry.”

It's all arse really.......

2010-02-12T05:15:00.000-08:00

My general existence seems to become more and more bizarre day by day. Take this morning for example. Miss Marple had gone to work, and Ronnie Reggie, and myself had just returned from trudging around in the dark and the mud for an hour.......Joy! There i am standing in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a sweaty t-shirt, and yesterdays boxers. I don't always have breakfast, but felt a little peckish this morning, so decided to treat myself to one of last nights sausages, and a spoonful of beans. So, i am standing bare foot at the kitchen worktop, munching away (Classy!) while at the same time getting irritated with GMTV. Gradually i became aware that my bare feet were starting to become wet. I looked down, and there forming around my feet was a puddle.

I couldn't work out quite what was happening, but it did cross my mind that the unthinkable had finally happened. I had started to wet myself without knowing it! I gingerly patted around the crotch area, but to my great relief, all was dry. So i decided to investigate. If anyone had seen me at that moment, i would surely have been whisked away without any argument what so ever in an unmarked van, never to be seen again. Picture the scene. A 40 something, overweight, balding, bleary eyed man, wearing only a t-shirt, and a pair of "Used" boxers hanging off his arse, on his hands and knees on the kitchen floor, with a fork still in his hand, with half a sausage on the end, dripping baked bean juice, sniffing a puddle on the floor!

I am pretty sure nobody could see me, unless of course my whole life is the subject of a reality tv show, and has been since the day i was born, and everybody in my life are nothing but actors, and the whole of my existence so far has been watched by millions upon millions of voyeurs around the globe, all while i am blissfully unaware. You know, watching 'The Truman show' was one of the worst things i ever did!

Anyway, i still haven't got to the bottom of the mysterious puddle, investigations continue. Moving on, what has been occurring on this rock of ours while i have been sniffing floors? I suppose the "Big" news of last week, was that of John Terry knobbing around. I really fail to see why this is news on two fronts. Firstly, is it a surprise to hear that an overpaid, arrogant, spoilt, uneducated oaf of a footballer has been dipping it where he shouldn't? and secondly, just why the hell is it news anyway? Bloody hell the media couldn't get enough of it could they? It was in danger of reaching the dizzy heights of 'Tiger gate' but seems to have stalled at the last minute.

Do you know, i didn't even know that he was the captain of our national side. Should he have lost that captaincy, for things that occurred in his private life? A very small part of me says no, not really. But the overwhelming part of me can't help but be elated, when any kind of misfortune occurs to any obscenely overpaid, ignorant, arrogant, swaggering, loud mouthed, cock of a footballer! ....... Hurrah!

On a similar vein, was there anybody else on the planet, who couldn't fight off a small but satisfying little grin, when it was revealed that four trillion, or whatever it was, Toyota's have had to be recalled? For one thing, they are probably the most tedious car manufacturer there has ever been. Boring, average, mediocre, tin boxes. Passionless, gutless, and artless on the whole.
Oh how we have all been bored at one time or another, by some smug fucking eco warrior cockhead, rattling on about how he is single handedly saving the planet from all of us planet rapers, because he drives a Prius. Well, my clapped out old Daganum dustbin manages to accelerate and brake when i require it to thanks, so stick that in your herbal tea.

I heard yesterday that Alexander McQueen had died. I had never heard of him. But the usual thing happened. When anyone in the limelight dies, words like "Talented" and "Genius" are banded about willy nilly. I understand he was something big in the fashion world, well can the word genius really be applied to somebody who makes frocks? Now don't get me wrong, there is as much skill involved in tailoring as there is in brick laying and carpentry, but it's just a job really isn't it?
I understand that apart from making clothes that people might actually wear, he also "designed" clothes for cat walk shows. I genuinely fail to see where the talent is, in getting some six stone, Malboro light chain smoking, anorexic model, and making her parade up and down in a pair of hot pants made from tin foil and a string vest, whilst balancing the front offside coil spring from a 1982 Ford Fiesta on her head! BY calling him a genius, they are lumping him in the same club as Einstein, Brunel, and daVinci.......Oh Purleeeeeeeeese!

I have mentioned before about my reluctance to partake in public urination. Well the other is without doubt much much worse. I will go to great lengths to avoid any form of having to defecate anywhere that is not my own toilet! I think it could be said, that i am very wary of any kind of public waste disposal, i even wait till it's dark to put the bins out! Now, by now regular readers must have come to the conclusion that i am not backwards in coming forwards when it comes to discussing anything which may be perceived as being embarrassing subject matters. Sex, urination, masturbation, making an arse of myself in public etc, i have not shy ed away from any of them, but even I feel that a certain amount of decorum is required when discussing back door evacuations, so bearing that in mind, i will honestly try my hardest to avoid being too scatological. Here we go.......

As i have already mentioned, if at all possible, i will avoid using any form of public lavatory to do my number two's. "I'll wait" i think to myself, wait till i get home, but sometimes that just isn't possible is it? I have put it off on occasion, until i have started to experience pain, and broken out into a sweat etc, but there are times when one simply just has to go. One such occurrence happened whilst at work the other day. This is not my usual place of work i hasten to add, this is while i was "Behind enemy lines" so to speak.

The toilet in question has only two cubicles, i did the usual necessary recce before actually committing to the mission. You know what i mean, making various cloak and dagger visits to the toilets to see if the coast is clear, but on several occasions one of the" traps" was occupied, or there would be a bloke standing at the urinal. It must have looked odd, me making several trips to the toilet, only to see me dash out again within seconds. It's even worse when you go to have a look and one bloke is washing his hands, and another is standing at the urinal. The one washing his hands will undoubtedly see you, so you can't make a sharp exit. What are the options? Well, i could go and stand at the urinal and not be able to go because there is a bloke standing next to me, or i could plump for option two. That is to enter the vacant cubicle, and just stand there like a lemon, until the coast is clear! Who would have thought someone could turn defecating into such an absurdly complicated process! Option two it was then!

This fiasco went on for sometime, but eventually i hit the sweet spot, and discovered a completely vacant toilet facility. Eureka i thought. Quite frankly, it was a bloody good job it was vacant, because by now i was dripping with sweat, and i was pretty certain i was "Touching cloth".......Oh bugger, you see, i was trying my hardest, honestly i was, i was doing pretty well, then an "Ugly" popped out.......sorry, lets carry on.

So, I get myself into position, so to speak, and proceed with the mission. Then it happened. Foot steps, and the creaking of a door, some bastard had entered the toilets, oh no, where was he going to go, urinal, or trap two, footsteps, oh Christ it's trap two, all of my nightmares had come to life. It was no good, i was committed, there was no abandoning the mission now, i didn't have the comfort of a "Mission controller" saying "abort abort abort" in my special forces earpiece, i was here, and i was in for the long haul.

I will never cease to be amazed at how brazen some men can be, when it comes to their back door business. I go to extreme lengths to avoid any form of embarrassment, this could involve laying a protective layer of toilet paper in the bowl to avoid anyone hear me "Land!" and generally trying to remain as quiet and dignified as possible. Well the bloke next to me had obviously not been to the same finishing school as me. Christ, grunting, sighing, moaning, various unspeakable noises, what the hell was he doing in there? He even answered his bloody phone at one stage! I had to sit there and endure him having a conversation with his wife or whoever about shopping!

Why can't we have a bit of privacy when in a public toilet? why can't they make toilets with proper floor to ceiling walls, sound proofed etc, no, we have to sit there with just a bit of MDF between us. Or alternatively, why can't the scientific community come up with some kind of muffling device, to combat unwanted bottom sounds. Sort of like a silencer on a gun. Think i might have a go myself, perhaps even take it on 'Dragon's den'. Anyway, loads of blokes started entering and exiting the toilets, and in all the commotion and noise, i lost track of who was in and who was not, including matey boy next door. I hadn't heard the toilet flush, but some disgusting blokes don't.
There was definitely nobody at the urinals, or washing their hands, but what about next door. I listened intently for any sign that might give away the enemies position, nothing. But i couldn't be sure, there was nothing else for it, i was going to have to try and surreptitiously take a sneaky peek under the MDF. Sometimes you will be lucky, and get one of those guys that likes the "wide stance" so it's easy to ascertain the occupancy of the cubicle next door, but this guy was either not there at all, or he was a fan of the narrower feet position. I was going to have to lean further forward. No still nothing, bit more, bit more, starting to black out now, bit more. Now, i normally without fail, keep all of my loose change in my trouser pockets, but i had just been to the shop, and i had dumped it in my top pocket. You are ahead of me aren't you?.......Like a cascading silver and bronze waterfall, out it poured all over the floor, chink chink, tinkle tinkle, a cacophony of sound, and on top of that, i nearly headbutted the floor, due to almost blacking out from my now near totally upended position.

I hurriedly finished up the best i could, and exited the cubicle. Needless to say next door was vacant, and probably had been for some time. No doubt all of my efforts to check the occupancy of next door had been sadly pointless. Think i must just invest in some nappies and be bloody done with it.
Oh well, best be off.......

The 7.32 from Oddsville.......

2010-01-25T12:24:00.000-08:00

The small rotund man looked over his shoulder, one last check to make sure the coast was clear. The alley way he was walking down was dank and dark, and a scurrying sound from behind one of the bins caught his attention for a second. He approached the door at the end of the alley, its paint peeled away, and the small frosted window was cracked. His heart felt as though it was in his mouth, as he raised his hand, he hesitated for a second. Should he go through with it? he still had time to turn and walk away. Return to the warm bosom of his wife, safe and clean and wholesome, but he simply couldn’t resist, this desire burned away at his very core, his limp attempt at denial was futile, something compelled him to rap three times on the door.

His heart rate quickened even further as he heard footsteps approaching the door. It slowly opened, and from the darkness within, a whispering voice said. "Password please."
"Er…….I’m sorry, I don’t know it, I’m new you see, I have……. er, never done anything like this before."
Even though he couldn’t see the man behind the door, he could somehow tell from his voice that he began to smile. "Ah, new blood, excellent. Come in."
The door opened with a creak, and the man stepped into a long hallway. Small lights struggled to light the length of it, and as he followed the stranger down the hall, he tried to wipe the nervous sweat away from his palms.
"How did you get to hear about us?" said the stranger without looking at the man.
"Er, well, you get to hear, you know."
The stranger laughed and turned to the man. "Well it doesn’t matter how you found us, just that you did, mmm?"
"Yes, I suppose so." Said the man as he giggled nervously.

The stranger opened the door to a large room. Inside men of all ages, sizes and denominations sat facing forward. In front of them was a large white screen, and an almost overwhelming sense of anticipation crackled in the air. The hushed conversations stopped as the two men entered.
"Brothers, a fledgling fly’s among us. Welcome him like he is one of our own. Brother. Your name please……."
The man’s eyes scanned the room nervously; he swallowed hard and said "Derek."
The entire congregation greeted him, and simultaneously did the secret signal. Derek had only heard rumours about this, and now he knew for certain that it was true. At last he had seen it with his own eyes. Everyman in the room clenched his fist, and raised it into the air. Then they all pulled their fists down twice, as if pulling on an imaginary cord.
"The stranger looked at Derek……."Brother?"

Derek felt the pride well up within him. He slowly clenched his fist, and as every set of eyes in the room fell upon him, he raised it into the air, and pulled it down twice.
"Toot toot," was the simultaneous response from the gathering.
The stranger smiled and said "Well done brother Derek, well done."
He ushered Derek towards the front of the assembly, and said, "You can sit with me tonight brother, just until you find your feet."
Derek sat down on a rickety chair, and the stranger walked to the front and stood before the screen.
"Brothers, welcome to one and all, let me just take this opportunity to welcome brother Derek into our little fold, and hope that his time here with us is an enjoyable one. We can deal with the formalities later brother, paper work etc. but now it is time to welcome our glorious leader. Please be upstanding for Brother Stephen, our Grand Master."

Every man in the room stood to attention, Derek followed suit. From the left of the room, a tall silver haired gentleman strode purposefully into the room. He turned and stood before the congregation, and gave the toot toot salute. All the men responded, Derek included. Derek had never felt so excited, he had never felt so at peace with himself, and he had never felt so ‘as one’ with a bunch of human beings as he did right now.
The man that had originally greeted Derek shouted "Gentlemen, SHIRTS OFF." All the men ripped open their shirts, and threw them into the air.

Never before had Derek been greeted with such a sight. It was truly magnificent, something to behold. The men were all different shapes and sizes, some had hairy chests, and some were clean shaven, some fat, some thin, but they all had one glorious thing in common. They all proudly sported bright shiny golden nipple clamps. And hanging between the clamps was a gold chain, and hanging from that gold chain was a guard’s whistle. Tears welled in Derek’s eyes, and even though his chest was clamp free, he still puffed it out, and held his head high.
"Step forward brother Derek," said Master Stephen.

Derek walked proudly to the front, and stood before the Grand Master. Derek looked down, and there laying upon a scarlet velvet cushion edged with gold braid, was his very own clamps. They shone as bright as the brightest star, and he couldn’t wait to feel the cold metal clamped firmly onto his erect nipples.
"With these golden clamps, I bestow upon thee brother Derek, the greatest honour that can be bestowed upon any spotter. We welcome thee into the fellowship that we call the 'Clamptits'. May thy clamps for ever shine, thy chain forever flow freely, and thy whistle forever toot. Look after them brother Derek, and they will serve thee well. Gentlemen, I give you…….Brother Derek."
The congregation all said "Brother Derek" together, then gave the toot toot salute. Derek looked deep into the Grand master’s eyes as he felt the icy cold clamps pinch his erect nipples. He almost felt a stirring in his loins as he felt the chain brush his chest. He felt the whistle swaying to and fro. He held it between thumb and forefinger, and raised it to his lips. With two powerful puffs, he let out a shrill toot toot into the room, the gathering raised their whistles and tooted back in recognition of their new member.
"Please be seated Brother Derek" said the Grand Master, "It is now time for the main event."
From behind him, Derek heard the whir of a projector, and on the large screen in front of him a grainy film of the unmistakable 'Flying Scotsman' burst fourth. Sighs of appreciation could be heard all around the room, and the air of excitement rose to fever pitch. Derek couldn't believe he was now one of them, one of the steam train enthusiasts clan. He had waited for this moment for so long, and now he was finally here.

He looked around him, and could see his fellow spotters were most definitely excited. He had felt a stirring himself, but wondered if there was some kind of etiquette. Just at that moment the Grand Master stood up sporting his own obvious excitement, and bellowed......"ALL ABOARD".......then blew his whistle. All around the room one could hear the sound of release. Tears welled in Derek's eyes once again. For so many years he had had to appreciate steam trains in private, his little guilty secret that he kept from his wife. Stolen moments when she was at her Mother's, those secret password locked folders on the computer, containing thousands of images of beautiful beautiful steam trains. How he would appreciate them, as he watched picture after picture flash before his eyes. The steam bellowing from the funnels, the beautiful lines that shaped every locomotive, the fires that burned deep within their beating hearts, but now he could appreciate them guilt free, here, in this place, he was complete.

"STOKE THE BOILERS GENTLEMEN, STOKE THE BOILERS" shouted the Grand Master, his face ruddy and sweating. Whistles swung violently to and fro, as the appreciation reached a crescendo. As the 'Flying Scotsman pulled into the station, it released a huge plume of steam, at this point, every man in the room raised his whistle to his quivering lips, and with a heavenly synchronicity, tooted as loudly as they could. The release was audible and simultaneous.......
The image on the screen flickered, and eventually ceased. Whistles fell from lips, and swung gently to a halt. The Grand Master slowly stood and removed his nipple clamps, "Same time next week gentlemen?".......

Punch monastery into the sat nav will Ya.......

2010-01-13T10:35:00.000-08:00

It’s official, I am allergic to wheat. I have suspected for years that I might be. After eating bread etc I would feel like someone had inserted a bicycle pump up my rectum, and started pumping vigorously! So with all the "New year, new me" …….(It has worn off already. I have welcomed back with open arms, the old "The world is full of cunts" me!) …….cobblers, I took the plunge and decided to get it sorted once and for all.

Instead of going down the traditional route of making an appointment to see my doctor (whoever he or she is), via a Nazi receptionist, I took a wander down the holistic path. At our local "Mega" Tesco’s there is a little cubby hole, and inside is a little Chinese doctor, and his helpful female assistant. For the sum of thirty-five pounds, they can do a test, and it will tell you all the things that you are allergic to. It’s a simple and painless procedure which involves taking a small sample of hair, which they then send off to some laboratory somewhere. They work some voodoo magic on it, and lo and behold a few days later, you have your results.

Now, being somewhat follically challenged, and shaving the remaining hair to a closely cropped no. three, for one un-nerving moment I feared she might say that there was not going to be enough hair for the sample, and she would have to visit little Andy for a donation from his little hat! In the few seconds as we stood there, this whole scenario played out in my head, in a kind of mortifying slow motion. There I am standing in the middle of "Mega" Tesco’s, with my trousers around my knees, shirt pulled up over the protruding beer gut, staring down at a petit Chinese lady, who is kneeling down, and coming at me nervously with a small pair of scissors. All the while my wife, the Chinese doctor, and a rapidly gathering crowd look on with jaw slacking bemusement! Fortunately it never came to this, as the young lady coped admirably with my lack of scalp carpet, and managed to get enough from round the back somewhere.

So off it went in a little plastic bag, and I was told to wait a few days, and she would phone me to tell me it was ready. A few days passed, and she did indeed phone me. She asked if she could "speak to a mista Moo" and proceeded to tell me that my results were back, and to come in to see them on Saturday, and they would analyse them with me. Saturday comes around, and Miss Marple and I toddle off to "Mega" Tesco’s

"Ah Goo afternoo Mr Moo, here are your results."
Yes, there it was in big bright red letters…….ALLERGIC TO WHEAT…….It was even circled in red (Must be serious). There were other things too. Caffeine, citrus fruits, tomatoes, pepper, spices, fortunately these were not in red, and therefore I am not so allergic to them.
So, thank you God. That is not one, but several more avenues of pleasure closed off. I haven’t got much left. Fags when a few years ago, the only things I had left to cling to in an attempt to keep a grip on some kind of sanity was my beer, Jack Daniels, curries, big cups of tea and crusty cheese rolls. If I stick rigidly to what would be the new regime, all that would be gone, and all I would have left would be the XBOX and wanking. Having said that, the latter could be in jeopardy due to an unforeseen, and very unwelcome bout of some kind of ‘Tennis elbow’…….I could practice left handed I suppose, it’s not the same though is it?.......sigh.

Anyway, I then had three lots of pills plonked in front of me, and told that a good session of acupuncture would do me the world of good. I declined the opportunity. They seemed very keen; the little Chinese doctor’s assistant had to virtually wrestle the little Chinese doctor to the floor to stop him from jabbing me with hundreds of needles.

So, there you have it. I might as well join a monastery. I virtually have no avenues of pleasure left, and I have a head start…….(Eh!, see what I did there, eh!) on the monks hair cut thing. Or I could just say fuck it, and carry on regardless. What is worse, a clean living life of salad, fruit, and abject misery, or having an imaginary man thrust an imaginary bicycle pump up my bottom?
PS. I wonder what the monastic stance on self abuse is?.......

Where is Michael Fish?.......

2009-12-01T09:15:00.000-08:00

I think it would be fair to say, that I do indeed spend a more than healthy amount of time in a state of irritability. I don’t really want to, I would genuinely much rather be ‘Happy go lucky’ but there is something deep down in my core, that just finds something irritating about most things.
What is worse, is that I seem to have been even more tetchy than normal just recently. I don’t have any concrete evidence as to why this is, but maybe it has something to do with the onset of winter, the cold, the grey skies as far as the eye can see, what seems to be constant drizzle, and probably worst of all, the darkness.

Anyway, putting all that to one side, I thought I would just do a quick review of what has been occurring recently in this mad mad mad mad world.

I read today that scientists now tell us that the hole in the ozone layer is protecting the Antarctic from global warming. For God’s sake make your minds up chaps will you. In fact a message to the whole scientific community, until you have something that is actually interesting, relevant, meaningful and useful to say, please shut the fuck up. It wouldn’t be so bad if they stuck to their guns, but eating toast last week prolonged your life by a decade, this week it gives you cancer!

Scientists do get on my nerves actually. They can be so bloody arrogant. "If I haven’t seen it through my electron microscope, or if it hasn’t happened under laboratory conditions, it doesn’t exist." Brilliant, that is about as blinkered and narrow minded as any religious zealot.

The bloody mindedness of science, can be just as silly as any religious fundamentalism. The big bang theory thing always gets me. If you ask them what was"there" before the big bang, their reply is……."Er, nothing." Brilliant, that’s it is it? Just nothing eh?, years at Harvard for that.

I am of course being a bit silly, science has given us some truly wondrous products and discoveries, I think my bitterness towards them stems from their reluctance to invent a useable personal jet pack…….I want one.......really really want one.

Liverpudlians. I can’t bare them. Yes every one of them, yes I know that is a ridiculous sweeping statement, but arse to it, let’s sweep away. My God they have a high opinion of themselves don’t they? "Salt of the earth this", "salt of the earth that," a sense of humour second to none. Really? let me just say Stan Boardman and Tom O’Conner, I don’t think so.
That bloody accent, in my opinion the worst accent of the British Isles. A whiney, lilting, phlegm inducing noise. Thank God the vast majority of them can’t string more than a few words together. "You know what I meeeeeeean likcccccccccckkkkkkkkke." Arghh, please make it stop.

Horrible human beings stomp around the planet, culling defenceless baby seals, killing elephants for their ivory, to make into obscene trinkets for other disgraceful human beings to buy. Pointlessly slaughter whales, and wipe out entire species. What the fuck are we doing? Let all of those beautiful creatures live, and turn your hateful vengeance on to Liverpudlians! YES, lets cull scousers. Your average baseball cap wearing, smelly tracksuit donning, stolen mobile phone using, dangerous dog wielding, benefit scrounging feckless scouser is a much more deserving target for your blood lust.

Leave the gorillas alone, Let that tiger be. Instead turn your attention to the council estates of Liverpool! Animal welfare people should be sent in to collect all of the "Dangerous dogs" (They can all come and live with Miss Marple and me, we will see how "dangerous" they are, once they have been festooned with love, care and proper attention) and then teams of ‘Purifiers’ should March through scumsville, flamethrowring any pointless chavs they find. Flush them out of their stinking pits. Let’s see how much ‘Darren’ liccccccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkes it with an arse full of machine gun fire! Hitler wasn’t all bad ya know, he just got carried away!

While we are on the subject of animals, a week or so ago, what can only be described as a "fucking stupid cunt" scaled the twenty foot high wall of a bear enclosure at some zoo or other. He wanted to get up close and personal with the bear, to get some better photographs! Because he was a complete dolt, he had failed to realize that this bear, although in captivity, was to all intents and purposes a wild animal. The bear proceeded to maul him, until the authorities shot it. Why didn’t they shoot the moronic cretin instead?

Our plasmas are plastered with reality TV at the moment, it is that time of year. I still cry with frustration and despair on a daily basis, due to the fact that vast swathes of the "Great" British public are still under the illusion that the ‘X FACTOR’ is a singing competition.

‘I’m a non entity, get me out of here’ rots the fabric of society this time of year as well. Thankfully I can resist being sucked into this one, but one can’t help catching the odd snippet from newspapers and TV. I will never cease to be amazed at how spoilt and precious your average fucking celebrity is. Some woman (I have no idea who she is) Left the "Jungle" after a couple of days, due to exhaustion, depression, and mal nutrition or something. FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!..................Can a human being possibly get anymore pathetic than that? If they had genuinely been dropped into a real jungle, two hundred miles from civilization, and if they really had to catch their own food, fend for themselves etc, you could possibly understand it. But we all know it’s about as much a "real" jungle as my fucking potting shed. Just out of camera shot there are doctors, councilors, manicurists, agents, lawyers, life coaches, assistants, dietitians etc etc etc. If you can’t hack sitting round in a glorified greenhouse surrounded by all that little lot for a couple of weeks, then quite frankly you deserve to be left in the fucking jungle…….for real!

I think the thing (And I mean "Thing") that sums it all up, is Jordan, or Katie Price or whatever she is fucking called this week. The producers of the show, realizing that nobody knew who any of the ‘celebrities’ were, decided to make "it" an offer that "it" couldn’t refuse, in order to try and boost the all important ratings. So for the obscene figure of three hundred and fifty thousand pounds, "It" swanned into the jungle to "save" the show.

After seven days of being voted by the public to do the ‘Bush tucker trials’ "It" announced that "it" would be leaving. "It" apparently said "I can’t understand why the public keep picking on me!" ……. No amount of slack jaws, raised eyebrows, or exclamation marks would ever be enough to cope with that quote. But with extreme grace, "it" agreed to knock off one hundred thousand pounds of "it’s" fee for quitting early. Bless.

There is a black bloke who sometimes does the weather on the BBC in the mornings, who is getting on my nerves. I am not a morning person, sometimes I am barely a person at all, but in the mornings I am usually bleary eyed, sometimes a bit hung over, but always grumpy. That bloody Carol Kirkwood is bad enough with her overly cheery "Morning" but this guy is curdling the milk on my sugar puffs. He bounces around in front of the map, and he has started doing those hand gestures, you know the one’s that hip hoppers do. Throwing his hand out towards the camera as he tells me "it’s gonna rain in da east today." All the while bouncing. His other hand reaches up and moves down across his body as he says "You guys in da West r gonna ‘av it fine." Still bouncing. "Up in Scoterlannnnnnnd you mudders gonna get one bitch load a snow…….mmm mmm."

Look BBC, if I wanted ‘Huggy Bear’ forecasting the weather, I would go to channel five ok. Because the BBC pride themselves on being "Right on" and "Down wi da kids" and all that, they are letting this guy have a free reign. What is he going to do next? I am fully expecting to be wearily munching on my burnt toast one morning soon, and ‘anchor man’ bloke will say "And now the weather."

A kicking hip hop groove will strike up, and ‘MC Wedder boy’ will slide into shot doing a bit of ‘beat boxing’. At the same time a couple of bootilicious soul sisters will funk their way onto the set. Standing one either side of him, they will thrust their leopard skinned booties towards the camera, as ‘MC’ starts to rap the weather!.......

Yo yo all yo mudders out there, is it gonna rain, or will it be fair.

I’m MC Wedder boy at yo service, wit da aid of ma bitches and young
Curtis (Cut to shot of kid spinning on his head)

Rainin’ in da east, snowing in da west, I’m da wedder boy dat you love da best.

(Soul sisters) – Heeeeeeeeeee’s da man, mmm what a man – (bit of booty shaking)

Scoterland wales and norten Ireland, will start off dull, but then will brighten.

All my homies in da home counties, yo rely on me, I put ma money where ma mout is.

Sunshine beaming like ma wedder boy bling, come on sisters let me hear you sing…….boooyakasha!

(Soul sisters) – Heeeeeeeeee’s da man, oh wat a wedder man –(Booty shaking and pouting)

If the BBC has now entered a period of "Non Traditional Weather forecasting" lets have some more examples shall we? Let’s have Mustafa the Muslim Fundamentalist forecaster……

Many London residents will wake to find a plague of locusts descending upon the capital city today – HOME OF THE INFADELS! - God’s divine wind will sweep in from the east, and cleanse the land of the impurities of the west. Looking forward to the long term forecast, I predict rain for forty days and for forty nights, followed by an upsurge of hot air from the Middle East. Goodnight.

Perhaps a Rastafarian weather forecast.

Anchor man – So Winston, what does the weather have in store for us today?

Winston – long pause…….cool man.

Perhaps our weather forecasters aren’t gay enough. Perhaps we should have Justin doing the weather. I would like to see him mince on to the weather girls "It’s raining men."

"Ooh ‘ello. Ooh my lovelies it’s going to be wet today. Plenty of showers, but not golden one’s we ‘ope, eh? (cackles) ooh take no notice of me. If I am to believe what my fellow forecaster Julian tells me, I’ll need to prepare myself for a severe stiff one from the south tonight…….eh! Oh and don’t talk to me about the snow up north, I could be up to my eyeballs in soggy white stuff before I know it, nothing new there love, eh! Oooooh. Well that’s all from me, ill catch you later, I can feel a breeze around the Urals.

What was wrong with Michael Fish? He may not have got the weather forecast right, but there was a certain stiff upper lip about it all. Having said that, I notice that he has made a bit of a comeback on GMTV and even he is being a bit off hand, flippant, and down wid da kids! Where will it all end?.......

Mr Nobody.......

2009-11-21T02:28:00.000-08:00

Do you know who I am Ladies and Gentlemen? I am the most unimportant man in the world, that’s who. Do you know why I am the least favoured man on the planet? …….well I will tell you.

I am Male, I am Caucasian, I have no children, I am not a homosexual, I have a full time job, I claim nothing from the state, I am not an ethnic minority, I am not disabled, I am not a criminal, I am not a drug addict,
(Sorry, I mean I am not addicted to any form of barbiturate, through no fault of my own. In fact it simply has to be someone else’s fault that I am hooked on a class A drug. Even though it was completely my decision to take the drug in the first place, I am blaming my parents for not cuddling me enough, my school for not recognising my ‘special needs’, the police for not being understanding enough, Jimmy Cartwright at school for calling me a name when I was five, that very much hurt my feelings, Grandad for taking me fishing, when I really didn’t want to go, and the whole world for generally being beastly. There, that’s much more politically correct isn’t it? We can’t go round upsetting the poor little drug addicts can we)
and last but no means least, I tend to play by the rules. That is why I am completely irrelevant.

I am often tempted to cut a leg off, Have a sex change, cover myself in gravy browning, adopt a child, join an Islamist sect, live in a caravan, quit my job and live on handouts, indulge in petty crime, and start lifting shirts, just to get some fucking attention!

You see, probably up until about fifty or so years ago, all of these people were persecuted, ridiculed and abused, and it was almost seen as the "norm" for it to be that way. Of course that is completely and utterly wrong, and thank goodness that, in general, this country has become a much more liberally minded and tolerant place. But you see where it all falls down (As usual) is that us bloody human beings just can’t leave things alone. We couldn’t just change things so that the persecution of these people became unlawful and morally irreprehensible, we had to keep going and keep going, until they were put on a pedestal. They were now the special ones, and everybody that tried their best to put them there, became lower class citizens! After all, "We are all equal, but some are more equal than others."

So the inevitable outcome of this, is that I am completely invisible! I am not "special" you see. I am not in a minority. I am Mr. Nobody.

There are millions of me about though, yes literally millions of me. Getting up at the crack of dawn, going to work, paying taxes, paying bills, going through the rigmarole and expense of acquiring all of the relevant legal documentation to enable me to drive a vehicle on the public highway. Claiming nothing, and not being eligible to claim anything from the state, being criminalized for petty trivial misdemeanors, (Feeding the ducks…….no really!) and generally slogging my guts out.
Oh what a fool am I. What I really should be doing, is…….

Changing my name to Mohamed/Polovski/O’reilly, becoming a woman and having three kids, not bothering with any of that silly vehicle documentation stuff, it doesn’t matter if I get caught, the fine for having no tax, insurance or MOT is less than it costs to obtain it all in the first place anyway, and I shouldn’t bother with a license either, if I haven’t got one, they can’t take it away can they, tee hee. I should be slipping over on a recently mopped floor. The benefits of this are amazing apparently, compo, and state benefits for the rest of my life, ‘cause I will have a pretend bad back. While I am at it, I should buy/steal some sort of mobile home, plonk it where I like, build what I like around it……. planning permission, rules, what’s that?....... Don’t you pick on me with your tyrannical rules and stuff, I will be an ethnic minority you know, that’s persecution that is. I should develop a drug habit, steal from Mr. Nobody to fund it, blame it on my childhood, my parents, my teachers……. the boogie! Whatever, get Mr. Nobody to pay for my "Rehabilitation" in the Maldives, Come back, develop a drug habit……. Meanwhile, allow my feral feckless brats to run amok terrorising the local community, blame it on the boogie! Get Mr. Nobody to pay for councilling and cuddling sessions for them, pick up a load of leaflets from Chief Constable Hopeless about parenting skills, (They are excellent for making roaches for spliffs) Get Mr. Nobody to buy me a nice new shiny 42" plasma (a bit like the one I stole off him a few weeks back) sit on my ever expanding arse, and play on-line fucking bingo all day!.......I can’t wait. (Deep breath)…….

The liberals have taken over, and completely fucked up the asylum Ladies and Gentlemen. We now live in a country where the Government, the police, teachers, and all the Mr. Nobody’s are scared shitless of upsetting anyone whose name isn’t Smith/Jones/Mule etc. We have made all of the above people so "Special" they have started to believe the hype. They must wake up in the morning, look in their state funded mirrors, and say to themselves, "Hello gorgeous, you really are special."

We don’t live in that equality driven society that we all dreamed of, we exist in a world where the "Special ones" are the ruling class. Why is there the NBPA? (National black police officers association). Why do we have the MOBO’s? (Music of black origin awards). I know I sound like the bastard love child of Richard Littlejohn of the Daily Mail, and BNP leader Nick Griffin, but there is a serious point here, if the equivalent "White" versions of these were set up, arrests would be being made as we speak.

It’s not just black and ethnic areas where blatant favoritism is shown, (I’m really going to get it in the neck now!) but women have much more "Equality" than me. Women’s rights this, and women’s rights that, Women against this, women against that. Feminism, womenism, vaginaism.

Lets just be done with shall we, and massacre all men. They can have a few kept in cages for reproductory requirements, although the levels of man hating and man bashing are so astronomical now, that all women will probably be lesbians in a couple of hundred years anyway, so the caged men will just be sperm donors. Will they kill all male infants at birth, just keeping the healthier specimens back as "Donors?" Dear God, sends a shiver down the spine. (Is it safe to stick my head above the parapet yet?.......)

Our new found "Equality" has even wriggled its way into sexuality. Now look, I absolutely, honestly, really couldn’t give a shit (Please forgive that very much unintended pun) where any man lodges his willy, but do gay men have to push it in my face (Pun very much intended, couldn’t resist it) Gay pride for example, it’s not that I have anything against Gay pride as an organization, but if I was to set up ‘Straight and proud’ and go on marches proclaiming "Its great to be straight!" I would be accused of being homophobic, and Chief Constable Hopeless would be round mine handing out leaflets on ‘Sexual diversity and you’ quicker than you could say "Are you free Mr. Humphries."

We have gone too far with it all, I don’t mind how far it goes really, but why can’t us Mr. Nobodys come along for the ride too? Why do we have to be left behind?

