Modern Gutnish

Cook off

2012-02-17T13:36:00.000+01:00

Look at those two. Just look. Do you know who they are? If you live in the UK and have a television licence then you bloody well should because they're never off the telly. Every time I switch on do I have to put up with those two buffoons leering out of the screen. I have to get out of bed every other week at 4am to go to work. Yesterday I flicked on the telly at 4:10am to check the news headlines on Ceefax (yeah, get me, I'm not what you'd call an 'early adopter') and these two berks were bloody on. At 4:10am! Groo.To make matters worse the whole thing was being signed. Now, I love the fact that programmes get signed for the deaf to enjoy stuff too, but if I was deaf and I knew the BBC were signing the Hairy Bikers' own particular brand of garbage I think I'd be writing a stiff letter to Points of View. Or the Daily Mail at least.

They're not even proper hairy bikers. Hairy bikers I've encountered in the past would eat raw dog and drink petrol.

I mean, what are they for? Does anyone actually make the stuff they churn out? No, they don't. Well, I don't. I can make a meal out of a bag of pilau rice, some sausages, a tin of Sainsbury's mushy peas and a three day-old Warburton's You think I'm joking don't you? If Si and Dave (I hate myself for knowing their names. And I hate them for the incredibly matey way they've shortened their names) show me how to make tasty meals out of some out-of-date bacon, a tin of ravioli, a jar of red cabbage and some lasagne sheets then I'm all eyes and ears.

Talking of cookery shows it gave me great pleasure to see that Something for the Weekend's coming to an end. Well, sort of pleasure; it's a show I love to hate (as those who follow me on Twitter will know, no Sunday morning is complete without me spraffing off on #SFTW). That oaf Tim Lovejoy really grates with me. He's always quacking on about the 'manly' pursuits he's been up to that week. These pursuits usually involve snowboarding or drinking cocktails. He should have been with me at work yesterday morning -we'll see what sort of man he is if he had to pull a tonne of frozen julienne (!) carrots off the back of a trailer with an incredibly slippery floor at 5:15am. And don't even get me started on his co-prezzener, Louise Redknapp. She is to TV-presenting (or "presentin'" as she would say) what Joseph Stalin was to human rights.

Anyway, what I did enjoy on telly over the last week was the Depeche Mode documentary, or, if you will, 'rockumentary' (ho ho!), 101. What a great snapshot of the late 80s that was - lawyers with ponytails, brick mobile phones, demi waves, Dave Gahan before he found out how incredibly moreish The H is and snow washed denim. It begs the questions a) was Andy Fletcher the Bez of DM and b) whatever happened to Alan Wilder?

Oh, have this, it's Friday (I have a cousin who is a dead ringer for Martin Gore, yes, really and there's a lovely shot near the end of this of a middle-aged woman blowing up a beach ball. Bizarrely):

The Only Way is Essex

2012-02-10T12:45:00.000+01:00

Hey, guess what? I'm still alive! Hurrah! Sorry I've not done much on here but I've been busy. You know, like really busy. You would not believe how busy I've been. I've been so busy I'm off the Busyometer scale. Yeah, you know really, really busy. I've been busy doing all sorts of stuff. Busy hating Harry Redknapp takes up a lot of my time at the moment. But I've taken time out of hating Harry Redknapp to do this. You lucky bastards.

Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, David Essex. I'm young enough to remember a time when David Essex wasn't famous. He's always been there. Whether winking at the camera on Top of the Pops or hosting his own TV show or having a sitcom written for him. I quite like him. I like him so much I went to see him in his musical All the Fun of the Fair last week with members of the family. It's not the best musical you'll ever see but it's a diverting couple of hours and live entertainment's always better than staying in watching the telly, isn't it?
Looking at the programme I was reminded what a great talent his is. Essex gets the sole writing credit on all but one of the songs in the show - and it's one of those jukebox musicals where the songs are already known to you. It has to be said there were quite a few hits in there so he's clearly not just a pretty face. Take Rock On for instance; that is a great record. It still sounds fresh nearly forty years later, in fact the opening bass chords are quite scary (it has to be said that some of the songs are shoehorned in to the musical: "Do you know what, Jonny? We're gonna make you a star!" Cue the song).
But what I admire most about Essex is his film Stardust. I love that film. The thing is that he can actually act as well as write and sing all of the songs. I first saw Stardust when I recorded on to video a late night showing when I must have been about 14. The thing that struck me most at the time was the scene where he goes to bed with a pair of buxom twins. For a 14 year-old that was just the most mind-blowing thing I'd ever seen (although having read Hammer of the Gods and Motley Crue's books, bedding a pair of twins sounds like tea at Grandma's). It's still a film I love though, as I love a lot of films of that era like Slade in Flame. It's the age-old story of boy wants to be rock star, becomes rock star, gets into the 'H', gets his head together in the country, overdoses live on TV. If you've never seen it please do, especially as Paul Nicholas gets kicked out the band, Peter Duncan's in it, Dave Edmunds tries to act and Keith Moon plays himself. And the title song played over the closing credits is just magnificent. Look at this; Stardust with That'll Be the Day is less than seven of your English pounds on Amazon.
Anyway, I like David Essex (as do an awful lot of ladies of a pretty wide age range) and can do an impression of him. Yeah.

Go on, knock yourself out, it's Friday:

Now then, now then, guys and gals etc

2011-10-31T17:33:00.000+01:00

No, not a blog post about Jimmy Savile, look elsewhere for that. This posts about impressions, impersonations, call them what you will. Now, I'm quite a good mimic, I reckon and as such I have a range of celebrity (and non-celebrity) voices ready to go at the drop of as hat. I think most people do. For instance, on the Jeremy Vine show today there was a discussion about Savile. One bloke phoned in to say that he was an 8 year-old on Jim'll Fix It in 1985 with Les Dennis and Dustin Gee. Jeremy asked him what impressions he did and got most excited when he said he did Coronation Street's Mavis Riley. Jeremy got incredibly excited by this and asked if he could hear his Mavis Riley. Now, this is the point of this post, most amateur impressionists have one stock line for each person they're doing. Can you guess what it is Mavis's case? Of course you do, you're intelligent and WAY ahead of the game here. The line is, if you were born after 1990, "I dooonnn't reeaally knooww" Yeah? Now you're pissing yourself aren't you. No? oh, okay. The thing that bugs me about these amateur impressionists is the laziness of that. I'd prefer to have a string of phrases to use for each person I do. I mean, who wants to hear "Mmm, Betty, that cat's done a whoopsy on the floor" again? I don't. My Frank Spencer also includes "Now then, Jessica, who's going to see the Queen on Christmas Day then?" or "RAF socks...RAF braces". Yeah, the second one's a little more for the hardcore Spencerite to enjoy, but hey, I like an obscurity. Or take my Jimmy Savile. I always prefer my own line - once uttered on an episode of Jim'll, fact fans - which goes "Turn a Shetland pony into a Shirehorse? Wow" See, how much more refreshing is that than the stock "Er-er-er-er, now then now then, guys and gals, over there, you see, we have the Alan Price Set, like that."
To compound this fact about amateur one line merchants, when our Jim'll Fix It chum had reeled off his own impressions for Jeremy Vine, then Vine himself then thought he treat us to his Larry Grayson. I'm telling you, it was dire. It sounded like my mum saying "Look at the muck in here" I did manage a bit of a laugh at this hardnosed ex- Newsnight man being a bit camp for the benefit of his listeners though.

So here's a guide of what you'll expect to hear from life's less fortunate mimics:
Denis Healey - "What a silly billy"
Harold Wilson (one for the teenagers) - "The pound in your pocket"
Prince Charles - "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" or something
Norman Wisdom - "Mr Grimsdale!"
Bruce Forsyth - "Didn't he do well?!" Although a more advanced amateur might throw in a "Let's have a quick look at the scoreboard" or "Nice to see, to see you, NICE"
Jimmy Tarbuck - "Wo-ho!"
Dot Cotton -"Ooh, I saaay"
Sid James - "A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha"
Su Pollard - "Miss Cathcart!"
Michael Caine - "Notalotapeopleknowthat"
Del Boy - "Shat it, you tart"
Brian Clough - "Young man"
Fred Trueman - "I'll si thee"
Barbara Woodhouse - "Walkies!"

Those people are still popular, aren't they? I mean my pop cultural knowledge clearly ended in 1988.

If anyone is looking to hire me as an impressionist then I'm available for birthdays, weddings, christenings, bah mitzvahs and funerals. My John Gordon Sinclair in Gregory's Girl and Dustin Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy have to be heard to be believed. You'd think you were at a showbiz party with my thousand voices. "I'm walkin' here! I'M WALKIN' HERE!"

Here's the best Jimmy Savile impression there is. And hang around for the David Attenborough gag at the end, I really did, ugh, LOL when I heard it.

Pussy galore

2011-09-07T18:49:00.000+01:00

I was in the town of Ludlow* just this past weekend. You know, having a mooch around, looking in shop windows, all that stuff. Anyway I came across the Cats Protection League (although these days they're just called Cats Protection) charity shop. I don't know how many of you are familliar with that series in which that dreadful Mary Portas woman shouted at a load of OAPs who'd volunteered to help out in a branch of Save the Children, but I reckon this branch of Cats Protection could have done with a nicer version of Portas to go in and give them some pointers. I have in my head the sort of person who'd either donate or bequeeth item to a cats charity. I'm sure you have the same picture in your head: elderly woman, likes a comfy cardy, doesn't get out much, stinks of cat piss. Is that the same mental picture as yours? I thought so. And obviously the same goes for the kind of person who would volunteer to work in the Cats Protection shop. To be honest, I was shocked at the items put on display in the window. That's right, in the window. You know, in the window where you're supposed to put all the decent, eye-catching gear.
Exhibit 1:

A nice floral teapot. But look closer. It has dried tea drips on it. What's happened there, do you think? Have the staff in the shop been using it to brew their breaktime cuppa? And why is tea running down it from the top? The tea's supposed to be either inside the pot or coming out of the spout, isn't it? Or am I being very old-fashioned and this is some new kind of avant garde tea-making? Or, and I suspect this to be the case, did the staff not wash the teapot before putting it on display. In the window?

