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

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.......

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.......

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.......

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.......

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!

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

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!

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

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

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.......

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. . . . . . .

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.......

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

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.......

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’!