As I have been tapping this out, something has slowly been dawning on me. For centuries, "White" man has been stomping around the globe, pushing people about. Nicking land off them, tyrannizing, enslaving, and generally lording it up at other people’s expense. For as long as we can remember, men have looked down on "The little woman," seen anyone with a skin darker than their own as second class citizens. Persecuted Homosexuals, and turned disabled people into freak show exhibits.
Perhaps we are finally getting our come uppance. Perhaps we are finally getting what we deserve. Am I paying for the activities and attitudes of my fore fathers? Could be, Mother nature seems to have a way of redressing the balance one way or another.
But hey, Mother nature, can’t you slow down with the change a bit, maybe even swing it back in my favour a little…….no? Karma i suppose.

As an end to this rant…….er I mean lecture, I would just like to share with you an example of Karma that I witnessed the other day. It seems that it is not only Ethnic minorities, feckless chavs, women and homosexuals that see me as Mr. Nobody. Drivers of big cars seem to see me that way too. For years I have been slowly coming to the boil about drivers of such cars as BMW’s and such the like. Their arrogance, selfishness, their complete lack of willingness to concede that other road users have as much right to be on the roads as them. To the story…….

Part of my journey to work, involves traveling along a straight piece of road, that has another road joining it at a very acute angle. The road joining "mine", is a junction, and the users of it are expected to give way. Having used it myself, I will concede that it is bloody awkward to see if anything is coming. The wing mirror just doesn’t cut it, and a severe craning of the neck is required to spot somebody coming. Of course a good hefty glance over to the right when one is half way down the road can help immensely as one approaches the junction, but this is obviously far too taxing for most people.

One car out of a hundred can be forgiven for genuinely not seeing me coming, but the other ninety-nine are just arrogant bastards. These are people that also see me as Mr. Nobody. They are far more important than I am, Their time is far more precious. The place they have to be is far more crucial than mine, and their business far more pressing. I have honestly lost count of the number of times that I have had to slam the brakes on, as they gaily bowl out of the junction, with not a second thought for my existence.

Just the other morning I was traveling along said bit of road. Foot twitching, ready to jump to the brake pedal, I saw one of the most beautiful pieces of karma I will probably ever see. BMW boy was approaching the junction behind a council truck, and I have to give him is due, (to a small extent); I did see him glance over his shoulder. Never the less, even though he saw me coming (I know he did, we made eye contact) he decided to arrogantly press ahead anyway, after all bollocks to me, I am Mr. nobody. Unfortunately for him (Fortunately for the rest of mankind) the guys in the council truck weren’t arrogant bastards, and they had courteously and rightfully stopped. As I drove past and glanced left, I almost became erect as I witnessed a very crumpled bonnet, and a beautiful plume of steam rising gently to the heavens. The added bonus is, is that the hefty truck he ran into had not a scratch on it! I wish I had had the courage to stop, and dance around his steaming pile of dented arrogant metal, like a Morris man around a Maypole! It’s funny where little instances of Karma can arise…….isn’t it!

You know that there is an old Chinese proverb that says……."If a man sits on…….Sigh, hang on, sorry....... if a man/woman/hermaphrodite/individual caught in the thorny dilemma of undecided gender alignment, sits on a…….HANG ON HANG ON!!! Bollocks to it. Political correctness can really fuck up a proverb can’t it!

.......If a man sits on the river bank long enough, he will eventually see the bodies of his enemies float by.

Old father time.......

2009-11-17T11:32:00.000-08:00

I’m sorry, I can’t seem to help myself, I’m not proud of it, and I probably should be ashamed, but there is no denying it…….Old people get on my fucking tits!
Sigh…….Don’t get me wrong, deep down I do have the utmost respect for them. The unbelievable hardships they endured during two world wars, are completely beyond my comprehension, and should never be forgotten. My life today compared to theirs, can only be described as a Utopian paradise, but, let’s be honest, they are bloody annoying aren’t they?

Why don’t they listen? And no it’s not just because they are possibly hard of hearing, it’s because they are so busy jabbering on, that they don’t bother to listen. You know how it is, we have all been there. You ask them a question, and before you have finished asking it, they are already saying "eh?" so you start asking it again, at which point they butt in and start answering you. Proving that they did hear you the first time, they have just got into the habit of thinking that they haven’t heard you.

At what point during our descent into old age, do we forget how to drive a car? If by some miracle, or a rapid advance in medical science I reach, let’s say eighty, will I have totally forgotten what the pedals and big wheelie thing In front of me are for? When we get older, does our perception of speed increase? It must do, I suppose this would explain why little old men in hats seem to be under the impression that going over thirty-five mph will cause them to black out or spontaneously combust.

The number of times I have been driving along, and to my astonishment, have seen what appears to be nothing more than a Trilby driving a 1979 Morris Mariner towards me! Is that really safe? Should that really be allowed? Surely if you are looking through the steering wheel and not over it, a disaster is only just around the corner. But they don’t crash do they, no everyone else is doing that around them. There they are dribbling along, while in their wake is an ever growing line of steaming, disfigured metal, as people have taken drastic action to avoid their decrepit incompetence.

What age will I be, when I decide that it’s ok to just stop without giving any kind of warning or notice? I was watching some old biddy the other day. Wandering along at seventeen mph, and without any concept at all that there might be other poor bastards on the public highway, just stopped! The poor sod behind her stood on the brake pedal with both feet, smoke billowing from his newly flat spotted tyres. Still she appeared to have no idea at all that she had nearly been rear ended.

After the bloke had sat there for a couple of minutes picking his teeth out of the leatherette finish of his dashboard, flashing his lights, bibbing the horn, waving, shouting, etc. he attempted to drive around her, at which point she decided, without making use of the mirrors, to slowly pull away. If I had had a fucking bazooka to hand, she would have been toast!

At what point do we decide that we are no longer going to try and use modern technology? My God I get fed up with old cronies whittling on about how they can’t use "Those new fangled" things like a computer or a mobile phone. At what point does our brain seem to stop being able to process the information needed to operate what is essentially simple pieces of equipment. To be honest, I have got to be careful here. I hope Miss Marple isn’t reading this, or she will be crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows. The number of times she has witnessed me dribbling and stumbling about whilst trying to use one of those "Do it yourself checkouts" at the Co-op.

I always feel sorry for the poor girl who has to come to the rescue of poor souls like me, when we have made the red light flash for the umpteenth time. It is quite embarrassing when I’m told that I have scanned the same tin of beans seventy-four times! Or I have collapsed in to a quivering wreck, because the machine has asked me to input the code for fresh produce or whatever.

Don’t remind me of that bloody thing in the bank either, you know, where you can deposit money into a machine instead of giving it to someone at the counter. That is like a white knuckle ride for me, who needs Alton towers!

You see, age is a very peculiar thing to me. I have great trouble getting my head around it. When I was a child of say eight, my grandfathers would have probably been in their fifties. Not old at all, especially by today’s standards, but at the age of eight, they were ancient. They looked old, they seemed old, to my little mind, they were old. Now, my Father is approaching sixty-five, and apart from being maybe a little rounder, and a little more grey, he doesn’t seem any older or different to me, than say twenty or thirty years ago. It seems that if you get older with someone, you don’t seem to notice their ageing, but if you have only known someone as being "old" you just seem to see them as……. well,"old." That probably doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I hope you catch my drift.

For example, I have only known Miss Marple’s Grandmothers as elderly ladies. I can in no way imagine them as young, virile, bouncy girls. With pert bosoms, lily white taught skin and a spring in their step. I know they were, but the brain seems to refuse to comprehend it.

It’s very much like I see myself I suppose. There is no way in the bloody world that I see myself as forty-two. It’s impossible, I can’t be. How did that happen? Ok, when I get out of bed these days the first few steps are like walking on a bed of nails because of the pins and needles, and my knee keeps giving way. There is the bad back, dodgy hearing, aching teeth, constantly painful elbow, balding head and creaking limbs, but mentally I don’t feel any different to when I was twenty-five. I think our brains stop getting older by the age of about twenty-five, but the bloody body keeps going. Having said that, there does seem to be some kind of cut off point. It’s like our brains stay twenty-five up until about the age of seventy-two, then the switch flicks over to "Old git mode." You suddenly can’t drive, use a mobile phone, hear people, stop talking about how things were better in "Your day" listen to what people are telling you, and on and on and on.

I’m not looking forward to the day that I think it is essential to wear a belt and braces. Do you get a letter from some governmental department, or the Queen, telling you that today is the day to start wearing your waistband under you armpits. Is smelling musty a gradual process or, does it happen over night? What age do you have to be, before you no longer worry about looking a complete twat on the dance floor?

Again I have to be careful here. Do you know, it’s been weeks since I wore a pair of jeans! Choosing instead to wear some nice comfy slacks! …….shit. (Think I will go out and buy myself a leather jacket and some ripped jeans…….maybe even a bandanna).

I have often seen an elderly couple, and wondered how they see each other. Do they both still see those young, frisky, energetic, slim, taught skinned kids that they used to be? Or do they see old people? I have been with the lovely Miss Marple for thirteen years now, but I don’t see her as being any older. I suppose I have the advantage that she was very young when we met (Wonder if I am off the register yet? Could do with my computer back as well) and so she hasn’t actually changed much at all. How will I see her when she is seventy? How she will see me doesn’t bare thinking about! She probably won’t be able to see much of me anyway, behind all those tubes and oxygen cylinders etc. Wonder if she will be able cope? Being married to Davros!

How does an old person see themselves? Does our elderly neighbour, who, without wishing to be unpleasant, has a face like a road map of inner London, see himself like he used to be, or as an old man?
I seem to have softened my stance somewhat. Perhaps it’s because I know that I am racing ever faster to the land of 'elderly'.

When I am prime minister, I will make it compulsory to have some kind of assessment at the age of seventy-two. On your seventy second birthday, a black van will arrive at your house in the early hours of the morning (Don’t worry, you will be up, old people always are!) and you will be whisked off to a secret government facility, where you will go through a vigorous assessment procedure. For a week you will be tested to see if you can drive, operate contemporary equipment, cope without multiple trouser fastenings, listen, Urinate and defecate un-aided. Not whitter on and on, eat quietly, drink without the aid of a straw and generally function without slowing people up, getting in the way, and being a bloody nuisance!
If they fail the test, It will be a bit like ‘Logan’s run’ They will be told they are off to some kind of sanctuary, in reality, through the door, twenty foot drop straight in to the furnace!

Footnote.

I feel a bit bad now. You see, i wrote this round about the time of Remembrance day. Seeing all those old soldiers etc has reminded me of the incredible sacrifices people of that generation made. Don't be too hard on me, it's all (mostly!) just a bit of fun.......They can be fucking irritating though can't they?

If i only had the nerve.......

2009-10-21T11:52:00.000-07:00

Do you ever find yourself in a situation where you wish you had the courage to say a certain thing, or act in a certain way? I do, and I can’t be the only one.

I, like most people, have and still do suffer from bouts of cowardice. Cowardice can take many forms of course, right from refusing to go "Over the top" in the trenches in the first world war (Understandable) right down to deciding not to complain about the toe nail in your carbonara.

I suppose the odd craven moment is understandable really, it’s probably a deep seated psychological response to try and save oneself from a moment of peril, but seeing as most of us in the western world are no longer under threat from marauding sabre toothed tigers in our daily lives, our cowardly bones seem to find other outlets.

We have all been there, ruing the fact that we didn’t complain to that snooty waiter in the restaurant, or wishing we had stood up for ourselves to our boss’ Tyrannical demands. So I thought I would share with you some of the things that I dream of doing, if like the cowardly lion in ‘The Wizard of Oz’…….I only had the nerve.

As I have got older, I have found myself more often than not shying away from social situations. I really don’t like them to be honest, I know it’s a bit of a flaw in my character, but it’s just the way I am. Probably the worst kind of social situation that I would have to endure, would be the awful dinner party. A buffet is not so bad because you are mobile, and it is easier to avoid certain people, but at a dinner party you are metaphorically chained and padlocked to your chair. This means that you are also stuck with whoever you are sitting next to. On the few and distant occasions I have been at a dinner party, this usually meant being Siamese twinned with ‘Justin’ who works in HR, and boy does he wanna tell you about it. Or I’ll be manacled to ‘Wayne’ who has been everywhere, done everything, seen everything and shagged everyone.

In these situations, what do I do? I sit there and suck it all up of course. In my fantasy I would have tourettes syndrome. Wouldn’t that be great eh? Pretending to have tourettes at a social gathering. I’ve got a semi lob on just thinking about it! So instead of listening to Wayne tell me all about his fantastic life, it would be more like this…….Cue wibbly wobblyness…….

Wayne – Hi, I’m Wayne.

Me - Andy.

Wayne – So, who are you here with?

Me – My wife, she is sitting over there, the lady in the purple dress.

Wayne – Oh yeah, hey, I think my fiancée has got the same dress, but her’s is a size ten, your wife’s must be a…….fourteen, right?

Me – Wanker (Twitch)

Wayne – Sorry?

Me – Forgive me, I suffer from tourettes syndrome, I can’t help myself.

Wayne – Oh right, I have never met anyone with tourettes before, how long have you had it?

Me – Your Mother sucks cocks at the back of the bingo hall on Saturday nights (Flinch)…….about fifteen years.

Wayne – Right…….it must be difficult to deal with sometimes?

Me – Yeah it’s not easy, people don’t seem to understand, you know.

Wayne – Well I do mate, don’t worry about it. So what do you do for a living?

Me – Oh I have just got a menial job really, it’s nothing special.

Wayne – I am in banking, I’m a hedge fund banker actually.

Me – Mother fucking cunt…….really, that must be interesting.

Wayne – Yeah it’s cool man, picked up my new Porsche yesterday, you know it does 176 mph, flat out.

Me – Tosser bitch cock face shit head, wow that’s amazing (Twitch, flinch, wink)

Wayne – Got a six figure bonus as well, but don’t tell anybody eh? (Laughs)

Me – Your Father is an arse fucking homo…….nice holiday for you this year then?

Wayne – Yeah, me and Debbie, did I tell you she is a model? Thought we would spend a month in Mauritius.

Me – Ooh that will be lovely…….she’s a slut, she’s a slut…….(Nod wink twitch) we are having a week off to decorate my wife’s disabled Grandmother’s flat.

Wayne – Oh you should really try and get away man, even on a limited income. A break is good for you.

Me – (Big twitch, wink wink)……. I have fucked your sister, bitch (Twitch) Thanks for the advice, I will bear it in mind.

Wayne – Well I’d better go and touch base with the little lady, she misses me ya know.

Me – Of course…….(Twitch and head butt him, wink flinch)…….sorry about that.

Wayne – (Holding nose) er…….no prob mate.

Me – It was an accident…….Your cock is tiny, bollocks mother fucker, your sister liked it up the arse, and so did your dad. Shithead, shithead, wanker wanking gayboy…….Take care.

Oh I am salivating just thinking about it!

How many times have you been in a confrontational situation? Car related strife is a very common thing. We have all had the shouting at each other, whilst doing ninety on the M6 thing, but what about those stationary car related disputes. Say something like a crowded car park on Christmas Eve. There is one space left, and you and Wayne have both gone for it. There is normally a te ta te, a bit of name calling, maybe shouting etc, but in my dreams, it would be more like this.

I would love to have a pre-prepared cassette (Yes I know that is very 1983, but I still haven’t got a cd player in the car!) with a backing track of Harry Connick Junior’s version of ‘It had to be you’ on it. I would leave a blank silent bit at the beginning, about the right sort of amount for a small car park dispute. As I realised that a row was about to start, I would press play. We would both get out of our cars, and take part in the arguing etc etc.

I would know the exact length of the silent part of the track, and a few seconds before the song was about to start, I would suddenly say…….
"Hey, lets not quarrel, this is silly. There really is no need for any of this. May I just say, that you are very attractive."
Wayne would obviously be taken aback at this rapid change of tone.
"Yes, and when your angry, your dimples are really quite cute……."
At this precise pre-planned moment, the track would burst forth from no where, and I would shimmy up to him, take his hand, gaze into his eyes, and sing…….
"It had to be you, it had to be you. I wandered around, and finally found the somebody who……."
By which time, I would imagine the parking slot would be all mine!

I have often wished I had had the courage to make up a job, when somebody asked me the number one question on the list of social event tedious conversation topics list. "So, what do you do for a living?"

Oh God I wish I had got the courage to say "I am a spy."
How would they react? Most people would be too polite to say "Oh fuck off, come on pull the other one." I would carry on with…….
"Yes, only last night I was meeting a man on a bridge in St Petersburg. He had a package for me. I can’t say what was in it, operational reasons you understand, but lets just say the whole thing was a bit hairy old boy. I knew he would have snipers posted at strategic points, but luckily I had my invisibility cloak to hand. Once I had given them the slip, I had a meet in a bar with our Russian connection Miss Tossmeov. Yes yes, I can see by the glint in your eye that you can tell that I slept with her. It’s the best way to get the information you see. Shame I had to garrote her with my dental floss/ garrote wire afterwards, but you can safely say she died a happy woman, know what I mean old chap."

Just once, I would like to phone one of the ladies that reside on the planet ‘Sky 900 channels’ For those of you with lives, that aren’t familiar with this zone, it is the place where pretty ladies (Well mostly, I have witnessed the odd moose, but hey, everyone has got to make a living) sit on beds in drafty studios, and pretend to have sex with you.

Yes you can phone up for the princely sum of £1.50 a minute and wank yourself stupid, while the lady on the screen gyrates provocatively, and pretends that you are the best lover she has ever had. Or if you are shy, you can listen to other blokes wanking, while she tells them that they are the best lover she has ever had. I tend to find myself wandering to these channels during the advert breaks.

Yes while in the intermission of an episode of ‘Mock the week’ that I have seen eleven times already on ‘Dave’ I will find myself flicking (That is not a euphemism) through the ‘Naughty channels’. I find these channels fascinating. Not just because they are full of scantily clad, and on the whole, attractive young ladies gyrating provocatively, but because Human behaviour fascinates me (And infuriates in equal measures). I have often gazed into the eyes of these young ladies, and the look that confronts you is not dissimilar to the one on the face of a lion in a cage at a zoo.......sad.

It’s genius really if you think about it though (Well apart from the exploitation i suppose). Some bloke (and it will be a bloke) has thought to himself, there is a lot of lonely sexually frustrated blokes out there, I know, I will rent a studio, fill it with some girls, and all these blokes can phone up and have phone sex with them. The difference being, that unlike ordinary phone sex lines, they can actually see the lady they are pretending to copulate with. Unfortunately the experience is sullied somewhat, by the fact that what you hear down the phone, doesn’t match up with what you see her saying on the screen, because for technical reasons, there is a delay…….apparently, cough.

A few months later he is no doubt a bloody millionaire! Anyway, I would love to phone them, and try and engage her in a conversation about the Hadron collider. It would probably go something like this…….

Tiffany – Hello sexy.

Me – Good evening.

Tiffany – So, you feelin’ horny sugar?

Me – Er, well not overly at the moment thanks.

Tiffany – Well I am sure we can change that, do you like my tits? Look I’ll sgueeze them for you…….mmm look how hard my nipples are.

Me – Yes, very pert, tell me, have you any opinion on the outcome of the experiments using the hadron collider?

Tiffany – Eh?.......now listen, we don’t do any of that kinky shit here love, you want channel 969 for that.

Me – Scribbles 969 on the back of an empty crisp packet. - No, the hadron collider, it’s a particle accelerator. They have built it under Geneva.

Tiffany – I don’t know anyfing about that, do you like my shoes? Sexy aren’t they?

Me – There are some people that think that a black hole could be created, that will swallow our planet, and the whole universe that we exist in. Rendering us all just a thing of the past.

Tiffany – Are you gonna come or what? There is a queue you know.

Me – And if we are all gone, it could be argued that we never existed in the first place, as there would be nobody left to confirm our prior existence!

Tiffany – What if I bend over for you, is that getting your motor running?

Me – And if we never existed, how could we have built the Hadron collider, that created the black hole that swallowed the universe, that we existed in where we built the Hadron collider!.......it’s certainly a paradox.

Tiffany – Looking off camera - Dave, we have got a right one ‘ere.

Dave – Have you told him about channel 969…….

I suppose if there is one thing in life that should be learnt at an early age, it's have the courage to do the things that you you want to do, if you at all can. Ok from time to time you are going to make a tit of yourself, so what, don't be like me little one's, don't live in your head, live in the world, run, explore, experience. Don't spend your time trying to relive memories, make new memories.

shall i phone Tiffany tonight and try and engage her in a conversation about the Hadron Collider.......Nah, maybe tomorrow.......

Yaka te yak.......

2009-09-25T12:05:00.000-07:00

In the near future, I have got to go to a wedding. This involves just about everything that I find disturbing in life. Getting dressed in clothes that are a tad too small for me, and make me feel as though I am in a straight jacket, prolonged periods of time just standing around while endless photographs are taken by an overly pedantic photographer, who spends ridiculous amounts of time trying to get the bride’s flowers in exactly the right position, some form of horrifically awkward dancing, and the worst of all…….having to talk to people! This brings me nicely onto the subject of today’s lecture, communication.

Human beings seem to be the only members of the animal kingdom that have a bizarre need to communicate on a twenty-four hour basis. I have no idea why this is. Perhaps it’s because we are the only ones that have developed intricate languages, and we are basically showing off! Although I doubt there are any cats anywhere going, "Ooh look at those wordy bastards, constantly showing off with their intricate languages and stuff." And of course they are not doing that, because they haven’t got the language to do so! I am tying myself up in knots a bit here, but I am sure you catch my drift.

I am by no means an expert on animals, but from the various documentaries etc I have watched, I have never seen a pride of lions just roaring at each other for no apparent reason. Animals seem to communicate when it is necessary, which makes sense to me. It seems that they just do the basics. Hello, fuck off, fancy a shag, and although we as humans lead more complex lives than your average lion, we could take a leaf out of their book, and cut down on the bloody jibber jabber!

I don’t know what people find to talk about 24/7? You see people wandering down the street with a mobile phone seemingly welded to their ear. Blah blah tittle tattle blah blah, what the bloody hell are they talking about? I predict that in time, we will naturally evolve to being born with a blue tooth ear piece already installed. I am going to stick my neck out here, and say that I reckon that the vast majority of words spoken every day are completely needless (Those in glass houses!). There must be billions if not trillions of words uttered everyday, and I think that a good ninety-five percent of them could be left unsaid.

But we can’t do it can we? We can’t bare silence. There must never be silence on the radio, or dead air as they call it, people are reprimanded for not filling every nano second with some sort of noise. If there is a guest on a chat show, who when asked a question actually takes a few seconds to consider and compose a coherent answer, doesn’t jump in immediately with a reply, the audience starts to squirm in their seats. The interviewer’s face drains of blood, and the director has a coronary. I remember seeing Terry Wogan interview Anne Bancroft. She basically gave one word answers to his questions, and it was absolutely excruciating. Technically she was answering the questions correctly, but we don’t want that do we, we want people to elongate an answer, embellish it, exaggerate it.

Don’t get me wrong, I think language and communication are marvelous things, and listening to somebody speak who can do it well is very entertaining. It’s just that the vast majority of us are not overly good at communicating, so our answers to people’s questions end up as loooooooooong boring drivel!

There seems to be little in our lives that is more excruciatingly embarrassing than an awkward silence. We would seemingly rather have the air filled with banal blah blah, than say nothing at all. This is partly why the wedding will be a slightly traumatic experience for me. Being in a room with lots of people you don’t know doesn’t fill me with joy.

I really don’t like the first time you meet someone. That awkward thing about not knowing what to say. You’re all guarded because you don’t know them, and you don’t know what you can say, and what you probably shouldn’t. How will they react if you say this, what if they take umbrage if you say that? It’s daft really; we should all just be ourselves and say, within reason, what we bloody well like, and be done with it. If somebody doesn’t like it, tough, you probably won’t have to see them again, but it doesn’t happen does it. No, we all stand around feeling awkward and blushing.

There are many pitfalls when it comes to communicating with our fellow humans. I once witnessed a friend of mine, who in the middle of an awkward silence, asked a rotund woman "When it was due?" only to be told that "She wasn’t pregnant!" that was pretty hellish I can tell you, and there really is no way back from that. The damage is well and truly done, with no hope of repair. All you can do is blush massively, and slide away from the danger zone as quickly as possible.

I hate that thing where you are talking to someone that you barely know, and someone he knows much better drifts up, and elbows his way in. From this moment on you are out in the cold. You are out on a limb; you are reduced to nodding here and there, in some pathetic attempt to still feel part of the conversation. Inevitably the time will come when all this nodding is futile, you have been sidelined. Now comes the next awkward bit, do I just slip away, and appear rude, or make some kind of embarrassing waving gesture to indicate my departure?

One of my pet hates on the communicating/social event front, is compulsory mingling. You know those people who are hosting a party, and simply can’t bare it if everybody hasn’t spoken to everybody. Miss Marple and I were at a function once, and the only people we new were the hosts.
We had secreted ourselves into a little corner, and were quite happy thank you very much. But the hostess of the party obviously wasn’t. One second I was merrily shooting the breeze with Miss Marple, and the next I was being dragged across the room by the elbow, by the hostess from hell. She plonked us in front of a rather bemused looking couple, and told me "To talk to them!" Thanks very much I thought. Hence another awkward situation arose. What do we do now? I am not overly fussed about chatting with these strangers, and by the looks on their faces, they weren’t that bothered either. The trouble is we can’t just be honest and say "Please don’t take this personally, you don’t smell or anything, but we were having quite a nice little conversation over there, and we would quite like to carry on with it. So we won’t hang around. Cheers." So we stayed and awkwardly stumbled through a conversation about wine tasting!

A very similar thing to this, is what I call ‘Wedding reception Nazi-ism’! In the past we have been to a few weddings with the old band lot. We all new each other really well, felt comfortable, new we could say or do anything, and generally had a bloody good laugh in each others company. So the wedding bit was done, we had all milled about for seven hours, while the rather pedantic photographer spent more time than was necessary getting the brides train to lay "Just so" and now it was time for the booze and nosh up. So in we trot to the reception, and we are confronted by what I can only describe as SS wedding herders! Those bastards that steer you to your allocated table.

"Can we just sit with those people please, we know them" I would ask. Only to be told, "You vil sit ver you are told, and you vil talk to zose people."
So the next God knows how many hours were spent talking awkwardly about the price of fish with the brides Aunt, and we would all occasionally glance over our shoulders, in the vain hope of catching the eye of one of our comrades.

Of course we don’t just communicate with words apparently. No, according to psychologists and body language experts, most of the communication between human beings is subliminal. A little gesture here, a ruffle of the hair there. Most of the subliminal communicating that goes on, is apparently during courtship rituals (Where else). Over the years, theses ‘experts’ have told us about the signs to look out for. You know the stuff, if the lady is leaning towards you, or playing with her hair. Dilated pupils, mimicking your actions etc etc. I wish I had known all this fucking stuff when I was a younger, timid, scared of my own shadow, little virgin! Would have come in very handy indeed. I never have been a ‘Lady killer’ so to speak, but knowing a few of the signs would have saved me a shit load on opticians bills, and dragged me from the pit of self loathing a lot sooner too!

Having said that, I was so shy and awkward, I think I would still have been in two minds, if the lady had been lying on the bed, legs akimbo, shouting "FUCK ME NOW!" I still would have been peering through the door saying to myself "Oooh, well I don’t know if she really likes me. Damn those women, and their infernal mixed signals!"
Are you beginning to understand why I don’t like social events etc!

I suppose if I am honest, it is easy to blame everybody else, or the event, but I suppose it is my own inadequacies that are to blame. Why do I find it so hard to relax and just jabber away like most people seem to be able to do? Though I suspect I am not alone here. The older you get, and ironically the more you talk to people! The more you come to realize that you are not the only sociaphobe on the planet. Thankfully the woman who’s wedding it is, is apparently of a similar opinion to me, so there will be a buffet, and not an SS wedding herder in sight!

Pencils and socks.......

2009-09-14T12:37:00.000-07:00

Last night as I was swinging a 300bhp rally car round a hairpin. I was suddenly confronted by a blank screen, and flashing red lights and various beeping noises from my right hand side. After the shell shock had worn off, the realisation had dawned on me…….My beloved Playstation 3 was dead.

After doing the usual nonsense of unplugging and then re-plugging all the various wires in the back, I tried it again. This is very similar to when your car breaks down. What do we do? We lift the bonnet up, and start wiggling wires. There is a very small part of us, that actually believes that this random wire wiggling will solve the problem! We even have the blind faith to ask the passenger to "Try it now" but as with Playstation 3 wire wiggling, it is futile.

There then followed the usual shameful self pitying, being short tempered with Miss Marple for having the audacity to try and help, and general "Woe is me, God hates me, what do I expect, nothing ever goes right for me." Etc etc etc. Fast forward to this morning. Even though I am desperately trying to be a grown up these days, honest I am, I was still feeling a little sorry for myself.

I wandered through the woods with Ronnie and Reggie, wondering if it is possible to buy a bazooka off of ebay. I mused about how difficult it would be to track down the CEO of SONY, and make him pay for what he had done to me. We got home and I grumpily buttered my toast, which was neither the correct colour, temperature or texture.

As I was doing this, I looked up at the TV through my scowl, and I just caught the end of an item which showed some British troops in Afghanistan. They were at a school, and they were surrounded by little kids of primary school age. These kids had never been to school before this, they had never experienced the joy of reading a book, or writing a story, due to the evil bastards the Taliban. They had forbidden the education of these children, no doubt so that they could indoctrinate them with their twisted and perverse philosophies.

A soldier gave a little boy, who must have been about five, a pencil. The little boy took the pencil, he held it in his little fingers, and twirled it around. He looked at the pencil with wonderment, and then up to the soldier that had given it too him, as if he had just given him all the Playstation 3’s in the world. I felt about two inches tall…….

Miss Marple and I are huge fans of the comedy series ‘Frasier’. We are slowly buying every series on dvd, and spend many a happy hour laughing at the goings on. Many people have said to me that they don’t like Frasier, "’Cause it’s American and therefore rubbish." Frasier may be an American production, but it is far from your average slapstick American twaddle. (That’s not fair, there have been many brilliant American comedy shows…….it’s just that ‘Friends’ taints them all for me)

Frasier is actually very English really. Both the main protagonists, Niles and Frasier, are both extremely English. Pompous, stuffy, aloof, snobbish, condescending etc. and a lot of the situations they end up finding themselves in descend into farce. (The good kind!)

But as we are on the self reflection tack, there was one episode where the sentiment stuck in my mind. I can’t remember the exact details, but as usual something or other hadn’t gone Frasier’s way. he was pacing around in his palatial apartment pontificating about this that and the other, when his much more down to earth father piped up……."Why do you have to analyze everything to death? Why can’t you just be happy with what you’ve got? You see Eddy (His dog) you know what makes him happy?.......a sock."

Frasier dismisses his father’s advice, and at the end of the episode, is sitting in a chair complaining about everything, Eddy runs out and sits on the chair opposite…….with a sock in his mouth. Frasier looked about two inches tall too!

The point to all of this? I don’t know really. I don’t really believe in God, and I am not particularly a fatalist, but just lately every time I sink into one of my "Woe is me" episodes, something from nowhere seems to slap me in the face with a reality check. Every time I feel hard done by, almost without fail something will remind me of how metaphorically rich I am.

It’s been rather a strange few weeks lately actually. People from my past have been coming out of the woodwork in spades.

First a bloke from my first band twenty years ago hunted me down on Facebook, then the drummer from America. Another old band chum who I haven’t seen for about four years, after my maybe slightly acrimonious leaving the band episode suddenly turns up on the door step. I was flicking through the channels the other night, and did a double take. A woman I used to be in band with was on ‘Come dine with me’! Then on the same day, watching the local news, a singer I once knew is on the news!.......weird.

Or is it just one big fat coincidence, I don’t know, but it makes you think sometimes. Maybe that is the purpose. LOL, I don’t know. Oh, and to top of the weirdness, the other night while waiting outside for Ronnie and Reggie to do their late night wee’s, I looked up to see the stars, and there was a set of four lights moving in a peculiar pattern. Starting off as a ball, splitting into four separate lights, spinning through 180 degrees, reforming into a ball, and so on. I even dragged Miss Marple outside to confirm I wasn’t hallucinating.

The even weirder thing, is a few days later we were outside one evening, and I jokingly said "I wonder where my friends from the sky have gone?" and it started immediately!!! No really. Haven’t seen them since. Well on that weird note, I am going to end this rather weird blog! No doubt I’ll be back to my usual self soon. Calling peoples cunts and such the like, so If I haven’t been whisked off to the planet Zargon, I’ll be back soon.

It's all rock and roll to me.......

2009-08-08T06:37:00.000-07:00

The other day whilst flicking around the channels on Sky plus, I came across the BBC 4 channel. It’s a bit of an arty farty channel I suppose, and at the time, they were showing some clips of the great Jimi Hendrix.

I think I have mentioned a few times before that I am a bit of a musician, and up to a few years ago, spent many many years from my late teens onwards playing in bands. Even though I very much fell out of love with the gigging thing, seeing that clip of Jimi working his magic, made me a little wistful and whimsical for a while, and got me thinking about the ‘old days’.

I on the whole enjoyed my time traveling around East Anglia, and sometimes further a field, but I would be lying if I said that towards the end of my ‘career’ I was still enjoying it. Friday and Saturday nights were becoming more and more of a grind. Getting home from work, lifting what seemed to be increasingly heavier pieces of equipment in to the back of the car, and driving to some pub. Trying to set all the gear up, untangling endless lengths of wire, that were rolled up neatly when they were put away after the last gig, and generally having to deal with ‘The public’

This is the part that probably put the final nail in the coffin for me…….’the public’. Trying to set the gear up in a space no bigger than a parking slot, while at the same time some complete twat insisted on playing darts over your head…….no really! You see, primarily, one needs to a ‘people person’ to play in bands, after all, you are aiming to entertain them. I was never really cut out for that if I am honest. I would have been far happier, if we had turned up, set up in peace, locked the doors, and just played for our own amusement, while sinking a few beers. Unfortunately that is not how the world of showbiz works, and so me and it fell out.

Having said all that, some very good times, and some very amusing times were had. I don’t know why it is, but musicians being their own kind of breed, seem to find humour in the unlikeliest of places, and it seems to find them too. So even though I never reached the dizzy heights of throwing TV’s out of hotel bedroom windows, or driving Rolls Royce’s into swimming pools, I thought I would like to share with you, a few of the, what I consider to be, funniest memories of those heady days.

I hope my memories translate ok onto paper (Or screen) and it doesn’t sink into the pit of "You had to be there" I will try my damnedest to recreate the atmospheres etc, and hope you enjoy them. Also, I didn’t know weather to start with the weakest story first and build to a crescendo, or start with a bang, before the rest fizzle out due to lack of interest! I decided upon the latter.
Perhaps a little back story, a brief description of the chaps in the band etc, just to help you along.