Exhibit 2:

I like a nice salad as much as the next man but what you can't really see on that photo is the amount of muck that looked as though it had collected around the plastic on the top. Would you put an iceberg lettuce, spring onions, radishes and a few tomatoes in there? Would you? You would? You're insane. I value my health. Would you put that item in the window or in the skip? Total scut.

Exhibit 3:

On the left is a teaspoon rest. Now I find the teaspoon rest to be a handy item for any home (in fact, I covet one for myself). Not only can you rest teaspoons on there but also teabags freshly plucked from a mug or pot so that you can get them dry before they drip on the kitchen floor in transit to the bin (we've all been there, right?). That one was incredibly mucky. So mucky that I wouldn't even use it after it had had a good going over with a bit Domestos diluted in hot water. Again, this item was in the window, with what is supposed to be the best gear. And look at that football mug! Who'd pay money for that? It's the sort of thing that comes with a really cheap Easter egg. I bet if you turned it round in really really cheap-looking, non-trademark lettering it says 'Ipswich' or 'Queen of the South'. Scut, scut, scut!

This next item though is my favourite:

This piece of A4 fascinates me. It's clearly intended as an ad to find a stray cat a home. Why then has someone stuck not onkly Blu Tack but also Cats Protection price stickers over the text? Has someone in Cats Protection took a shine to old Demon here? Or is something more sinister afoot? Look to the right and you'll see written, and then scribbled out, 'found dead'. What's happened to Demon? Was he alive at the vets, escaped and then his was corpse found later? I've hardly slept a wink since worrying about him. Pity the shop was shut or I'd have gone in and asked.

*Nice place. It's crowning glory has to be the public toilets though. I mean, how can you not like a place whose bogs pipes in Donna Summer's State of Independence whilst you're straining your greens?

Now we are 3

2011-08-05T17:08:00.000+01:00

One thing I forgot to mention yesterday is that while I've been away on holiday this blog celebrated its third birthday. Hooray for Modern Gutnish! Little did I know that back in the summer of 2008 whike innocently posting a photo of Diane Keen with a breast on show on one of this blog's first entries, Modern Gutnish would be no.1 in the Google search list for 'Diane Ken tits'. Who knew so many people were interested in the Cuckoo Waltz star's knockers? Not I, that's for sure as mustn't. Turns out this blog is also no.2 on the Google list for the search term 'Jo Whiley tits'. Funny thing is that the sentence I wrote on that particular entry was "Jo Whiley's a tit". So, for all the pervs out there I'm going to try a little experiment just to see how stupid some people are. Here goes: JUNE WHITFIELD TITS. There, now I just need to sit back and see what happens.
Getting back to 2008, do you remember it? A long time ago now of course, but let's get a bit nostalgic, eh? Lehman Brothers Bank was still very much a going concern, Gordon Brown was well on his way to becoming one of the UK's best-loved Prime Ministers, your house was worth double what it's worth now, you could get credit just like that, Cher Lloyd was busy being a school bully, my mother was still very much with us, there was one of the greatest statesmen of our time in the Whitehouse, nobody had heard of swine 'flu, I still thought Christine Bleakley was nice, Rupert Murdoch was a cuddly old gent who just happened to own a few newspapers. Halcyon days indeed. Here's to the next three years of Modern Gutnish!

De drummer på sondring

2011-08-04T20:35:00.001+01:00

Right, I've literally been inundated with absolutely no requests from people asking how I did on my drum grading exam, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I passed. With distinction. Can you believe that? I can't. Look, that's my certificate there on the photo. Obviously I've covered up my name with a pair of drumsticks, but I can assure you that really is my certificate. If you don't know my name then you'd best just pretend that it really is Vic Firth. The examiner was even very kind in his notes. I'm rather chuffed. I know it's only Grade 1 but it's a big thing for me.
In other news, kind of related to the drum exam, I'm growing a beard. The last time I had a shave was the day of the exam. It needs a lot of work. I find myself trying to push hair out so it goes from the stage of looking like you can't be arsed to shave to having a beard. Trouble is that if I get to the stage where I look like I've got a Noel Edmonds Tidy Beard then it's coming off. I've even got an electric 'grooming kit'. Oh dear, that's just a slippery slope towards moisturising territory. I hope that doesn't happen as I'm a man after all. And only tonight while looking at an early photo of Metallica (which I like to do every now and again) I realise I bear an uncanny resemblance to a 20 year-old Lars Ulrich...minus the head hair. Hmmm.
And in some more news, I saw Darren Ferguson in a motorway service station the other week. Just thought I'd tell you that. Have you ever seen the son of anyone famous?

Anyway, have one of my favourite tracks for drums courtesy of the talented man Dave Grohl. Too talented for his own good. The bastard.

Der Trommler

2011-07-20T10:36:00.001+01:00

So, had my first drum exam yesterday. Oh dear. Grade 1 and things didn't go according to plan. The day started with a two hour lesson which kicked off at 6am. Now, I don't know about you but I doubt if there's many occasions where drumming is deemed acceptable at such an early hour. I was the first exam of the day so we had to travel to Lincoln for an 8:45 start. Got there early so just managed to sneak in a cheeky bacon bap from a tea bar around the corner from the studio where the exam was due to take place. Surprisingly for an exam phobic like me I felt strangely serene - that should have been the portent.

Went to the studio where I was allowed fifteen minutes warm up time. My drum tutor came with me - we knew he wouldn't be allowed in the actual exam but he wanted to come anyway as I'm the first person he's sent for grading - and told me that I'd best practise my rudiments. Now rudiments are the easy stuff you're supposed to know in your sleep. Not going to get technical but they involve rolls, triplets and paradiddles. So, armed with my 'lucky' drumsticks (a pair of Zildjian Zak Starkey's complete with mod roundels which have virtually worn off, as you can see in the pic which was taken in my very own pad, you lucky bastards. A gift from my drum tutor, even though I have plenty of sticks of my own. It was he who called them my' lucky sticks'. His girlfriend bought them for a pound from a car boot sale) I was called into the examination room. The examiner, a personable Geordie in his forties, put me at ease and asked me which three set pieces of music I'd be playing (there's a guy playing one of them here. It isn't me, but if you're unlucky enough to be a friend of mine on Faceberk then there's a video of me playing all three pieces on there). Now, the set music is supposed to be one of the harder parts of the exam. I sailed through all three barely putting a foot wrong, perhaps two small mistakes.

Then came the rudiments section. Oh dear. I had the choice to play along with a metronome or not. Should have said 'not' but was mindful that more points would be added to my score if I could play along in time with a metronome...which I normally can. All three rudiments he asked me to play were a complete and utter shambles. In fact I'd even go as far as to say it was fucking awful. Shit!

Next part of the exam was recalling a groove, recalling rolls and sight reading and interpretation, and questions on music notation and general music questions, all of which I sailed through. Again, I got the more difficult stuff right. Oh well, fifteen minutes and the exam was over - the examiner said "You've done very well. You'll get your results in two to three weeks." Yeah, right on the 'you've done very well bit', I bet he says that to all the others going for Drum Grade 1, which is usually eleven year-old boys, not midlife crisis boy here.

Went back to get tutor, who could hear every thing despite it supposedly being soundproofed, where he called me a wanker for the rudiments section. Yes, what a wanker. Still, at least we could laugh about it - on the way back we were going over what the examiner might have been saying to the guy who owned the studio: "Did you hear old baldie's rudiments? What a prick, they get a bit of cash in their pockets buy a kit and think they're Dave Grohl. A-ha-ha. A-ha-ha." Yes, A-ha-ha indeed. At least I can drum along to AC/DC's Back in Black, hardly Rush's YYZ but hey.

Roll on Grade 2.

The King of the Tits

2011-07-20T09:52:00.002+01:00

Good to hear Roger Taylor off of Queen having a pop at Rupert Murdoch along with everyone else. Hurrah! That's Roger Taylor off of Queen who thought it was okey-dokey to play in South Africa in the 1980s. I can't think of any other song which includes the word 'denominators', can you?

The lyrics in full:

Dear Mr. Murdoch you play hard to see
But with your bare-arsed cheek you should be on page three
And dear Mr. Murdoch you're really the pits
Bad news is good business, you're the king of the tits

They stain all they touch, they're real woman haters
But we're on their trail
They go straight for the lowest common denominators
How could they fail? go straight to jail - (no bail)!

Dear Mr. Murdoch you're a powerful man
You control half our media whose values don't scan
And dear Mr. Murdoch we're not so amused
Just line up the people whose lives they've abused

Dear Mr. Murdoch what do you know
With your minions like vultures and carrion crow
They've sunk just as low as humans can sink
For profit they tell us how mass murderers think

And dear Mr. Murdoch you come down from on high
You even bought up the air waves, you control all our sky

Dear Mr. Murdoch you're a dangerous chap
With your jingoist lingo we're drowning in crap

Dear Mr. Murdoch where are you coming from?
Getting so hard to tell if you're a yank, oz or pom

Dear Mr. Murdoch you're really the pits
Bad news is good business, you're the king of the tits

Dear Mr. Murdoch you do it with zing
At lowering the standards you're really the king

And dear Mr. Murdoch what have you done?
You're not quite as nice as Attila the Hun

Now then

2011-06-25T20:54:00.002+01:00

Yeah, I'm back, back, BACK! Got meself a hot new computer and internet connection. I bet you're all so pleased, eh? No? Oh, please yourselves...
Anyway, I'm back and have absolutely nothing to blog about, so soz about that. Icould have a moan about something I suppose, but sod it. Not only that but my sister's just texted me to tell me that Elbow are on BBC3 in ten minutes so I'd better hurry up and settle myself in for more, er 'stuff'. I'm sure you'll be hearing more from me, but tonight I'm going to watch some telly for the first time in ages. As the song goes: "Food in my belly and a licence for my telly and nothing's gonna bring me down" Hurrah!

Edit: I have got something to moan about: the announcer on BBC3 saying "One Day Like This byElbow is one of my most favourite songs ever - always cheers me up" Oh, piss off will you?

'Ere, have a bang on this, currently residing in the 'where are they now file'.

Hey Scenesters!

2011-06-02T18:10:00.001+01:00

Hey, you groovy cats, I'm going to be without decent internet access for three - yes, count 'em - three weeks! So I'll be quiet for a bit, which will no doubt come as a relief to you all. Behave yourselves while I'm gone and have a bang on this because I love power pop, Charlotte Hatherley and cheerleaders. Mind how you go:

I've lost that loving feeling

2011-05-17T15:46:00.001+01:00

I don't want to keep quacking on about Rush, it's very boring for you and even I'm starting to get fed up of it. Thing is that last night's Rush show might have been my last. I don't know what it was but it was all just a bit 'meh'. 60% of it was good, 40% of it was merely okay. Nothing was particularly excellent, they just seemed to be going through the motions. The tour's called Time Machine; as they've no new LP to promote at the moment it's a 'greatest hits' package but with the 1981 classic album Moving Pictures played in its entirety. That bit was great, as it was proper 'old' but there was too much stuff from the blandathon mid-80s and early-90s albums.

The band themselves even looked like they were going through the motions. The drum solo, a highlight for many Rush fans, was lacklustre. They tried to do comedy at the beginning of both halves of the show by showing overlong films they'd made trying to be funny. Neither film worked particularly well. And we were kept back for another ten minutes at the end while another 'funny' film was shown featuring two blokes from a film called I Love You, Man (no I've not seen it either). I watched this film in the belief that Rush were going to come back on and blow us a way with a rip-roaring run through of Anthem or The Trees, but when it finished the houselights came up and I was just left a bit miffed that I'd missed out on beating-the-rush-to-the-car-park time.
Somebody also needs to have a word with Geddy Lee about his vocals - he strains, and I mean really strains - to hit top notes these days. It was painful to hear, especially during 2112. Perhaps he ought to think about dropping down an octave or two.
I was just left a bit deflated after all the excitement, and that was the general consensus in the car afterwards. Hmmm... Still, I did have a bit of an 'Elbow moment' when I saw them walking out onto the stage, so it wasn't all bad.
Whether they'll come back to the UK remains to be seen, they're recording a new album due for release next year but I can't see them coming back in such a short space of time. And Neil Peart has hinted that this might be their last album. I think that might have been the last time I'll see them. Farewell to Kings.

Remember them this way, I suppose...

Groo!

2011-05-15T15:41:00.001+01:00

I'm going to see Rush tomorrow night. Look what some idiot's written on the Facebook Events page for the gig:
"Carnt wait, my partner is cumming with me, No she aint a fan,lol. we goin at dinnertime monday make sure we r there intime, we onlt 1 1/2 away but ya never no with traffic, i always panic ) we stopping at the Hilton Hotel tha night too, we in block C row 2"

Thank God I'm in Block A, away from him. I thought Rush fans were supposed to be intelligent? Well, apart from me, that is.
I think it should have read like this:
"I can't wait! My partner's coming with me - she's not a fan! We're leaving home at lunchtime on Monday to make sure we're there in time; we only live ninety minutes away but you never know what the traffic's going to be like and I always panic. We're staying the night at the Hilton, where no doubt my partner will be 'cumming' with me. Ho ho! Our seats are on Block C Row 2, so if you're sitting there you're in for a treat!"
I understand his excitement but leaving at lunchtime? I live less that ninety minutes away and I'm not picking my party up until 16:30. By the way, it seems I'm being a personal taxi for this lift I'm giving them, they all want picking up from their homes. I'm just too bloody nice, that's my problem.

Oh, while I'm on - if you drive one of these...

...I hate you.

Mr Noseybonk

2011-04-27T15:10:00.002+01:00

I love a bit of people watching, me. I was away over Easter and I spent most of my time just gawping at other people and listening in to their conversations (as I've already mentioned, I love just snippets of conversations). For a kick off on Sunday I found myself in Whitstable (quite nice although it smells fishy and I saw a bloke actually eating jellied eels) and I decided to go for a refreshing drink at an open air quayside cafe (the two guys running the joint are another blog post entirely, just put it this way, whatever they'd smoked the night before was clearly good shit). I was sitting there taking in the vista of fishing boats and a gravel works when I became aware of two women sitting at the next table. Candice was about thirty while Candice's Mate was about twenty one. Well Candice's Mate was very open about her love life. She used to go out with Steve, right, this Scotch bloke, but, Candice, there's was no way she could afford to get up to Glasgow every weekend. Besides, he was only meant to be a holiday shag, but you know, it all got out of hand. But Candice, there's absolutely no way she wants a bloke right now, yeah? She's just enjoying myself, Candice yeah? SHE DOESN'T WANT A BLOKE, CANDICE! I think the lady doth protest too much.
On the way home on Monday I stopped in Cambridge, lovely city, and decided to buy a sandwich for lunch and take it down to a park near the river. Well, what do you know, it was people watching heaven. Watching blokes try and steer punts to impress ladies is fantastic fun, culminating when one dickhead fell in. Mind you it serves him right for wearing a pink shirt and Kicker deck shoes with shorts. There was also the woman in her sixties who thought it was acceptable to wear jeggings, the American woman who didn't realise she'd ripped the back of her skirt, the kid who was like that one from Outnumbered who just had to find a dead duckling, the bloke barbecuing some stuff in little foil bags and a woman who was trying to fish her son's football out of the river with a borrowed punting pole while very nearly falling in herself.
The highlight for me though was watching a couple on the more secluded opposite bank. The guy had his hand on his ladyfriend's more intimate area and was clearly 'rubbing'. I think they thought they were being dead discrete with the way she'd positioned herself but let me tell you, I could see exactly what was going off. I tried to look away. Honest.

Royal tattoo

2011-04-19T15:20:00.000+01:00

I was going to blog about the Royal wedding, but I feel so much antipathy towards it that I just can't be arsed. Last night I arranged a drum lesson for 11am next Friday, so I'll miss it even if I wanted to watch. I asked my drum tutor if he wanted to watch so we could rearrange but he just shrugged his shoulders and said "Nah", like nearly everyone else I know. It's not even as though the day off's much good to me, I've had every Friday off since January.

So anyway, where do you stand on tattoos? Now I'm sure there are people reading this who have one, they're just not for me I'm afraid. I think that even if I did want one I'd decide a couple of days later that it looked rubbish and I'd want to get rid of it straight away. Not only that but I couldn't stand the pain, I;m not some kind of sadist. Besides, what would I have? A swallow on my hand? Geddy Lee on my calf? 'Modern Gutnish' on my arse cheeks? 'Fancy a brew' on my bicep? I ask because I went to Bridlington on Sunday (that's an experience, especially a shop that screamed "We've got the smelliest balls in Brid!" Although it has to be said that Brid is a bit nicer than the nearest seaside to here, Skegness) and I saw this couple with his 'n' hers tats. They were identical except his was bigger. They both had them on their backs, it was of two entwined winged sperm with the legend 'Two become one' in finest copperplate script underneath. Why would you do that? For a start I think their biology's a little bit out. I never did biology as an option but even I know that two entwined sperm do not a baby make. Besides, it just looked awful. I'm not calling into question the talent of the tattooist - far from it, he seemed very skilled in his art - it's just that I cannot imagine the thought process that went into designing that and having it applied to your skin. And sperm? Winged sperm? Really?

Do you think Kate and Wills will have wedding tattoos done? You know, like Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson tattooing their wedding rings on? I reckon a tattooed wedding band would look great on Kate's finger next to her dead mother-in-law's engagement ring.

Midnight at the lost and found

2011-04-12T16:39:00.000+01:00

Have a look at the 'Lost and Found' section of that photograph. People who've been reading this garbage for an awfully long time will know how much my local paper gets on my wick. But every now and again there's something in it which makes me pull up short.
When I originally saw that ad I thought to myself "What a fantastic citizen that person is, they've found this photo and they've gone to all the trouble of putting an ad in the paper, at some considerable expense, to try and find the owner of it. And looking at that dialling code they must be from miles away, that's not a local dialling code that I know."
Then I looked again and I'm left with the impression that the ad has been put in by someone who's lost the photo. Is it really that valuable? And if they're such a fan of the Crafty Cockney then how come they can't spell his name correctly? And if they knew they'd lost it outside 99p Stores then why didn't they go back for it? Does this person prize this photo so much that they carry it around in an inside pocket, next to their heart, and have to keep pulling it put every few strides to make sure it's there? So as they walked along in the precinct they pulled it out at Wilkinson's and still had it. Pulled it out again at Julian Graves, still had it. Pulled it out at the travel agents, still had it. Pulled it out at Claire's Accessories, still had it. Pulled it out at 99p Stores, still had it. Pulled it out at Marks and Spencer's, SHIT WHERE'S IT GONE? IT MUST HAVE GONE WHEN I PULLED IT OUT AT 99P STORES!
To be honest, I can't really see a photo with Eric Bristow in it being all that valuable either. And if they loved it then why not keep it safe at home? I guess there are some things in life that just remain a mystery.

Whadda Guy

2011-04-03T15:12:00.003+01:00

I know John Medd's already blogged about this but I can't let it go without mentioning it. The Boat That Guy Built really is turning into one of my favourite telly programmes. Ever. If you've not seen it it's about 'world famous' (so 'world famous', in fact, that I'd never previously heard of him) motorbike racer and HGV mechanic (!) Guy Martin doing up a narrowboat. But Guy can't just go to the chandlers and B&Q and do up his boat, no, he has to do everything from scratch. Like build a mini foundry to make a kettle, go to Wedgewood's in Stoke to make a mug, make his own baked beans, blend his own tea, learn how to make a steam pump to power the shower, render some animal fat to make soap and weave his own sheets. In fact the bloke's so down to Earth he was prepared to admit on camera that he thought cotton came from a sheet.