Jim – Lead guitar. Jim is about six foot five, bald, lanky, and of erratic Irish/Liverpudlian descent. Despite this, he sounded like he was from Eton…….weird. A pretty full on kind of character, enthusiastic, blinkered, driven etc. The strangest thing about Jim, was that he could play the guitar as good as, if not technically better than Jimi Henrix himself, seriously, I am bloody hard to please in any area of life, but there were times when he blew our minds. Amazing really, seeing as the man had absolutely no natural gift for music what so ever! Technically he didn’t know a minor seventh from a flattened ninth, but somehow, on a good day he was exhilarating. Playing it behind the head and everything! Despite his fiery rock guitar playing, he more often than not wore slacks and brogues to a gig! odd. He was nick named "The swinging accountant."

Dave – Drums and vocals. When I first joined the band in 1792, Dave was about fifty-two. Heavily built (A liking for vindaloos and red wine) bald, and very Northern. Not backwards in coming forwards. Popular, charismatic, centre of attention, but a very good bloke. Viscous sense of humour, took the piss out of Jim constantly. Not the greatest drummer or singer in the world, but a real enthusiast. Many a time we have been sitting in Jim’s front room watching a video of us at a gig, and Dave would say "Christ, do I really sound like that when I sing?" while I cried with laughter behind a cushion.

Me – Keyboards/Guitar (sometimes) Harmonica and vocals. (Big head!) I was a very shy innocent twenty-one year old when I joined the band. Being the way I am (A bit of a perfectionist) Nothing was ever good enough, nothing ever sounded right, "Why aren’t they listening?" etc etc. despite all of this griping, my heart was in the right place, I just wanted us to be great.

Now here we come to a bit of a problem. The bass player. The position of bass player in our band seemed to be a transient one. Very similar to the drummer in ‘Spinal Tap’ Theirs kept dying in bizarre gardening accidents etc, ours died or left……..Ah, Spinal Tap, the second funniest film in cinematic history. If you don’t know what the funniest is, I suggest you stop reading this, and go and watch bloody ‘Friends’ or something. ……Oh don’t get me started on ‘Friends’…….no seriously, don’t…….too late. It’s bollocks isn’t it? People I knew kept rattling on about it, so I forced myself to sit and watch an episode once. I managed five minutes. The studio audience were laughing, but I genuinely didn’t understand why, it simply wasn’t funny…….I mean, at all.

And no it’s not because it’s American, all of ‘Spinal Tap were Americans, playing English characters I grant you, but never the less, American. I love Frasier, that’s American, thinking about it though; the two main characters are quintessentially English. Pompous, stuffy, snobby, aloof, and the episodes quite often end in farce, a very English humour. Anyway, I have gone off track. Back to the bass players.

Steve was the first…….he died. Alcoholism didn’t help. I remember his funeral. We were standing at the grave side, and Dave uttered one of his immortal lines. Now, the name of the band was the ‘JSJ Blues band’ the JSJ being the letters of the first names of the original members of the band.

J (Jim)
S (Steve, the dead bass player)
J (Joe, went to America, bet he liked Friends!)

So there we are standing In the rain, grey skies, weeping family, and in a break in proceedings, Dave say’s in a quite audible northern voice……."I suppose we will have to call it the JJ blues band now will we?"

There was Eddie, Mick, Malcolm, and another Dave on bass over the years, and God knows how many stand ins. Anyway, so to the story…….It’s not going to be worth it now is it! Oh well, you can say, "I suppose you had to be there," at the end can’t you.

Don’t’ ask me how, it was a long long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, but we ended up playing at someone’s house party. The vast majority of the people there were young ladies, around about the age of late teens or early twenties. Bizarrely, seeing as they were relatively young, they seemed to like what we did, and their ‘leader’ tottered up to us, and asked us if we would play at her twenty first birthday party in a few weeks time. It was to be held at a rather well to do pub/restaurant in a local village. We readily agreed, and those few weeks later we turn up at the said venue.

We unloaded all the gear, and proceeded to set it up. It was quite a large room, we were setting up in front of the French windows, a health and safety no no these days I am sure! And the wood paneled walls were lined with paintings. Staff from the pub bustled around, laying the fine looking table. It looked as though it was going to be a very fine banquet indeed. The young lady who’s birthday it was, we will call her Julia, wandered up to us, and said that we didn’t need to start playing till after the meal, so would we like to have a drink at the bar, on the house. She was left coughing and spluttering in a cloud of dust, as we hot footed it to the bar. A pint in one hand, and a Lambert and Butler gold in the other, ah, that was heaven for me in those days. Now it’s a horlicks and an Ibuprofen.

The drink went down very nicely, and another round was bought. It just so happened, that this particular night I was staying at Jim’s house, so no driving for me! Jim, being a bit of a fidgeter, sidled up to Julia when she was at the bar, and asked if she was ready for us yet. She said "Oh no, we are only on the first course."

Another round, another fag, another round…….Then some friends of mine came in (I had friends in those days) And yet more drinking and frivolity ensued. The time by now must have been rolling around to about ten thirty. Jim once again sidled up to Julia, and asked if she was ready for us. "Oh no" said Julia, "We have got the speeches yet.

Once again the barman was busy. Anyway, about eleven thirtyish, Julia informed us that it was now time for the party to really start. I couldn’t tell you how many drinks I had had, but lets put it this way, we had been at the bar from seven-thirty till eleven thirty, and I hadn’t been swilling orange juice. We staggered into the room, I think I sort of bounced into the room, off of various items of furniture, and climbed behind our instruments. Now even though I was pretty smashed, I could still do it. It was like second nature somehow, sort of auto pilot.

Being a bit of a cynic, even in those days, I had been here enough times before, to know that rock bands don’t go down well at family parties. It happened time and time again, somebody would see you in a pub full of heaving sweaty bikers, all would be rockin’ and they would come up to you at the end of the gig, and say "You guysss are fucking Brillliant. Would you come and play at my wedding in a monthssss time?" I would be standing in the background shaking my head furiously, but Jim being Jim would agree anyway. It was always the same, playing ‘Roadhouse blues’ to aunt Maude was never going to work, and here we were again. Sigh.

We had done three or four songs, and each had been greeted with a less than polite smattering of applause. Some of the older folk even had tissue paper sticking out of there ears! I think even Julia was beginning to wonder if this had been one of her better ideas.

Even in my pickled and addled state, I could tell things weren’t going too well. "I know" I thought to myself, "Hit ‘em with sssssome jokessss. Yeah humour, that can’t go wrong can it?"
I was holding onto my keyboards for grim death, it stopped the swaying a little, a leaned forward. I said into the microphone "Wow, I couldn’t help but noticcce, that there are a lot of lovely looking young ladiessss here thissss evening."

Now just try and picture the scene, The whole room was in complete silence, every set of eyes were fixed upon the pissed idiot swaying around behind his keyboards. The oldies had even taken the serviettes out of their ears, to hear what piece of comedy gold was going to come out of this blokes mouth. Little children stopped skidding across the floor, aunt Maude stared in anticipation, grannies and granddads, friends and neighbours, Julia’s very well to do mummy and daddy, all the staff, and all the band behind me.

I could sense the anticipation, I could tell that this master of wit, this Goliath in the world of entertainment, had got them eating out of the palm of his hand. I thought I deserved to milk the situation somewhat, so I reiterated…….
"Yes that’s right ladies and gentlemen, there are some absolutely gorgeousss young ladies here tonight……."
And then I hit them with it, my big punch line. I leaned a little closer to the mic, and said in my deepest voice…….
"I think I’ll have a wank later!"…….

I have never ever before been deafened by such silence. A few jaws slackened, a few eyebrows raised, I can’t be sure, but I think the father was being given the kiss of life at one point, but not one sound was made, that was until I heard Dave the drummer behind me just groan……."Oh God."

I have no memory of how the rest of the evening went. I think the brain has some clever way of wiping out horrific memories. I often wonder how Julia is now. I wonder if she left university with that degree in business studies, and went on to be something big in the city. Or did her parents disown her, and she was left to turn to crack, and a life of prostitution. If you’re reading this, I’m sorry Julia, really sorry!

Kuntz

2009-07-09T01:42:00.000-07:00

The world is full of cunts.......a simple statement, a sweeping generalisation as usual, but on the whole, fairly true. I think i would like that on my grave stone actually. "Here lies Andy Mule. The world is full of cunts." I am one line in, and i have already stumbled awkwardly over my first hurdle. The word itself.......cunt.......apparently this is just about the worst swear word there is. No doubt some of you, who haven't already slammed their laptop lids shut, are wincing, and biting their bottom lips.

Personally, i think it is a great word. No, not just because i am a sour and ignorant oaf, but because there is no other swear word that you can so readily get your teeth into. (First of, i am sure many carry onesque puns to come). A good "Fuck" is worth it's weight in gold, as is a damn fine"Bastard," but there surely is nothing quite like a good "C...U...N...T" when some twit has done you wrong.

The word starts way back in the throat, that "Ch" sound, that builds to a venomous crescendo, as it hisses at supersonic speed through your clenched front teeth. I would go as far as to say, that it is in my top five words. My favourite being 'Flapdoodle' which means to talk complete bollocks, rather apt, as this is what the vast majority of my postings are!

Females in particular seem to have trouble accepting the word. I don't really understand why to be honest, if a woman came up to me and said "cock" i would find it quite invigorating, but no, most females having heard the word, will double up in pain, cross themselves, douse themselves in holy water etc.

I have to relent somewhat, and say that i have never quite understood why a word which depicts the female reproductive organs, is used to deride someone. After all, for most heterosexual men, a ladies front bottom is the 'Holy grail', the object of our desire, our ultimate goal, so why it has been chosen to basically say that someone is an idiot, is beyond me. While i am on the subject, there are a few other terms that i can't fathom. Wanker, why is that an insult? Whenever someone aims the insult "You wanker" at me, i never know quite how to react. I normally just shrug my shoulders and say "er.......yes" It's a ridiculous insult. Seeing that the vast majority of the men in the world, have, do, or will masturbate, it's a ludicrous thing to hurl at someone. It's a bit like someone cutting you up at a roundabout, and you shouting "You eater" at them, it's meaningless. Or "you walker" ???

I like the word not for what it depicts, but purely for it's sound, and the enthusiasm with which you can verbally fling it! But, for the more faint hearted among you, i will relent. From this point thus, i will spell it kuntz.

Phonetically it sounds the same, but as it doesn't actually say the "C" word, perhaps it will be slightly more palatable. Anyway, I have gone off subject somewhat. The idea of this blog was not to discuss swear words, but to give some examples of my 'Kuntz of the week'! so here goes.

First off, the moronic twat of a police officer, that left his or her German Sheppard's in the car on a blisteringly hot day. Subsequently, the poor things died. Miss Marple and myself are dog fanatics, and i think we could both quite happily, and gleefully strangle the twat involved. What's more, he/she was a DOG HANDLER, if anyone should know.......need i say more. So to you, whoever you are, i hope the public discover your address, and dish out the relevant punishment. It's a sure thing your colleagues or the courts wont, so lets hope people power can do the job. So to you, whoever you are.....YOU ARE A KUNT.

Jordan/Katie Price/Big tittied waste of oxygen, carries on indulging in copious amounts of kuntish behaviour with gay abandon. So to her.......YOU ARE A KUNT.

Sir Fred Goodwin. Here is another one that has, and will continue to evade justice. Is it illegal to buy sniper rifles off of ebay? I know this is an old story, but fuck does it still grate with me, so Freddie boy.......YOU ARE A KUNT.

T-Mobile. Thirty pounds a month each, Miss Marple and i pay. For this exorbitant amount of money, you are supposed to provide us with a mobile phone service. Quite simply, you don't! Yes we live in the country, but we are not talking some remote region of the outback here, we are within spitting distance of a city, and a large town, but can we get a signal where we are?.......no. I have had to erect, what can only be described as a crows nest in the back garden. Only when at the top of this, can we get the faintest of signals, which will invariably cut out mid sentence. So to you lot.......YOU ARE KUNTZ.

British Telecom. Very similar reasons really. Broadband, ha ha.......Do you know, there are parts of South Korea, where 100mbs is the standard phone line speed. We invented bloody telecommunications, and what have we got, a fucking Dickensian antiquated two cans and a bit of string phone system. I also find it wonderfully ironic, that the BT website is about the slowest i have ever been on. This from a company that deals primarily in the field of telecommunications!
So to you BT.......YOU ARE KUNTZ.

The presenters and members of the public that participate in those bloody programs like 'Location location location' or 'Escape to the country' or whatever. You know the ones', some snobby couple want to up sticks, and buy a residence in the Cotswold's or something. It's not the program, or the concept of the program, it's the bloody people themselves. For a start the presenters are usually annoying. "Ya" this, and "Ya" that. "Light and airy" here, and a "Great potential" there. But worse than them are the fucking punters. They are never fucking satisfied are they?

They have just been shown round a half million pound abode, with nothing but green fields and rolling hills to interrupt their serenity, but it's not good enough is it. The grass is the wrong colour, or one of the taps in the fifty thousand pound kitchen is a little hard to turn on. They are not sure that the seventy foot dining room is going to be big enough to house their seventy-two seater dining table. Because they have got so many friends, and do so much entertaining. Aaaarghhhhhh.......F U C K O F F!.......YOU ARE ALL KUNTZ.

Next up is the man in the blue Ford Focus, on the road between Wood Walton and Alconbury on the hill last Wednesday lunchtime. I was a little late setting off back to work last Wednesday. I was following this bloke along what is a moderately bendy bit of road, and he was doing, without exaggeration, twenty-five to thirty miles per hour. So, i waited for a suitable overtaking spot, and overtook him.

Can i just say at this point, i in no way indulged in any finger gestures, or shouting of any kind what so ever. I felt like it, but i didn't. So what does he do, proceeds to sit up my arse, flash lights, weave around behind me etc etc, you have all been there.

The next straight bit of road, he flies past, engine screaming, and shouts some inaudible nonsense through the window! WHY??????? He was the one dawdling along. I would imagine that he is phallically challenged or something. Perhaps he is in dire need of female company, or perhaps it was 'National don't over take a man that still lives with his domineering mother day' .......or something! So to you.......YOU ARE A KUNT.

This could of course go on all night, and i feel that there will no doubt be many sequels, but i am going to finish tonight with this one. Lastly, me. Yes, i am a kunt. There are probably many reasons why, but i will high light this one in particular. I killed Michael Jackson. Yes you read that right, it was all my fault.

I wasn't aware of this until i read an article by the Sun's columnist Jane Moore. Now Jayne Moore (Journalist/TV personality/Celebrity/grumpy old woman/MILF etc) is someone, who's column i like. I quite often have a chuckle at her humorous, and often poignant musings, but now she has accused me of having a hand in the death of 'The king of pop'! Her whole column last week, was dedicated to Michael Jackson. She was lamenting about how there were lots of people that helped, inadvertently or otherwise, to kill off, what was a talented, but greatly floored entertainer. It was every one's fault, from his managers, to his doctors. His aides, the hangers on, the wives, the blah blah blah.

Then it came to me. Yes apparently, i nailed one of the nails into his coffin, because i had an unquenchable thirst for juicy titbits about every facet of his life. This must have of course have been a contributing factor to his increased stress levels etc, that led him to swallow copious amounts of medication etc, which led to his early demise.

I wasn't aware that flicking through a newspaper, reading the first few lines of an article about some aspect of his life or other, equalled stalkerism, with selfish murderous intent! but apparently, according to Jane, it does. So if that is the case, i would like 378 other victims to be taken into consideration. I once read a bit about Elvis, oh my God, i killed Elvis. Kurt Cobain, Frank Sinatra, Marilyn Monroe, dear God i killed them all! I read a little bit about Amy Winehouse the other day. Am i killing her as we speak? I seem to be turning into a celebrity serial killer!

Christ, i am off to hide in the cupboard under the stairs until the heat is off. You won't tell anyone where i am will you?.......

That was another week that was.......

2009-06-24T12:11:00.000-07:00

I say I say I say. What do you call a bloke who doesn't know his arse from his elbow, has an over inflated ego, and has no need for the BT friends and family package?.......(Please fill in your own punch line/name/etc here. Thank you)

First rule of showbiz, open with a gag, close with a song. You have got the song to look forward to, ooh you lucky bastards.

So, what's been happening recently? What has caught my eye, tugged at my heart strings, or rattled my cage?

I very much liked the story about Irish people harassing Romanian immigrants in Belfast. An absolutely stunning example of double standards. Irish travellers (Or thieving, littering, anti social free loading scourge of the planet, as they are known everywhere else, except in the recycled, dolphin friendly, Ex Cambridge University, lentil eating pages of the Guardian) seem to have no problem at all landing themselves over here. Destroying everything in their wake, stealing from the local community, completely disregarding the law in every way possible, leaving our green and pleasant land looking like a shit hole, but when the shoe is on the other foot, they are up in arms arn't they!

My favourite bit of the whole sorry saga, was when Martin McGuiness, who is the minister for something or other, and who is an alleged ex member of the IRA (He was) and has been rumoured to have actually taken part in some of the murdering etc (He prob did) chirped up in defence of the Romanians. I was driving at the time and listening to Radio 4 (Fucking intellectual me guv) when i heard him say "These people are being terrorised."

I had to pull over as i was gasping for breath. A quite outstanding display of 'pot and kettle' The words "That's rich" couldn't find their way to my lips quick enough. A memorising display of irony.
I for one, will not stand for any disrespect aimed at James T Kirk's misunderstood nemesis.

Moving on.

The house of commons has got a new speaker.......whoopee do shit.

Jordan (or Katy Price as she now likes to be called, since she has stopped being a thick, self centered, balloon titted ego maniac) continues to be all of the above. It's just now she has gone solo, instead of being one half (wit) of a double act.

This hot weather is doing my head in. I have to admit to spending the entirety of the winter months moaning about the cold, the grey skies and the drizzle, and then once we hit June, i am a sweating, melting wreck. I just don't do heat.

I suppose being half a stone overweight doesn't help, but i find the most affected area is my gonads. As we all know from our science lessons, things in general swell when hot. This means that i have to adopt a mild bandiness in the severest of temperatures. I try my best to disguise my bandy gate, but i don't think i am fooling anyone.

I am thinking of investing in some kilts. I can't wait to feel the breeze caressing my testicles, oh to feel them swaying gently will be sheer bliss. It is also a great way of pursuing my new hobby of exposing myself to single mothers on public transport! "It's not my fault your honour, it was a gust of wind."

The subject of the wearing of jeans at work has reared up again. The wearing of jeans at work has been forbidden. Well about bloomin' time I say. I welcome this directive. I must admit in the past, i have had a certain amount of hostility to what i once thought was a draconian, and ill conceived notion, but thanks to Father time, and a management style that is second to none, i have seen the error of my ways.

How could i have been so short sighted? Quite frankly, i don't mind admitting that i feel deeply ashamed. Ashamed of my denim addiction, ashamed of my insolence, ashamed of my blatant and disgraceful disregard for those that know better than me.

I can see now, that i have spent years that cannot be regained, wearing the filth that is denim. I will go as far as to say, that this is tantamount to self abuse. Yes ladies and gentleman, i am going to get this off of my chest, no matter how ugly it may be, no matter how hard it is going to be for those close to me to accept. Here goes.......I have been abusing myself for years.

My God that feels better. That lung full of air that i just inhaled is the sweetest lung full of oxygen that i have experienced for years. I feel clean, sanitised, chaste, i am a new man. These rather fetching beige slacks that i am wearing as i type this, feel damn good next to my skin i can tell you.

So can i just say from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you to all of you (and you know who you are, you unsung hero's) that have saved me from myself. These tears i shed, are tears of joy, tears of relief, tears of gratitude. God bless you.

I think my favourite amusing/irritating experience of the past week, has to be this.

I called into The Co-op on the way home from work the other evening after work. I had to pick up a few provisions, and so parked the car and entered the shop. Now partly because i was in a bit of a hurry, and partly because i am a middle aged, absent minded old twat, who will no doubt soon be being pushed in a wheelchair rapidly towards Switzerland, on a one way trip of a lifetime, I forgot to take my sunglasses off.

As i am sure i have mentioned before, i wear glasses, and so my sunglasses are prescription one's, and so necessary for seeing. I couldn't be arsed to turn tail and swap them, so i carried on wandering up and down the aisles.

Can i just state here and now for the record, i was in no way trying to be cool, pretentious, hip, rockstarish at all, it was purely forgetfulness, and idleness.

I did briefly consider pretending i was blind, so as not to court any unfavourable bitchy comments, or tutting, or "Who does he think he is, wearing sunglasses indoors - wanker." type comments, but i thought to hell with it.

I was meandering down the frozen veg aisle, when the inevitable happened. I wasn't paying any attention to the people walking towards, and then passed me, all i heard was something along the lines of "Tut, i can't stand pretentious twats that wear sunglasses indoors."

I spun round, preparing the tirade of abuse that i was going doll out, but i was stunned into silence. My jaw hung slack, as i gazed at my verbal assailant. The, what must have been sixteen or seventeen year old youth, that had aimed the word "pretentious" at me, was wearing a FEZ!.......Yes that's right, a Tommy Cooperesque, one hundred percent fucking FEZ!

Sigh.......

Bollocks, i am too exhausted for the song, sing it yerself.......

Mount Sinai, Tuesday afternoon, about tea time.......

2009-06-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

The other day whilst driving home from work to see Ronnie and Reggie at lunchtime, I was listening to the Jeremy Vine show. This is a show that can very often get me hot under the collar, and it was the inspiration for today’s lecture.

It was a story about a bloke, we will call him Dave, who was a born again Christian. He was at work on night shift, and he and a colleague were sitting having a cup of tea, and talking about this and that. She was aware that he was a born again Christian, and the subject inevitably got around to all things religious. As part of this discussion, he announced that he disagreed with homosexuality, because it was against the word of God blah blah blah. The next morning, she promptly went to her bosses and complained that he had made derogatory remarks about homosexuals. The company suspended him, pending an enquiry.

First things first, having the opinion that homosexuality is intrinsically wrong, and ungodly is of course extremely old fashioned, bigoted, ignorant, and quite frankly bloody pathetic. On the other side of the coin, why was the bloody woman making such a big deal about it? she should have taken it with a pinch of salt and called him a prat or something, and lastly, their employer undoubtedly over reacted somewhat. Obviously shit scared that if they didn’t follow the politically correct procedures, blah blah blah and all that.

All that was needed, was a “Dave, in future for the sake of peace and harmony at work, it might be an idea if you kept your rather antiquainted thoughts to yourself, ok.”

So, which part of the above am I going to single out for scrutiny? Why religion of course! Mainly because, even though I think the reactions of the woman and the employer were heavy handed, and overly politically correct etc, born again Christians get on my nerves more! (They are on a par with back packers. Yes I have an irrational hatred of back packers…….I know, I know)

Obviously religion is a huge, and some may say dangerous subject to tackle. There are all sorts of historical facts and figures that one ought to get right. So, let me just put your mind at rest straight away. Let me just assure you, that this posting will be produced with the usual complete lack of fore thought, planning and research as usual. There will undoubtedly be huge sweeping generalizations, and copious amounts of stereotyping! So let the games begin…….

So, religion, Christ where do you start? Well start with what you know I suppose.

Christianity

Two thousand odd years ago, the bible tells us that God impregnated a woman called Mary with his son. He didn’t actually get down off of his cloud or whatever, and come down to do the business, no, he did it remotely. (Three lines in, and it already sounds ridiculous doesn’t it?) Her fella Joseph seemed to readily accept this, and off they went to have the baby in a stable. Three blokes on camels followed a star (An early version of sat nav one presumes) and turned up at the stable baring gifts. The baby Jesus was born in a manger, and school children made up songs about Shepard’s washing their socks etc.

Anyway, a bit more blah blah blah, and he basically spent the next thirty odd years wandering around telling everyone that he was the son of God, and that he could perform miracles etc. Two thousand years later, and with the benefit of science and medicine, he would be known as a schizophrenic with a touch or narcissism thrown in, who had an unhealthy interest in magic tricks. Or to put it another way…….

Son of God + 2000 years = nutter.

It just shows you how times have changed, two thousand years ago, Jesus is wandering around telling everyone he is the son of God. His legacy has lasted for two thousand years, he is probably the most famous bloke in the world, People have died for him, fought wars over him, and worshipped him.

Fast forward two thousand years, David Ike tries the same ruse, and gets nothing but a load of shit for his efforts. Not fair is it? Bless him. That isn’t to say that Jesus had an easy time of it either. No, he got quite a few people's backs up. He apparently used to run around tipping over tables and spouting his weird ideas. Or to put it another way…….

Son of god trying to enlighten the masses with his offbeat meanderings + 2000 years = terrorist.

Anyway, he started really getting on peoples tits, and eventually the Romans, along with some Jewish toadying collaborators, crucified him. A particularly nasty way to die. You would have thought being the son of God and all that, he would have been able to call in the big guns, but it seems God was out that afternoon. Tut, bloody typical. It is said that while on the cross, Jesus looked down at the people that had perpetrated such brutality upon him, and uttered the words “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.” I bet God was a bit rueful when he got home that evening, and found that message on his answer phone. Yes, that will teach him to go off swanning around for the afternoon.

For years the mainstay of Christianity was Catholicism. This was the method by which one worshiped God, and a general guide line to how one should behave etc. Now Catholicism came from Rome, i.e. the Roman Catholics. This is something that I have never understood. I thought it was the Romans that strung him up, are we to believe that some years later they had a change of heart, and decided he was right after all? Before the Romans, how can I put it, "switched energy provider," they had a very much different method of worship. They had Gods for this, and Gods for that. I like this idea, instead of lumping all your eggs in one basket; you could have loads of Gods. I would have a curry God, a reality TV show God (oh we have already, Lord Cowell) a wanking God, it would be brilliant, but no, they threw all that away, and changed to just boring old God God. What a shame.

All was trundling along quite nicely, until an upstart called Henry the VIII came along. Now one of the Catholic rules, was that once you had got married, that was it, there was no changing your mind. Well Henry wasn’t happy about this one little bit, no sir ree bob. He had got married, and decided she wasn’t the girl for him, but what was he going to do? He couldn’t trade her in for a new one, the Catholics wouldn’t let him. So he thought “Bollocks, I’ll make my own religion up, where I can trade in my old wives as many times as I bloody well like.” And so The Church of England was born.

To be honest, it wasn’t a whole lot different to the old Catholic lot. It wasn’t what you would call a complete re-think. He hadn’t gone back to the drawing board, Basically it was the same, but you could trade your old wife in, and you were allowed to wank.

And that’s just about it for Christianity. Over the years certain groups have branched off, and created slightly different versions of the same thing. For example there are the Amish. Same God and everything, except they don’t have Sky Plus. Then there are the Mormons. Again same God, but they like forming popular beat combos. The Quakers don’t know much about these; think they are heavily into porridge.

Islam

Just bare with me while I adorn my bulletproof vest.......there, that's better. Phew, er, well, basically this lot need to lighten up a little. That may sound harsh, but lets be honest, brutally may be, but here goes.......when was the last time you saw somebody from Pakistan have a bloody good belly laugh.......eh?

Yes these guys do seem to take themselves and everything all very seriously. Some history.

Muslims worship God, but do not acknowledge Christ. They have a prophet called Mohamed. I of course thus far have been very unfair in the name of a cheap laugh, but Islam is on the whole a pretty peaceful religion. They worship five times a day, respect their neighbours etc, and are generally good people. We will over look the disgraceful chauvinistic treatment of women for now (I am in enough trouble as it is) and move on.

Unfortunately, the religion has been hijacked by fundamentalists, and is now seen around the world as another name for terrorism, sad. Yes some Muslims have read the Koran, put two and two together, and come up with four thousand, seven hundred and twenty-nine! It's a bit like me reading the 'Windows Vista user's guide', and coming to the conclusion that all apple mac users should be exterminated! Calm down guys, there is room for all operating systems.......relax.

The fundamentalist side of the religion is pretty farcical though. Young disciples are told, that if they are martyred in the name of Allah, they will arrive in paradise, and be tended to by seventy-two virgins! Really? I am truly amazed, that even with the eye watering amount of brain washing these poor souls are subjected to, not one of them has, just for a second, looked at their commander and thought "Hang on a minute, If it's so bloody brilliant, why am I going, and not you?"

Muslims are not allowed to partake in alcohol or tobacco (Maybe something to do with the lack of humour in general) but this doesn't seem to trouble Mr Khan down our local wonderful curry house!

Judaism

You say tomarrrto, I say tomaaaato, you say patarrrrto, I say potaaato, tomarrrto, tomaaaato, patarrrrto, pataaato, let's blow each other up!

This pretty much sums up the relationship between the Jews, and the Palestinians. Sigh.......

The Jewish religion has always confused me. The Romans called Christ 'The king of the Jews' and yet they think he was an impostor. Was this an attempt at Roman sarcasm? I don't know. It's something like this i think.......

The Jews seemed to be scattered all over the globe. Then in 1948 it was decided that the Jews should have their own homeland. Fair enoughski you might think, but the bigwigs that decide these things, put the cat among the pigeons by creating Israel smack bang in the middle of the 'Holy Lands' Fair enough I suppose, but it didn't really help matters did it? If they had put them somewhere just outside Milton keynes, maybe a lot of bloodshed could have been spared.

The Palestinians (Quite justly really) got the hump. It's a bit like somebody barging through your front door, and declaring that your spare bedroom is now theirs! You would have the hump wouldn't you? and so ever since, it's been tomarrrrto, tomaaaaato.......

Jehovah's Witness

I have absolutely no bloody idea at all what this is all about. I suppose they believe in God, but again, think Jesus was just some kinda wide boy. No Christ means no Christmas (Maybe i'll become one!) They also have this undying urge to tell you all about their beliefs etc. Very strange indeed. It's a bit like me being really heavily into CSI (I'm not) and knocking on people's doors, and telling them about it. Sounds crazy doesn't it? They seem to love it.

They wear suits a lot, and let their relatives die because they disagree with blood transfusions! This really is mentalness of the highest caliber. I am probably being issued with the Jehovah's Witness version of a fatwa as we speak! Bollocks.

There are all manner of religions that I haven't touched upon. Hinduism, Jedi, but when it comes down to it, it all seems to add up to the same thing. Control. How can we keep the plebs under control? I know, make up some load of old tosh, and tell them that if they don't adhere to this code of conduct, they will burn in hell for eternity, and do you know what?.......it's worked for thousands of years! amazing.

So Mule, you have spouted forth thus far, had a go at just about everyone and not told us your own beliefs.

Well, do i believe there is a God that sits on some kind of thrown when we die, and tots up all our misdemeanors, and sends us north or south accordingly?.......No.

Do I believe that Jesus was the son of God.......No.

Do I believe that there is some kind of consciousness or force that is surreptitiously present throughout the entire universe, that somehow links us all together?.......N.......well maybe, just maybe.

So we come to the end of this lecture. As the great Dave Allan used to say, "May your God go with you."

PS. I look forward (with some trepidation) to the lever arch file I am sure I will be receiving from 'oblogotory reading man' tomorrow. Full to the brim with corrections, alterations, .......

Earings

2009-04-23T13:04:00.000-07:00

Where have thou been? Why such emptiness on the Mule merry go round? Well, I think it would be fair to say that I have become immensely disillusioned with the whole blogging thing. Now before I plough on, can I just say that this next bit is in no way meant to sound conceited, arrogant, big headed, snobby etc. but alas, inevitably I fear it will.

I am dizzy with perplexity, due to the fact that I simply can’t understand why reading that somebody has purchased a new set of earings, is favorable to reading my musings. I told you it would sound big headed (Widen the doors) but that’s how it is.

I will be the first one to admit that I am not the greatest writer in the world, I am sure that I have changed tense half a dozen times already, and I must have split several infinitives, but I do think that my ‘Lectures’ Can sometimes be slightly amusing, or controversial, thought provoking, or even informative maybe, but no, it seems that the great unwashed would rather digest trivial morsels of earing buying information, than listen to me! At this juncture I was going to state how much I don’t understand this, but unfortunately, I think I do.

Lets put it this way, If you were to look at the viewing figures for, lets say ‘Eastenders’ versus a documentary on the ‘Discovery channel’ about the universe, It would be so heavily weighted in favour of watching Dot Cotton drink a cup of tea, it would be frightening. This is the sad truth, we have become a nation that hungers for celebrity gossip, of soap opera watching zombies. Our culture has become infested by some mysterious desire to ingest copious amounts of trivial titbits.

There are more stars in the universe, than grains of sand on this planet. Each sun will have planets orbiting around them, some of which will have the necessary atmospheric conditions to sustain life. There could be civilizations out there, millions of years in advance of our own. This stuff is genuinely mind boggling, it’s incredible, ethereal, but know, it doesn’t matter does it, it’s all a load of bollocks, because have you heard, Paris Hilton has got a new diamond encrusted thong. Brilliant. Oh look, there is a program on tonight, that explains how the Hadron collider is going to try and perform the most important experiment that mankind (Sexist???) has ever embarked upon…….Fuck off, forget that, Dot Cotton is collecting her pension tonight, and Phil Mitchell has hit the bottle again. Sigh.

Maybe one day, I will be out walking Ronnie and Reggie, and an alien craft will hover over us and beam us all up into the ship. We will be whisked millions of light years across the universe through a worm hole, to a planet where the alien civilization is a million years ahead of us. They would snigger at our rockets, and our mobile phones, and tell me telepathically, to sit on a hover chair, and wait to be enlightened. A tall alien creature would glide gracefully towards me, and ask me if I was ready to be told the secrets of the universe.
"YES YES" I would cry, tears of joy welling in my eyes as I realised all of my questions, and indeed all of those of mankind were finally going to be answered.
"Are you ready?" The alien would say to me, its majestic voice filling my head with its wondrous tone…….Then suddenly it would stop and proclaim "Oh bugger, hang on, can we put this on hold? I’ve got to dash, ‘Cosmic Roads’ is on, Zog is picking up her pension, and Zag has hit the bottle again, tut."

I have been rather miffed at my ‘Lectures’ being overlooked for less cerebral offerings of late, but the one that finally tipped me over the edge, the one that forced me to put fingers (Two) to keyboard, was hearing that Demi Moore’s new beau, has got a MILLION followers on fucking ‘twatter’or whatever it’s fucking called. Now I don’t know who this bloke is, and I refuse to soil my computer by typing "Demi Moore’s new husband" into Google, so I will have to remain blissfully ignorant to the facts, but I’m guessing he’s probably a bit of a pretty boy, and would be surprised if he watches programs about the hadron collider. I would also be very surprised if his offerings on ‘twatter’ are any more than, "Demi has got a new pair of earings" or "I got one of the servants to serve Demi a croissant for breakfast" and yet, a MILLION fucking people apparently want and need to know this.