Guy and his mate Mark are just a couple of lovely blokes doing stuff. That's all it is. Not much happens but it's just nice to see two blokes happy in each other's company dicking about. I like to see nice people doing nice things. In fact I did some research on Guy just to find out a bit more about him. Turns out he's got a film coming out. In 3D an'all, if you please. It's about his motorbike racing. Apparently in the world of road racing he's quite big news. Road racing's like the Isle of Man TT type stuff, no gravel traps or tyre walls. It's brick walls, manhole covers and telegraph poles that these fellas have to contend with. There's a lovely bit on the end of the trailer (see below) where Guy says "Some lads love going to the pub, some lads love shaggin'. I don't mind it but different people are into different things. I like doing this" Which I find incredibly refreshing. In fact we could tell how relaxed Guy is towards sex when a lady signwriter did some work on his boat on this week's TBTGB and it was clear she fancied him. I'm, not an expert in lady signals but I'm sure the fact that she kept asking if they could 'go below and make a cup of tea' wasn't particularly a request about hot beverages. Guy wasn't really listening though, he only had eyes for the roses he was painting on to the boat. I was screaming at the telly "Guy! She's bloody choking for it!" Bless him. Anyway, it's the last one next week and some of it was filmed in Newark. Hurrah! According to this week's Newark Advertiser, "Guy enjoyed filming in Newark and he says he 'had a good laugh'" Which is what it's all about really, isn't it? Good old Guy!
Oh, and he sounds like me when he talks.

Anyway, something else I've been enjoying just recently is Friday Night Dinner. It's one of the rare comedies these days that actually makes me, ugh, 'LOL'. It's got some famous people in it. You know, her off of Black Books, the lad off of The Inbetweeners and Jim Rosenthal's kid. It's incredibly well observed about family life. It revolves around a Jewish family meeting on a Friday night for dinner. We used to do the same when Mum and Dad were alive on a Saturday afternoon ('Getting your bottle filled' is how my brother-in-law used to describe it. Go figure). And it's the same set-up, an aloof dad whose always pottering and a mum who finds him exasperating but is still mad about him at the same time.

It also reminds me of the relationship I had with my sister. You may have grown up but when you go back to your parents house you regress back to childhood. I thought we were the only ones who carried on sitting on each other, tipping salt into each others drinks, eating Spiller's Shapes dog biscuits, trying to trip each other up and do a special thing whenever the other came to sit next to us (and I'm not going to tell you what that is because you'll talk about me) when we were in our twenties and thirties

It's the last one of them this week too, but the good news is that it's been recommissioned. Hurrah! Again!

He sees faces in the sky

2011-03-27T17:45:00.001+01:00

People often say to me "Hey, Bright Ambassador, where did you get that groovy user name from?" Well, wonder no more, dear reader, because here's where I got the name from. The last time I saw this band I had the full force of the bit at 7m 12s in this video directly in my ear'ole because I'd found myself standing right next to the PA in an attempt to get a better view of Chloe Alper. I seem to remember climbing on top of floppy-haired students, such was my desire to have a gawp at the nu-prog goddess of the four string. I was 38 at the time. Oh dear. I reckon I could piss the drum part in this an'all. Ee-zee!
What a pity their last LP was a bit of a stinker. Ho-hum.

Fools Rush in

2011-03-25T16:55:00.002+01:00

So this Rush ticket thing then. I wish I'd never bothered asking this Random Rush Fan to come now. I said to him "If you can't find anyone to go with you can come with us". He's more than taken me up on that offer. He rang me the other night and said "I'm looking at Rush tickets now, how many extra people can you get in your car?" Bloody hell. I'm sure I've got an aura above my head that I can't see which reads "Sucker". I've offered to take the bloke, out of the goodness of my heart I might add, thinking it'd be a shame for him to go on his own, and now he's roping in all sorts of mates to come along. I have a hatchback, not a minibus.
I kind of wish I was going on my own now. I've seen Rush quite a few times now and I've always been on my own. I do this because I know they're a bit of an acquired taste and I certainly wouldn't want to subject anyone else to Geddy Lee singing, in the way he does, about a dystopian world in the future where music has been banned and then a guy who finds an ancient flute in a cave gets chucked into chokey for playing it. Or something. See what I mean? Would you like to sit through that? And a ten minute drum solo? Thought not. Whenever you say to people that you like Rush they always either say "Who?" or they roll around on the floor pointing and laughing. It's best if you hide your light under a bushel as far as liking Rush goes. Saying you like Rush is a bit like saying you vote UKIP. Or admitting you're still a virgin (and in many cases with Rush fans...). Or that you think Jeremy Clarkson has got some interesting things to say (and in many cases with Rush fans...)
The other reason I like to go on my own is so that you don't have to interact too much with other Rush fans. You can just turn up, get your ticket ripped and enjoy the show. More typical Rush fans can't wait to spend time together. They rock up in the Signals Tour t-shirt they bought at Stafford Bingley Hall in 1982 and swap tales about the flattened sixteenth Alex dropped into Closer to the Heart at Wembley on the Hold Your Fire Tour of 1988. Or the time that Neil Peart fluffed a drum fill during By Tor and the Snow Dog at Birmingham Odeon in 1979. Aah, what larks. Not.
They also love to drink. And they love to drink together. Usually while eating a curry. Eating a curry while wearing their Moving Pictures t-shirt. And when they've finished doing that they like to headbang and throw that stupid devil's horn sign populated by Ronnie James Dio. And when they've finished doing that they moan that Rush aren't as good as they used to be. I tell you, Desmond Morris could get a whole book out of observing Rush fans at a Rush convention.
Aah, now then, Rush conventions. I used to be quite pally with a lad, when I used to frequent Rush messageboards (not advised, Rush messageboards. All human life is there) and I asked him once if he fancied going to the UK Rush fan convention, you know, 'for a laugh'. I loved his answer, and I've never forgotten it: "Spend a day with a load of Rush fans? No thanks."
So I wish I was going on my own now and not having to spend the late afternoon and evening listening to some Rush fans quack on about Cygnus X-1. Sometimes loving a band is very hard work. I hope Geddy Lee's pleased with himself.
Having said all that though, they're one of only two bands whom I get incredibly excited about when I see them walking onstage. Who'd have thought that three Canadians could exert that much emotional power over one human being?

Here's the world's greatest living drummer, and, as it happens, also the world's mardiest man trying to do 'comedy'.

Not very special Kay

2011-03-24T15:43:00.004+01:00

I give to charity. I feel that as a relatively decent human being that I should. I'm not saying "I'm great cos I give to charity and I'm going to shout about it so you all know", but as someone who's in relative good health, has a roof over his head, is kept warm, gets paid okay for his job, has access to clean water and a plentiful supply of food then I feel I'm a lot better off than two thirds of this planet's population, so you might as well spread the wealth a bit.
Something that always surprises me is when people ask what you'd do if you won the lottery. I tell them that I'd keep enough for myself to live on for the rest of my days, spread some amongst my family and friends and then give the rest away to charity. "Why would you do that?" a colleague asked me once. The answer is that where I'd spend the money on thrash metal box sets, sweets, army surplus vehicles, Top Trumps, expensive pants, trainers, or Lamborghinis, there's a whole lot of good work some charities could do with a million or two. Of course it's not up to me to dictate how other people spend their money. For all you know I might have a crack cocaine and high class escort addiction and that would be my right to indulge in those things (although crack is illegal. The closest I get to a high these days is last winter when I mistakenly took a dizzying cocktail of Red Bull, Disprin and Tixylix. What a night that was! And the nearest sexy thrill is a sly glance at the odd bum every now and again).
So anyway, this colleague countered with "I don't need charity so they're not having my money" Which got me riled up for a start. He wouldn't have my argument that in the future he or his family might need to call on the services of a charity.
What I'm leading to here is this: I saw Peter Kay on telly the other night promoting that single he's done for Comic Relief. A worthy cause, I'm sure you'll agree. What he then was announced was that he was releasing an exta 500 tickets per night the last stint of his tour. Why can't he just promote something for charity without promoting his own career? I saw him launch that Children in Need single, then in the next breath said "Oh, and tickets for my tour go on sale tomorrow morning at nine, that's nine o'clock!" To be fair he did say that a pound from the sale of each of these 500 extra tickets will be donated to Comic Relief. But not to be fair, only a pound? Couldn't the exchequer of Peter Kay find a bit more in himself to donate more than £500 a night? This is Peter Kay who sold out 21 nights at the Manchester Arena in an hour, that's over 300,000 tickets. Plus there's the other venues ticket sales too, so he's hardly on his uppers, is he?
How much money does one person need? Really? Especially as he always quacks on about how he's just this normal bloke from Bolton who doesn't live a showbiz life. He's clearly saving up for something; God knows what.
He's not even very funny. As the great Stewart Lee once observed: "Peter Kay isn't really a comedian, just someone whose very good at remembering things."

Throw beef curtains wide...soz, couldn't help myself

2011-03-18T11:17:00.003+01:00

Please be aware that the usual bigging up of prog metal bans, shite TV rants and other nonsense is being suspended for the duration of this post while I talk about 'man feelings'. Eeerrgghh! Yes, I know, but if we all hold hands we can get through it together, okay?

So then, to the Nottingham Arena last night to watch Elbow. Not been there for a couple of years since I went to see a shirtless James Hetfield of Metallica stomping around the stage with a customised Flying V strapped on shouting "COME ON SING, NOTTING-HAM! LET'S MOTHERFUCKING TEAR THE MOTHERFUCKING ROOF OFF THIS MOTHERFUCKING PLACE!"
Last night couldn't have been more different. First things first though and the evening got off to bad start when I saw a Glaswegian I know who used the medium of Facebook last year to openly criticise me. Don't know what I'd done to upset her but the cheeky cow kissed me and addressed me as 'Big boy' last night. Ugh! So that put me in a bad mood.
Wasn't to last long though. Elbow are one of those bands that get grown men weeping. Don't know why. Look at leader Guy Garvey, a lump of a man in a three piece suit who wouldn't look out of place as a bouncer (also nice to see someone the same shape as me make it as a rock star). Thing is, he's immediately got everyone on side; women fancy him and men want to be his mate. In between songs his patter is that of a stand-up comic but when the music starts again his voice is like hot butter dripping off a biscuit. He could break a thousand hearts with one song. And he did with me, unlike a lot of the crowd who decided to film it via mobile phones, during Mirrorball (perhaps my favourite Elbow song) I shut my eyes and sang along. Bloody amazing.
I did have my doubts about how Elbow would cope in an arena; needn't have worried. A smaller stage had been set up on the floor with a runway between so that Garvey, and other band members at times, could go into the middle of the crowd. This stage came into its own when a piano doubled as a cocktail cabinet which the band took green drinks out of while a spare was handed to an audience member.
There was also another lovely moment - similar to the last time I saw them when Garvey directly addressed a couple in the audience the male half of whom was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him during a particular song - where he directly addressed a couple in a block right at the back of the arena. He announced that they were officially the farthest people from the stage and bought them up on a big screen. During the finale of One Day Like This he ran from the stage up to that couple and sang to them. Just lovely.
I'm not known as 'a crier' but I had a massive lump in my throat at the end. That's what you get with Elbow you see: loveliness. You come out feeling so good about yourself and every other human being on the planet. It's left me with a great feeling today. I love Elbow. I love my gig-going mate who always laughs at me throwing in Gregory's Girl quotes randomly. I love that shifty man who was standing a bit too close to my car when we got back to it. I even love that Glaswegian woman. And I love you.