It seems some people treat blogging like a social networking thing. "Ooh I bought a new pair of earings" Someone leaves a comment: - "Ooh did you, are they nice?"…….oh fuck off. I really don’t like the whole social networking scene. ‘Facebook’, bloody ‘my space’ what’s the point? People ‘poking’ each other, leaving things on their ‘Walls’ or whatever it is. Putting a goldfish in their tank, or whatever they do, lol. Either go outdoors and try and get real friends, or be like me, and go to extrodinary lengths to avoid human contact completely! Do one or the other, but please, don’t have pretend friends.

Chat rooms…….when I first entered the digital age, and tentatively put a foot onto the virtual surf board, and started riding the waves that they call ‘The world wide web’, I stumbled upon chat rooms. Dear God, what a grim place they are. Some of the inane conversations that go on in these places take some believing.

Ladybird123 has entered the lobby.

Hardnthrobbing – Good morning Ladybird, how are you today?

Ladybird123 – Oh fine thanks, u?

Hardnthrobbing – Hungover, big nite last nite ;)

Sexychick69 – Winks at Hardnthrobbing

Home alone housewife – Watchya every1, anybody seen Trucker?

Sexychick69 – He was in earlier, think he afk.

Home alone housewife – Thanx Sexy, how are u?

Sexychick69 – Cool ta.

NiftyFifty has entered the lobby

NiftyFifty – Morning.

Ladybird123 blows a kiss at NiftyFifty.

NiftyFifty – Awww thanx Lady

NiftyFifty blows a kiss at Ladybird123

Powertool has entered the lobby

Powertool – ne laydees wanna c my cock on cam, it’s mega. P2P me

Sexychick – It’s not that big every1.

Powertool - ;)

Wilde & 1derful (Me) has entered the lobby

Wilde & 1derful – Hi, anyone see the documentary last night about the Hadron Collider?

Sexychick69 – Fuck off weirdo.

Wilde & 1derful has left the lobby!

Ring any bells ne1!

And so it goes on and on. Lines and lines of endless drivel.

The internet is an amazing tool, but as with all things, there is the downside. I think it allows people to forget how to treat people. If ‘Powertool’ was at a real gathering, he for a start would surely be a little apprehensive at calling himself ‘Powertool’, and secondly, I doubt he would deem it appropriate to burst in to the room, and shout, "Oi ladies, any of you bitches wanna see my cock?"

Personally, I would prefer it if social gatherings were like this, would certainly brighten up what is usually a very dull evening. Thinking about it, the next time I have run out of excuses for not leaving the house, and get dragged kicking and screaming to a ‘gathering’, perhaps I will try it! As I am introduced to some woman who works in ‘event management’ I will jump in quick before she attacks me with the classic "So, what do you do for a living?" with my opening gambit of "’ello darlin’ wanna gander at my pork sword?" but no seriously, the internet seems to erode the need for manners. People start telling each other to "Fuck off" after seconds of meeting each other in a chat room. Wouldn’t happen in real life.

It’s because the internet is deemed to be anonymous. We feel we don’t need to conform to the usual social niceties. In fact it’s very similar to being in a car. We sit ourselves in a metal box, and we immediately feel disassociated to everyone. Somebody pulls out on you from a side road, and what do we do, two fingers here, one finger there, "Learn to fucking drive" etc etc. If we were walking down the street, and somebody stepped out from a door way into our path, chances are that both parties would be apologising profusely, "After you"……."No no, after you sir" etc etc. I’m in no position to talk really am I? I write this stuff, effing and blinding away with gay abandon. I probably wouldn’t talk like that if we were strangers, and face to face.

Then again, having thought about it, in some ways perhaps it’s not always a bad thing. Maybe it allows us to be free, and express ourselves the way in which we would really want to. It’s a tricky one.

Anyway, to sum up, I am still a little miffed at my lack of popularity! I suppose I can carry on, just writing it for the ‘dedicated three’ or alternatively, I can become a bigamist, marry a celebrity, and rattle on about her new earings all fucking day!

All aboard me hearties.......

2009-04-04T00:08:00.000-07:00

Out with the old, and in with the new,
I used to be red, but now I am blue.
Bad times behind us, good times a fore,
My colours are different, but it's still just a chore.

Will the blue ones be curious, of my little words,
The red ones were big fans, of my chapter and verse.
The serpent departed, an angel in place?,
A demon perhaps, with a different face.

The ship is a sail, upon stormy seas,
Lets hope that the words, are followed by deeds.
Red days and blue days, they merge into one,
I'll never find out, what's on BBC1

The ocean is vast, and pirates are rife,
Lets navigate through, the trouble and strife.
Set sail my beauties, pull up the anchors,
.......Oh, my keyboard seems to have locked up, Oh well, you can try and finish it yourself if you like.

Futility disability

2009-03-13T01:48:00.000-07:00

Do you ever sit at your desk, or behind the wheel, or on the phone, or behind the till (The list is endless) and think to yourself…….”This is completely and utterly bloody pointless” I am sure you do from time to time, I know I do. As Henry Garvie from ‘Ultimate force’ once said, “There are only three things that are necessary for human existence, fighting, shagging, and eating.” And do you know what, he is bloody well right.

What we need is a bloody good world war! It’s true, we all pontificate about how terrible war is blah blah blah, but the stark truth of it is, is that a great many of us, especially in the Western world, have had it far too cushy, for far too long. Instead of spending our time striving for survival, we spend it lolling around on buy now pay later sofas, watching absolute mindless and pointless drivel, eating too much (because we haven’t got to get off of our fat arses and actually catch it) and generally filling our lives with absolutely meaningless tosh. A good world war would act like a cull, and blow away the cobwebs.

Human beings are at their best when their backs are against the wall. Invention and innovation flourish in times of turmoil and hardship, because it is necessary for our survival. During times of crisis, camaraderie increases, people start to pull together, help each other out, look out for each other. I am naturally and predominantly anti-social! I don’t know why, I just am (Serial killer in the making perhaps!) but I am sure I would be much more “People friendly” if I actually needed to be.

The trouble is you see, is that we have all become insular and self absorbed; there is no direct threat to most of us, so we don’t need to watch out for each other.

I avidly watch the Ross Kemp programs, where he shadows our troops in Afghanistan. Evan though war is terrible, and killing people is bad (despite what I said earlier!) I do in a way envy those soldiers out on the front line.

“Are you bloody mad?” I hear you shout (Probably not, I just think too much) but I think that the only time a human being truly feels “Alive” is when their life is in peril. People jump out of aeroplanes, throw themselves down the sides of mountains, tie elastic bands around their ankles and jump off bridges. Why do they do it, (apart from there being a small amount of showing off going on), it’s because as they are hurtling towards the earth at terminal velocity, they feel “Alive” because they know they could very soon be dead. The body seems to compensate for the fact that you may not have long left, by giving you a shot of adrenaline, and making your potentially last moments all whizzy and WOW!

What has prompted the rather strange direction for this latest Mule lecture? I don’t totally know. I am rather bored today, and when the boredom sets in, the old brain starts analyzing, and when the brain starts analyzing, the depression starts to knock on the door, and when the depression is “in da house” Mr apathy takes root, and Mr apathy opens the door to boredom, and …….

I, like many others I am sure, am afflicted by a disease called ‘Bullshit intoleranceitus’ I absolutely can’t stand cobblers, nonsense, trivia, nif naf, codswallop etc etc. Unfortunately the world is drowning in it. This does not bode well for a happy existence. I sometimes hear people standing around water coolers at work or whatever, rattling on about some work related shit, and I can’t believe how much onus they are bestowing upon it. People who think that their job is of absolute vital importance to the continual existence of this planet, (They procure condiments or something for a living!) are rife.

It’s terrible really how we all get completely wrapped up in our own little lives. Sitting on our own moons, orbiting planet 'ME'. What’s worse than living this completely and utterly self absorbed kind of life?.......telling every other poor sod about it, that’s what!

Oh god, how many times a day do most of us have to listen to Mr or Mrs 'ME' tell us all about Mr and Mrs 'me’s' planet, and all that goes on there. They seem completely oblivious to the fact that nobody is in the slightest bit interested. (There is a soul crushing irony here somewhere, but I think I might have missed it…….no it’s gone, now, where was I?)

What really gets me about somebody telling you one of their ‘stories’, is the amount of inconsequential detail that they feel they need to add. You know, we have all suffered it.

“I was taking aunty Beryl to the doctors last Wednesday…….hang on wait, or was it last Tuesday? No it must have been Wednesday because her dustmen come on a Wednesday. Unless it is bank holiday of course, then they come a day earlier, hang on a minute…….(Actually gets diary out to check if it was a bank holiday!)…….No it was Wednesday……."
And so on, and on it goes. I wish I had the balls to say…….”Look, quite frankly I couldn’t really give a flying monkey's pissing pot about your auntie Beryl’s trip to the doctors, unless of course something highly amusing or entertaining took place, and you can relay that to me in a particularly amusing and engaging fashion, which I doubt. So I especially don’t need to know what fucking day of the week it happened on…….OK”

But no, I dutifully stand there and suck it all up, and then go and take it out on someone who failed to indicate at a roundabout!
I always remember the wonderful Dave Allen talking about new years resolutions. He was saying that this person was going to stop smoking, that person was going to stop eating! This one was stopping whatever etc etc etc. He said he was going to stop accommodating bores! I think this is a great idea. I am going to come up with some sort of traffic light system that hangs around my neck. I will call it something like the ‘Bore-o-meter’ or whatever. It will work in a not dissimilar fashion to those lights they have at party conferences. But these won’t be to indicate time limits, they will be to indicate bore levels.

Green
You’re doing ok, but to be fair you have only just started, so…….

Amber
Come on, come on, you are going off on a tangent a bit, and you are definitely
beginning to ramble. Make it amusing or Interesting…….quick.

Red
Shut the fuck up, I’m off!

I am going to take it on to dragon’s den and team up with the chirpy little kebab seller bloke (Racist?) Don’t want the woman, I reckon she could be bossy.

We are all the same though really aren’t we? No matter how different or radical we think we are, we can’t help being bound together by the same little social foibles etc. I am going to stop shy of saying that I “Pride” myself on being unsociable, but let’s just say with age, I have become comfortable with it.
I often proclaim that I don’t give two hoots what people think of me, but even I can’t escape the inbuilt social necessities that are intrinsic to us all. My favourite two examples of this are:-

1. You’re walking down the street. All of a sudden you realize that you have forgotten something. You need to turn around and go back in the direction form which you came. Nothing wrong with that, but that isn’t what our little brains tell us is it? Oh no. Brain say’s

“If you just suddenly and for no apparent reason turn around, and start walking back that way, every set of eyes on this street are going to notice, and they are all going to think that you are a mentalist that doesn’t know what he is doing. There he goes they will say, pacing up and down the street aimlessly, they will think you have escaped from somewhere won’t they?”

So how do we get over this? We make bold and exaggerated movements to indicate that we have forgotten something, and to try and reassure everybody that we are not mad. We will do that clicking our fingers thing as we tut. We will sigh and playfully bang ourselves on the head, raise our eyebrows, maybe even try to make eye contact with someone, and tut and grin whilst shaking our heads, to let everyone know that we are a forgetful klutz, but definitely NOT a nutter.

2. My favourite of the two is this one. Again this involves just innocently walking down the street. This time you trip and start to tumble forwards. There is nothing wrong with that, but old brainy tells you different…….

“You clumsy bastard. Everybody saw that you know, you look like a complete idiot. What the hell did you trip over anyway? Is there a piece of paving slab protruding from the pavement? or a pot hole? no, there is nothing there. You have basically just tripped over nothing, and everybody saw you. You are an embarrassment to mankind."

So how do we deal with this situation? I have done it, and I am sure most other people have too. As we trip, we naturally start to run forward to try and stop ourselves landing flat on our faces. We can’t leave it at that though can we? Oh no, we can’t have people thinking that we are a clumsy sod that needs to pick their feet up.

We should just accept that we have made a minor arse of ourselves, and treat the whole thing with a wry smile. But no, we embark on an elaborate charade, trying to make out that we did it on purpose. We are actually out having a run. In fact what I am going to do is run for a short distance, and then at the end do a little bit of shadow boxing to finish it off. Yes that’s it, I am a boxer, a prize winning one at that, and I am out training for my next bout at 'Madison square gardens.' That is why I am out running and shadow boxing in the street…….wearing a suit!

Can I just apologize on two counts. Number one, there didn’t really seem to be any real definite direction to this, and secondly, I feel that I have used far too many brackets in this one (A habit that I don’t want to get in to) so sorry.

Well I think my red light is most definitely throbbing, so I will depart. I am going to jump off of the shed, using a bin liner as a makeshift parachute, so that I feel alive!

It's all a load of balls.......

2009-03-04T10:17:00.000-08:00

Phew……For one reason or another, probably known only to the Gods, last week seemed to be full of irritations. What’s new there you might ask, well nothing I suppose, but last week just seemed to be worse than normal.

As a sort of disclaimer, can I just say that there are obviously many people throughout the world that are in a much worse position than myself, and I in no way wish to belittle their problems, by comparing my relatively minor moans and groans to theirs. That’s the legal stuff out of the way. Never the less, I did feel that the good Lord was testing my patience to the limit last week.

I don’t know about you, but there are times when the lunacy and sheer stupidity that can occur on this planet, can drive me to very dark places. It is at times like these that I can be found sitting alone in the attic, illuminated by a single flickering forty watt bulb, clutching my knees to my chest, slowly rocking back and forth, and talking to Troy my action man. I spent quite a lot of time in the attic last week, and here are two examples of why.

Example 1
My friend told me about this, I say friend, his name is Colin, and he visits me at the day centre. I think he is paid to do it, but they won’t confirm that.
Where he works, there is a sort of reception building come guard post, and in there, are what can only be described as pseudo Nazis. Little men (they are always short) that positively revel in bureaucracy and jobs worthiness. If they could, I wouldn’t put it passed them to strip naked and frolic on a bed of paper work, and rub themselves all over with rules and regulations.

Anyway, if you have a visitor coming to see you, you have to inform the reception of their arrival. Time, name, reason for visit, blood type, sperm count, mother’s maiden name etc. He told me of an instance recently, that went something like this…….

Please read the part of the pseudo Nazi with an adenoidal train spotter type voice, it will help honest! (You could also read it with a German accent, but that is probably racist)

Colin rings the reception.

Nazi - Good morning reception, how can I help you?

Colin - Ah good morning, I have a visitor coming this morning, I …….

Nazi - Whoa wo wo hold it right there…….

Colin - Sorry, I just wanted to inform you of his arrival, and…….

Nazi - I’m not listening (Puts fingers in ears) la la la la la la…….

Colin - I’m sorry, is there a problem?

Nazi - Everybody has been advised, that if they wish to inform us of a visitation, they can only do so by fax.

Colin - Ah yes, sorry about that, I forgot. While I’m on the phone, could we just do it now?

Nazi - La la la la la la I’ve told you, only by fax. If you would be so kind as to fax the details through, I would be happy to process it for you.

Colin - ok ok, I’ll fax it.

Colin follows the correct procedure, and faxes all the information through.
An hour and a half later, his phone rings…….ring ring, ring ring…….

Colin - Hello.

Nazi - Yes hello, it is reception here, you have a visitor of which we have not been informed. The rules quite clearly state, that all visitors must be pre booked in by their visitees, two or more hours before the arrival of said guest.

Colin - I phoned you this morning…….

Nazi - Oh well, that’s where you have gone wrong you see, you should have faxed the information through.

Colin - I did.

Nazi - You have just said that you phoned.

Colin - I phoned first, and then you told me to fax it, which I then did.

Nazi - Well we haven’t received it.

Colin - Well I can’t help that, if you had let me do it over the phone, we Wouldn’t be having this problem would we.

Nazi - Ah you can’t phone it through, you have to fax it.

Colin - I DID

Nazi - Well we haven’t received it…….

And so it goes on and on, like some kind of hellish perpetual spiral. Down into the bowels of Hades.

The other example is by far my favorite. I really bent Troy’s ear with this one. It happened last week, Miss Marple and myself had both nipped out of work one lunchtime to do some stuff in town. One of the things we had to do, was pay a visit to ‘Wilkinsons’. Now, after the collapse of Woolworths, Wilkinsons has now been promoted to the top spot of ‘worst shops in existence’.

Call me a snob, call me aloof, call me elitist, call me pompous, but I bloody can’t stand Wilkinsons. It seems to always be full of old people who smell of urine, and chavs, who apparently also smell of urine, mixed with the residue of Marlboro lights. Our local branch has a low sort of window sill that runs the whole length of the window. This is always full of old people just sitting there. What are they doing? I always feel like I need to walk through some kind of sheep dip when exiting the shop, to be cleansed.

Anyway, I took a deep breath, plucked up the courage, tried to be a grown up for ten minutes, and took the first tentative steps through the front door. I followed Miss Marple around, hanging onto her coat tails, staring wide eyed, and trying desperately to avoid contact with anyone, eye or otherwise. We got all the bits we needed, and headed towards the checkout.

On route to the checkout, Miss Marple spied the ‘Pick and mix’ section. Being a bit of a sucker for things that are colourful and sugary, she decided to treat herself. She filled up the bag with all sorts of goodies, and then we both noticed signs that were three foot high, saying……."Please weigh your pick and mix bag, before taking it to the checkout. Thank you." As the signs were so prominent, and so numerous, we took it that this was very important, and failing to adhere to this rule would result in us being ejected forcibly from the shop, or arrested, or beheaded or something. So Miss Marple diligently weighed the bag, and stuck the little sticker that came out of the machine onto the bag.

We got to the checkout, and I was delighted that I had almost completed the mission without brushing up against any old people or chavs. We were standing in the queue, and I was only a few inches away from a real life chav. She was a proper one and everything. She had the Croydon face lift haircut, tracksuit bottoms, a gob full of chewing gum, a mobile phone which seemed to be welded to her ear, and half a dozen or so screaming chavlets.

It was at times like this that I wished I had the courage to ask her if she had any idea which schools she would be sending her little darlings to. She would inevitably ask me what it had got to do with me, at which point I could tell her that I was in little doubt that I was paying for their existence, so I would just like to be assured that they would be receiving a half decent education, so that there was a small glimmer of hope that they would find some kind of employment in their adult years, so that I wouldn’t have to pay for them for the full three score years and ten! But alas my balls are not that big.

I did however take this opportunity to do the sniff test. I glanced surreptitiously left and right to see if the coast was clear, and then gingerly leaned forward. I squeezed my right nostril shut with my index finger, and inhaled heartily. It is indeed true, my nostril was filled with the aroma of piss and Marlboro lights, and a heady combination it was to.

I am surprised that some perfume company hasn’t tried to capture this scent in a bottle. ‘Au de chav’ Of course the chav would be said in a French kind of way, probably "Shav" or something. I can picture the advert now, a lady chav would be reclining on a chez long covered in benefit claims, the chavlets would be shooting pensioners from the window with air rifles, Dad chav would be watching ‘Stargate’ on his heavily subsidized 52" plasma, and daughter chav would be getting knocked up, and filling in the child benefit forms simultaneously. Mum chav would then lean provocatively towards the camera (Retch) and say……."Le Shav, the fragrance from laboratory garneaaaaaaa, because your werfless"

Anyway, we eventually got to the checkout. The stuff was being beeped through the scanner, and all was well. Then ‘Darren’ or whatever his name was, picked up the bag of pick and mix. He stopped, why was he not beeping it, it quite clearly had a bar code on the sticker that came out of the machine.
"Oh hang on a minute." Said Darren.
"Is there a problem?" said Miss Marple.
"I’ve just got to get this weighed," said Darren.
Miss Marple and I looked at each other, and raised eyebrows simultaneously.
"But I weighed it on the scales, like the signs told me to," said Miss marple.
Darren looked at her, and without taking his ipod from his ears said "Yeah, but I gotta get it checked."
At this point Darren disappeared for three or four days to check that we hadn’t put one fruit salad in the bag, weighed it, and then filled it to the brim.

You are ahead of me I know, but if the shop aren’t going to trust people to be honest, WHY GET US TO FUCKING WEIGH IT IN THE FUCKING FIRST PLACE.

I should have known my trip to Wilkinsons wasn’t going to be good, I should have realized that once I had been head butted in the testicles by a two year old, things weren’t going to get any better. I should have gone straight to the car, and gone back to work.

Yes just before entering Wilkinsons, my gonads had a coming together with a two year old boy! I was walking along, and coming towards me was a lady with her toddler of a son. He was a dear little chap, and he was doing that walk that only a two year old can do. You know the one, they sort of defy gravity by kind of permanently stumbling forward, but never actually hitting the deck. It’s hard to replicate, I know I have tried.

They combine this with never actually looking in the direction that they are traveling in. You can’t blame them, when you’re two the world is a wondrous place, full of lots of things to see. "Look mummy, doggie" etc.
So anyway, the little chap was heading towards me, and I could see what might potentially happen. I did my best, honest I did, but every time I moved one way or another, the little chap countered me, it wasn’t looking good. I must have looked like a cross between a rugby player, stepping one way and then the other, trying to avoid the oncoming tackle, and an overweight, out of work ballerina, who had fallen on hard times, and had resorted to performing on the streets to make ends meet.

I was stepping this way, pirouetting that way, swerving here, rolling there, but to no avail, the little chap's right ear impacted on my gonads. Fortunately the pain wasn’t severe. My main concern was that his mother, having witnessed me thrusting my groin in the direction of her two year old boys head, was going to shout "Pedophile" at the top of her voice, and the ‘Child abuse swat team’ would rope down from helicopters, and I would be taken away.

My computer would be carried from the house in a plastic bag, and I would have to suffer the indignity of the trip to court in an armored van, while people hurled bottles and themselves at it. Press photographers would try to take pictures of the ‘Evil one’ through the blacked out windows, and even after pleading my innocence, I would spend years in jail being some enormous black man’s bitch. I would have to be kept in the isolation wing for my own protection, and try to sleep at night as fellow inmates shouted "Nonce" all night long.

Fortunately it never came to this. After apologising profusely, she said "Oh he’s always doing that" To which I felt like saying "Maybe a little counseling wouldn’t go amiss then Madame, nip it in the bud." But I didn’t, once again my now slightly tender balls just weren’t up to it.

Oh and God made it rain from our kitchen ceiling, but that is another story for another day. I am exhausted, and Troy say’s he needs a break.
Love and kisses.

You might as well face it, your addicted to.......

2009-02-26T13:34:00.000-08:00

Jack watched the rain run slowly down the window, as he looked at all the people in the street below. All the happy people, with friends, lovers, purpose and hope. He turned and scanned his dimly lit bedsit, and coughed as he tightened the belt around his arm. As he did so, he couldn’t help but notice how dirty his fingernails were, and how much nicotine was staining his trembling fingers. Sweat dampened his lank black hair, and as he pushed the needle into his raised vein, he looked up and stared at himself in the mirror.
How had it come to this? Where was the Jack he had lost sight of? Very soon his drug of choice would take affect, and for a short while he would be free from this hell, but not really free, just a temporary freedom.

This goes to explain somewhat, how I feel when I am watching the ‘X Factor’!

‘Experts’ in the field of addiction management etc etc, would tell us that it is usually necessary for an addict to hit ‘rock bottom’ of whichever pit of addiction he or she has stumbled into, before we can start clawing our way back up the sides, and clambering on to the road to recovery. They would also tell us, that it is necessary for an addict to admit to his or her problem, before they can make the journey of recovery.

So, Here I am. I am going to take the plunge and admit to the world, and more importantly to myself, that I watch far too much reality TV!

There I have done it. I know the shock and repulsion may be a little too much for some of you to bear, especially any relations reading this, but don’t desert me now, I need your support.
Every recovering addict will probably be able to tell you, when and what made them realize that they had reached the bottom of their ‘pit’.
My own pit realization moment came on Saturday night, brace yourselves, this is going to be ugly, I found myself watching ‘American Idol’. Just before you pass out completely, let me get it all out in the open. Not only was I watching ‘American Idol’ but I was watching ‘American Idol’ that I had recorded on Sky Plus!
(Wipes the tears away from his puffed and bloodshot eyes, and looks to the heavens for forgiveness)
I couldn’t even claim to have stumbled upon the program by accident, and then not be able to turn it over due to a faulty remote. No, the horrifying truth of it was, I had purposefully recorded the program, and left early from my Grandmothers funeral to sate my compulsion! (I made the funeral bit up, it was only a memorial service!)

Reality TV is just like any other drug. Alcohol, Heroin, cigarettes whatever, it’s always the same. You start of with a little, and it escalates into full blown addiction. It was like this for me. I started off with just a little recreational reality TV, you know how it is, maybe the odd bit of ‘Dancing on’ ice, or a casual glance at ‘Celeb air’, but unfortunately I didn’t get off of the road to addiction while I had the chance, I saw the signs, why did I choose to ignore them?

Before I knew it, I was watching the lot, you start off with the lighter stuff, and before long you are scouring the channels for harder and harder material. Then the day finally comes when you watch ‘American Idol’ and immediately turn over to ITV2+1 and watch the whole damn thing again! It is then time to get help…….sigh.

Watching the X Factor is bad enough, but watching the American version is just shameful. My God they are irritating with their whiney American voices, and there bleached teeth, high fiving, and whooping and hollering, and that’s just the judges (Boom boom). Of course we have Lord Cowell on the far left of the panel. Keeping the stiff British end up, refusing to high five anyone, and generally being the last bastion of decorum in the whole bloody circus.

Listening to Brits balling their eyes out, and telling their mothers over the phone that the judges are all know nothing cretins (Dani Minogue – fair enough) is one thing, but listening to whiney, spoilt, brattish, daddy’s little darling, stage school, shiatsu preening, ego maniac little American girls is just the absolute pits.

Now, there is undoubtedly some talent on this show, some of the singing is very good, but then they have to go and spoil it all by talking!
"I’m just so happy to be here today, it’s a great experience to meet all you guys. I’d like to thank God for giving me this talent, and I just love you all…….giggle."
The American judges of course suck all this up with glee, it is of course left to Lord Cowell to tell the little brat to shut up and get on with it.

If ‘American Idol’ is my Heroin, then ‘Master Chef’ must be my cocaine. Again, for some reason compulsive viewing, and immensely annoying at the same time.
For non addicts, the basic premise of the show is thus. Members of the public have to cook meals, which two blokes then judge. These ‘judges’ are an Australian chef, and some baldy, pseudo cockney green grocer bloke. How did he get that gig? Was there a producers meeting one day, and they said "What we need is a couple of top flight chefs," and some bright spark at the back piped up, "No, lets have one chef, and a green grocer." And everyone for some reason thought that this was a good idea!

So anyway, the contestants slave over a hot stove with these two blokes wandering around asking them if "They really want it" and then when all the cooking is done, we watch chef bloke, and grocer geezer stuff their chubby cheeks, and tell them that they haven’t seasoned it properly. While we are on the subject, if anyone out there can enlighten me as to what putting salt and pepper into something actually does, more than just making it more salty and peppery, please tell me. I genuinely don’t get it.

The best bit of the show, is when the contestants are sent to a real ‘Top flight’ restaurant in the heart of London, to cook lunch for some unsuspecting diners. I don’t know about you, but if I was some city boy (Spit) and I was going to some swanky restaurant for an overpriced plate of salad leaves and a ‘pan fried’ something, I would hope that the person cooking it was bloody qualified.
I don’t know why chefs bother going to catering school for God knows how many years, and toil away in steaming kitchens, working their way up the ladder, because apparently you can just walk in off of the street, and with ten minutes tuition, do just as good a job!

Then it’s back to ‘Master Chef HQ’ for the final verdict. Chef bloke and grocer geezer go in to some back room and confer. They mull it all over, and try to come to a decision about who is going through to the next round, and who is "going home." It’s at this point that the chef bloke always starts to throw his weight about a bit, and starts using the "I’m the chef, and your just the bloody green grocer" card. Because however much they disagree, chef bloke always gets his way. Their deliberations are always fairly amicable on camera, but I bet once the cameras are turned off; i bet it goes something like this…….

Please read the following section with Australian and cockney accents where appropriate. Thanks.

Chef bloke – So, What do ya reckon to this bunch of no hopers then mate.

Green grocer – Gawd bleedin’ blimey, I have never tasted such a load of old fucking crap in all me bleedin’ life.

Chef bloke – No what ya meeeeaan mate, not a fuckin’ shrimp in site, and what was that bloody thing that the fat bloke cooked up?

Green grocer – Don’t ask me treacle, tasted worse than my wife’s beef curtains after a heavy session in the gym.

Chef bloke – Anyway, got to put one of them through I suppose. I say we put the tart through.

Green grocer – Did somebody make a tart?

Chef bloke – No you fuckin’ cockney wanker, the tart with the big tits, I think the tits are enough to get her through.

Green grocer – What did she cook guvnor?

Chef bloke – Aaaaaaw Christ, I don’t fuckin’ know. Some bloody pasta thing, tasted like bloody shoe laces, but who cares, don’t ya wanna cop an eyeful of those baps again cobber?

Green grocer – Course I fuckin’ do, but hey this is a cooking competition after all. I say we put the lifter through. He may be savaloy jockey, but his beef Wellington was an awesome plate of food.

Chef bloke – Don’t forget who the bloody chef is here baldy. Your just a bloody green grocer.

Green grocer – Oh don’t start with that shit again, it’s not bleedin’ fair, you pull this chef shit on me every week, I’ve ‘ad it up to ‘ear.

Chef bloke – It’s big tits or your out on your ear. There’s plenty of fuckin’ grocers about mate, are we riding the same wave? surfing on the same board? Eh?

And so big tits goes through!

I was watching the penultimate episode of bloody Master Chef last night, and it had to be the worst yet. The podge brothers were barking at them, that "This is going to be the hardest day of their life." and "It doesn't get tougher than this." ....... Dear God, i think that the bloke half way up Everest, or the African mother dying of AIDS, or the husband and father who has just been made redundant would all have something to say about that crass remark podgy!

The bloody contestants were crying just because some ultra poncy chef had said that he quite liked what they had cooked. All of you, take a step back, look at yourselves, and get a fucking grip! I have not watched the final tonight out of protest.......I wonder if there is a BBC1+2?.......no stop it.......

I prefer the good old days of master chef. If you are going to poncify food, then do it properly with the prince of poncification, Lloyd Grossman. Now there was a man that new how to poncify. I always thought he would make an excellent third ‘Crane’ brother.
Talking of poncifying food, you do hear some nonsense spoken in the world of TV chefdom, but the absolute epitome of ponciness, has to be that spiky haired bastard Gary Rhodes. Oh dear God I just want to skewer him, and slowly spit roast him with an apple in his gob. We are all familiar with the usual non sensical crap that these chefs come out with, pan fried, sun dried, drizzled, frothed etc etc, but Gary Rhodes committed what in my opinion is the most heinous cheffy bullshit remark to date. He actually said that he was going to "Introduce the gravy to the potatoes." Introduce…….What a bastard!

So, I suppose I will have to get some kind of treatment then. I wonder what it will consist of? If I was a celeb I would obviously end up in the Priory, but I suppose I will have to make do with whatever the National Health has got to offer. Perhaps they will just stop me watching completely, and I will have to go through cold turkey. The shakes, sweats, sobbing as I pathetically press the buttons on a battery-less Sky remote. "Make it work Doctor, make it work" I would plead, as I ungraciously tugged at his white coat.

Perhaps they will try to wean me off it. I’ll be allowed to watch the X Factor, but not the X-tra Factor. I don’t know, maybe they will attach electrodes to my testicles, and shock me until I no longer feel the desire to just have half an hour of ‘Strictly’. Who knows.

On a finishing note, what a tragedy for Jade Goody (Her married name escapes me) and her family. Probably the most iconic result of realty TV ever known, cut off in her prime time prime. I won’t be a hypocrite and start saying how wonderful I think she is, because I don’t. I am not a fan at all of this celebrity culture, famous for being famous and so on, but I can’t deny that it is incredibly sad. Reality star or not, a mother is a mother, a daughter is a daughter, and a wife is a wife.
See you all when I have got some more rubbish to get off of my chest!

Why?.......

2009-02-11T12:39:00.000-08:00

Why does everything have to be such a ball ache?

Why does nothing work properly or efficiently?

Why does nobody care about the service that they are paid to provide?

Why does every bloody web site that I want to go on, require me to “Sign up”? Why do I have to fill in pages of personnel details including my blood type, house number, mothers maiden name, eye colour, inside leg and sperm count?

Why do computers carry out a task one day, and then flatly refuse to do it the next?

Why when I ask a computer to do something, does it not believe that I really want to do it, and asks me over and over again if I am completely and whole heartedly sure, that what I am requesting is the product of a rational and sane mind?

Why can’t ‘Scottish Provident’ and my Doctors clinic not get it into there collective skulls, that I no longer smoke, and therefore think it would be justified that I paid a reduced premium every bloody month? Why after a YEAR of tearful wrangling, in a world of instant communication and ‘light speed’ technology, are we still no further down the “Pay less money” road?

Why are insurance companies still allowed to get away with what is essentially legalised fraud?

Why can a once world leading country still not cope with a “Once in a blue moon” level of snow?

Why are bankers so oblivious to the opinions of the rest of the universe, when even considering allotting themselves obscene bonuses in the wake of their own induced financial melt down?

Why does every salary related to sports people or celebrities, automatically now consist of a number with six zeros after it?

Why does anyone buy Colleen Rooney’s book? …….Colleen Rooney, why?

Why are politicians allowed to get away with it?

Why does a footballer earn more than a nurse?

Why is there such a thing as ‘Sods law’? aren’t things tough enough?

Why do people hurt and abuse animals?…….simply, WHY?

Why can someone like George Bush become the leader of the most powerful country in the world? Why is America the most powerful country in the world?

Why are chips bad for you?

Why can’t they invent healthy fags?

Why is television so full of banal, inane drivel?

Why do I watch it???

Why is there a “Catch” to everything?

Why is there “No such thing as a free lunch”?

Why do people that work for councils have their brains removed on their first day?

Why are criminals more important than their victims?

Why do judges think in a completely different way to every other human being in existence?

Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near…….Hang on?

Why do boys with large trousers and cars with blacked out windows, not think that they are a twat like everybody else does?

Why is ours the only house in the western world that still can’t get broadband?

Why are the rules for apostrophes so pointlessly complicated?

Why did someone come up with adjectives, nouns and verbs. I know what each one is, but why do I need to know?

Why, if there are aliens, don’t they just come and say hello for God’s sake, instead of hovering mysteriously over the heads of drunk people, who are on their own down dark country lanes?

Why does God move in mysterious ways?

Why do people still believe in God?

Why can’t Muslims lighten up a bit?

Why do I live in a world, where I genuinely thought twice about weather writing that last one was a good idea or not?

Why can’t people that have been enlightened by God, not see any further than the end of their noses?

Why do I ask so many questions?

Why when I know the answer to a question, does it normally just require more questions?