Edit 19/03/11: Elbow once said "we still believe in love so fuck you". Sentiments which I whole-heartedly agree with. BUT I still don't want to go on holiday with you.
It's a beautiful day out there, go on, go outside and pat a random small child on the head. Or summat.

Help!

2011-03-16T17:15:00.001+01:00

Just had a phone call from my drum tutor (he hates being called that. Good) to tell me that he's given my phone number out to some random Rush fan who wants to go and see the Canadian prog metal power trio. Thing is, this Random Rush Fan asked me ages ago if he could come with me next time I was going to see them. Guess what? I've already bought myself and my drum tutor tickets for Rush without telling Random Rush Fan that I'd got them. I didn't tell him because a) I'm not overly bothered about going with him and b) I, er, kind of conveniently forgot about him. Now this tit of a drum tutor's gone and given him my mobile number so that Random Rush Fan can ring me to discuss going to see Geddy Lee and co at Sheffield Arena. When Random Rush Fan asked Drum Tutor if he knew if I'd got tickets to see Rush he just said *insert stupid voice here* "Er, I know he's thinking about it". 'Thinking about it?' I bought him and myself two tickets last October! What am I supposed to say to Random Rush Fan when he phones now? "Oh yeah, I wasn't bothered about going with you so I didn't bother to tell you." Or how about "Oh yeah, Rush, you say? Do you know I think I might already have got myself and Drum Tutor tickets, let me check in my fucking ticket stash and find out. I know they're one of my favourite bands and everything but it's slipped my mind about buying tickets. Now, where did I put them..?" I know Drum Tutor reads this, and I hope you're enjoying teaching someone triplets, paradiddles and 12 stroke rolls while I'm sitting here fretting about what I'm gonna tell this bloke. I bet you're pissing yourself, aren't you, Mr Drum Tutor? Groo! Well done, you're starring on my blog.

Anyone got any suggestions for a get out? God, I'm fucking mad...

BA40

2011-03-10T17:14:00.002+01:00

So, being forty then. What was I worried about? It's fine. I've not suddenly gone all uncool, started eating Werther's Originals, stopped liking loud music or moaning about aches and pains. In fact, seven weeks in, I think forty suits me quite well. It means I can now go "Of course I don't know who Jessie J is, I'm forty for God's sake" or "I'm a little bit past all that, I'm forty for God's sake!" or "Of course you won't remember the YTS/not having a mobile phone/having to do a paper round/Margaret Thatcher/John Major/Tony Blair, because you're an embryo and I'm forty." It's also great fun to say to your friends who haven't reached forty yet "Make the most of this year, after your 39th birthday it's the quickest year you'll ever know. Can you hear that clock ticking? 'tick tock tick tock tick tock' is how it goes. Can you hear it? 'Tick tock tick tock tick tock.'" Yes, I am a pain in the arse, aren't I?
Besides, I often think that getting older will suit me as I'm quite looking forward to being one of those old gits who makes out they're 'a little bit deaf'. Deaf enough to be able to hear "Would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit?" but deaf enough not to hear "Would you like to come and help with the washing-up?" Hoo-hoo, I can't wait for all that. I'll have the time of my life.
What I do find about reaching this age is that other people of a similar age without kids suddenly want to come on holiday with you. As though we've all got to huddle together for warmth from the Parent Mafia. I don't care whether you have kids or not, I'm telling you now, I DON'T want to go on holiday with you. Holidays are a little bit like Christmas Day: spending them with other people is weird. Everyone has their own traditions and customs, like eating pork pie for breakfast or making up their own rules to Monopoly. I don't want to go to the bloody pub with you every night that we're on holiday. Or go to that nice place where you and Clive went last year. Or have a cream tea at the place that you can't find but you know it's down this lane somewhere. Or listen to you two shagging. Okay? I'm not going on holiday with you.
I've had this "Hey you should come on holiday with us!" thing twice in the past few weeks. The latest coming from a very good friend who is forty next year along with his wife. Their big idea is that they hire a castle and loads of us all go for the week. No, no, NO! I refuse! For a start there'll be loads of people I don't know, there'll be enforced jollity and his wife gets on my wick after a couple of hours (They've been together for well over ten years and are entirely wrapped up in each other still. Which is nice, it must have been kismet or something. Yeah, there you go you see, I'm still an old romantic really). Besides which, I'm intimidated by her breasts.

So yeah, I'm really chilled now I've got to forty. Can you tell..?

Pop your top off

2011-03-03T17:24:00.002+01:00

I've had my biennial medical check-up at work today. I hate having them. I think it's because I'm always frightened that they're going to tell me I've got something horribly wrong with me. Working with powders we have to have this lung function test. Have you had one of those? You blow into this pipe. And I mean BLOW. The guy doing it's stood there going "Keep going...keep going...keep going" by which time I'm collapsing after expelling my lungs into the mouthpiece of this instrument. Mind you, at least I did better than one employee who had his medical yesterday. Instead of putting his lips around the mouthpiece he pushed his lips inside it. Something went horribly wrong and he now looks like this. What an idiot, and he's a supervisor. Mind you, it's given me something to laugh about for the last two days. Other than that this medicals all box-ticking, you know: "Blow into that, stand on that, stand under that, can you read that?, what numbers do you see?, do you smoke? take your glasses off, can I check your blood pressure?, have you ever had a discharge coming from your ears? Yada yada yada..." I've never known anyone not pass this medical. That's because it's there purely for the company's benefit, they just do it for their insurance. What I hate though is "Can you go and do something in there for me?" Groo. Going to the miserable toilets with a miserable sample bottle. And the bastard shouted after me "From mid flow please!" Err, how degrading. Every time I go to the loo I have a srtruggle fighting with this monster I'm packing in my undercrackers, factor into that having to stop mid flow to direct it into a small opening and then stop again when it gets half full. Errrggghhhh! Horrid. Mind you, it did give me chance to use my stock gag when he asked me to "Put something in there", my witty repost was "Have you got, you know, any magazines?" Eh? Eh? Are you having that? Eh? Oh, please yourselves...
Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that everything's fine and dandy. Hurrah!

What I should have asked him to check was if I had the word 'TWAT' emblazoned across my forehead. I took my sister out last night because nobody else wanted to go and see Mike Harding with her. I bought her the tickets, drove her 15 miles to see it, paid for the car park ticket AND bought her a drink. At the interval I said to her "Do you want a drink?" to which she replied "Nah, I'll just go to the loo" Charming! I don't want people to think I'm cheap but she's my sister I certainly wasn't expecting, or wanting, a quick snog and other shenanigans as a reward for all my financial efforts. I wouldn't mind but I know she's not exactly hard up. I'm going with her to see John Shuttleworth next week, I'd best take my credit card.

Take a match to these two

2011-02-18T16:20:00.001+01:00

I detest those two fuckwits. In fact I don't just detest them, I hate them. Whoever thought this would make a good idea for an advert has obviously never been inside a music shop. For the uninitiated, music shops are even more of an intimidating place than independent record shops. The minute you walk in the door the bloke behind the counter will say "Ay up, mate, can I help?" (cos he's your mate as he knows that you know how to play something. Or not, in my case). You never walk in and just start picking out a tune on an instrument, unless you're the kind of cretin who goes in just to show off his "chops" on an "axe" he could never afford in a month of Sundays by playing Van Halen's Eruption.
And what's all this "I like old movies" bullshit? He likes old movies like the Godfather Pt. 3. That's hardly an "old movie", is it? The first time I saw it I was expecting him to say "I like old movies, like The Battleship Potemkin". The Godfather Pt.3 was released in 1990, oh yeah, very old. Mind you, to these two pillocks 1990 probably was a long time ago considering she looks like she was born when the Poll Tax riots were going off. And isn't it funny how he's a little bit quirky-looking but not exactly ugly while she's got a face like a doll. How come he doesn't look as though he's the bastard love child of Olive off of On the Buses and Plug off of The Bash Street Kids?
Besides, who actually does that? You know just start picking out a tune like that in the hope that this lass might take a shine to him? I can just imagine my song:
"I like fairly new, ugh, 'movies' like Gregory's Girl and Reservoir Dogs...but that's just me. I listen to Radio Nottingham at the weekends but only for the football. I fart in my sleep. I also have an unhealthy interest in the Cold War and I don't like shaving very much as you can probably tell, but that's just me. Oh, and I don't moisturise but I have got a manbag just to prove I'm not a neanderthal, but that's just me"

And while we're on adverts, how come 'Toilet Duck' is now just called 'Duck'? What happened? Didn't Mr Duck and his germ-fighting, bog-cleanser-squirting aeroplane like being associated with human functions? Flaming spoilsport.
And there's two massive flaws in that new Yellow Pages/JR Hartley ad: there aren't that many record shops left any more. And as if his real name's Day V Lately, when he rang to reserve his copy surely he'd have given his real name like Clive Biscuits or Tom Gusset.

I hate ad men. Apart from those in Mad Men.