Why?…….

Tomorrow, tomorrow.......

2009-02-05T11:18:00.000-08:00

Do you ever feel that you would like to run away to join the French Foreign Legion? Or maybe look out of your window one day, and see one hundred foot alien striders traversing the landscape, laying waste to everything in their path, at which point you would have to drop everything that is familiar to you, and join a desperate resistance group?.......No? It’s probably just me then, I am a little odd.

I suppose what I am really getting at, is that do you ever find the monotony of everyday life almost beyond bearable? I do, although there is something of a paradox in all this.
I am of the age where one realizes just how bloody quick time is passing by. I wouldn’t say that I am having a midlife crisis, I am not planning to start wearing fashionable clothes, or get myself into even more debt by buying a cabriolet, but I am definitely experiencing a certain amount of "What have I actually done?" or "Where am I actually going?" The paradox comes in thus; the everyday routine is in its self quite comforting, and sometimes anything that happens outside of that comfort zone, can bring on mild panic!

"What, I have got to go to the dentist today?.......On a Tuesday!.......ah, help, that’s buggered up my usual Tuesday routine."
But on the other hand I still crave some kind of adventure. What to do? Perhaps there is a French Foreign Legion T.A. Or perhaps I could go alien bashing just at weekends and bank holidays.

At my kind of age, it is frighteningly easy to become ‘Mr. Routine’ I knew a bloke once that used to leave his house at precisely 7.42am for work every morning, not a minute early, not a minute late. The thing was, he used to car share with a colleague, and if this guy was a second late, he would bugger off without him! I hope I never get that bad (hang on what’s the time, 6.13pm. Phew, still got six minutes before I have to do the weekly kettle descale)

So, here I am, trapped between the comfort of daily routine, and the monotony of every day life. I suppose what I am really looking for, is a kind of comfy adventure, a sort of pipe and slippers swashbuckle. Daring do that only requires a hint of effort. I do manage to get some of my ‘Adventure fix’ from computer games. I can see now the Margos of this world tutting and raising their monobrows, but sod ‘em, and get back to jumping on some bandwagons.

The ill-informed seem to take great pleasure in ridiculing ‘gamers’ if that’s what you want to call us. They still believe that games are ‘Sonic the hedgehog’, and things that tend to go beep a lot, but these days they really are like interactive movies, with graphics that can sometimes be almost as convincing as films. And why can you apparently not play games over a certain age? Do you have to stop reading books when you get to sixty-five, or stop watching films at the age of fifty? Of course not, they are all just ways of trying to escape the hum drum for a couple of hours, just as games are, but the shortsighted still insist on categorizing games as "For nerdy losers". Sigh.

I do often think that I really need to get my arse into gear, and start doing things instead of just thinking about it. "Seize the day" as they say. I tend to grip it limply, and then let go at the first sign of trouble!
Maybe today is the turning point. Maybe today I will start that revolution. Is today the day when I stand up, and strive unfalteringly towards success and an invite onto the Jonathon Ross show…….Hang on, it’s fish fingers tonight, and the bins need to go out. Maybe tomorrow eh?

Noddy and Bigears go to Buckingham Palace.......

2009-02-03T10:37:00.000-08:00

“Joy oh joy oh joyful joy,” said Noddy as he scurried around the kitchen tiding away his breakfast things. “Is this just the best day of our lives Bigears?”
Bigears coughed and passed wind simultaneously, which he thought was pretty impressive for 6.30am.
“Bigears you look exhausted again, what have you been doing?”
“Oh not much, you know…….” replied Bigears.
“Oh not that chat room again. What is it called?…..get a life, or something.”
“Another life, actually.”
“Look Bigears, I know things haven’t been all that successful on the lady front lately, but you won’t find any answers in chat rooms.” said Noddy as he put his mini shreddies in the cupboard.
“You never know, there are all sorts of women on there, one in particular seems very interested in me if you must know.” said Bigears, a little put out.
“Don’t tell me, wait, let me see. She told you she was five feet six, slim, long blond hair, blue eyes, big chested, and was a fitness instructor, right?” said Noddy knowingly.
“Not exactly.” retorted Bigears.
“Come on,” said Noddy as he crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows.
“Air stewardess actually.”

Noddy tutted and threw his hands up into the air. “You know she is probably about forty-five, a size eighteen, married with four kids, and spends her day quelling the void in her life, by going into chatrooms, and playing online bingo don’t you?”
Bigears looked down quickly at his now soggy cornflakes, and cursed Noddy for his perception. Especially as most of the time, he was irritatingly naïve. The thing is, he thought to himself, he would find out soon. He was meeting her in McDonalds next Wednesday!

“Anyway Bigears, we haven’t got time for all this, for today we are going to see the Queen, and you have got to get yourself changed.”
Bigears looked down at his clothes and said, “Changed, I am changed.”
Noddy’s eyes popped out of his head. “What, you’re wearing that.”
“What’s wrong with it?” retorted Bigears.
“Do you really think, that a pair of scuffed cowboy boots, a pair of extremely worn leather trousers, and your Johnny Cash ‘Man in black’ shirt is really suitable attire to meet her Majesty?”
Bigears threw his cornflakes in the bin, and wished he lived somewhere else.

“I don’t know how you have got the gall to have a go at what I am wearing, when you are wearing that bloody thing.” said Bigears as he pointed at Noddy’s clothes.
“These are my best clothes Bigears, clothes I might add, that are fit to meet the Queen in.”
Noddy was pleased with his choice of attire, he was wearing his best royal blue velvet suit, with gold trim and matching hat, his crisp freshly ironed white socks, and super shiny black shoes, with highly polished buckles.
“Well all I am saying is, don’t go wandering off alone around Hampstead Heath wearing that stuff, ok.” chuckled Bigears.
“Hampstead Heath, what on earth are you talking about? We haven’t got time for your ambiguous ramblings Bigears, we have got a train to catch.” said Noddy.

He bundled Bigears into the Noddy car, and then climbed behind the wheel. He raced along the leafy lane as the sun danced through the trees, and couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face, as he thought about how wonderful it was going to be, to meet The Queen of England.

“Oh God, why is there always a queue when you are in a hurry?” asked Noddy, as he
nervously shifted from one foot to the other. “Oh come on…….please.”
“For God’s sake calm down, there is plenty of time,” said Bigears as he became more irritated with Noddy as every second passed.
Finally Noddy reached the front of the queue.
“Good day to you sir, I would like two tickets to see the Queen please.”
The ticket man looked Noddy up and down over the top of his glasses, and said “Is that two tickets to see THE Queen, or A queen?”
Noddy heard Bigears snigger behind him, and shot him a scowl. “Pray tell sir, what could you possibly mean? for there is only one Queen of England, and she hath requested the company of these two bonny squires that thou sees before thee.”
“Are you going to talk like that all day?” Said Bigears.
“Like what?”
“You know, all lardeeda, and…….Queenish.”
“I am just making an effort Bigears, just making an effort. It wouldn’t kill you to express yourself in a more eloquent manner.”
Bigears and the ticket man looked at each other, and their eyebrows raised simultaneously.

The train journey seemed to last forever. Noddy stared out of the window at the passing scenery. Towns and villages, rivers and streams, people going about their daily business, little did they know, that whizzing passed them, were two chaps on their way to see The Queen.

“Why are none of these cabs stopping?” said Noddy as he waved his arms in the air, while at the same time looking at his watch.
“Probably something to do with that suit,” said Bigears.
Noddy finally hailed a cab by standing in the middle of the road, and shouting “By order of the Queen…….HALT”.
“Where to Guvner?” said the cabby.
“Buckingham Palace please driver, and don’t spare the horses.” shouted Noddy.
They set off, with Noddy cursing the traffic, and Bigears cursing Noddy.
“Hey, aren’t you that Bigears?” said the cab driver.
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Bigears, very proud of his new found celebrity status.
“Tell me, is your cock really that big, or has it been airbrushed?”
Noddy looked dumbfounded.
“No, that is true to life, honest, you wanna verify it for yourself?” said Bigears as he started to undo his flies.
“NO he most certainly doesn’t,” shouted Noddy trying to do His friend's flies back up. “What do you mean anyway, how do you know how big his…….thing is?”
“It’s all over the internet innit. It’s on that site, cartoon cocks.com -

(Now readers, it was at this point that curiosity got the better of me, and I googled it! I was there for four hours! No don’t do it…….oh, you have. Now where was I, back to the story) -

“Bugger me, that must be a handful,” said the cabby.
“It certainly is mate” said Bigears, “I have to make sure that I am in peak physical condition before I get a stiffy. Otherwise the redistribution of blood to the old fella can cause me to keel over.”
“Fuck me, I wish I had one that big” said the cabby wistfully.
“You say that, but quite frankly it can be a curse sometimes. Yeah alright it’s great having a massive one, but sometimes I long for an average one. One lady I was with was so impressed by it, that she insisted on taking me home to show her mother. Let me tell ya, having yer girlfriend wankin’ you off in front of her mother is at best a little awkward, and in no way the circumstances I had envisaged, whilst doing the ‘Meeting the parents’ thing.”
“Oh I don’t know, I…….” Said the cabby.
“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE…….can we please stop discussing his…thing, and mothers, and whatnot, and just …..stop it. Especially on this special day.
“Jealous” said Bigears.
“I am not at all jealous, it’s just highly inappropriate on today of all days. I do not want to be discussing such tawdry things, on the day of her majesty’s Annual garden party for children’s fictional characters. Thank you.”

Finally the journey came to an end. Noddy and Bigears climbed from the cab, and stood staring at Buckingham Palace.
“My word Bigears, look at it. Majestic, awe inspiring.” Noddy was beside himself.
“It’s not as big as I thought it would be,” said Bigears.
“Oh really, is there nothing you won’t find fault with?”
Noddy and Bigears found their way to the correct entrance, and was ushered in by a man wearing a very impressive uniform. Noddy was a little dismayed that everybody had to walk through a full body metal detector. He felt it sullied the experience somewhat. But in today’s climate, he wasn’t surprised, even her majesty took security seriously. He was a little embarrassed however, when Bigears set it off. He stared at his feet, at the ceiling, anywhere to avoid the look on the face of the security man, as Bigears produced the offending articles. A Swiss army knife, a cap gun (What was he thinking), a set of guitar strings, and a sex pistols key ring.

Noddy was pleased to see so many old familiar faces. Julian from the famous five had already got the ear of Prince Phillip, no doubt beguiling him with tales of his exploits for his Duke of Edinburgh awards. The Clangers were telling Prince Harry a clanger joke (With Sooty interpreting), and Hong Kong Phooey was talking fashion with Fergy. Noddy was a little surprised, and to be honest a tad disappointed that the royal household had seen fit to allow admittance to the ‘Magic Roundabout’ lot. Noddy didn’t like to speak ill of people, but they really were as common as muck. Terrible chavs the lot of them. With their suspicious cigarettes, and “Man this”, and “man that”. Noddy had heard a rumour that they were socialists, but he rarely listened to tittle tattle.

Well the time had come. The line was being assembled. Noddy didn’t know weather to be pleased or disappointed that he and Bigears were near the end, but so be it.
“I really need a slash” said Bigears.
“Oh dear God, not now, why didn’t you go before we left?”
“I didn’t need to go then did I” said Bigears.
“Well you will just have to hold it.”
“I can’t, I’m off to find a bog.”
“WHAT, the queen will be here any minute, you…….”
Noddy turned round to see Bigears scampering off down a hall way.

Noddy looked back at where the Queen was, and then back to where Bigears went. He probably had five or six minutes at best. Luckily Her majesty had been delayed somewhat by Dick Dastardly, who was smarming his way around her. Thank heavens for small mercies. Where was Bigears Noddy thought to himself.

Noddy was in a dilemma. Should he wait, and risk Bigears missing the big moment, or go and try to find him, and heaven forbid, risk both of them missing it. The sweat started to bounce of Noddy’s furrowed brow. There was nothing else for it, he was going to have to go and find him.

Noddy walked briskly down the hall that Bigears had descended down. He couldn’t see any toilets anywhere. Panic was setting in. Where the hell was the bloody idiot?
Then all of a sudden, as Noddy was walking past one door in particular, he heard a woman’s voice. It sounded familiar. Noddy didn’t like to snoop, but he was desperate, any clue as to Bigears’s whereabouts was welcome. He pressed his ear hard against the door. Yes there was definitely two voices, one female, and one male. The male voice was muffled, but the woman’s was crystal clear. Yes, there was no doubt about it, it was Camilla Parker Bowls!

“Oh you naughty boy” said Camilla, “You know how I love it when your big ears tickle the insides of my thighs.”
Noddy’s eyes widened, and his knees began to buckle.
“Oh do you really, you want me to wear the crown do you?” giggled Camilla.
Noddy’s heart rate was off the scale.
“Oh yes Bigears, you certainly have the knack of getting my drawbridge down, and invading my palace.”
Noddy sank to his knees.
“Gasp, slow down Bigears, the crown is slipping off…….oh oh oh…….OH BIGEARS!”
Noddy was breathing heavily into his brown paper bag that he carried with him everywhere, for just such emergencies.

“How could he” Noddy thought to himself. “How could he do this to me. The filthy beast. We are a few minutes away from meeting the Queen of this fair isle, and he is committing adultery with the future King of England’s wife! Dear God almighty, we will go to the tower.”
Noddy could wait no longer, he raced back to the line up. The sweat was running down his face by now, partly due to the exertion, and partly because of the fear of beheading! As he got there, he stared at the unmistakable shape of Bigears standing in the line up.

“Where the bloody hell have you been, she is nearly here” said Bigears.
“But…….how……” stuttered Noddy.
“Shut up, shut up, she is here.” Whispered Bigears.
Noddy stood there, quite frankly not looking his best. One buckle had come undone, his once pert hat was now flaccid, and sweat stains were starting to seep through his velvet suit.
The Queen shook Noddy by the hand, and glanced at her footman. He dashed forward, and with a remarkable amount of discretion, gave a couple of squirts of ‘Glade’ in Noddy’s general direction.

“You must be Noddy” Said the Queen.
“That’s right Ma’am, I am Noddy of Noddy town, your humble and faithful servant your most Loveliness.” Panted Noddy.
“Loveliness” why had he said fucking loveliness?” Noddy thought to himself. If his compatriot fornicating with Camilla hadn’t assured him a seat in the tower, calling The Queen lovely, was sure to do it.
The Queen moved on quickly, and soon Prince Phillip was standing opposite Bigears.
“What o Bigears, I’ve heard you have got a big one” grinned The Duke.

Noddy was disappointed that he had spent the vast majority of the afternoon in the St John’s Ambulance tent. It was not how he had envisaged the afternoon panning out. But he was feeling a little better now, and was determined not to miss any more of it. He wandered back in to the reception room.

Bigears was laughing noisily with the Magic roundabout lot, even though he had told him not to mix with them under any circumstances. Julian was being far too familiar with Kate Middleton for Noddy’s liking, and Hong Kong Phooey was discussing turning his show in to a west end production with Prince Edward.

Then out of the corner of his eye, Noddy spotted Camilla. This was his chance to try to put things right. His one opportunity to try and smooth the waters some what.
He nervously sidled up to Camilla, and coughed.
“Excuse me Ma’am, I am Noddy of Noddy town, and I was just wondering if I could have a discreet word with you.”
“Why yes of course, what can I do for you?” said Camilla politely.
“Can I just take this opportunity to apologise on behalf of Bigears.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Replied Camilla looking puzzled.
“Oh Ma’am, how I do so admire your tact and decorum, but please, there really is no need.
“Really?” said Camilla looking bemused.
Noddy lent closer to Camilla, and said, “It is widely understood that Bigears is a rampant pervert, and what I heard him doing to you earlier is disgraceful.”
“You mean you were listening, listening outside the door of my private quarters?” said Camilla indignantly.
“Oh not on purpose you understand, I was looking for him, because, well not to put too fine a point on it, he is a little light fingered, and I didn’t want him secreting anything Royal down his rather scruffy trousers.”
Camilla looked confused, and a little impatient, and said, “Scruffy trousers, light fingered, I…….”
Noddy butted in, “Lets not beat about the bush your ladyship, Bigears is an Ungodly, unwashed, porn addicted, perverted kleptomaniac.”
Camilla stood staring at Noddy with a slack jaw, and eyes like saucers.
“I think we will leave it at that your ma’amship” said Noddy as he gave Camilla a wink.

The rest of the afternoon flew by, and soon it was time to go home. Noddy and Bigears arrived home with their Chinese takeaway, and settled down for a night in front of Sky plus. Having consumed the best part of a bottle of ‘Jim Beam’, it wasn’t long before Bigears was snoring loudly. Noddy felt pleased that he had rather brilliantly managed to turn around, what had started off as minor disaster. Despite the hiccups, he had managed to make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear.

Noddy picked up the remote, and started flicking through the channels. He stopped at a show entitled ‘Top 100 Celebrity pet names’ and decided to give it five minutes of his precious time. The presenter, who he had never heard of, said, “And now, in at seventeen, we have Peter Andre’s pet name for Jordan…….Big Tits. Well that’s brilliant Pete” said the presenter in a rather smug Edinburgh fringe kind of way, “Very Original. And now ladies and gents, a surprise entry at number sixteen. Well would you believe it, Camilla Parker Bowls, yes the actual Camilla Parker Bowls, apparently calls old Charles……. Bigears.”

The rest of what the presenter was saying was inaudible to Noddy, as all he could hear was the high blood pressure ringing in his ears. What was it that he had unwittingly called the future king of England? Oh yes, that’s right, how could he possibly forget. The words were etched forever on his memory, an “Ungodly, unwashed, porn addicted, perverted kleptomaniac.”
Noddy poured himself a large Jim beam, and lit his first benson of his life.

Hyde

2009-01-31T04:27:00.000-08:00

Oh Mr Hyde, why do you hide, within my soul so deep,
Lurking there, without a care, dormant and asleep.
Never sure, when the door, will open to reveal,
Your poisoned ways, undying shame, my smile for you to steal.

Why do you come, to spoil the fun, and eat away my pride,
You don’t belong, so please be gone, it’s surely time you died.
No request, no behest, no welcome mat for you,
Bad pennies return, my wishes you spurn, your arrogance ensues.

Oh Mr Hyde, isn’t it time, for you to leave these shores,
Pack your bags, don’t want your rags, your methods or your cause.
You’ve stayed too long, I’ve sung your song, forever and a day,
You’re not my friend, when will it end, please be on your way.

Boss dreams 2.......The drugs don't work.......

2009-01-23T10:28:00.000-08:00

It’s happened again. I didn’t want it to, I didn’t ask for it, but there is no denying that it has. A few blogs ago I told you that I had a dream, where my boss was chasing me round my garden with his winkle out, trying to urinate on me, whilst laughing manically like a demented Bond villain. Well it’s happened again, not the same dream, but equally as disturbing.

I was in Spain on a family holiday. All seemed perfectly normal, I was sitting at the bar with my brother-in-law planning the evenings drinking, Miss Marple was shopping, and the outlaws were bickering. Then all of a sudden from nowhere, I am in some kind of supermarket.

I am wandering up and down the deserted aisles, when Boss walks round the corner. Thankfully his equipment was stowed, and we entered into a little chat. All seemed normal, until he told me that instead of having an anus like your regular human, at some point in his life doctors had attached a wheel to his bottom hole! Not a big wheel you understand, just a small caster like thing, like you would get on a shopping trolley or something.

Well this was bizarre enough, but the bit that really freaked me out, was that he told me that in 1977 he was world disco dancing champion. I immediately had visions of him scooting across the floor on his ‘wheel’ wearing a John Travoltaesque white suit, with all his arms and legs in the air, to the thumping sounds of ’Disco inferno’. It was at this point, that Miss Marple informed me later, that I woke up laughing manically.

I of course blame the concoction of drugs I have been taking lately. I have been suffering form raging tooth ache, and a cold. So I have been pumping ibuprofen, cacodemol, lemsip, and anything else I could lay my hands on down my neck, with reckless abandon! This must be the reason for the dream, and not my encroaching madness!

The tooth has been bad. Bloody wisdom tooth. The worst kind of teeth. They are like the skinheads of the teeth world. Nothing but bloody trouble. I did discover that the only times that it didn’t hurt, were during the effects of the drugs, or during marital relations. Unfortunately Miss Marple very quickly put a halt on the notion of me taking her three times a day after meals! Bloody selfish if you ask me.

Oh God lets move on from Boss dreams and illness, what else has been happening.
Well he is there. Obama has plonked his fanny in the oval office. Did make me cringe a little with the balls up on the swearing in bit. Made me cringe even more when I learned that they had to do it again, just in case some pointless little pedantic, nit picking adenoidal voiced train spotter in a years time, having spent every waking moment on the internet, announced that the cock up meant that he wasn’t officially the president.

Although I suppose that isn’t as bad as his predecessor, who got bored with waiting for the votes to be counted, and so just announced himself as the president. Brilliant, I wish I had thought of that during my three attempts at passing my motorcycle test. What I should have done, is just before the examiner got to the “I am sorry Mr Mule, but you haven’t passed” bit, I should have just jumped in with “I have passed, brilliant, thanks a lot, see ya.” Poor old Al Gore. The real president who had the audacity to play by the rules. Well goodbye George Bush, and good bloody riddance. You bloody idiot.

Moving on, something else that caught my eye, was the thing about some society or other that paid for adverts to be plastered on the side of buses, saying that “There probably is no God, so stop worrying about it, and enjoy your life” Or words to that effect anyway. Of course the religious nutters jumped up and got hot under the collar. They challenged the advertisement with the advertising standards committee, by saying that this was not a fair and reasonable advert, because these people could not SUBSTANTIATE The claim that there was no God! All of this said with not even a hint of irony!!!

Had another ‘getting old’ occurrence the other day. Men of my age have problems with dribbles. It’s a common thing, but when we go for a wee, no matter how much we shake, siphon, squeeze, pump etc, there will always be a small amount of wee that dribbles when you replace the old fella. It’s just unfortunately one of those things. The other day, I did the wee, then pumped, shook blah blah blah, and re-established him back home. Just at this moment, I passed wind, and a torrent of wee cascaded down my leg! I suppose it will be pampers next. Oh well.

Saw an item on the news last night about the increase of swearing in society. Some reporter went out to one of the provinces, and started asking ‘The great’ British public it’s opinion. Inevitably there was the bloke with the handle bar moustache, tweed jacket, and a copy of ‘Country Life’ under his arm, who came out with the usual “Well, it’s appalling, and basically shows a lack of vocabulary.”……..OH FUCK OFF YOU CUNT!…….No it doesn’t, you enervating, doltish, peremptory twat.

There are times when only a bloody good swear word will do. Like when I just called you a “cunt“. “Silly man” really wouldn’t have cut it would it? People are in no doubt now to my opinion of you. Stephen Fry has said the very same thing, you are going to accuse him of a lack of vocabulary are you? You pompous arse.

I have been seeing a lot of adverts lately for country music compilation albums. They are the adverts that infect brilliant channels like the discovery channels, or Dave before the actual proper programmes start. My God country Music is fucking appalling isn’t it. Don’t get me wrong, being something of a musician myself, I can appreciate the brilliant guitar and fiddle playing involved, but it’s the sickening sentimental crap that makes you want to shoot them with their own Colt 45‘s.

These bloody adverts go on for about twenty bloody minutes. Some big name in the country scene “Ya awlllllll” or other will be sitting on his porch, or standing in front of a roaring fire, as he tells you all about this one hundred cd box set, that contains over four million of your favourite country songs, that isn’t available in the shops. There will then be a compilation of clips of dodgy looking blokes with beards, and awful bloody cowboy hats “Yee Haring” and whittling on about their wives running off with a rodeo stars etc. Or women with ludicrously big, bleached blond hair, telling us all that she loves her man and all that crap, while in the background, some bastard will be playing that bloody God awful slide guitar thing, crying and wailing all over it.

Jesus, do these people not have mirrors in their houses. Fuck me, I am no fashion aficionado, but these people look bloody ridiculous. Sickly sweet, sentimental, moms apple pie, sitting on a porch, good old boys, moonshine swigging, pick up driving, mullet wearing, Billie Jo chasing, double barrelled name owning , arseholes, that think the abolishment of slavery, was the day the world ended!…….

Gasp, come on son…….breath, breath, it’s ok, deep breaths. I am pretty sure that the northern half of America, would very much like to saw off the southern half, and let it float off into oblivion. It must be like the embarrassing retarded younger brother, that they wish they had never had.
The frightening thing is, is that there are people over here that like all this stuff, and have places where they go and pretend they are in Kentucky, or Mississippi. Specialist clubs that cater for their secret perversions, where they can dress as cow people, or whatever the sexually inclusive term for them is! Where they can do illegal dancing, and dress like cow people, take part in illicit activities such as listening to country music, and lassoing one another. We all know one or two don’t we? ;)

I’m off before Wyatt Erp runs me outta town. Just for Welsh girl and me, there will be some more filthy Noddy stories very soon. Goodbye all.

Noddy and Bigears go fishing.......

2009-01-07T23:31:00.000-08:00

It was a lovely sunny day, just perfect for a fishing trip. Noddy loaded all the fishing tackle into the Noddy car, and shouted for Bigears to hurry up. Bigears emerged from the house looking very bleary eyed.
“Oh dear Bigears” said Noddy, “You do look a little tired today.”
“Well I was up till two thirty on sky plus talking to Melinda on Titstation.”
“Oh crumbs, our phone bill is going to be horrendous, it’s a good job the calls are itemised. It will be easy to see who owes what, I only call my mother and my agent.”

Bigears raised his eyebrows and lit his seventh Benson of the day. They both climbed into the Noddy car, and pootled off down the leafy lane on their way to a wonderful days fishing.
“Ah this is the life eh Bigears” said Noddy as he reclined into his deckchair, “The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and here we are, two chaps, just fishing.”
Bigears coughed, “Yes, you are right Noddy, I do enjoy our fishing trips.”

As Noddy and Bigears watched the floats gently bobbing up and down in the river, they heard a familiar chugging in the distance. Even in his less than ideal state, Bigears new exactly what this meant, he sank down lower into his deckchair, and pulled his baseball cap over his face.
“Oh look who it is Bigears,” said Noddy excitedly.

A look of slight panic, but also of annoying inevitability climbed over Bigears’s face.
“Pretend you haven’t seen them…….PRETEND YOU HAVEN’T SEEN TH………”
“Hello guys” said Noddy as he jumped up from his deckchair.
“Too late…….you fucking twat” spat Bigears.
“Look Bigears, it’s the Famous Five.”
“Hello chaps” said Julian as he stood with a manly stance on the deck of the boat, “How the devil are you both today?”
“I’m fine Julian” said Noddy, “Bigears is not at his best, he has been up half the night masturbating, I’ve told him he will need glasses in later life, but you know Bigears.”
Anne and George covered their mouths with their hands and giggled, as Bigears looked at Noddy in disbelief.
“I say Bigears, do you prefer Titstation, or Mingehunt” said Dick, “ I am a Mingehunt man myself, I find the ladies on Titstation just a little common.”
Bigears sank even lower into his deckchair, and mumbled something through a cough as Anne and George reddened in the face slightly.

“I say, have either of you chaps heard of any damsels that need rescuing, or of any dastardly plans that need scuppering?” Said Julian.
“Afraid not old bean” said Noddy, “We are just having a quiet days fishing.”
“Trying to” said Bigears under his breath as Noddy shot him a look.
“Oh bugger” said Julian, “Oh well, if you hear of anything, text me will you. Incidentally, have I shown you my new Nokia ZS 69X-101 handset?”
“Oh come on Julian” said Anne, “There isn’t anybody you haven’t shown it to.”
The rest of the Famous Five laughed, and playfully punched Julian on the arm.
“Oh well, we must be off. Fair maidens to release from the clutches of evil pirates and such the like. Toodalpip.”

With that, they chugged off down the river, singing “What shall we do with the drunken sailor”.
“Thank fuck they have gone” said Bigears.
“Oh really Bigears, you can be such a dreadful grump sometimes,” said Noddy, “What could you possibly have against the Famous Five?”
“I’ll tell you what shall I…….they are a bunch of jumped up, goody two shoes, middle class, toffee nosed little tossers, that’s what.”

“Oh really Bigears, they do a lot of excellent work. You seem to forget how many times they have been rewarded by being the winners of the ‘National children’s fictional characters award’ “
“Forget, how the hell could I forget? They win it every bloody year. It’s getting ridiculous, as the announcer starts, we all know who the winners are going to be…….The winners of ‘National children’s fictional characters of the year’ goes to…….The Famous fucking five.”
“Bigears you do exaggerate.”
“No, when was the last time you can remember them not winning it. It was the same when the Scooby doo lot kept bagging it a few years back. All cause they had a van, and that twat dog that kept solving mysteries, purely by chance I might add, it’s just not fair.”
“Bigears, I think you’re maybe just a little jealous” said Noddy.
“Not at all, all I am saying is, not only is it not fair that they keep winning it, when there are other just as worthy candidates, but it’s starting to cause trouble. It was kicking off last year, don’t you remember?”
“Not really.”
“Yes you do, When their names were announced again, Small skirmishes started to break out. The Clangers were up in arms. Security had to be called. Of course, none of them could speak the language, so things were getting nasty. Thank God Sooty was there to calm the situation, thankfully he speaks fluent Clanger, and managed to appease them with several bottles of Smirnoff Ice. Something has got to be done about it, that’s all I’m saying.”
Noddy glanced at him and tutted.

“Anyway, I’ll leave it there…….apart from I’m not overly sure they should be giving out awards on such a regular basis to Lesbians.”
“WHAT……. Lesbians, awards, what on earth are you talking about?” exclaimed Noddy.
“George that fat girl with a blokes name from the bloody Famous Five, quite clearly a lesbian.”
“How on earth do you come to that ridiculous conclusion?”
“Oh come on, she’s more butch than Julian and Dick put together.”
Noddy turned to Bigears and sighed. “I agree that she is what you might call, a sturdy girl, but that in no way means she is a lesbian. Anyway, even if she is, we all live in the twenty first century now Bigears, apart from you, and sexual diversity is a thing to be embraced and celebrated, not ridiculed and condemned.”
“Well call me old fashioned…….”
“I do frequently” interrupted Noddy.
“Call me old fashioned, and let me just say I’ve got nothing against lifters and lip lickers, but I think it should be kept in the privacy of their own bedrooms or whatever, not paraded around at awards ceremonies.”
“For God’s sake Bigears, I don’t understand how your mind works sometimes.”
“While we are on the subject…….”
“I wasn’t aware that we were.” retorted Noddy.
“You know who else bats for the wrong side don’t you.”
“No, but I am absolutely positive that I will do within the next ten seconds.”
“Hong Kong Phooey.”
Noddy almost choked on his jam sandwich “Does he, and how pray tell has one come by this staggering piece of information?”
“Do you walk around with your eyes closed Noddy?” said Bigears, “Just his name is gay, I mean Hong Kong Bloody Phooey .”

Noddy was losing the will to live, and shook his head.
“You have got to admit, it’s all a bit suspect isn’t it? The way he runs around in public with just that short little dressing gown on, and that silly little mask.”
“Ooh I meant to talk to you about that,” Noddy interrupted, “You know how he thinks that nobody knows who he is…….”
“Henry, the mild mannered janitor…….”
“Yes, well if you see him, don’t whatever you do let on that we know, that he doesn’t know, that we know who he is!, I was talking to Wilma Flintstone in the laundrette the other day, and apparently he has started to suspect that some people know his identity, apparently he is very sensitive about it.”
“Sensitive, there you go…GAY.”

Noddy slumped down into his deckchair, and went back to staring at his float. “I don’t want to hear another word about award ceremonies, homosexuality, or anything else. Lets just get back to what’s left of our fishing trip.”
Bigears stuck his tongue out at Noddy, and lit another Benson.

After ten minutes or so of a slightly frosty silence, Noddy and Bigears couldn’t help hearing a rustling coming from the bushes some way behind them. This was followed by a woman’s voice.
“Ooh, what are you going to do with that you filthy brute?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know” they heard a man’s voice reply.
Noddy and Bigears looked at each other, and then craned their necks a little closer to the bush.
“Ooooh, I can’t believe you’re going to put it in there,” said the woman.
“I’ll put it where I like, you dirty little minx,” replied the man.
“Ooooh it’s big, I’m not sure I can take such a big one.”
“You’ll take it and like it,” replied the man.
Noddy sprang to his feet knocking over his deckchair. “Quick Bigears, there is a damsel in need of assistance, I’m going to phone the Famous Five.”
Bigears tried to calm Noddy down.

“Don’t just sit there Bigears, do something. Oh damn and blast, I can’t get a bloody signal, bloody T-Mobile…….ps. Sorry Lord for swearing.”
Bigears carried on trying to calm Noddy.
“It’s no good, I can’t get hold of them, we are going to have to save her Bigears.”
Bigears choked on his jam sandwich, and spluttered “Noddy listen…….”
“Cover me Bigears, I am going in”
“NODDY…….shut up and sit down,” shouted Bigears. “Nobody is going in anywhere, because nobody needs saving.”
“But the fair maiden, she…….”
“She is not a fair maiden, nobody is getting hurt, nobody needs rescuing, it’s just a couple of doggers.”
“Doggers, what the hell are doggers?” said Noddy looking very puzzled.
“Oh Jesus Christ” said Bigears, “Sit down, this may come as a bit of a shock to you.
Bigears picked up Noddy’s chair, and plonked him down into it.

“Doggers are people who like to have sexual experiences outdoors, more often than not with complete strangers. This is a well known dogging spot, didn’t you know?”

“Oh yuk…….oh yuk oh yuk oh yuk oh yuk oh yuk. I can’t believe it Bigears. You mean mummies and daddies, who obviously love each other very much, do mummy and daddy bedtime things with other mummies and daddies…….OUTDOORS?”
“Er yes, kind of I suppose” said Bigears as he brushed the hair away from Noddy’s face. “Are you ok?”
“Whatever next? What is the world coming to Bigears? It’s leaving me behind.” Noddy sat staring at his float without blinking.
Bigears got up from his chair.
“Where are you going Bigears?” said Noddy without taking his eyes off of the float.
“I’m er, just er, going to get some more Bensons, see you in about half an hour.”

Noddy sat motionless, staring at the water as the sun started to set over the horizon. What had happened to his world? Why couldn’t things just stay the same? Where had all the innocent adventures gone? Sunny days of just fishing. Driving down leafy lanes, and tooting the horn at Pat the postman. Shouting hello to Windy Miller, and running through honey coloured corn fields. It was all there in his head, but when he opened his eyes, it was different.
“My word Mr Big Ears, look at the size of those!” The lady screamed from the bushes.
Noddy squeezed his eyes shut tight, and turned up his ipod.

Father time has bitten my bum!.......