Gladstone Bag

2011-02-11T10:33:00.000+01:00

I watched that documentary about Ronald Reagan this week. Hmm, funny fellow. Anyway, this film featured a bloke whose job it was to persuade American states, counties and towns to name something after the 40th prez. That's his job, can you imagine? And he's not the only one, he was the HEAD of the naming people so he must have underlings.
All of which got me thinking: we don't name things after politicians in the UK, do we? Things are named after Royals (okay, I know that they're head of state like the American presidents but unlike American presidents they're technically politicians) or military leaders from 200 years ago. I think more things must be named after the Duke of Wellington than anything else (and yes, I know Wellington was PM but surely he's more remembered for Waterloo). This is a country where the only things I can think of named after our greatest leader is a tank and a nodding, monosyllabic insurance bulldog. This is a country where airports are named after selfish singers and alcoholic footballists. How is that allowed to happen?
I think it's time we redressed the balance. For instance, how about the Herbert Asquith public toilets? The Alec Douglas-Home amusement arcade? The Clement Atlee fountain? The Neville Chamberlain airport where everyone steps off a plane saying "I hold in my hand a piece of paper..."? The Ramsay MacDonald dogging spot? I'm sure the ladies out there would love to go for an examination at The Edward Heath Centre for Gynaecological Excellence. How about the James Callaghan Memorial School of Economics? The Margaret Thatcher Museum of Mining? The Gordon Brown Charm School?
Us Brits are missing out here.

Kwitter

2011-02-04T16:50:00.001+01:00

Hello. What you've just witnessed was me taking a break from blogs for the month of January. Not only did I take a break from blogs, I also took a break from social networking sites. Oh yes. And I feel much better for it too. I knew that something had to give when I my drumming tutor told me I was becoming obsessed with Facebook. He could tell I was becoming obsessed because I was checking Facebook on my phone in the middle of a drumming lesson.
So come January 1st I deactivated my Facebook account and did the same with Twitter. The trouble with Twitter is that you can't deactivate your account without deleting it. So I did. I have to say that I don't miss it. Twitter is something that I don't feel I've ever really come to grips with. It's okay for finding out about stuff, but it's pretty unokay if you're not particularly interested in X Factor or Question Time as your Thursday and Saturday night Twitter feed will be clogged up with people quacking on about both. I believe this is called, ugh, 'sofalising'. I'd call it 'a bag of wank.' I can't pay attention to TV shows and use my mobile internet device at the same time. Sorry. So I am no longer a Twitterer, which probably comes as a great relief to people who followed me.
As for Facebook, I bumped into a friend at Forest three weeks ago who asked me why I wasn't updating my Facebook profile any more. I told him it was because I was having a break from it. He replied "To be honest, you were getting on my tits a bit." Which I took as meaning that he thought I was a little verbose and gobby. I liked his honesty, it's made me look at how I handle myself on Facebook. Although that friend has now been deleted from my Facebook friends. There's being honest and there's being a honest. If he don't like it, he can fuck himself*, just because he writes about Forest for The Observer....

I have to say it's all been rather freeing. I've watched films, listened to LPs, practised a lot more on the drums and got through tons of stuff on my TV hard drive. You should try it, and I'll definitely do it again.

Anyway, as for the blog I've decided not to blog as much and change what I blog about. I mean who wants to read another bloody blog about the queue at the bank or supermarkets or the neighbours? I don't, especially when others do it so much better than me. I also won't be blogging as much as instead of working for 8 hours a day 5 days a week, I now work 10 hours a day 4 days a week so I won't have so much time.

But have this, it's great. I wonder what they'd have been like if they hadn't spent the mid to late 70s traipsing around the stadiums of America as Aerosmith's support act but doing more stuff like this:

*Not really, yeah I've deleted him but he's still a sound lad.

Ripping off each others clothes in a most peculiar way

2010-12-21T17:27:00.000+01:00

Hello, people who read this shite. How are you? Oh dear, really? Oh well, never mind, it's nearly Christmas. Yeah, yeah, I'm not too bad, wish I could shake off this cold, but as The Boy Lard used to say in his best Joe Gladwin voice "Musn't grumble!", but thanks for asking. As it's nearly Christmas I'll give you my highlights and lowlights package of 2010. Have a good Christmas and I hope that rash goes in 2011.

Lowlights - Groo!

The ceaseless march of Simon Cowell
The general election
Nick Clegg
The dick at the local VW dealership who sold me a car. Love the car, hate car salesmen
iPhone users. Stop being so smug. I consciously didn't choose the iPhone. I did that just so iPhone users could go "Of course, you should have got an iPhone"
iPad users. As it said in Viz Top Tips "Giants: an iPad makes a handily-sized iPhone."
Lady Gaga. Bored now
Survivors series 2. Terrible, gave up after episode 3
ITV dropping Dexter
The top 10 constantly featuring songs I don't know, usually by Tiny Temper ft. Mary Hinge or Jay Z ft. Mike Hunt
Nottingham Forest getting done over by Blackpool in the playoffs. I left the home leg with their lot shouting "Can we play you every week!?" ringing in my ears. Ooh, I was mardy
Radio 2 thinking it's okey-dokey to drop their best show down to three nights a week just so Jo Whiley can introduce five year old concert recordings of Roxy Music because they have to bow down to what the BBC governers' survey suggested
Mock the Week. Why is this still on?
Take Me Out. A televised cattle market presented by the world's unfunniest berk
Seeing Nick Griffin
Prolonged cold weather and snow

Highlights - Hooray!

Wilko Johnson at the Rescue Rooms
On a related note, Oil City Confidential
Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage. A joy of a documentary DVD, this is why people love Rush
North Atlantic Oscillation's Grappling Hooks LP
The Divine Comedy's Bang Goes the Knighthood LP
Standing on top of one of Britain's highest mountains and marvelling at the view
'Meeting' Billy Connolly
Micky Flanagan at Edinburgh. What a pity he picks such shit TV work
Stewart Lee's If You Prefer a Milder Comedian... DVD
Finally seeing The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain
Finally getting round to learning to play the drums and stuff that goes with it like making new friends

Have a good Christmas. Here's some of my singles of the year that should have been massive but weren't:

Electric Landlady

2010-12-16T16:05:00.004+01:00

On Saturday it'll be 10 years since Kirsty MacColl died. I remember the day well, I was working for a well known crisp manufacturer at the time and the news came on the radio in the afternoon. I don't ever recall being so affected by a 'celeb' death before or since. I was too young to appreciate the enormity of Lennon's assassination, I vaguely remember Elvis's death, and although I was a big fan, it could hardly be said that the death of Kurt Cobain came as a massive shock.
I think it was the manner of her death which knocked me for six the most. It upset me that such a beautiful person could die in an horrific manner, the only comfort was that she was trying to save her kids. I've always found it upsetting that nobody has ever been properly brought to justice over her death and the campaign to get justice has had to be wound up.
You see, I'm a massive fan. Not only was she a songwriter of enormous talent herself but she was also one of the great interpreters of other people's songs. Try her takes on The Kinks' Days (her version of which got played at my dad's funeral), Billy Bragg's New England or the less well known cover of The Smith's You Just Haven't Earned it Yet Baby.

I was lucky enough to have seen her live twice. The first time was at a free festival organised by a brewery for which I was lucky to receive two passes allowing me and a mate to watch her from the side of the stage (my boss handed me the passes saying "'Ere you like music, this is tonight, the Heineken rep's left 'em. Someone called Kirsty McEwan's on." I didn't need asking twice). Of course, I swooned, she looked gorgeous in a purple velvet dress. The second time at Leicester De Montfort University when she was promoting her greatest hits set, Galore. I seem to remember getting as close to the stage as I could without looking like a stalker.

And as well as her prowess as a songwriter and performer there was that voice. Nobody has sounded like her before or since. Stunning. No wonder she was always in demand for backing vocals and duets.
I quite often find Morrissey a tiresome bugger these days but I love what he said about her: "She has great songs and a crackin' bust." I love that, and no doubt Kirsty did too. As I also think she'd have loved Lemmy's view of her that "She was a top bird, was Kirsty".
Sleep well, Kirsty.

Hey nonny-nonny

2010-12-13T16:18:00.001+01:00

Did you have a nice weekend watching telly? I did. I was struck by two programmes on BBC4 about traditional music and dance. First up was Charles Haywood's Come Clog Dancing, where the conductor tried to get the people of the North East reinterest in their tradition of clog dancing. Sounds like a bit of a dry old subject, eh? Well, I quite enjoyed it, and thefalsh mob manner in which it was done - in the centre of Newcastle - was a stroke of genius.
The second programme featured the Unthank sisters. I don't know if you know then but they're a couple of sisters from Northumberland who sing folk songs and incorporate clog dancing into their live shows. I've always found their music a little dreary and Rachel Unthank has a tendency to have a fasce like a slapped arse most of the time. they certainly livened up on Still Country Dancing After All These Years. Yes, that's right country dancing. I'm talking morris dancing here. I know that morris dancing sends a shiver up my spine, let alone yours. BUT it is a great English tradition, isn't it? We know all about the Irish and Scottish traditional music and dance, but being English you're supposed to be embarrassed by anything traditional. Why is that? Unfortunately for me I'm as English as they come, yes it would be nice to have a bit of Scots fire or Irish heart in my blood but I'm about as Anglo-Saxon as you can get (fair hair, blue eyes both parents families from the east of England. I've even got the most Anglo-Saxon name imaginable).
So this programme went around different parts of England over the summer months discovering old Englaish dance traditions. Yes, I know Cotswold morris can be tiresome (think flowers around hats, bells around ankles, hankies and a pewter tankard attached to the belt), but some of the real Pagan stuff is terrific, I think. For example, who wouldn't want to go to Padstow during the Obby Oss festival in early May? I know I'd love to go. For those unfamilliar with the Obby Oss, a man dresses as a 'horse' and entices local maidens under the horse's skirt where they become fertile. I reckon that's great. I love the way these traditions are usually about fertility; it always makes me laugh that the Maypole that primary school children dance around is a representation of the penis. Not only that, but seeing someone getting twatted over the head with an inflated pig's bladder is always funny.
Anyway, with all that fertility and Rachel Unthank lightening up rather a lot I started having improper thoughts about two Northumbrian singing sisters myself.
Here's a song about reviving English tradition (although I do find Show of Hands a little worthy sometimes), unfortunately it's come onto the BNP fuckwit radar just recently. Looks like we'll have to claim it back. Why do they spoil everything?

What I don't recommend you watch is something else that was on BBC4 over theweekend called Folk at Christmas. It was rotten. It was like a folk The Good Old Days with those tiresome fuckers Bellowhead. The audience were dressed like pricks, the Unthanks were back in misery mode and the compere thought he was funny. Avoid.