2008-12-30T01:20:00.000-08:00

It’s official. I have been officially diagnosed with ‘old age’. How did I arrive at this fait accompli? I have come to the stunning realisation that I now suffer from one of the many curses of the aged, I can genuinely no longer understand African Americans!

As I am sure I have mentioned in previous blogs, I unfortunately, and regrettably suffer from the odd bout of depression. The symptoms of which consist of a number of elements:- lethargy, de-motivation, slight paranoia, feelings of hopelessness, lack of energy, and undoubtedly the worst of the bunch, rapid, and unpredictable mood swings.

Now those that know me, will no doubt by now be falling off of their chairs, and proclaiming with a hefty dose of sarcasm, that I must suffer from depression 24/7! To all of you, yes I know it can appear that way, but there is the everyday grumpiness, and then there is the real McCoy.

It is the mood swings that I find so alarming, this hints at the condition known as ‘Bipolarity’ or bipolar. In the good old days this was called manic depression, basically big ups, and crushing downs, but progress being what it is, nothing is allowed to stay the same, so it’s now known as bipolarity.

I realise that ever since Stephen Fry “came out” and announced he was a sufferer of this affliction, the whole world has gone bipolar mad. Quite frankly you are nobody these days "Darling" if you are not bipolar, throw in a food intolerance as well, and you have the full gamut. I however, am not a feckless celebrity who solicits attention by feigning the latest mental disorder, or a footballer, who uses it to try to excuse his violence in nightclubs, I do seem to get it for real. Thankfully, it only seems to be mild, and not the massive swings that some sufferers endure. Never the less, it can be most unpleasant for all concerned.

The latest ‘bipolar incident’ occurred just last night, whilst trying to stir fry some noodles in fact. The bastard things kept sticking to the wok (culinary tips greatly received) This would usually cause some annoyance, but would normally only manifest it’s self as ‘tutting’ or scowling, but as I am suffering from the “Black dog” as Sir Winston Churchill called it, the result was a broken wooden spoon, an evening of silence, and a very close brush with divorce! This may sound amusing, but trust me…….it wasn’t.

I have gone off track a little, back to the old age. Yes, the way I discovered that I am old was thus. As I mentioned, one of the other symptoms of depression is a seemingly complete lack of motivation. This usually results in spending brain rotting amounts of time in front of the television. This practice has been made even easier lately, due to the acquisition of ‘Sky Plus’.

This morning thus far, I have watched ‘Superships’ - ‘Airwolf’ - ‘Thunderbirds’ and last but by no means least…….’Ricky Lake’ I’m not proud of it, and quite frankly I feel dirty. The same sort of feeling that you get post, wanking over a wheelchair bound, fourteen year old girl dressed as a nun on the internet! …….That one even made me wince! and let me assure you, that was a joke, and in no way would I ever use nuns for masturbatory purposes!

Phew, did I get away with that one? If I am dragged from my house by the local constabulary with my computer in a plastic bag, then I will have to join Messrs Ross and brand in the icy cold tundra that is “Too far land”! Anyway back to the relative safety of Ricky.

Yes we had the usual suspects, an African American woman, who I found out only after putting the subtitles feature on, was annoyed with her husband for a careless bout of adultery. Pre subtitles it went something like this…….

“Yo dog, yo bin messin’ wit dat two bit ho. Why yoo doo dat, why yoo doo dat?”
It was at this point that I pondered, does your average African American have the memory capacity of a goldfish? They do seem to feel the need to repeat themselves. She went on…….
“Why yoo wanna ride dat fat old asssss, when yo can be wit yor old laydeeeee. Dats a booty bitch, dats a booty.”

She proceeded to shake her posterior at her husband, who was doing that flicking his fingers thing, and laughing. This was a very hazardous exercise, considering the amount of bling he was adorned with. Any piece of that could have shot off at any given moment, and taken someone’s eye out. I am surprised that health and safety allows this practice to continue. She went on…….

“Yo gotta kick dat mudda to da cerb homey, I’m telling’ ya, yo ain’t getting’ back in ma bed still stinkin’ o dat fat assessed bitch.”
At this point in the proceedings, the crowd inexplicably turned on her, and started chanting something or other, to which she retorted with the timeless classic…….
“You don’t know me, you don’t know me”……..Thirty seven times!

It was at this juncture, that I realised that I had joined the legions of old people that inhabit sofas up and down the land saying…….
“What did he say, what did he say?”…….

Boxing day blues.......

2008-12-26T14:27:00.000-08:00

My God i hate Boxing day. What an utterly bloody pointless day it is. It's a nothing day, nothing happens, nothing nothing nothing. So how was your Christmas?.......mine, oh thanks for asking. It was dull. I suppose that is a terrible thing to say really, seeing as we spent it round the outlaws, but hey it's the truth.

Why can't Christmas be like the front of a Christmas card? All snow and open fires, sing songs around the piano, smiles, hope, wonder, excitement. But no it's not is it, it's BORING!. That is my problem with Christmas, you see everybody thinks that i am a miserable git, and that i hate Christmas, well i suppose i am, and i do, but it's more than that. Christmas should be either like the front of a Christmas card, or not at bloody all.

It's that middle ground that the vast majority of us have to fall into that i so despise. That sitting there with a paper hat on, listening to some relative, that you wish you hadn't got, drone on about fuck all. Opening presents that you don't want. It's happened again. Yes the Christmas classic has struck home once more. I received a t-shirt that is at least two sizes too small, and i wouldn't wear if i was a downtown L.A. pimp.

Oh you shouldn't be so ungrateful Andy blah blah blah. I'm not being ungrateful, but i would rather they gave the money straight to charity or something, instead of getting me involved as some sort of reluctant middle man. The bloody thing will end up in a charity shop anyway, BUY IT, AND TAKE IT STRAIGHT THERE!

So here i sit, staring at the monitor with tired eyes, letting it all out. Shall i get a can of beer, i think i will, hang on.......

I'm back. I have had to undo my trousers due to the extreme expansion that has taken place. Yesterdays brussell sprouts are still depleting the ozone, and my gorgeous little girl cat is walking all over the keyboard, so blame her for the typo's, not me.

Why the bloody hell is there such a fuss made about the Christmas dinner? People panicking about turkeys, and fannying about worrying about this and that. For Christ's sake, it's the same fucking meal that most people have most Sundays, but all because it's Christmas, people fret about it. I suppose in days of old, a roast dinner was something special, and hence this was why they had it on Christmas day, but today it's run of the mill, so why don't we have something outlandish? Lets have a Lobster, or Romanian hog's penis. Roasted Golden Eagle on a bed of Nun's Hymens, or boa constrictor with flaked gold or something.......sigh, swig.

I just want to be left alone. Everybody just go away, and let me sit in my pants that i have had on since Dec 10th, and wallow in a pit of Vesta curries, the discovery channel (or dave), computer games, and violent self abuse.

Now of course we are on the slippery slope to New years eve. Without doubt.......swig.......the worst night of the bloody year. Forced fun, that's what it is isn't it, forced fun. I don't really feel like going out tonight thanks, i am feeling a little quiet and reflective, and would rather stay in and get an early night. You can't do that everybody tells you, you have got to be jam packed in a pub (That you have paid to get into , although the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, entry is free) and pour hideous amounts of alcohol down your neck, until you reach twelve o'clock. Then stand in a circle and jump around a bit waving your arms up and down, miming the words to a song that you really should know by now, and shaking hands with people that normally get right on your fucking tits.......sigh, swig

Again, if it was a party to end all parties, then take me there baby, i'm first in the queue. If it was full of dancing girls, and water slides, whooshing around on jet packs, and jamming on stage with the Rolling Stones. Psychodelic trampolines, fireworks, juggling dwarfs, paint ball, foam and water fights, then bloody well let me in! But it never is. Just like everything else, it's another anti-climax. It would be standing listening to some bastard telling me his opinion on everything from the answer to the credit crunch, to the pit falls of Chelsea's back four.......FUCK OFF! .......swig

Christ i could almost start smoking again, i could go a fag right now, but that's another avenue of pleasure barricaded off.......swig.......Well i suppose i'd better go and see what program Miss Marple has fallen asleep infront of, but before i do that, sod it, i am going to go on ebay, and see what i can get for my recently acquired 8 stone pimps t-shirt, my '1001 things to cook with turmeric' book. My 'Garfield' pants, 'Balltic Stalion aftershave', and personalised chamois leather gift set.......Big swig.......

Roll on normality! Lots of love Andy x

Kids stuff.......

2008-12-23T10:53:00.000-08:00

Hello all. My last blog contained quite a lot of stuff relating to my place of work, and so it was printed out, and banded around the place. One colleague, after reading it, remarked that “I certainly couldn’t write anything for children.” I took from this that they meant the fairly frequent use of foul language, and sexual references etc, meant that I was an unsuitable candidate for the author of ‘Children’s book of the year award’

I have of course seen this as a challenge. So coming up are some new adventures for well known characters from children’s fiction. I am pretty certain that this is incredibly litigious, and infringes numerous copyright laws blah blah blah, but quite frankly…….bollocks.
So here we go…….

Noddy was driving along the lane towards the house he shared with Bigears. It was a lovely summers day, and Noddy whistled a chirpy little tune as he drove his little Noddy car along the leafy lane through the lovely warm sunshine. Noddy was feeling especially excited today, due to the fact that he was having ‘Sky television’ installed. Noddy arrived home just as the Sky man was leaving.

“Hello Mr sky man” said Noddy.
“Hello Noddy” said the sky man, “All installed and working tickatee boo. I have left Bigears trying it out.”
“Thank you Mr Sky man” said Noddy, and he raced towards the front door, and excitedly ran indoors.

“BIGEARS!” exclaimed Noddy, “I can’t believe that you are doing that, when there are all manner of educational and informative programs throughout the full range of the nine hundred plus sky channels. ”
“Yes, sorry about the Noddy, but I just couldn’t resist cracking one out, I mean, just look at the top bollocks on that.”
“Well I agree that the young lady does have a fine set of mummy bags, but really Bigears, is that really necessary?”
“Look, there has been a bit of a drought in the lady department lately, needs must, you know.”
“No quite frankly Bigears, I don’t know. I am a children’s character, and therefore completely asexual. Anyway your tea will soon be ready, so hurry up, and…….” Noddy winced slightly, and strode off to the kitchen, wishing he hadn’t left his Noddy hat in such close proximity to Bigears. He remembered the last similar occasion, where he thought he had over starched his hat, but to his horror discovered at a later date, that it wasn’t his starching that was at fault!

“What is for tea Noddy?” shouted Bigears
“Jam sandwiches.”
“Yum yum” said Bigears.
“That’s better” said Bigears, “Better out than in, that’s what I say.”
Noddy Put on his marigolds, hastily fashioned face mask, and protective goggles, and picked up his Noddy hat with a set of BBQ tongs. “I would prefer it if you didn’t use my Noddy hat for sanitation purposes in future Bigears, Thank you.”
Bigears looked a little sheepish and said, “Yes sorry about that Noddy, it’s the first thing that came to hand, now, lets have some scrummy jam sandwiches.”

Noddy and Bigears settled down in front of their 42” plasma, and munched away while watching a very interesting documentary about Swedish lesbian serial killers on the discovery channel.
Soon it was time for bed.
“I’m off to bed now Bigears” said Noddy “I have got a very busy day tomorrow. I am meeting Paddington bear in town for tea and scones.”
“Oh not fucking Paddington, I can’t stand that cunt” replied Bigears. “It’s marmalade sandwiches this, marmalade sandwiches that, have I told you about Peru blah blah blah, just don’t bring him back here alright, especially as I have got Bagpuss coming round, and just between you and me, I am planning to get off with her.”
“Her……Bigears, you do know that Bagpuss is a…….” Noddy stopped mid sentence, and raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. “Night night Bigears.”
“Night night Noddy.”
Noddy toddled off to bed, and stared out of his bedroom window. He gazed at the twinkling stars, and wondered what tomorrow would bring, and more importantly, if Bigears would discover that he was barking up the wrong tree!”

“Cockadoodle doo…….” Crowed cocky the cockerel from cock and bulls farm.
Noddy opened his little Noddy eyes, and stretched and yawned. He washed his face and cleaned his teeth, and skipped down the stairs, to make some toast for his breakfast.
“Oh dear Bigears, did you fall asleep in front of the television?” asked Noddy.
Bigears opened one eye, and lifted his head from the pool of dribble on the sofa. He grunted a reply, and then with some dismay, looked down and discovered that he had spilt his tin of ‘special tobacco’ all over the floor.
“Oh dear, you haven’t been smoking again have you Bigears? I have told you that it’s bad for you.” said Noddy.
Bigears closed his eyes, and laid his weary head back down into the pool of dribble, and started to snore.

Noddy gobbled up all of his yummy toast, and shouted goodbye to Bigears as he raced out of the door. He got in his Noddy car, and scooted down the road to meet up with Paddington.
Noddy parked his Noddy car in the very reasonably priced multi-storey car park, and went to find his good friend Paddington. He saw Paddington across the street and waved.
“I’ve been fucking clamped.”

“Oh dear Paddington” said Noddy, “I wasn’t even aware that you had passed your test.”
Well, I haven’t officially, but never the less, clamped. Can you fucking believe it?”
Paddington had changed a little since Noddy had last seen him. He was fairly “Blinged up” these days, and he had got a tattoo. Noddy looked closer, and could see it said “Windsor gardens crew” He had obviously fallen in with the wrong crowd, he would have to keep an eye on him.
“Would you like some tea and scones Paddington?” asked Noddy.

“Tea and scones, tea and scones are for woosies, lets go to the pub,” barked Paddington.
Noddy had never been in a pub before, and so with a little trepidation, he followed Paddington into the ‘Fog and duck’
“What you ‘avin geezer?” asked Paddington.
Paddington was talking in a funny way these days Noddy thought to himself, and answered “A diet coke with ice and lemon please.”
“Diet fucking coke…….what are you, some kinda batty boy? You will have a pint and be done with it.” Paddington ordered two pints of ‘Bishop’s ball breaker’ and pushed Noddy towards a table by the gents.

“So, how are you keeping Paddington my old chum.” said Noddy.
“Well can’t complain really I suppose,” said Paddington. “I’m still dossing down with the Brown’s, but quite frankly, I think I’m out growing them. There’s more to life than fucking marmalade sandwiches, and trips to the park. I want more, I want women, and parties, speed, motorbikes, you know how it is Noddo me old china.”

Noddy looked perplexed, he rarely understood a word that Paddington was saying these days, and anyhow, what was so wrong with marmalade sandwiches, and tales of daring do in the park. The world around him was changing, and changing for the worst as far as he was concerned.
Noddy took a tentative sip of his pint…….

Noddy had never been in a police cell before, and he didn’t like it at all. The bed was very hard, and the walls were very bare, except for some writing. It said things about other peoples mothers and sisters, stuff Noddy didn’t understand at all. On top of that, the whole room smelt of other peoples wee. Noddy had the worst headache he had ever had. He had no idea how he got here, and was very frightened. The little window on the door slid open, and a gruff voiced policeman said, “Right piss head, you can go.”
“Thank you Mr policeman, tell me, where is my friend Paddington?”
“He is helping us with our enquiries, now if you know what’s good for you, you'll piss off.”

Noddy ran and ran and ran, until his little lungs were bursting. He drove home down the leafy lane, but for some reason the sun was not quite so shiny today, and the leafy lane wasn’t quite as leafy. Noddy arrived home, and Bigears was sitting on the garden swing.
“Hello Bigears, how are you.”
Bigears looked glum, and without looking up just said, “She…….he is a boy. Bagpuss is a boy.”
Noddy sighed and sat next to Bigears. “I did try to tell you Bigears, but you wouldn’t listen. Are you ok?”
“I suppose so” said Bigears. “Do you know the worst part about it?”
“what‘s that” said Noddy.
“Well, I think I might be bi-curious. It wasn’t all that bad. I mean I know she…….he hasn’t got a front bottom and everything, but there are other things you can do. For example…….”
“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT,” shouted Noddy as he ran indoors with his fingers in his ears, la la laring. Noddy watched Bigears as he gingerly got up from the swing, and walked with a bandy gait into the house.

“Tomorrow is another day Bigears. Who knows what will happen tomorrow.”
Noddy and Bigears turned out their nightlights, and pressed their faces into the cosy pillows. The stars up in the sky twinkled, and an owl hooted. What adventures lay in store for Noddy and Bigears tomorrow children, Shall we find out soon? Night night Bigears. Night night Noddy.

They were right you know, I think I have to admit defeat, perhaps the kids stuff is not for me!…….

You can call me Al.......

2008-12-08T11:09:00.000-08:00

I am falling apart at the seams. I am forty one, but most of the time (Don’t kid yourself)…….ok, all of the time, I feel like ninety one. What has happened? Have the early years of Burgers, beer, cigarettes, and dare I say it, a light dabbling in the recreational drug scene, really taken this much toll on my body?

I suppose it doesn’t help that I am overweight. Weight is one of those funny things that creeps up on you. The two or three stones heavier that I am now, as apposed to when I was, twenty-five say, have sneaked on. I think of fat molecules as like commandos, or the SAS, it’s not a full on frontal assault, more an under the cover of darkness, camouflaged pincer movement. Have the saturated fats from a burger that I ate in 1992, really been lying dormant in their fox hole for all this time? Just waiting for the right moment to strike. "Alright lads, he’s looking the other way…….wait for it, wait for it (or should that be weight for it, weight for it!) Standby…….GO GO GO!.......sigh.

Although I am no where near gargantuan or even dart player status, I do still have to psyche myself up when it comes to doing the old shoe laces up. When you have got a couple of extra stones knocking around, you can’t just lunge down and go for it you know, no it takes a bit of planning. Do I bend down to tie them? risking the rosy cheeks and spinning head hellishness, or place the foot onto something.

It’s a tricky one. Both methods can end in tears. If one spends too long bending down to tie the laces, in a valiant, but ultimately vain effort to "ride out" the dizziness, it can lead to a semi conscious state, and then a gentle but ungainly roll forward, until the forehead is resting on the ground, leaving you in a semi feotal position. This state can normally only be recovered from, by a swift kick from an embarrassed spouse, which tips you over onto your side, and you gently rock backwards and forwards, not unlike a spinning coin coming to rest, until consciousness is regained.

Alternatively, the raising of the foot is just as perilous. One can raise one leg and successfully tie the lace, but that’s only the half of it. This is the time that the knee usually locks, and one is left balancing precariously on one leg. The options are thus; hopping up and down until the raised leg releases itself, or biting the bullet and volunteering for the ungracious Del boyesque sideways crash to the floor.

Hopping about is not a recommended activity for any forty one year old, overweight or otherwise, but probably preferable to a dislocated shoulder, and having to desperately try to convince the A&E staff that you were not pissed.

My body seems to be racked with all sorts of aches and pains now. Dodgy knees that take it in turns to "Play up," to sciatica, which results in me waddling about like some sort of bandy constipated duck.

The hearing certainly isn’t what it used to be, and my spectacle lenses seem to become thicker every time I visit the opticians. Instead of diving into a tin of quality street, and munching down on one of those round toffees in the gold wrappers with gay abandon, I now have to be much more cautious. These days, it is all about weighing up how much I fancy one, against weather I can be arsed to spend the evening at the emergency dentists.

Of course it is not just the physical side of things that starts to slide, mental abilities start to take a bashing as well. It is getting beyond a joke the number of times I have gone to the fridge recently, and after opening the door, have absolutely no idea what I went there for. The other day I went to the fridge, opened the door, and wasn’t totally sure what the fridge was for.

I can’t remember where I’ve left any bloody thing either. The other day I took my phone out of my pocket, and placed it on my desk. Went to the fridge to forget what I went there for, and then went back upstairs. In this short length of time, I couldn’t remember where my phone was.

Miss Marple obviously immediately got the blame, or one of the dogs must have eaten it. "I know" I thought, "I will ring it, and follow the sound…….What’s the bloody number? …….shit." The only number I could remember was our landline (The one I was dialing form) so in desperation I phoned that."Bollocks it’s engaged, what bastard is ringing me at this time? Fancy ringing me when I can’t find my phone." And so it goes on and on and on.

The upshot of all this, is that Miss Marple and myself will be embarking on a healthy eating, and get fit campaign next year. Needless to say this has been attempted a million times before, resulting in varying degrees of hopelessness. Monday is normally good, or as we now call it…….

Must succeed Monday.
We are enthusiastic, "This is the new me" and all that bollocks, starving but determined. This is followed by…….

Trying hard Tuesday.
Really hungry, but still hanging in there. Might even attempt a sit up. Then we have…….

Weak willed Wednesday.
"Fucking hell I’m hungry" Start hallucinating, think I can smell chips frying all the time, stuff like that. Onto…….

Tearful Thursday.
Mild sobbing, and irritation ensue, as things start to get really tough. Minor arguments may occur, usually when Miss Marple or myself accuse the other of having one more pea than the other one, or "Bollocks to the sit ups, it’s all a waste of time anyway." May very well be heard. This is followed by…….

Oh fuck it Friday.
All resistance is broken, enthusiasm has been drained, and will power depleted. Sit ups are but a distant memory, and the only exercise taking place, is the clamour to the phone to call the take away. Gorging ensues. Sadly onto…….

Self loathing Saturday.
"What have I done?"…….Yes it’s all turned to shit. Another attempt at bettering one’s self has ended in ruins. The Davina Macall fitness video is on ebay, and the size 32" jeans are nothing but a pipe dream…….

So what Sunday.
"Hey, I’m not that fat, in fact in the right light, I’m sure you can almost see muscle definition lines on my stomach, if I suck it in a bit." Yes the self deluding process has begun. "I know these jeans are a 36, but look, they’re quite baggy really." Oh dear. "It’s not the right time, you have got to want to do it." Anymore?....... "Women in general prefer the heavier boned man." And on and on and on…….

Before I go, may I just share with you a few examples of how the aging process has "Done me up like a kipper" in recent weeks. It might not make for pretty reading, but let this be a lesson to all youngsters out there who may be reading this. Take head my young padawans, take good care of your minds and your bodies, for if thou doesn’t, they WILL let you down in the future!

In the gents toilets at work, the urinal had become blocked. Hence it became unusable. I was tasked with making a sign, to inform potential urinators of this problem, and to instruct them to use the cubicle instead. Due to the fact that the buffoons that have got the maintenance contract at work are beyond useless, what should have taken half an hour to rectify, dragged on for weeks.

In I go one day to pass water, and as I am doing thus, whilst staring at the sign THAT I HAD MADE, it very rapidly occured to me, that there is a dampness in the foot area. Now either I had forgotten to release my penis from my trousers before starting the urination process, or as I am beginning to suspect, I have not taken head of my own handiwork.

Yes, my old friend Al Zheimers had struck again. My pee was cascading all over the floor, via the broken U-bend. Have you any idea what a feeling of sheer and utter helplessness that is? I can’t stop mid flow, it’s either carry on, or attempt a quick spin and dash to the cubicle. I was praying to the heavens that an unsuspecting colleague would not enter at that moment, and catch me, in the midst of whichever decision I had made. I mean, how does one explain either situation? Trying to explain why one is peeing down what is clearly an unserviceable urinal is hard enough, let alone trying to explain why one is sprinting across the toilets, mid pee!

I chose the former, and then had to quickly mop up as best I could…….sigh.

If I haven’t already ostricised myself at work, here is example number two, to really put the icing on the cake.

Quite rightly we take it in turns to make the tea at tea breaks. I thought I had got away with not making it for long enough, and so sauntered into our little tea room one morning. All of us drink tea, apart from one of my colleagues who drinks coffee. Now don’t ask me why I do this, but when making coffee with milk, I like to shake the milk before pouring it into the cup, so it goes frothy, like a proper cappuccino type thing. Yes I know it’s the sort of thing that a twelve year old would do, but there you go.

So, I pour the milk into the teas, and then give the milk (A four pinter) a hefty shake. Now it’s at this point that I very quickly realized, that I had failed to adhere to my usual routine, of reacquainting the lid with the bottle first! To say I was covered from head to toe would be an understatement. I don’t know if you have seen either of the first two ‘Alien’ films, but there is a scene in both, where a synthetic person (robot/android thing) is cut up, and the whole place is covered in white stuff, including the android. Well that was the scene. Again more hurried cleaning was in order, and I just hoped that nobody noticed that I appeared to have been standing out in the rain, or that I smelt like a dairy!.
Well that’s all the time we have left for today, so this is Frazier Crane wishing you a very good day, and good mental health…….sigh.

That was the month that was.......

2008-12-08T10:44:00.000-08:00

Good evening/morning/afternoon or whatever, depending on what part of the globe you are currently presiding in. I have to do this due to the fact that my readership is such an international affair…….oh alright, some bloke in South Korea got drunk, and stumbled upon my blog by accident, and then had to have counselling, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll pretend that I am globally adored, thank you!

So, talking of the globe, what has been happening in this crazy old world of ours eh? Well I suppose the biggest news of the recent weeks, is that one of the ’Detroit spinners’ is now the president! My anus actually clenched slightly as a tapped that bit out, due to the fact that that could so easily be misconstrued as being racist. It is of course not racist, but Guardian readers would very much like it to be.

Why can’t a Caucasian person make a joke about someone who is of a different racial background to themselves, without being condemned as being a white sheet wearing, cross burning, ‘Jerry Springer show’ frequenting bigot? It is quite ludicrous. We all have to tip toe around each other, apologising for potentially being unintentionally a little bit racist, lets all relax about it, and not let the Guardian readers bully us into submission.

Anyway, he is not black at all is he. He is of mixed race. It’s funny how he is most definitely black now that he has won. If he had lost, he would probably have been of mixed race, and probably mostly white! Don’t get me wrong, I think he is definitely the best choice of the two candidates, and even cynical old me was becoming carried away on the sea of euphoria. It’s just a shame that even though he is now bordering on Messiah status, inevitably in a years time when nothing has changed, he will be deemed to be a wanker like all other politicians. Sad but true.

Thank God John McCain didn’t win. Not that I had anything against him or his policies particularly (barring Sarah Palin of course, Jesus she is frightening), no, but could the leader of the free world really be a man with arms that short? Did you see them? My God they were short. It was like he couldn’t be bothered with forearms, and just stuck his hands directly on to his elbows.

He didn’t help himself by keep flapping them about when he was speaking. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I have know idea what he was talking about, as all I could think, was that he looked like an uncharismatic penguin in a suit, squawking and flapping away…….”Stand up, stand up and fight”…….fight, I thought to myself, you would be in trouble trying to land a right hook with such miniscule arms mate.

I did to some extent enjoy watching the coverage of the election, and the build up etc. It was a shining example of what seems to be the two extremes of America. Americans seem to fall into two distinct camps. Intelligent, quick witted, creative, productive etc etc on the one hand, and on the other, people who as Jeremy Clarkson put it, will insist on mating with vegetables!

Dear God there are some lonely brain cells rattling around in vast hanger like heads over that side of the pond aren’t there? I saw one bloke from way down in Dixieheadville, or where ever the bloody hell he came from, looking like something from the ‘Duke’s of Hazard’ Saying something like…….”Of course that Obama guy, he’s a socialist, in fact I think he is actually a communist.” He then spat a wad of chewing tobacco into an empty metal bucket, and went off to procreate with his sister, or a marrow if she....... “Had the decorators in”!

In the other camp, I witnessed some McCain fans standing in the street in a circle, hands raised to the heavens, proclaiming that “The good Lord will perform a miracle, and make McCain win.” Of course the miracle was not forthcoming. Even “The good Lord” knows a dead horse when he sees one.

Lets move on, what else caught my eye? Well a woman has divorced her husband, for having a virtual affair, in a virtual world. Yes a couple who spent far too much time in an internet game world called ’Second life’ have gone their separate ways, because she caught him “canoodeling” with a woman made of pixels, on a sofa made of pixels, in a pretend place…….yep, you guessed it, made of pixels! You just couldn’t make this stuff up. There was a picture of the couple in the paper, and boy did they look like you would expect them to! They didn’t disappoint. Not only did he look like the winner of ’Internet nerd 2008’, but I swear he was only six months away from fully fledged membership to the serial killers guild!

Things I am unwittingly paying for this week
Apart from owning most of the banks (But never seeing a penny for it) I am now paying for flip flops that I will never wear.
Yes some police force, I can’t remember where exactly, have decided that I should fork out for thousands of pairs of flip flops, for pissed up bints when they leave night clubs! Apparently when young ladies leave night clubs, they find it painful to walk home if they are wearing six inch heals. It might also have something to do with trying to balance on six inch heals after consuming an unwanted pregnancy inducing twenty-two bottles of ‘Smirnoff ice’ as well, but that seems to have been brushed over.

So ‘PC twat’ has decided that issuing them with a nice comfy pair of flip flops will make their life a lot easier. Why stop there, I don’t think it would be unreasonable to ask me to cough up for a doner kebab as well. As we all know, alcohol reduces blood sugar levels, and therefore tricks your body into thinking it’s hungry, so the doner kebab could therefore be classed as a medical requirement, and so in the interests of public safety, should be paid for by the public…….or ME again.

Fuck it, lets not mess about, lets not do a half hearted job, I tell you what ‘PC cock for a brain’, I’ll remortgage the house, and at great expense to myself will undertake driving lessons, and learn to drive a bus. I will then prostitute myself to be able to raise enough money (Why not ‘PC Wet lettuce’, you seem to be fucking me up the arse already anyway), to buy a big shiny double decker. I will then drive them all home personally, and even cook them a full English in the morning, I can’t say fairer than that can I?

One of the reasons for there being a month between blogs, is that my Victorian PC broke down. There is also the fact that I just couldn’t be arsed lately, but don’t tell anyone that. Yes my five year old computer finally whirred to a halt, and exuded a little puff of smoke as its terminal breath.

When Miss Marple and I wandered into ‘PC World’ all those moons ago, as well as getting the shiny new computer, we were persuaded/hoodwinked/forced/cajoled/ into taking out one of those supa dupa extended warranty things. You know, those bloody things that they try to push on you with everything these days. Pay seventeen quid for a toaster, and twenty-five for a five year warranty, madness. Anyway, for once it came good. Yes, three months before the warranty thing was up, it dies. The right way round for the first time in forty one years.

So off we go to take it back to ‘PC World’. Well as the fork lift truck that I had hired, slowly inched its way towards the doors, the sun was temporarily blocked out by the tower block sized behemoth that is my computer. Things have come along way in five years (apparently), and our arrival was met by shouts of “Where do you put the coal in Grandad”, and “The antiques roadshow is next door.” Ha bleedin’ ha.

So once we had got passed all the hilarity, pointing, nudging and smirking, the little man behind the counter took my ‘Stephenson’s Rocket’ of a PC, and hid it out of view.
Miss Marple and myself decided to have a look round the shop, in case I ever decided to “Upgrade”. After a little browsing, I came to the worrying discovery that none of the computers had an ordinary phone port thing for the internet, just the broadband sized ones. As we are the only house left in the world that cannot get broadband, this was starting to concern me. So I caught the eye of a girl with a ‘PC World’ badge on, and asked her if they still made computers with the old fashioned internet port things on.

She looked at me as if I had asked her where I could purchase some leeches, to try to sort out a bout of herpes, and said “No, it’s all broadband these days.” I explained that we couldn’t get broadband, to which she replied, “My God, where do you live then?” I was tempted to say, “half way up a mountain in the brecon beacons,” when I remembered that Miss Marple has an uncle that does live half way up a mountain in the brecon beacons, and he can get bloody broadband! So I didn’t bother.

We live about eight miles from a city, and the same from a large town, and yet we still can’t get bloody broadband. In fact we can’t get anything. Freeview, mobile broadband, a phone signal, mains sewerage, electricity! I’m thinking of saying to hell with it, and becoming Amish. Bollocks, sell the car, and get a horse and cart, a goatee beard, straw hat, and waistcoat. There are worse looks, my present one in fact. Five foot eight, and rocketing towards fifteen stone. Even Gok Wan would have his work cut out. Perhaps he could do a one off Christmas special just for me…….’How to make people recoil with repulsion when naked’.
Oh well I had better go and blog some more blogs, before Anvilman beats me up (Private joke), so I will annoy you all again soon.
Peace and love, and easy on the mince pies.
Ps. Just before I go, a few quickies…….
Word of the week.
I read this in a magazine, I am assuming it is an amalgamation of “Fuckwit,” and “Retard.” Hence…….”Fucktard.” I like it, and will be trying to shoehorn this little gem into as many sentences as I can in the coming weeks!

Favourite unintentional (I think!) segway from one sentence to another of the week
I heard this one this morning on the BBC breakfast program. Cliff Richard has said that he will be taking his secrets to the grave with him (soon hopefully!) including the main attraction, namely his sexuality. This was followed by the next item which was started by the word “HOMEOWNERS”…….think about it. Perhaps only purile minds like mine will get that.
And lastly…….

Favourite overestimation of the power of a game show moment of the week.
I was watching ‘Golden balls’ (They really needn’t bother with the first fifty-five minutes of the show need they) the other day, and heard a brilliant example of blind optimism. The last two contestants had done all the “I promise I am going to split”, and “Don’t let me down, we have been on such a long journey together!” crap as usual, when it finally came to the crunch. Both swore to split, and Jasper couldn’t drag it out any longer.

He did the 3-2-1 countdown, and low and behold, they both split. For their rare honesty, they both received the princely some of one hundred and seventeen pounds or something, and went away smiling. Then they went to the bit right at the end, where as the credits are rolling up, they say what they think of each other, and the decisions they made. Well the bloke said something like…….”When Amanda revealed her ‘split’ ball, my faith in human nature was restored, and from that moment on, I knew everything was going to be alright with the world!!!” .................Fuck me!

Biff baff boff. X

JUSTICE!

2008-11-02T11:22:00.000-08:00

I would just like to take this opportunity to congratulate Lewis Hamilton, and the McClaren Formula 1 team, on their securing of the drivers championship. Well done and tough luck to Massa. Very magnanimous and sporting in defeat. Shame about the Brazilian crowd. A small amount of banter is ok, Sour grapes is quite something else.

Justice has been done. Up yours to the FIA, despite doing your damndest, the right team still won. Up yours to the incompetent and bias stewards, and a smaller up yours to the ever whingy, teachers pet Farrari.

JUSTICE.......HOORAH!

The day to die

2008-10-31T11:47:00.000-07:00

The day I stop standing up for myself, because it would undoubtedly make my life easier, will be the day to die.

The day I stop despising needless bureaucracy, or pander to the pathetic agendas of the ‘Clipboard Nazi brigade’, will be the day to die.

The day I walk past the wheelchair bound man in the street playing his harmonica for pennies, and feel nothing, will be the day to die.

The day I watch a charity appeal on TV, and not feel pangs of guilt, or feel so terribly ashamed at how easily I forget about how much I have got, will be the day to die.

The day I stop driving Miss Marple mad with my "funny voices", will be the day to die.

The day the child in me goes to bed one night, but doesn’t wake up the next morning, will be the day to die.

The day I feel I am too old to daydream about running up and down corridors in the Death Star, shooting storm troopers with my laser blaster, will be the day to die.

The day I take Ronnie and Reggie for a sensible walk, instead of trying to find the German’s base, will be the day to die.

The day I look at Miss Marple, and stop wondering why the fuck she puts up with me, will be the day to die.

The day the tears fail to run down my face, when I see the disgraceful way in which human beings can treat each other, will be the day to die.

The day I don’t want to punch every politician in their smug, self serving, faces, will be the day to die.

The day I buy a cardigan and fall into line with the ‘Margo’s’, will be the day to die.

The day I wear a tie to work!, will be the day to die.

The day I let my sometimes all consuming frustrations and exasperations, turn into genuine bitterness and spitefulness, will be the day to die.

The day I fail to snigger at a really good fart!, will be the day to die.

The day I stop wishing I had the balls to become a vegetarian, will be the day to die.

The day I fail to think that Lara Croft (The computer generated version) is worth a meeting with Mrs. Thumb, and her four delectable daughters! That’ll upset the Margo’s…….Fuck ‘em. Will be the day to die.

The day I am content with a nice family Christmas! Will be the day to die.

The day I find a well placed swear word offensive, will be the day to die.

The day the songs of Stevie Wonder fail to slap me in the face with their genius. The day tears don’t well in my eyes when hearing the beautiful simplicity of Eva Cassidy singing ‘Somewhere over the rainbow’ The day I know longer am able to begrudgingly admit that the Gallagher brothers ‘Wonder Wall’ Is a work of gritty and passionate brilliance. The day that the first few bars of ‘Purple haze’ don’t make me want to turn up the stereo to eleven, pour a huge Jack Daniels, start smoking again, and flamethrower the Margo’s. . . . . . . will be the day to die!

The day I write something to please someone else, instead of myself, will be the day to die…….Unless it was for mega bucks of course, that would just be foolish!

We all have to die. Don’t do it before your heart stops beating.

Anger management - Don't make me angry, you wouldn't like me when i'm angry - When green is not always good!

2008-10-30T12:18:00.000-07:00

I just couldn’t decide which of the three titles I liked the best, so I chose all three! You see, that’s the brilliant thing about a democracy, choice. And among millions of others, I have my grandfathers to thank for that. So thank you, and bless you Albert and Douglas, though some might say that your valiant and brave efforts were sadly in vain…….I however, like to think not. X X

I thought as I trudged ever more wearily towards the grave, that the Hulk like rage within me would begin to subside. I foolishly believed that with age, I would adopt a more stoic outlook on life, and things in general would become calmer inside my volcanic like mind.

Who was I kidding? No, it’s getting worse day by day. I suppose I have fallen into the ‘Grumpy old man’ trap. The thing is you see, despite what everyone probably thinks, I don’t want to be like this, it’s sort of quite fashionable nowadays to be a ‘Grumpy old man’ but I have never been fashionable, and have no intention of starting now. I would very much like to be normal! I would much rather be Bruce Banner, than his big green counterpart.

But as the sub heading of this blog says, Ignorance is bliss, until one is surrounded by it! And boy there are some areas of my existence that are positively awash with it!

Bob Geldof, who is usually quite irritating, actually pretty much summed it up on the program ‘Grumpy old men’. When asked by the interviewer, why he was grumpy he replied…….
"If you’re not grumpy, it implies that you’re ok with the world…….and who the fuck is that!"

I can wake up in the morning, and after recovering from the shock of making it through another night, can sometimes be (I am going to say it) cheerful! (ouch that smarts), but it only takes some inane utterance from Fiona Phillips on GMTV, or some news report about some bizarre decision by some council or other, and I am off! And that’s pretty much me for the rest of the day.
I am afraid that my killing spree has had to be postponed due to the credit crunch! Yes we are all having to tighten our belts, even us homicidal maniacs!

Can I just interject here, and say that I am aware that there is a section of my readers who were not blessed with any kind of sense of humour, or commen sense at all, and to those I must point out that this is a joke. Maybe on a Ross and Brand level, but never the less, a joke…….Bless them.
Yes the recession has meant that the purchase of firearms and ammo has had to be delayed. I was fortunate enough to have secured the floor length black leather Matrix style coat before my hedge fund collapsed, and my Great Aunt Agnes said she would sort out the bandana for me. Oh come on, every self respecting, gun totting, inadequate, friendless sociopath with a grudge and an Uzi should have a bandana, its part of the uniform.

Oh the times I have sat day dreaming of that fateful day, when I don all my gear. The coat, the boots, the sunglasses…….THE BANADANA! Cock my Uzi, ready my bazooka, and march purposefully into action, in slow motion of course. A wall of fire rages behind me, as I run amok to the sound of Nickleback at one hundred and forty decibels.
Taking out councilors, traffic wardens, politicians, benefit scroungers, caravaners, illegal immigrants, cyclists (only the road traffic law disobeying ones, and the one’s without lights in winter of course), the vast majority of Americans, GMTV, Big brother, Paris Hilton, Most TV chefs (especially Oliver), all twenty-seven thousand Ross/Brand complainers…….you get the picture!
It’s normally only the sound of the car horn, the screeching of tyres and the swerving of the on-coming car that snaps me out of my fantasy!

Can I just reiterate for any over zealous MI5 operatives, or a hot headed (That’s rich!) over enthusiastic CIA agent, that this is just my idea of a rather unpalatable (Maybe) joke. If any of you MI5 or CIA people have stumbled upon this blog by accident, or indeed specifically targeted it, especially as I now seem to be public enemy number one! Lol, yes I seem to have become a kind of blogging Che Guevara character, except my berry is not black with a red star motive, it’s more creamy with a hint of lilac, and a sequined crescent moon insignia, then please don’t waste valuable time, effort, and resources getting me out of bed at five o’clock in the morning, and dragging me, and my computer (in the obligatory plastic bag) into Paddington Green anti terrorist ‘Suite’ for questioning. There are far bigger fish to fry. There is that Bin Laden bloke for a start, you have quite frankly made a complete arse of that so far, so pick on him, not me!
THIS IS A JOKE! …….

Thinking about it, I wonder if that is how old Bin Laden has got away with it so far? Maybe one morning in the Tora Bora Mountains, members of America’s elite ‘Delta force’ dragged old Binny baby out of his cave, and told him he was nicked (Or whatever the Americans say). To which he replied,
"You what, I was only joking guv’ner, I’m just a cheeky chappie." To which the Americans replied
"Well why didn’t you say sooner, we wouldn’t have got you out of bed at such an early hour sir. Sorry about that pal, hope I didn’t offend you in any way as I cuffed you and threw you to the ground. Here, fill in this compensation form, and send it to this address. It’s no win, no fee, so you can’t lose. Have a nice day."

A few weeks ago, I watched a program with Griff Rhys Jones……. (When I say with, I mean he was presenting it, not sitting next to me on the sofa), about anger. It wasn’t very good quite frankly, and didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know…….I was livid!

Maybe I should book myself onto an ‘Anger management course’, but I would probably find all the other people there really bloody annoying. Anyway, I don’t think I really want my anger ‘managed’, I don’t want it there in the first place. But that is a bit like saying, I want to breathe, but I’m not keen on the oxygen bit. So I suppose I’m stuck with it.

People have told me to take a deep breath, and count to ten. It’s just delaying the eruption really. In all honesty, it’s just building up a bigger head of steam. Sigh…….

It’s poor Miss Marple who is the victim in all of this really. It’s funny, because she is the complete opposite. Very very rarely does she lose it, and is more prone to tears than homicide! I have been so mad in the past, that I have on occasion, asked her to slap me, to see if it would alleviate the pressure. (Much like Basil asking Polly to slap him in Fawlty towers), but Miss Marple is such a sweetheart; she just can’t work up enough gusto to give it the relevant oomph! So I have done it myself! Lol. I often think what I must look like, bouncing round the kitchen or whatever, slapping myself about the face!

Well I suppose I’d better sign off now. Off to watch the news to see how many more suburban, moronic, Daily Mail reading, ignorant, know nothing, tedious, caravan holidaying, cretinous……(Deep breath)…….bandwagon jumping, knee jerk reactionary, "safe", traditional, mediocre, meat and two veg, "What’s happened to standards", …….(inhale)……."Back in the good old days", cardigan wearing, "I vote Tory, just cause I always have", ‘Allo Allo’ watching, Royalist twats!.......(Bows, and wallows in the applause). Have complained about Ross and Brand now.

Just for future ref. Instead of going through all that rigmarole every time I want to mention these "types" of people. To make it easier, I will call them "Margo’s" from now on. As in Margo from the good life. (She was actually a wonderful comic creation, but sums up nicely what I am talking about).
So if a Margo ever tells you that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, just tell them that "The only way is up then"!
Keep strong brothers and sisters, and may the force be with you.

I have a couple of PS’s

PS1 I would like to welcome any new readers, and hope that their stay here is a pleasant one. To save new disciples from having to trawl through wads of previous tosh, I am thinking of doing a special ‘HIGHLIGHTS’ Blog.

PS2 If the ‘Margo’s’ were "Appalled" by Jonathan and Russell, stick this one up your twin set. With kind regards from the acerbic genius that is Frankie Boyle…….
The Queen is now so old, her pussy is haunted!

Peace and love to those who deserve it, and big fat bollocks to the rest.

Agent X

2008-10-29T11:47:00.000-07:00

May I offer my humble support to messers Brand and Ross. Yes they have been silly boys, but this is a shining beacon of an example of how the inhabitants of this planet today, like to blow things out of all proportion. (There is a lot of it about). Mr Sachs has been wonderfully magnanimous in his acceptance of their apologies, and probably wants nothing more to do with the whole overblown, over publicised load of old nonsense.
May I also offer a humble metaphoric two fingers, to all the 18,000, yes that's right 18,000 morons with nothing better to do, who decided to complain. The vast majority of whom, i am sure didn't listen to the broadcast, and probably don't have a clue who Russell Brand is.
But they saw a bandwagon, and boy did they run hard to jump right on board!
We all know who they are. Dialy Mail reading, Caravan holidaying, small minded, Antiques Roadshow watching, Mr & Mrs Suburbia.
But the real Villian of the piece, is I am sure taking her clothes off somewhere, as a member of the 'Satanic sluts' or whatever they are called. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but what i do find offensive, is her blatant self promotion. Plastered all over the papers, telling us all how terrible it all is for her poor old grandfather, but failing to mention how wonderful it all is for her "career". I am sure she will find this a huge leg over, oops sorry, a freudian slip of the fingers there! leg up the celebrity ladder.

Confusaneus exasperatio

2008-09-29T09:55:00.000-07:00

confusaneus exasperatio
Or random irritations to you and me. Look, before either of my readers emails, texts, phones or calls round to tell me that the above is not the technically correct translation, i googled it ok. That was the best it came up with.

Random Irritations

(You realise this could go on forever don’t you)

Oh well, take a deep breath, tighten your safety harnesses’ and splice the main brace…….we have lift off.

Davina McCall – Absolutely no explanation needed

Big Brother - See above

Our Tupperware box cupboard – Yes, I have a deep seated hatred for the ‘cupboard form hell’ as I have named it. Even if the diligent Miss Marple has neatly stacked all the bottoms, and all the lids, I am still crushed by an avalanche of plastic every time I open the bloody thing.

Pointless barking – Ronnie and Reggie obviously bark when someone comes to the house, they see this as their job, and I fully support them in this work related exercise. What I can’t abide however, is woofing for no apparent reason.

This almost without fail always occurs just as I am raising a cup of tea to my lips. They wait for the optimum moment, and WOOF. This results in me jumping and twitching like Jack Douglas from the ‘Carry on’ films, smacking myself in the teeth with the cup, and spending the afternoon in casualty with third degree burns. Then they have the audacity to look at me with that . . . . . . . "What?" look on their face.

Unwanted ‘me time’ apparitions – If one is having a little ‘me time’, why at just the wrong moment, do people I don’t want in my head, suddenly appear there? Old Jim next door, a dead grandparent, Hugh Edwards!. . . . . . . Davina McCall. Sigh.

Davina McCall

The failure of scientists to invent the personal jet pack – When I was a small boy (Miss Marple would say that I still am!) Raymond Baxter on ‘Tomorrows World’ promised me, that by the year 2000, we would all be going to work using jet packs. WHY HASN’T THIS HAPPENED? I’ll tell you why, because instead of using their time and funding to invent brilliant things like jet packs, scientists waste it working out that people don’t like Mondays, or that burnt toast gives you cancer. Come on, pull your fingers out!

Having one ear lower than the other – This wouldn’t normally be a huge problem, but I wear glasses. So when I am trying to appear immensely sophisticated, the glasses slewed across my face, at what appears to me to be a forty-five degree angle, just make me look village idiotish.

Always being in someone’s way at social functions – It’s incredible, but wherever I stand at any social gathering, I seem to be in the way. If I’m in a pub, even if I am standing in a corner, somebody will want to get past. For experimental purposes, whilst I was at a wedding once, I took my pint, and went and stood in the field next door. Low and behold, within five minutes, I was hearing the words "excuse me," followed by tutting!

Being invisible at social functions – Why do I seem to be wearing some sort of cloaking device, when standing at a bar? I don’t understand it. I am fourteen and a half stone, not overly short, and I have one ear lower than the other, I’m not that easily miss able! But no, stand at a bar, and I become as "HELLO I’M HERE EVEYBODY" as an F117 stealth fighter.

Social functions

Jamie bloody Oliver – Ooooh can I punch him, can I? I don’t know, he just irritates me. His bloody Sainsbury’s adverts, him banging on and on about bloody school dinners. Shut up Jamie, leave people alone. I salute those mothers that were sticking burgers through the bars of the school playground. Not because I think child obesity is a good thing, but just because it was a two fingers to you Oliver.

Even back in the old days he was fucking annoying. ‘The naked chef’. There he was, a middle class boy pretending to be all ‘street’ and cockney. "smashing, there you go darlin’, pucker" and all that crap. Cooking in his trendy apartment, in his trendy kitchen.

Then all his trendy mates come round. Samantha, Josh, ‘Steevo’, Matt or whatever they are called. Then we have to watch them all tucking in, and saluting the great Oliver, while ‘Top Loader’ plays in the background……."We get it on most every night……." AAAARGGHHHHHH shut up! And then to top it all, not only is he an inspirational cook, the most popular man in Islington, and married to the perfect ‘Jules’, he gets behind his drum kit, for an impromptu jam session with Josh, Matt, and Steevo. Just one bullet God, go on, just one…….

Davina McCall

My own inability to be able to understand anything financial – I don’t know why, but I just can’t comprehend anything to do with money/finances/business etc. Miss Marple and myself like to cosy up and watch ‘Dragon’s Den’ but no matter how many times I have it drummed into me, I still don’t know what "turnover" means. Really, no idea at all. Frightening.

Nettles – No not Bergerac, although ‘Midsommer murders’ is annoying, no the other sort. What was the good Lord thinking of when he invented nettles? Since having Ronnie and Reggie, I have spent countless enjoyable hours roaming and romping through the woods, only to have the whole experience tainted, by inadvertently brushing passed a nettle. Yes brushing past, not falling into, or stumbling upon, just going near them seems to be enough for me to be attacked. I swear they go for me, lash out. To me nettles are the chavs of the botanical world. Irritants, and ultimately bloody pointless.

The contestants on ‘Deal or no deal’ – This is a big one for me. It’s probably totally irrational, but I hate ’em, the whole damn lot of them! Where do they find these bastards? Look you twats, the whole thing is completely random, purely down to chance and luck. This doesn’t stop you though does it, oh no, using ‘systems’ and birthdays. Having a "good feeling" about this box or that box.

What’s even worse than all this "Positive energy" and "Good vibes" bollocks, is their general behavior. ……. FUCKING SIT DOWN!....... For God’s sake stop bloody pacing about. They drive me mad. High fiving everyone when they get a good box, clutching Polaroid’s of their grandchildren, and bursting into tears. Jumping up and down, whooping and hollering.

You don’t get contestants on ‘University challenge’ wandering about do you? No, that’s because Jeremy Paxman has got them on a tight leash. He knows how to command a quiz. He quite frankly won’t stand for any whooping, and certainly wouldn’t put up with a holler. Noel on the other hand has let them get away with murder. No wonder the whole process takes forty-five minutes with all this roaming around, In all honesty, it could all quite easily be done and dusted in ten.

Why do they insist on running over to the box opener, and hugging and kissing them? They have only opened a bloody box. They have no control over what the result is going to be. Then we get the most irritating line in the whole show.

"Thank you Mr. Banker, it’s a very good offer, but no deal" Then the whole studio erupts in to applause, with yet more whooping and hollering. People punching the air, and bearing their teeth. From the carry on you would think that they had just witnessed Nelson Mandela defying apartheid, or a Chinese student facing down a tank in Tiananmen Square. Anyway, it’s not a good offer, you have still got the top three of the ‘Power five’ left, and the mean bastard has only offered you six and a half grand. If I had got the top three left, I would want at least one hundred grand, a night with his wife, and permission to punch Noel right in the gob.

That’s it, Deal or no deal has sent me over the edge. I will have to leave it there for now, but don’t think this is it, you haven’t got off that lightly…….Asta la vista baby.

The Devil wears Wranglers.......

2008-09-04T12:19:00.000-07:00

What is it with this human obsession with clothing? Why is what we are wearing so important? I raise these questions because of an incident at my place of work the other day. Now, I am not an expert on the law, far from it, but I am guessing that mentioning someone’s name, or indeed a corporation’s name in the same sentence as “bunch of fucking wankers”, could possibly be litigious! Not that I care overly, but I suppose it would be better not to have my denim clad arse hauled before the courts! Anyway, I don’t know why I am concerning myself with being sued, nobody reads this. Even Miss Marple can find something that really needs doing, when I proudly announce another publication!

So what was this earth shattering event that has caused me to vent my spleen? We have been told from upon high at my place of work, that the wearing of jeans is now FORBIDDEN. . . . . . . . “Why do you get so hot under the collar about such things Andy?” I can already hear normal people saying. “Why are you undoubtedly raising your blood pressure, and bringing about your early and untimely death, through stressing over such trivia?”.......IT’S THE BLOODY PRINCIPAL - THAT’S WHY!!!.......

As always with me, it’s not the trouble or inconvenience etc etc that things may cause me, that winds me up, it is the moronic, short sighted, narrow minded thinking behind this stuff that gets so far up my arse that I can taste it! Who was it way back in the depths of history, that decided that the wearing of jeans is as close to being the Devil’s lackey as can possibly be?

I am guessing the reasons behind this declaration, is ‘the customers’. They want to present a certain image to the customers, that says professional, efficient, and other such corporate crap. I genuinely believe that the customers where I am unfortunate enough to work, couldn’t care less if I was wearing a fucking tutu, as long as they get what they want. The cretins that come up with this sort of “No jeans” crap, are the same sort of wishy washy tossers, that get all sweaty and sanctimonious about “ba ba BLACK sheep” and whatnot. Just as my customers don’t give a shit about what I am wearing, the local Muslim and black community are in no way offended by “ba ba black sheep”. But still these people take it upon themselves to “Protect” people from stuff, that they don’t need protecting from. Patronising bastards.

Apart from stuff like this being a load of unnecessary nonsense, what difference does it make what someone wears? I couldn’t give a monkey’s arse what the woman behind the hotel reception desk has got on. I would rather be greeted with efficiency, courtesy and a smile, than a crisp blouse, name badge and plastic sincerity. Yes it’s all style over content.

I can already hear some people saying “Andy, you have let your temper run away with you. You have let your frustration cloud your judgment. Sometimes we need people to be wearing a uniform, so that we know who is who, and what is what. When we go in to our local branch of comet, we want to be able to differentiate between the staff and customers.” Trust me, you will know which ones are the staff, they will be the bastards that jump on your back as soon as you take your first step through the door. You will spend the rest of your time in their shop, virtually giving Darren a bloody piggy back! I am going to get a restraining order next time I go in there.

Surely history must have taught us that uniforms generally equal bad things. Roman Centurions stomping across Europe, The Nazi’s Blitzkreig. . . ing the same path, yet we still have the utmost respect for anyone wearing a uniform. Smart, yes you have got to be smart to do certain jobs haven’t you. WHY?.......I personally would love to see a judge sitting up there wearing Ray Bands, and a Hawaiian shirt. Who wouldn’t rather see traffic wardens wearing Speedo’s, flip flops, and a straw boater? Would take some of the pomposity away from them wouldn’t it.

That’s the trouble you see, uniforms give people an over inflated opinion of themselves. Power dressing and all that. If Adolf Hitler hadn’t worn his crisp uniform, and highly polished boots, he probably would have been a lot more chilled out. When I am Prime Minister, I am going to ban ties. Really, what is the bloody point. A more useless garment there can never have been. People realize this, and to try and inject some humour into tie wearing, they buy one’s covered in The Tazmanian Devil, or Homor Simpson. Trust me, you are not being humerous, you are being a tit.
It is ludicrous beyond words to think that because someone is smartly dressed, they must be an upstanding citizen. The Kray twins, George Bush, all ardent suit wearers…….I rest my case. I may have mentioned in previous blogs, that I spent many years playing in bands. In all those years I only witnessed one fight. Where was that? At a biker’s do, with some of the ‘scruffiest’ scariest looking people you have ever seen in your life, At festivals where people were wearing jeans, shorts, t-shirts, and other such scruffy attire? No, it was at a fucking wine bar, full of people wearing suits.

I think Ben Elton summed it up totally twenty or more years ago, when he was talking about night club dress codes. (Ironically he was always wearing suits, but we will brush over that!) You know how you have to be lined up outside, and “inspected” by the bouncers. Well, the bouncer is walking along the line, casting his authoritative eye over the potential clubbers…….
“Hello Himmler, nice shiny boots, very smart you‘re in. Stalin, look at those creases, pin sharp, go on, in you go. Saddam, very nice uniform, in you go. ……. fuck off Jesus, no sandals!” That say’s it all, so I will leave it there.

Would you Adam and Eve it. . . . . . .

2008-08-23T02:05:00.000-07:00

On the whole, Miss Marple and myself get on spiffingly. Surprising really, seeing as we have been cohabiting for approximately twelve centuries……..er sorry, years now. There are times however, when we do seem to be speaking in completely different tongues. This brings me neatly onto the theme of today’s lecture.
Men and women, the same but different…….

Yes, men and women, the same but different. A truer phrase could not be uttered. They both have legs, arms, noses, ears etc etc etc, but it seems to be the brain department where the problems start to occur. Women seem to have a huge chip on their shoulder about having smaller brains!.......WAIT WAIT, NO SORRY, THAT WAS A CHEAP SHOT, AND A COMPLETE FALICY. I just couldn’t resist it. No to be serious, men and women’s brains obviously work in exactly the same fashion as far as biology and chemistry and all that goes, but there is something very different about the thoughts that run through them.

To be laughably simplistic, men seem to be much simpler creatures on the whole, more easily satisfied, and less complicated. Women on the other hand, probably due to the fact that by their very nature have more to cope with, seem to over complicate things sometimes. For example…

Man Says – “Are we definitely going to your Mothers for lunch on Sunday?”

Woman thinks – What is he asking that for? I told him we were definitely going. Oh I see, he doesn’t really want to go. He has never liked my Mother, Perhaps he doesn’t like his own mother, perhaps he hates all women. He has probably become a woman hating serial killer. He has been going out a lot these past few evenings. . . . . . .Affair, yes that’s it, he is having an affair…….with my mother. The bastard…….etc etc etc

On the subject of woman hating, I have often wondered if I am a misogynist. If the truth be known, I think most men will go through a period of misogyny from time to time, lets face it, it’s hard not to! I also think that men would actually prefer it, if women were actually men, but with front bottoms! In the interests of balance and fairness, here is an example of a mans simple approach, in direct conflict with a womens complicated approach.

Woman says – “You never listen to a word I say do you? No, it’s just me me me me me. I have to do everything around here, while you just swan around down the pub with your mates, and park your arse in front of that stupidly large TV, and watch fucking Stargate. Well I have just about had enough, things are going to have to change around here. Maybe I will find somebody that does appreciate me, someone who will treat me like a woman, and not just a sexual plaything, someone who will take me out, hold a door open for me, pull my chair out. . . . . . .

Man thinks – I supposse the leg over has bitten the dust tonight, and it looks like i'll be off to the chip shop!

I don’t think the blame can be put squarely at either side’s door. No, I think it was a conspiracy. Way back in the mists of time at the creation of the universe, Old God and Mother Nature were at work one day, and something like this happened…….

(Cue wobbly picture)

The dawn of creation, day 7…….

GOD “Morning”
MN “Oh yeah, morning”
GOD “Oh dear, do I detect an air of dispondency. Has someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning?”
MN “Christ…….”
GOD “Not yet” – laughs.
MN Raises eyebrows, “…….Is it that obvious? Anyway you should know, you're all seeing and all knowing."
GOD “Oooh, clever clogs. Lets just say you do seem a little pre occupied this morning”
MN “Sorry, I think the pressure of work is getting to me. I would go and see the occupational therapist…….if there was such a thing.”
GOD “Don’t worry, that’s next on the list, and yes I know this creation thing is a bind, but we are nearly done now. Now, where were we? Oh yes, mankind.”
MN “Er, mankind, just remind me again”
GOD “You know, those bipeds, we made them quite intelligent, but gave them no morals.”
MN Laughs, “Oh yes I remember, I am feeling a little better already. Now where did we plonk them?”
GOD “Earth”
MN “Earth, just remind me again.”
GOD “You know the one, little green and blue one, on the outskirts.”
MN “Oh yes, pretty little thing, they’re gonna fuck that right up aren’t they?”
GOD “Of course. Anyway, how are we getting on with them? Done all the limbs and that?”
MN “Yes yes.”
GOD “Vital organs, brain and what not?”
MN “Done it.”
GOD “Dangerously inquisitive nature?”
MN Laughs “Oh yes!"
GOD “Interlocking genitalia, sexual attraction, libido etc etc?”
MN “Sorted.”
GOD “You don’t think you have over done the libido thing on the male side then?.......you know, just a tad.”
MN “No, they’ll handle it.”
Both break out in fits of laughter…….
GOD “Oh dear, almost makes coming to work worth while doesn’t it?. Anyway joking aside, that seems to be it then.”
MN “Yes, I suppose so, although, there is something else we could do.”
GOD “Really, what’s that?”
MN “Well, you know how we made them attracted to each other, and gave them interlocking genitalia and all that?”
GOD “Yes, that was quite brilliant of us wasn’t it?”
MN “Brilliant yes, but also a bit boring. Why don’t we make it so that they don’t really get on that well?”
GOD “WHAT!…….we can’t do that can we?...surely…”
MN “Why not, why shouldn’t we have a little fun from time to time?”
GOD “Oh alright then. Hey, why stop there? Lets make it so that some of them fancy the wrong ones?”
MN “Hang on, you’ve lost me”
GOD “Well, let’s make it so that some males fancy other males, and some females fancy other females.”
MN “Whoa…….You’re coming from left field now Godo me old mate.”
They high five
GOD “And what’s more, because men understand men, and women understand women, they are going to get on soooooo much better than the normal ones. That will really piss ‘em off!”

…….and this is how I believe the communication problems between the sexes arose.
Also, have you noticed how a relationship changes as the year’s role by? At the start of it, there is virtually nothing you wouldn’t do to enhance the well being of your new love. Lets pick a scenario at random. . . . . . . a night out at the cinema.

Yes, way back at the dawn of your new found relationship, You would go and see absolutely any film that she wanted to see, just because it meant being with her. Yes the latest God awful sloppy chick flick, or God forbid ‘romantic comedy’ held no repulsion for you, just as long as you were together, holding hands in the dark, thanking God you were no longer single. Now, ten years later, if you were asked if you wanted to go and see ‘Mama Mia’ You would choke on your Carlsberg, and look at her as if she had just asked you to shag a donkey! It is also quite amusing (read sad), how the sharing thing dwindles the further down the relationship road you go. In the first few weeks of your new relationship, there is nothing you wouldn’t share with her.

You would be strolling down the road, each with a bag of chips, and she would stumble slightly, and spill her chips all over the pavement. You would rush to assist her, repeatedly asking after her well being, and offering her Your bag of chips. Fast forward a year or two, and you would be berating her with phrases like “Oh you clumsy cow” and telling her “sod off, you should pick your feet up,” when she enquired about the possibility of you sharing your chips with her!

Anyway, I have taken up far too much of your time as it is, I am sure you have got much more important things to be doing. I’m off to ask Miss Marple something in ancient Latin, and I very much look forward to her reply in Esperanto!
Adios Amigos.

Just another day in paradise.......

2008-08-14T11:37:00.000-07:00

My ‘lectures’ normally revolve around one topic, but today I thought we would just have a quick catch up. What’s been happening in the world and so on, and you never know, there may be the odd moan. So here we are.
It’s Thursday the 14th August 2008. . . . . . . ooh I felt a bit like Capt. Kirk then . . . . . . . So, the Olympics are here. Whoopee quite frankly (Oh dear, the moaning has started earlier than I thought) I’m sorry, but I just can’t get enthusiastic about the games what so ever. I’m not particularly sporty, so I suppose that doesn’t entice me to watch any of it. Apparently the Olympics are supposed to represent sort of peace, harmony, sportsmanship, fair play, accord and all that kind of stuff. So I did find it highly amusing seeing the torch bearers surrounded by burly minders, sheepishly jogging along with a fixed smile on their face, as people hurled themselves at them from all directions! Having the symbol of peace and harmony surrounded by huge men in sun glasses carrying M16’s was just priceless. Also all of this “peace and love” was evident when the Chinese authorities demolished loads of peoples homes to make way for stadiums etc etc. What “peace and love” did these poor people get in the way of compensation, or re-housing…….a big fat “piss off”. Splendid. They couldn’t really have picked a worse country to host the Olympics could they, oh yes they could, we have got them next time!
Most of it is just plain boring to watch isn’t it? Yes yes they are all supreme athletes, and yes yes it is all very skillful, and yes yes I admire their dedication, but nobody will ever convince me, that watching the 10,000 meters is ever going to be exciting. Round and round…….zzzzzzz. That weird cycle one, where they follow each other round. . . . .what? Rowing! Oh God rowing, the absolute worst. What oh what oh what is the bloody point in that? Rowing is a good thing, if you are one side of a lake, and you want to get to the other. That’s it, honestly, leave it there. No, we can’t can we. What do we do, we turn it into a race. There are some pointless activities that human beings have come up with, but racing rowing boats is right up there with the worst. Slow, boring, painful, and you can’t see where you are going…….brilliant. I also loved the thing I heard on the news about our hopes for medal success. I heard a bloke saying he was hoping we would come eighth over all. How very British,” No, we don’t want to win it, we will be more than happy with eighth thank you!” I have spent far too long on the Olympics already, but just one last thing. We had all the Dwayne Chambers fiasco. Should he be allowed to go or shouldn’t he. Well, as Frankie Boyle said on ‘Mock the week’ The other day, lets have the drug free Olympics for all the goody two shoes lot, then have the ‘smacked off your tits’ Olympics. Because if there is a man that can run the one hundred meters in two and a half seconds, we want to see it!
Moving on, the new series of ‘The X Factor’ starts this Saturday, Hoorah! No I am not being sarcastic, I love it. Yes I know it is all contrived, manipulated and so on. Yes I know the producers drum into people they must keep using the phrases “110%” …”This means everything to me” … “It’s been a hell of a journey” so on and so on, but I am more than happy to put up with all that crap, and all the tears, and stories of deprivation, abuse, bullying, people in slow motion phoning their mums, telling them “I am through to boot camp” while “wind beneath my wings” plays in the background, if it means I get to see a disgruntled cross eyed, buck toothed mother of questionable descent batter Simon Cowell over the head with her walking stick, because he “disrespected” her eighteen stone “songbird” of a daughter. I love the way it seems that there are people on this planet, who seem to have completely different hearing apparatus than everyone else. We hear scratchy whining noises, they hear Whitney Houston. Give me more staged squabbling between the judges. Please let louise Walsh stomp off again because “Simon is a big nasty wasty man.” Oh how I want to hear internationally renowned ‘singer’ Danni Minogue criticize people for being off key. Bring on the retards! Let ‘em loose on telly. Exploitation?.......probably! You can ridicule me if you like, that would be fair enough, but I know where I am going to be on Saturday night. Sitting in front of the telly, large kebab, can of beer, and my tongue planted firmly in my cheek. One last thing on ‘The X factor’ I thought it was the best thing in the world, that last years winner, Leon something or other, was the absolute epitome of what the “X Factor” isn’t – Forgettable, uncharismatic, and above all…….average! Lol.
In other news…….I dipped my toe into the pool that is ‘Facebook’ for a few days. This all started because I had an email from my sixty-three year old Father, inviting me to be his friend on ‘Facebook’. Well, I couldn’t believe what I was reading. So I signed up, and bizarrely found that I already had a profile on ‘Facebook’! I have no recollection of doing this at all; perhaps I am a sleep surfer! Anyway, my stay in ‘Facebook’ land didn’t last long. I quickly realized that I am just as unpopular in a virtual world, as I am in the real one! So I made my excuses and left.
There is some kind of war going on down Russia way, because somebody spilt somebody else’s pint in the Balkans. UFO sightings are becoming more prevalent. God I want to see a UFO. I think I might start wandering around outside late at night, that must increase my chances of seeing one.
It’s that time of year again when we have to endure news reports that basically involve teenagers opening envelopes and screaming. Yes folks, it’s exam results time again. Oh goody. Why do news broadcasters presume that we all want to see this? It’s the same every year. I don’t know if it’s true, but apparently it’s virtually impossible to fail, so watching people pass isn’t really news is it? I know it must be almost impossible to find one that has failed, but they never show them do they? There is never one that excitedly opens the envelope, hands all sweaty and shaky, whose eyes then fill with tears, as they realize they have failed an unfailable exam! You never get the camera crew following them to the train station, and capture them buying a one way ticket to Bridge end do you? No, it’s always Joshua, Tom or fucking Emily, who inform us that they have got thirty-seven straight A’s, and will be taking a gap year in the Far East, before taking up their place at Cambridge to study law. Oh yes, and mummy has bought me a brand new Ford Fiesta sport, for being so brilliant…..Haw haw, ya and rarly cool. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aaaaarghhhh!
I’m off to OD on blood pressure tablets, and do a spot of pilates. So it’s goodnight from me, and it’s goodnight from……….Oh, I’m on my own!