Bostin

2010-11-30T11:51:00.001+01:00

I went to see Wilko Johnson the other week. He had this support act on (rather good actually, bluesy rock 'n' roll and the bassist looked like Plug off of The Bash Street Kids and they manged to reference both Pendolino trains and the NEC into their lyrics), trouble is they didn't announce what they were called when they walked on stage. So, as they said a few perfunctory 'hellos' and asked if we were 'ready' I noticed a bit of an accent. 'Hello' I thought 'these chaps sound like they come from the West Midlands.' Now you have to be careful here because you'd logically assume that they're from Birmingham but there's no generic West Midlands accent, apparently. But I took the view that they were from Birmingham, so as they didn't give their name at the start of the gig in my head they were called Some Brummies. I think that's rather a good name, certainly better than their proper moniker, People's Republic of Mercia. Which got me to thinking of a name for the prog-metal-punk-psych-folk-new wave-electronica band I'd like to start and be the drummer of . Here's a few names I've been toying with :

Dollop
Trains That Won Wars
English Electric Lightning
Vitamin Q
The Fighter Pilots
The Biscuit Factory
Hogarth Flyover
Chocky's Children
The Vulcanologists
Blame Canada
Tobes of Hades
Das Boot
Anywhere But Here
Boffin's Island
The Catering Front
Two Day Hot Tub Event
Shoplifting Shame
Get to Falkirk!
Bazookas
Check the Chips
Real Life Spy Thriller
Potty Time
Psychic Octopus

Any got legs?

Ring Cycle

2010-11-29T09:31:00.000+01:00

Right, something's gone horribly wrong - plans to subvert this year's X Factor by trying to get that Wagner bloke to win have come careering off the rails. What we need is coordinated action to stop something truly dreadful like that horrid Mrs Overall lookalike, Cher Lloyd, from getting the Christmas No.1. Unlike last year there's no set effort to stop Simon Cowell, and who would have liked to have punched him in the face last night as he sent Wagner home? (Not that I watch, of course). Really, I don't give a toss about the X Factor, if you're daft enough to watch it that's up to you, what I do give a toss about is music and Cowell's divine right to think he has to have the Christmas No.1 every year. So, here's what you do: from 7pm on Sunday 12th December, start downloading the song below from legit download stores, up until the following Sunday. Wouldn't it be nice to have a proper song at no.1 this Christmas? And just imagine the look on Cher Lloyd or Matt Cardle's fizzogg when they don't get the no.1 they 'deserve'.

Parsons nose

2010-11-18T12:56:00.000+01:00

Who decided this man was funny? He represents everything I hate about comedy these days: the careerist attitude, the topical gags, the way his voice is trained to let you know when the payoff's coming, the sneering 'everything is shit' attitude (evidenced in the title of his DVD, 'Britain's Got Idiots'), his willingness to appear on any panel show going. That's why I don't listen to Radio 4 or watch Dave comedy.

Lest we forget

2010-11-11T17:14:00.000+01:00

My totalitarian vision

2010-11-09T16:22:00.002+01:00

I'm turning into one of those people who believe there are far too many television channels. At work this morning the TV in the canteen was tuned to Sky 3 which was showing something called Crash Test Dummies. It features the two berks off of Big Cook Little Cook putting things to the test, or, in other words, twatting around in a half-arsed conglomeration of Jackass and Top Gear. The sort of thing that would appeal to teenage boys, thick people and the type who have a personalised number plate on their 2003 BMW 3 Series. In short, it's trash.
So what I propose is, when I become the totalitarian dictator of this sceptered isle, that the only TV channels allowed to survive are BBC1, BBC2, Channel 4, BBC4 and QVC. What I'd also like to see happen is the abolition of TV programmes between the hours of 9am and 3pm. When I was a kid the only TV shows on during the day were programmes for schools and colleges and horse racing. There was stuff on ITV, like Open House, Afternoon Plus, The Cedar Tree and a soap opera about a fashion house, but as we've seen, ITV won't be on air. There will also be a return to interludes. So instead of filling a spare few minutes with a news bulletin we will be treated to a film of someone shoeing a horse or turning a piece of wood for a Windsor chair. These interludes will also take the form of educational films. These films will be of things like how to make a pompom for a woolly hat, how to change a washer in a tap, how to deal with cold callers in an effective manner and how to knit the woolly hat for you to sit your pompom on in the film shown earlier. There will also be a reintroduction of Public Information Films which will be shown purely to scare the shit out of children (well, I had to put up with them as a child, why can't today's kids? Especially that one where that rag doll gets stuck in the escalator...brrr, a chill's run through my body just thinking about it).
Top of the Pops will also return to its rightful place of 7.30pm on Thursday. And Brookside will also return but without the crap. As will Play for Today.
Television will end for the day no later than midnight and the new national anthem will be played. The new national anthem will, of course, be the Dambuster's March.

Also, the internet will be switched off during office hours. This will increase the capacity of industry and will also mean that I won't come home after a hard day at the seat of government (my totalitarian offices will be located in London's throbbing West End) and spend hours watching You Tube clips of old public information films and Geddy Lee singing the Canadian national anthem at baseball games.

"I make proper trifle with proper custard, not out of a packet"

2010-11-04T12:10:00.002+01:00

Warning: This is a rare post about which contains stuff about, ugh, 'feelings'. Those of a nervous disposition should look away now.

Been thinking about my parents a lot over the last few days. Not only because I've spent some time in the place where my mum's ashes were scattered - it's a lovely place and I would have gone anyway, while there I saw an infamous figure/cretin in British life walking along the beach - but also because I noticed in a bookshop a film tie-in edition of Nigel Slater's rather excellent book, Toast. I don't normally go in for Top 10 Favourite whatever, but if I did one on books that would definitely be in there. It's a book about how Slater's formative years were shaped by the food he ate. Coming from a family of gluttons* I found loads of common ground with him in it. Apart from the fact that his mother was a terrible cook (it's called toast because the one abiding memory he has of her is scraping burnt toast) mine was absolutely fantastic. I think one thing people do when a family member dies is to talk about whoever it is whose gone and talk over the good times and good things. Most of our reminiscences came from the food Mum prepared. The thought that we'd never taste her macaroni cheese (pretty mundane but her macaroni cheese was gorgeous, great 'comfort food'), chocolate fudge cake, fruit scones, Yorkshire puddings, shortcrust pastry, ginger parkin, steak and kidney pie or trifle again made us shiver (well, just me on the trifle front as those two divvies don't like it). There was also the disasters but funny disasters, like when Dad, who didn't get a sophisticated palate until later in life, insisted that he'd only eat spaghetti bolognese with veg. Plates of spag bog with a healthy serving of boiled savoy cabbage on the side was duly delivered to the table. She'd also sneak carrot into lasagne and had this fetish for putting sultanas in curries. Years later, when I'd discovered curry houses, I pointed out to her that I'd never eaten in an Indian restaurant that served savoury sultanas, she laughed and told me that that's how she was taught to make curry...by an English chef.
You'd also never see her weigh anything - unless she was cooking for a competition, where strict rules applied - her skill was immense. I wish I could 'knock up a few scones' if someone gave us short notice that they were visiting or cook something delish for an ill or needy friend. Memories are all I have, like Slater.

On a slightly different subject, came back to find the great Danny Baker has fucking cancer. I say 'fucking cancer' because that's what I call it after hearing Wilko Johnson call it that on an interview recently when talking about his deceased wife. Cancer's a murderer which takes good people before their time; like Mum, three grandparents, an aunt, an uncle and several family friends. I wish Danny well and nothing but best wishes. If you can spare a few pence for a cancer charity, please do.

*There's a great photo of Mum's twin brothers at a Christmas party in the fifties. Though facing the camera neither of them are looking at it, but follow their eyeline and they only have eyes for an enormous trifle on the table.

Ooops

2010-10-25T15:56:00.000+01:00

There was a blog post here about how much Peter Andre spends on shaving foam and stuff in a week (£600), but I decided that it was a bit too similar to this far more rewarding blog post, which I read afterwards. So if you're interested in my thoughts on Peter Andre's 'grooming regime' then drop me a line to the usual address. In the meantime here's a nice picture of some F4 Phantom jets. Enjoy!

Telly selly time

2010-10-22T10:37:00.006+01:00

Just a few bits about this week's telly:

A History of Horror with Mark Gattis is terrifically good. He's suitably creepy to be presenting such a programme. He's the sort of person I can imagine presenting a Tales of the Unexpected or Armchair Thriller type of show. He'd sit and introduce the film (something like Whistle and I'll Come to You) beside a crackling log fire. At the end he'd come back on and say "Sleep well". "Sleep well"? I'd have to watch an hour of QVC before popping off to bed. Perhaps he could persuade the Beeb to dramatise some of his League of Gentleman buddy Jeremy Dyson's creepy short stories, they'd be well suited to the half hour treatment.
The problem is that I now want to see all the films featured in the show. I know BBC4 can't show them all but wouldn't it have been better to show Blood on Satan's Claw or Dr Jekyll and Sister Hyde after this weeks incredibly entertaining edition on Hammer Horrors? The Quatermass Experiment's been on more times than I've had hot dinners, and I've had a few of those.

Mad Men. Just gets better and better. It's good to see the mask finally falling off Don Draper. Top marks. I'm seriously considering this to be taking over from Our Friends in the North as my favourite TV drama ever.

Reggie Perrin. I know there are a lot of people out there who don't like this, I'm not one of them. It's great. And how nice it is to see a studio-based sitcom with an audience that actually contains jokes and good comic actors delivering them. I've noticed there's more of s trend back to this just lately with Not Going Out, The IT Crowd and The Old Guys, all decent shows. Also if you like the original Reggie, the box set is available on Amazon for £12. That's a steal.

Meerkat manor

2010-10-20T10:39:00.001+01:00

I've just seen what an awful lot of disappointed children will be getting for Christmas. It looks more like a badger with a birthmark. I'm going to put Churchill the insurance bulldog in a Manchester United negligee and make a killing.

Vive la republique!