Lower left six

2008-05-25T03:22:00.000-07:00

For forty years I have denied the existence of God. Poo pood any form of deity. Laughed at the thought of an all seeing Lord who art in heaven. But no longer my children, oh no, I have seen the light! And how did this road to Damascus moment occur, kick back, and I shall explain…….
Having fallen out with our previous dentist, mainly due to the fact that she was a stroppy, and incompetent bitch, we hadn’t been to the dentist for a couple of years. You know how you hear unbelievable stories about weirdoes masquerading as doctors for years and years, even performing operation etc, well I swear our last dentist was just such a person. I suffered nothing but trouble at the hands of this dentist, and so our connections with this practice were severed. This of course threw up the problem of trying to get another one. Miss Marple, being an extremely diligent and determined woman, spent weeks on the phone and the internet, and finally found one just up the road. For this good work, I made her a medal out of cardboard, and painted it gold. She was over the moon!
So off we trot for our joint first appointment. Having arrived, the usual form filling in ensued, and then we just had to sit back and wait….and wait….and wait. The trouble is, that since reaching forty, I seem to have entered some kind of second childhood. Don’t get me wrong, I am still the king of grumpy land, but a kind of annoying silliness sometimes possesses me, and always at the wrong times. There we are waiting in total silence, and I find myself rocking backwards and forwards on the chair, and humming the theme from ‘The dam busters’ with my arms outstretched. Miss Marple did her best to look unaffected by this, but I could tell by her fidgeting that I was pushing it.
While we are on the subject, I have never really had a good relationship with any of my previous dentists. It’s a very strange job really isn’t it? I have never understood why anyone would want to spend their day fiddling about in people’s horrible old mouths. Another thing that I find peculiar is the way that I am reduced to a ten year old upon entering the dentists. There I am sitting in the chair, and the dentist will say, "Have you been flossing?" I look sheepishly around the room, and reply in a feeble voice "Yes". The dentist will look at me over the top of her glasses, fold her arms and say "I’m going to ask you again, and this time, I want you to consider your answer carefully." Looking even more sheepish I say "A bit". "I don’t think we have, have we?" By this time, I am almost in tears, and with the voice of a mouse say "no". WHY? Why can’t I just say "No I haven’t been flossing. I am a grown up, and it’s my decision to let my teeth fall out, so get over it bitch"! But alas, I cannot. I do remember one quite odd experience at the dentists, when I must have been about fourteen. The school dentist was a middle aged woman, and her nurse was probably a bit younger. There I was laying in the chair, while she was attempting to carry out some procedure. She stopped and said, "You young man, have a very large tongue, and quite frankly it keeps getting in the way". She then glanced over to the nurse and said "I Imagine that you will make some lady very happy with that one day!" Muffled giggling then ensued, while I lay innocently in the chair, trying desperately to fathom what was so funny. In later years, the cause of such mirth obviously dawned on me. I can’t imagine anyone getting away with that sort of comment these days. You would be escorted from your house in the early hours of the morning, with your computer in a plastic bag, toot sweet! Unfortunately the dentist’s predictions came to nothing. I never did become cunnilingus world champion, just the odd largely unappreciated dabble…….sigh.
Anyway, on entering the dentists, I noticed two names. Both female. One was an Asian sounding name, and the other Russian-ish. In between rocking backwards and forwards on my chair etc, I spotted my two potential 'bringers of pain'. The Asian woman was middle aged, squat, and a bit dumpy, and the Ruscky was the things dreams are made of! Imagine Anna Kournikova in a crisp white dentist’s uniform, and you’re some way there. Which one would I get, which of these two women would be leaning over me, breasts only inches away from my face?......".Ah, come in please Mr. Mule", said Mrs. Patel…….Surprise surprise! "RACIST"…….I hear some of you cry, my reply to that. Don’t be so silly.
She did the examination, and found that I had a broken tooth. I knew this, but it was only the corner which had broken off. It was causing no problems at all, but she still insisted on filling it. She came up with some dental jargon as to why it needed to be repaired, but reading between the lines, it was probably that she fancied a new five iron that month, and the pain endured by me and a few other poor souls would help finance this. Oh cynicism, the curse of the mildly intelligent…….sigh. She installed a temporary filling, which as usual, had come out even before I had exited the building! At a later date, she installed the genuine, pucker, real McCoy filling, and off I went on my merry way.
It was shortly after this, that I realized there was a God! One lunchtime whilst at work, I decided to go into the local village for a mooch about. I parked the car, and strolled along the pavement, heading towards the mini supermarket there. I was hoping to sate my magazine addiction, but was distracted on the way. As I walked along, a familiar smell caressed my nostrils, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. The local chip shop. It was at this point that a familiar battle then ensued. It’s a battle that is rarely far from my vicinity. Whenever I face a dilemma, the usual two protagonist’s rear up to do battle. On my right shoulder is the ‘Good Angel’, lets call him Gabrielle, and on the left, the ‘Naughty devil’, lets call him Lucifer. The battle went something like this…….
Lucifer "Ooh there’s the chip shop, go on get yourself a bag of chips"
Gabrielle "Are you sure you want to do that, remember your expanding waist line"
Lucifer "Oh fuck off square, don’t listen to him, what the hell difference is one bag of chips going to make".
Gabrielle "I couldn’t agree more, ONE bag of chips would make very little difference. It’s the previous four thousand bags of chips added to this one, that are doing the damage".
Lucifer "Ignore him, he is a party pooper. It’s his fault you haven’t had as much sex or drugs as you would have liked".
Gabrielle "I’m only looking after your interests. If it was left up to him, you would be a pox ridden, morbidly obese smack head by now".
Lucifer "Christ (Irony!) he does exaggerate. He wants to chill out a bit. You need those chips, that’s what he doesn’t understand".
"Gabrielle "Oh Purleeeeese……."
This went on for sometime. The result of this inner turmoil…….
Fishcake and chips, a buttered bread roll, and a can of Pepsi!.......sigh.
I scuttled off to the car like a naughty schoolboy, and headed off to my ‘chip layby’. The chips were just how I like them, soft centered, but with a crispy outside. A half a dozen mouth fulls in, and it happened…….CRACK! The filling that had cost so much money, taken several trips to the dentist, and vast amounts of pain found itself cascading down my esophagus, among a deluge of chips. This ladies and gentlemen is how I know that there is a God. He is indeed omnipotent, and despite what the Pope, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Vicar of Dibley would have you believe, he is a vindictive swine!
God bless you! Mule.

If music be the food of love.......

2008-01-15T12:53:00.000-08:00

Well, 2008 has arrived. Jim and myself have parted company. The dream that was to be an endless road of partying, sunshine and fun fun fun, simply wasn’t. Being cooped up with Jim for hours on end in a Bedford Rascal, started to grate after a while. You know how it is; it’s the little things that start to get to you first. Jim’s unnerving flatulence became unbearable. I had seen his stand up routine in the internet cafes so many times; I knew it off by heart. Jim also refused to drive, saying that he was used to having a chauffeur, and that was that. So off he has gone, back to Dubai, and me, well I have gone back to Miss Marple, with my tail between my legs, and a lot of explaining to do.
It seems Miss Marple’s brief dalliance with the coroner who faked my death certificate came to nothing. She was found innocent of any wrong doing, and he copped the lot. The Funeral director, who assisted the plot by ‘finding’ a body, and arranging the ‘funeral’, hasn’t been seen since my discovery on Yarmouth beach. It’s rumored that he has set up shop in the Caribbean, but nobody knows for sure. So, all back to normal then. Nothing much has changed at home. Ronnie and Reggie are still chewing stuff, the cats are still sleeping, and Miss Marple is still raising her eyebrows!
So, to today’s topic, music. I can’t remember if I have mentioned in previous ‘lectures’, that I am something of a musician. Yes I can string a few chords together on the old geeeeetar, and croak my way through a tune, but my main instrument is the piano. Up until a couple of years ago, I had played in bands on and off for about twenty years, but just recently, my love affair with music seems to have hit the skids. I don’t know why really, but perhaps the ever growing cynicism within me, has started to see that most stuff in the music biz, is just as much a load of bollocks, as just about everything else in life. Whilst driving around Norfolk in the Rascal, I had plenty of time to listen to the radio. Jim did his best to dampen this experience with his snoring, but never the less, I listened to a lot of stuff. Music really is a double edged sword. It can be the most beautiful, uplifting, sad, inspiring thing that one has ever experienced, but on the other hand, there is one hell of a lot of shit out there, and it’s the shit that I want to talk about today.
Where to start. Lyrics. Yes musicians want to portray their inner most thoughts to a waiting world. They want to get their message across, tell everybody about it. So why is it then, that they seem to forget how to use the English language? "Girl", this is a word that is used time and time again in songs, normally slushy sentimental ones, sung over a soulful slowish backing. But has any man ever called the apple of his eye, "Girl"? I bloody doubt it if he knows what’s good for him. Shouting out across a packed pub, "Hey GIRL, what are you drinking?" yes, that’s going to go down well isn’t it? Probably find yourself back on the old one pound fifty a minute lines, phoning middle aged women, who are doing the ironing, whilst assuring you that they are eighteen and busty, quicker than they might have thought! As we were passing through Fakenham the other day in the Rascal, there was a song on the radio, that actually had the line in it……."When we kiss, it makes me weep"! Oh come on dear, get a grip. Yes, you’ve guessed it; it was a soulful slushy one, with a girl singing. One of those girls that find it very difficult to just stick to the actual tune. You know the ones. Their voice is wobbling about, up and down all over the bloody place. The worst exponent of this is that bloody Mariah Carey. What the hell is she doing? Just sing the bloody tune woman. I once heard it said, that Mariah Carey has a seven octave range. Yes she might have, but five of them resemble whale noises, rather than human vocalization. If I buy a cd, (Listen to me, how old am I? Buy a cd, you should be downloading them for nuffing off the internet geezer. Come on grandad)! If I acquire some music, that consists of a human being singing, I want it to be comprehendible, and bloody audible! Not Twelve tracks by Orca the fucking whale!. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, this song with the line "When we kiss, it makes me weep". Now don’t get me wrong, I like a bit of spit swapping as much as the next man, but I can honestly say, that I have never burst into spontaneous weeping before, during, or after a session of osculation. Do you think you might be exaggerating a bit love?
You see, that’s the trouble with songwriters and such the like, they fall into the same inevitable trap that all other ‘artistes’ stumble into. They end up being pretentious wankers! This brings me nicely onto probably the King of pretentious wankers…….Sting. Christ, (To avoid spiritual imbalance, please insert your relevant God/deity/prophet here. Thank you) even the man’s name is bloody pretentious. "Sting", his proper name is Gordon, what’s wrong with that? I suppose it doesn’t sound rock and roll enough. Should a man who must be approaching sixty, really be having such a tossy name? I wonder if he gets called that at the dentist? "Sting, we are ready for you now". "Excuse me", I can hear him saying, "don’t you know who I am? Mr Sting if you don’t mind". Unfortunately, there is a worse one. Yes, one that even out tosses that tosser Sting……."The edge", for fucks sake. The more benevolent people amongst us, might try to convince me that this was a moniker he awarded himself, when he was but a callow youth. At seventeen, we do these ‘crazy’ things, they would say. . . . . . .er, no. It was wanky then, and it is wanky now. I wonder if he is just ‘The edge’ when he is in Dixons, trying to secure himself some six months interest free credit, for the large LCD telly that is wedged under his arm? I can imagine the sales assistant; pen in hand, reams of forms to be filled in.
"Right then sir, if we could start with your full name please"
"The edge"
"Er…….Is that Mr?"
"What"
"Is that Mr Edge?"
"No, Just the edge"
"Ah, you see, I have to put a name in the Christian name box, and another in the surname box, sorry it’s just company policy"
"Well put ‘The’ in one box, and ‘Edge’ in the other.
Even better, a day in court. "Council for the prosecution calls ‘The edge’ to the stand", it’s ludicrous.
I can just imagine an octogenarian judge peering at him over his glasses, bemused.
"The Edge, what do you mean, the edge? On the edge of what? What is your name laddie, your name?
The clerk of the court leans over the bench and politely whispers to the judge, "No your honour, ‘The edge’, that is his name. He is a musician.
"A Musician you say, what’s he here for then, been caught bumming on Hampstead heath I suppose".
While on the subject of ‘The Edge’ it brings me nicely to U2, which then subsequently segways me beautifully to Bono. This then brings me to my pet hate when it comes to music. Music and politics. Just don’t please. When I listen to some music, I most definitely do not want to be lectured or bullied. I don’t want anyone to try and prick my conscience, and most of all, I don’t want some pretentious git of a pop star, trying to tell me how I should be running my affairs. There is not a lot worse in this world as far as I am concerned, than fucking sting, or bloody bono, preaching to me about rain forests, or starving Africans. We all know it’s going on, and we all think it’s terrible, some of us may even try to do our bit to help, but I certainly don’t want you lecturing me about it. But they just can’t help themselves can they. There’s little Phil Collins, telling us all that we "better think twice, cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise". Is it really Phil, thing is, some peoples paradise is a lot better than other peoples isn’t it, Phil? Yes Phil’s contribution to the cessation of the plight of the homeless. Thanks.
Not only do they lecture us as individuals, once in a while, they will all band together, and lecture us on mass. ‘Live Aid’, ‘Earth Aid’, Get rid of AIDS Aid’ the list goes on. How grateful we should all be, that once in a blue moon, pop stars, celebrities, and their general hangers on, will be flown to a private air field, chauffeur driven to a large venue, snort copious amounts of free cocaine, and then take to the stage to remind us what a load of selfish bastards we are for not giving the vast majority of our paltry salaries to stop people starving, and that the death of the planet is all my fault, because my TV is on standby. Well thank you ‘The pussy cat dolls’ for putting me straight on that. I should imagine your average member of ‘The pussy cat dolls’, thinks that global warming, is a shade of lipstick!
Not content with informing me how I can help everyone else, I am then told how I can help myself. Yes, various pop entities over the years have put themselves forward as a sort of life coach. I have been advised to "Respect myself"; I have been told on numerous occasions, that "I can be who I want to be". "Dreams can come true". If I wanted any form of counseling, I certainly wouldn’t want it from Lee Ryan (ex of blue fame), or any other feckless pop pillock thank you. It’s not just the recent crop of public spirited pop prince and princes’s that offer general life advice. No, way back when, Bob Dylan was telling us that "The times they are a changing". Yeah, thanks for that Bob.
Closing in on sting on the final bend of the pretentious pop stars 1500 metres, is George Michael. I have heard him being interviewed on the radio, and he was telling everyone, that the album he had just made, was the hardest thing he had ever done. A truly traumatic experience, that left him completely emotionally drained. Oh come on George, do you think you may have let your pretentiousness run away with you? What, standing in a studio, singing a bit. It really isn’t that hard George.
Anyway, before I go, a list of some styles of music, and my opinion (Which is obviously correct!) on them.
Rock – Generally good, unless your trousers are too tight for your age.
Pop – Just there to make rich people (Simon Cowell) even richer.
Folk – Middle class people standing around in fields, with their fingers in their ears, wearing shorts, and drinking flat beer. Peace loving until Monday, when it’s back to work to screw everyone that they can.
Jazz – Can range from the sublime, to the ridiculous. Oscar Peterson, sublime. Bohemian Scandinavians throwing fish at a piano keyboard, fucking ridiculous!
Opera – Despite what toffs tell you, a form of entertainment that is aimed at the upper classes. Specifically those that have nothing better to do, than swan around pretending they know what the hell is going on in your average opera. Same sort of twats that go to the Tate, and make out that they "Can see where the artist is coming from", as they stare intently at half a shark, with a human cock in its mouth. . . . . . . sigh.
Musicals – Fairly similar to opera, but for the middle to upper working classes. Will insist on singing everything. Just tell me what you have got to say, I’ll understand without the grinning, leaping about, and singing…honest.
Hip hop – Middle class white boys pretending to be black. They rap about the harshness of life in the ghetto of Chipping Norton! Speak/rap/sing in a peculiar waya strange dialect that seems to be a mish mash of downtown Los Angeles, and Reading!
Country – These poor chaps seem to have a hell of a time. Their dogs are always dying, their wives seem to be constantly running off with their best friends, and their horses are lame. People in East Anglia seem to have a strange affinity with this style of music. When John Denver sung "Rocky mountain high" they seemed to think he was referring to somewhere just outside Pidley!
As I write this, ironically ‘That’s entertainment’ by ‘The Jam’ has just come on the radio. Did a good job of reminding me that not all songs are about some bloke wittering on about how much he loves his ‘girl’, or that she has left him, or she’s coming back, or blah blah blah. No, some songs are about real everyday things, that we all suffer or endure, or love. Maybe one day my love affair with music will be rekindled, until then, I think I will retune the wireless to ‘Radio 4’!

Filthy Lucre.......

2007-12-06T12:12:00.000-08:00

Hello again amigos, Davidson and Mule here…..Hey that sounds a bit like a cop show doesn’t it? I could be onto something here. I mean there is obviously room in the TV schedules for a cop show isn’t there? Practically crying out for one! Yes I am starting to envisage it. Jim would obviously be the brash, hard, tough talking, no nonsense one, and I would be the smooth suited, good with computers, ladies man. I think the Rascal would have to go out the window though, we would have to have something a lot flashier. Nothing modern, no, a classic. An E-type jag, yes that’s it. The opening titles could have some funky jazz/ hip hop track playing in the background, and you would see Jim dive in through the passenger window, while I casually slide over the bonnet, to get to the drivers side. There would be some shots of us careering through some cardboard boxes, and diving through the air in slow motion, while duel wielding a couple of magnums. Then a man with an unfeasibly low and gravely voice would say "Davidson and Mule, they’ve got zero tolerance, they’ve got a mission, they’ve got each other…….Davidson and Mule, tonight only on itv1". Oh well, I seem to have let my imagination run away with me…..now there’s a thing!
Well what exotic places have we reached, what dizzy heights have we scaled. Well, Hunstanton actually. I don’t think the rascal is quite up to touring Europe yet. It won’t actually go any faster than forty miles an hour. I am relieved to report that the clothing situation has improved a little. The leggings were starting to chaff, and a crop top really doesn’t keep you warm this time of year. I managed to wear an elderly sales assistant down in a charity shop. I bought a pair of flared jeans (the one’s with the added triangular bits at the bottom, that make them extra flared), and an anorak. I got her down from five pounds for the lot, to two pounds, although if the truth be known, I think I just got her down! I said to Jim why doesn’t he treat himself to some new clobber, but I think he has grown quite fond of the shell suit. Money is obviously tight, but we are managing to make a little. Jim does a bit of stand up in the internet cafes, while I alternate between doing this stuff, and passing the hat round.
Money really is a problem, and a mystery to me, and always has been. I have never been able to get my head around anything financial at all. I don’t know why it is, but as soon as anybody starts talking finances, I slip into a sort of coma. I remember when Miss Marple and myself had to go and see some man about our mortgage. We followed him up to this little room, and we all sat down. Then to my astonishment, Miss Marple and this man started talking in a language I had never heard before. They both seemed to be fluent in it, but I was lost. Variable rats, index kinked, fixed roots, cash back, unit trusses, double overhead cam…….What the bloody hell were they talking about?.
Of course I understand the basic principles of money, but it’s all this high brow stuff that leaves me bamboozled. Does it all need to be this complicated I ask myself? Like everything human beings get involved in, we have to twist it, turn it, and generally bugger it up beyond all comprehension. I mean I understand that way back in cave man days and such the like, one caveman would start to covert his neighbours ox…..and things. So I suppose at first there was a lot of bashing each other on the head, and running off with each others oxen…..and stuff. So I suppose somebody woke up one morning and called a meeting. I should imagine he or she, said something like, "Look, you know how we all keep wanting each others stuff and that, and we keep bashing each other on the head to get it, well surly there must be an easier, and less painful way of getting the stuff". All the cavemen and women looked around at each other, and nodded in agreement. Financial caveman carried on, "Why don’t we have a system where if any of us wants something that someone else has got, we have to swap it with them, for something we have got". All the cavemen and women looked at each other in amazement, and agreed this was a brilliant idea. Thus our financial system was born. Of course as time went by, people realized that it could take ages to come to an agreement about swapping, I mean who is to say if one man’s ox is worth another man’s wheelbarrow, or something. Is a jug worth one or two loaves of bread? It was all very tricky indeed, and fights would regularly break out. This was of course what was trying to be avoided in the first place! So somebody eventually discovered gold, and they decided amongst themselves that a wheelbarrow was worth this amount of gold, or a loaf was worth that amount of gold etc etc.
It is at this point in our history, that it starts to become tricky for me. It was after some time, that someone had the bright idea of making coins and notes. These were to represent the amount of gold one had, but made it much more portable. I understand that it is a lot easier to carry around a few sheets of paper, than it is to have a pocket full of heavy gold, but I think this is where it all started to go awry. For a start, If I am correct (and there is a high chance that I’m not!) I believe a country has to have the exact amount of paper money and coinage in circulation, as it does have gold in it's vaults. This is all very well, but does anyone ever check? Are there little men with clip boards, beards, and corduroy jackets, that go round from country to country, checking the amount of gold a country has is correct, and above board? What’s to stop a country just running off notes willy nilly? America is apparently the richest country in the world…..who says? They could just be printing off dollar bills like there is no tomorrow.
The thing that really blows my head off, is stocks and shares and all that malarkey. What are all those people doing in there? All in multicolored jackets, waving their arms about, shouting a lot, thrusting bits of paper in the air. Bloody hell, it’s madness. "What did you do today at work dear"? Asks Mrs. Stockbroker. "Did you have your purple and orange jacket on?"
"Yes I did" says Mr. Stockbroker.
"Did you wave your bit of paper in the air"?
"Oh yes, and I got it really high. I was stretching really hard like a good boy, and got it higher than anyone else’s"
"Oh well done dear, what a good boy you are, tell me, how was the shouting"?
"Well, I had to send out for some strepsils, I was shouting louder than anybody else"
"That’s my boy"
What a load of bollocks quite frankly. Do you know, I sometimes think it would be better if we went back to bashing each other over the head again.
Anyway, Jim is coming to the end of his stand up routine now. He is finishing off with the one about the two lesbian Nuns, a large candle, and a red faced Bishop. That one gets em every time. Hopefully be somewhere a little more exotic next time around.
Cheerio for now. Andy and Jim.
Ps. Can anyone tell me what a bloody Hedge fund is?.......

Thelma and Louise.......Bloody amateurs!

2007-11-16T13:44:00.000-08:00

I AM FREE!…….Or should I say, we are free. Yes Jim Davidson and I have escaped from ‘The great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered’. I suppose you heard about the mini Tsunami that was supposedly heading for the east coast, well it was then that we managed to escape. The local fire brigade had paid a visit to inspect our defences, and in all the ensuing chaos, a door was left open. Well me and Jim couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. We slipped through the door, and out into fresh air. Boy it feels good to be free again. The smell of fresh air in my nostrils, the weight lifted from my shoulders, yes freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose alright.
Of course we are technically fugitives, and to be honest, it’s a feeling I could get used to. Yes me and old Jimbo are like Bonny and Clyde, Butch Cassidy and the sun dance kid, Thelma and Louise! We are free spirits, children of the road, masters of our own destiny. We are going to live one day at a time. Live for today, and to hell with tomorrow. And do you know what, I don’t care if we are cut down in a hail of gunfire after we have held up a bank, or turned over a post office. No, because we are desperados, and we don’t let anyone get in our way man. The world is our oyster. Tomorrow Bondi beech hanging out with the surf babes, the next day Hanging out with the ’Crips’ in south side L.A. Cruising along Route 66 with the wind in our hair, and yesterday behind us.
Alright, so we have only got as far as Lowestoft, but hey it’s a start. It’s not actually quite as easy being a fugitive as I had imagined. The only vehicle we managed to hot wire, was a ‘Bedford Rascal’. Not quite the mode of transport we had hoped for as we started our life on the road, but still, better than nothing. One of the main problems we faced after our initial escape, was finding some clothes. We spent the first few hours wandering the streets of Yarmouth wearing the regulation issue smocks that we wore inside. We quickly realised that we stuck out like a sore thumb, and so had to resort to desperate means. We didn’t have a penny between us, so we had to improvise. We stalked the back gardens of Yarmouth looking for washing lines. The problem was, it was getting dark, and so it wasn’t easy to see exactly what it was that we were pinching. We grabbed some stuff, and headed back to the rascal. As a result of this, Jim is wearing a purple shell suit, with prison sandals, while I seem to have drawn the short straw on the clothing front, as I am sporting a pair of turquoise leggings, and a crop top! I am beginning to wonder if the smock wasn’t such a bad look after all.
For the time being, I will have to do the blogs from internet cafes, that is until we can get ourselves a laptop. We will have to do a ram raid on ‘Cash converters’ or something. To make living conditions a little more bearable, we are planning to convert the rascal into a camper van. A little tight for space maybe, but desperados don’t need a lot of room. While we are on the subject of living conditions, Jim does seem to have a slight problem with flatulence. Miss Marple would confirm that bottom trumpeting was something I had seemed to turn into an art form, but Jim is in a different league. The sleeping arrangements at the moment, are that we are topping and tailing in the back of the rascal. This means that I am in close proximity to Jim’s arse all night, and spend most of it extremely wind swept. I am actually starting to get chapped lips!
Anyway, I had better finish up. Jim is telling a disabled girl a joke about a black man, a Jew, and a Nazi war criminal. I am sitting here tapping away wearing leggings a crop top and lipsil. We are starting to get some funny looks, so going to move on. Where? Well we just don’t know man. Catch you later dudes…….
PS. Do you know the best thing about my new found freedom. Is it the smell of the sea air, the sound of birds singing in the morning. Maybe it’s the open road stretching before us, or the not knowing what delights tomorrow has in store for us…….No, it’s none of these things. It’s finally getting that fucking nokia out of my arse!

Bangs Ghoulies and the Minister for Health.......

2007-11-07T10:49:00.001-08:00

It’s a black day in the world of mule. I haven’t been this depressed since Michael Schumacher had Damon Hill off to cheat him out of the 1994 Formula 1 world championship. Just this morning, I discovered my first grey pubic hair. Reaching 40 was pretty earth shattering, but not as bad as coming to the realisation that I have elderly testicles! How has this happened?, and why only one? I suppose it’s got to start somewhere, I suppose one of the little buggers has got to make the break, and show the rest the way. I suppose they will all be following suit now, yes, grey will be the new gingery brown. You won’t be anyone in the pubic world unless you are a shade of grey. I guess the only consolation will be that I will have a distinguished scrotum!
Anyway, enough of my pubic problems. So where have I been, and why no updates. Well, Jim Davidson and me have been in solitary confinement, due to an unfortunate incident involving the Health Minister. A couple of weeks ago, The Health minister, what ever his name is, came to visit ‘The Great Yarmouth home for the immeasurably bewildered’, as part of a nation wide tour of mental welfare institutions. He had invited his counterparts from various countries, to show them what a wonderful mental health system we have. On the day in question, Davina had given us all a pep talk, and told us to be on our best behaviour. We were all to stand in a line, and politely greet and shake hands with the various visitors. This sounded to me a little like the line up at the ‘Royal variety Performance’, only they don’t wear dressing gowns and dribble. We were to only speak if we were spoken to, and there was to be absolutely no swearing. So, as Davina was informed that the visitors were imminent, we all dutifully lined up. First in line was Father O’Tooled up, and standing next to him was Nigel. He had been made to wear a long sleeved shirt to disguise his self harming. They had even gone to the trouble to take his dressing gown away from him, to have it dry cleaned. Davina didn’t think the guests would want to be confronted with a manic depressive’s stale vomit. Next to Nigel was Cleopatra. She was asked to wear her normal clothes instead of her usual get up. She wasn’t happy about this, but she was bribed with the promise of getting her foot spa back. Rafael stood next to her. Rafael was heavily sedated due to the fact that he is a mass murderer, and today of all days was not a good time for more blood shed, said Davina. I asked her if in her opinion there was ever a ‘good’ time for bloodshed, and was quickly pocked in the back with the electric cattle prod. The prod only comes out on special occasions. Normally it’s only Christmas that it gets an airing, so today must have been very special!
So there we were, all lined up all neat and tidy. Davina bounced around like a cat on a hot tin roof, as the guests could be seen walking down the corridor towards us. “Ok everybody”, said Davina “Break a leg”. Where the bloody hell did she think we were, on stage in the west end, silly cow. Apart from being a ridiculous thing to say, it was probably a little unwise, Rafael didn’t need much of an excuse at the best of times, so virtually giving him the green light could be seen as a little foolish.
In they came. The Health Minister all suited up, with a gaggle of hangers on and general toadies. Following them were the foreign guests. There were people of all nationalities, and out of the corner of my eye, I’m sure I saw Jim lick his lips in anticipation! This could all go very wrong I was thinking to myself, as Davina guided the crowd along the line, bowing and scraping as she went. The Health Minister shook hands with Father O’Tooled up, who offered to show him what was under his cassock. The Minister politely declined, and was herded along the line as quickly as possible. He was swept past Nigel and Cleopatra, but stopped to talk to Rafael. Davina’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, and the veins on her temples were at bursting point.
“And how are you today?” asked the Minister in his very best ‘couldn’t give a shit, but disguises it as only a politician can’ voice.
Rafael gave the Minister one of those side ways glances, that dogs give each other, just before it all kicks off.
“Are you a liberal democrat?” asked Rafael in a chilling voice.
“Good Lord no”, replied the Minister, not realizing how those three little words had potentially saved him from a gruesome, and very public death.
By this time Davina’s Temples were visibly pulsating, and the Minister was now being frog marched along the line.
He stopped at Jim, and said “Hello, aren’t you er…….what’s his name. Oh you know…….er…….your somebody famous aren’t you?”
Davina jumped in, “Yes you’re quite right Minister, this is Jim, Jim Davidson, he is our only celebrity guest at the moment, and he is responding very well to treatment”.
“Hello Guv’ner” said Jim, “It’s a bleeding travesty I am in here you know, can’t you do something?”
The health Minister smiled like Dracula, just before he sinks his fangs in your neck, and said, “I’m sorry Mr Davidson, I am afraid it’s out of my hands”.
Davina, who was by now virtually hyperventilating, shoved the Minister along the line towards me, the relief written all over her face, thinking that the worst potential flash point, apart from Rafael decapitating the Minister, had been avoided. Just as the Minister reached out his hand towards me, one of the guests came face to face with Jim. He was an oriental gentleman. He was very smartly dressed, and very courteous. Then it happened.
“Hey up, so what kind are you then?” said Jim to the oriental man, “Are you a chinky, or a Jappo?”
The oriental gentleman said in a perfect Oxbridge accent, “Actually sir, I am neither, I am South Korean”.
Jim winked at him, and blurted out, “Well your all the same aint cha. You’ve all got slitty eyes and eat dogs”.
It was genuinely a shame to see Davina being dragged down the corridor to the medical room by her heels, especially after all the time and effort she had put into this visit. Needless to say, the electric cattle prod was wielded about like Luke Skywalkers light sabre. I was apparently guilty by association. Me and Jim were marched to the solitary confinement section in handcuffs, and all the way Jim was shouting “Mental mental chicken oriental”, over and over again!
Apart from that, it’s everything as usual. I suppose the only redeeming feature about being in here at this time of year, is I have managed to completely avoid the lunacy that is Halloween, and Bonfire night. I have never understood the attraction of either of these events. Out of the two, Halloween must be the craziest, for a start it’s an American tradition, and they have never been well known for good ideas.
Apart from that, it seems to fly in the face of every rule that a parent tells their child. Right from day one, parents monotonously drum into their children that…….
1. There are no such things as ghosts. Especially when little Rebecca comes down the stairs crying, saying “Daddy daddy there is a ghost in my room”, to which the parents reply “Don’t be so silly, I have told you a thousand times, there are no such things as ghosts. Besides, your Mother and me are trying to recapture our youth by smoking this joint, so go back to bed”.
2. Never accept sweets from strangers, absolutely never never never. Don’t talk to strangers, and never go off with a stranger, and
3. Always be good, best behaviour, respect your elders, other people and there property.
All very good values, and ways to behave I am sure you will agree. But on October the 31st every year, some sort of madness besets us, and parents all over the country dress their children up like something from the occult, and say to them, “Right, I want you to go up to that strangers door, knock on it, and ask him to give you something nice. If he doesn’t, throw this brick through his fucking window”!…….Bizarre.
Bonfire night is just as mad really. For 364 days of the year, MI5 do their absolute best to prevent the public from obtaining ordinance. This is obviously a commendable attempt to stop terrorist outrages, leaving people dead and injured. Then, one day a year, the madness descends again, and we can all go into our local newsagents, and buy what amounts to TNT!. Not only that, but how much fun can it be really to stand in a freezing cold field, in the pitch black, and watch somebody light a fire? It’s only because it’s a bloody tradition that we all carry on with this ridiculous behaviour, just like Christmas really, but don’t get me started on that. Think about it, just step back a minute, and look at it from a rational perspective. If a friend of yours said to you, ”How do you fancy coming to a party I’m throwing. It’s on January the 18th, and it will basically consist of standing in a field in the freezing cold and the pitch black, and then I’m going to light a fire, and endanger you and your children’s lives, by letting off some explosives“. You would justifiably tell him to bugger off! But there we all stand, stuffing sparklers into our children’s hands. (Remember rule number 4. Don’t play with fire)! Even though little Rebecca is saying Daddy daddy, it’s blinding me, and my hands are burning, we tell them to shut up, and stop disrespecting traditions. Then we all wander over to the burger van to catch botulism.
The A&E departments all over the country must curse our government for letting this insanity go on every year. People lose all sense of reason on this particular date. They stick enormous exploding rockets in milk bottles, and light them. Then when it fails to go off, go and stick their face over it to see what the problem is! I can’t imagine this happening in other walks of life. The army are storming an enemy compound, with the objective of blowing up their ammunition dump. Captain Price leans towards Private Jones and says…….
“Right son, I want you to go and plant the C4 on that ammunition dump, and get back here toot sweet”.
“Right o sir” says Private Jones. He dashes off and plants the explosives, runs back and takes cover. They cover their ears and wait for the bang.
“It doesn’t seem to have gone off sir” says Private Jones.
“Don’t worry son, ill just go and have a look”! It doesn’t happen does it?
I have never been quite sure what exactly it is we are supposed to be celebrating/commemorating anyway. Is it the fact that someone tried to blow up the houses of parliament, or the fact that he, and his fellow conspirators were thwarted? Either way, it’s not much to celebrate is it? Failing to blow up bastards that without doubt deserve it, should not be celebrated, or he was a rubbish terrorist, something else that doesn’t deserve a knees up!
Oh well, Better get back to the cell I suppose. Posh and Becks have been abandoned. After weeks of scraping, clawing, and digging, it slowly dawned on us, that we were on the second floor, and would only have succeeded in escaping into someone else’s cell.
Cheerio for now.