2010-10-19T11:17:00.000+01:00

I love the French. They can keep their frog's legs, Citroens and Sacha Distel, what I love about them is the fire in their belly. If there's something they don't like they take to the streets and shout about it. What do we do in the UK? Sit on our arses and say "Oh well, there's nothing you can do about it. What time's Mock the Week on?" Take this current trouble they're having. I think it's great. Contrast that with the UK petrol blockades of 2000; it lasted all of five days and as soon as a district nurse couldn't complete her rounds and Spar were running out of PG Tips and Utterly Butterly, the whole game was up. I don't know about getting more right wing as I get older, I'm getting more into thinking that it's direct action is what we need. Take to the streets and shout. If the election this year taught us anything it was the level of apathy people have towards politics. We all know that most senior politicians in the main party went to a 'decent' public school and a top university, so what do they know about ordinary lives? They've never led one. And if you take someone like John Prescott, who had worked his way up from humble beginnings, then what lies in store for you is Ian Hislop. Come the revolution...

And while I'm on this theme, I find the furore about the election of Ed Miliband as the Labour leader being the work of Communists aka trade unionists rather bad form. My dad was a trade unionists and someone less likely to be a Communist you could never meet. Not for a man with a mortgage, a car and who used to make sure he took his family on holiday every year. No, Dad didn't believe much in Marxism, what he believed in was fairness. A fair days pay for a fair days work and your employer giving you fair conditions in which to work in. When people say "Oh, it's health and safety gone mad, that is" let me tell you, it wasn't ever thus. You could just ask my dad who watched his finger ends get sliced off in a swinging tailgate of a trailer, or a colleague of his who was killed when a lorry he was attending to rolled on top of him and killed him. I've seen my dad take a camera to work to take pictures of dangerous machinery to stop accidents happening. That to him was what trade unions were about, people together to shout louder than one man on his own. I suppose he was what the TUC would have called a 'moderate'. He hated Arthur Scargill for not holding a ballot for the '84 miner's strike as it completely destroyed the ethos on which trade unions are built: one man, one vote. I've just looked at the National Office of Statistics website which says that about a quarter of the UK working population are members of a union. I'd fancy that the vast majority of those people aren't a bunch of mini Lenins planning to storm the gates of Buckingham Palace, but are just ordinary working people who want to be treated fairly. Power to the people indeed.

Why Cliff will always remain a footnote AKA Noisy Monday

2010-10-18T11:04:00.003+01:00

There's been a massive love-in for Cliff Richard ever since his 70th birthday last week with a load of hand-wringers quacking on about how John Lennon got all the celebrations for his 70th the week before but there was hardly any for, ugh, Sir Cliff. I'm nowhere near a Lennon apologist, but I don't recall Cliff Richard writing some of the most memorable tunes in popular music history, or, along with five other people, changing the face of popular culture forever. But then, perhaps I'm being picky, aren't I? I dunno, all I can see of Cliff Richard is that he's part of the establishment light-entertainer who nicked his act off of Elvis Presley. I want my pop and rock stars a bit rebellious, that's what pop and rock music's about, isn't it? I'm sure Cliff had his fingers crossed when he was giving it all that 'Hang loose, Daddio!' back in the late fifties and early sixties and was looking at the long game. Maybe I'm being very old-fashioned in being this cool.
Not only that, but his old backing band get nowhere near the recognition they deserve. I don't recall anyone ever saying that the sainted Cliff inspiring anyone to pick up a guitar. Along with Burt Weedon's Play in a Day manual and Lonnie Donegan you can trace an arc that goes like this:

To this:

To this:

To this:

To this:

To this:

To this:

To this, last year's Christmas No.1, saying 'we're not taking the middle-of-the-road shit any longer.' Only one person in that list of groups has accepted a Knighthood, some would say he deserved it, even if it did make him part of the Establishment. Thank you, Hank B Marvin, Bruce Welch, Jet Harris, Burt Weedon and Lonnie Donegan. Not thank you, Cliff Richard:

"Introducing brand new shapewear for men"

2010-10-12T15:35:00.001+01:00

Have you seen these new pants that M&S are marketing at men? Have you? I've never seen anything so bloody ridiculous in my life. How insecure would you have to be to want to make your meat 'n' two veg look bigger? And how many women look at a man's lunchbox while they're checking him out? Not very many, I fancy. Most of the women I know don't even like the look of most Johnsons. Even if she did I don't think I'd want to go out with somebody who was only interested in the size of my one-eyed pant python. "Shapewear", my arse.
Of course I don't need a pair of these as I have a fantastic arse and I'm packing one huge weapon. Did you get that, ladies?

God botherers and bad-tempered Mrs Tiggywinkles.

2010-10-10T14:58:00.000+01:00

Well Harry Hill's already done this stuff but fuck it, I had the idea before Saturday night.
Right, Eddie Stobart: Trucks and Trailers, have you seen that? It's Channel 5's homegrown answer to Ice Road Truckers. I've seen Ice Road Truckers once. I think that is the requirement for watching it as it's basically the same thing every week: will Trev get his cargo of very important medical supplies to the incredibly remote village in time before the ice road is shut off for the winter leaving dozens of people in peril. Possibly. The problem with Eddie Stobart: Trucks and Trailers is that the same amount of, what a TV exec would call, 'jeapordy' gets lost when the only thing you're worrying about is whether TJ can get a load of pizzas from their factory in Nottingham to a distribution centre in Corby. I'd say he wouldn't have much trouble, just down the M1 for fifty minutes.
The other thing these shows get off on is facts. They love facts. On IRT the facts revolve around the thickness of the ice they're travelling on and the harsh weather conditions. With EST&T the facts generally are to do with horsepower and how many Death by Chocolates the average trailer can hold. Not very glam, is it?
Of course there may be some people out there who get off on this. I don't, it's my life. I deal with miserable bastard lorry drivers and jobsworth yardmen five days a week. I don't want it on a Saturday morning, thank you very much

In other viewing, I've seen The Apprentice. I wasn't going to watch it but boredom on Saturday afternoon got the better of me. What's wrong with these people? Why are they obsessed with work? And why are they obsessed with being such hateful turds. Anyway, I've decided to go on it next year and here's that bit they do to camera by way of an introduction which I've written already:
"I'm a business c**t! I'm such a c**t that I'll kill anyone who gets in my way! I'm a winner! Second place doesn't enter on my radar! To me second place is the first placed loser! Or something! As a baby my mother would take off my nappy and instead of finding green shit she'd find green £1 notes! I literally shit money! In fact money pours out of my every orifice! I wee wonga! I barf banknotes! I cum cash! Lord Sugar will want to fellate me so much! I'm such a brilliant business brain I can't understand why I wasn't headhunted before! Oh, hang on..."

Place the bass face

2010-10-08T14:22:00.001+01:00

I don't know about you, fellas, but there's just something about a woman with a bass guitar...*

* But not Suzi Quatro. This is just like Loaded magazine, ain't it?

You lying get!

2010-10-05T10:59:00.000+01:00

Inspired by a thread on the Word magazine website about things you believed as a child, I thought I'd compose a list of stuff that I believed as child because I was told it was true by other people, usually my mother or eldest sister.

Celery leaves are poisonous and are not to be consumed under any circumstances. I never questioned why celery was sold with the leaves still attached if that was the case. And something in the back of my mind told me to not to eat celery leaves until I saw Nigella put them into a pot roast chicken last week. Mind you, perhaps that's Nigella trying to get rid of us and create her own super race of North London-dwelling gastronomes. My sister tried to pull the same trick with the last bit of tea or coffee in a mug but I never bought that one. What do you take me for? She still leaves the last bit of tea or coffee in a mug, which didn't sit right with me when I bought her an expensive coffee last week and she left a quarter of it.
That Brian Clough lived in a big white house set on a hillside near the train line between Newark and Nottingham. My mother used to tell me this when we went on shopping trips to Nottingham. It wasn't until I was in my twenties and after Mr Clough had been found sleeping in a ditch 'near his home in Derby' (the same home he'd lived in for years) that I realised she lied. When I questioned her about it she said that it "broke the journey up to point out landmarks, even if they weren't real."
That drinking pop directly from a can caused your tongue to get trapped in the hole and they'd have to cut your tongue off. I never thought that if this did happen (and to date I've never heard of it happening), then they'd just cut the can off.
Swallowing chewing gum or bubble gum makes it wrap around your intestines and slowly kill you. I think what she was trying to say here is that she hated gum and didn't want me to have it.
That the clown who used to roll the credits on at the end of Camberwick Green was actually my dad. I never questioned why Dad went to work, completely altered his appearance and dressed as a clown. This was given more weight when I once watched Camberwick Green with some cousins and, at the end, they pointed to the screen and shouted "There's Uncle Roy!" So someone else was telling them that Dad worked for Gordon Murray productions on a part-time basis.
The Daddies Sauce bottle used to feature a neck band with a photo of a generic smiling dad that used to say underneath it "My favourite!" I was led to believe that was our Uncle Phil, as were most of the cousins in my large extended maternal family.

A handy cut-out-and-keep guide

2010-09-30T16:21:00.000+01:00

You know how you read newspapers, right? Well in my newspaper they like reporting on new buildings, vehicles, planes, planets etc. To illustrate the amount of superlatives they can give whatever's new they have to use a chart comparing the dimensions of whatever they're talking about with something else. So I thought I'd come up with a standardised table so that people who work in newspapers and magazines who think we're too think to understand what they're talking about can use it without having to think of anything new. So, here goes:

Height in descending order

Mount Everset: top of the shop there
The Petronas Towers: these twin skyscapers in Kuala Lumpur have replaced the World Trade Centre
Canary Wharf Tower: Used to be The Empire State Building for this scale but we've got our own now so ner!
Nelson's Column: You're taking the piss now
A double-decker bus

Volume in descending order

The O2 arena: never got a look in when it was the Millennium Dome, now everyone loves it
The dome of St. Paul's cathedral: Wren would have loved his greatest work to be used like this
A swimming pool: pretty vague but usually means a competition-sized pool, like what they use at the Olympics and shit
A bathful: fairly straightforward
An eggcupful: as a child I used to know how many eggcupfuls of water it would take to fill the dome of St. Paul's. I was an annoying little tit
A drop of water: used for describing minuscule amounts, like 'a dose of paraquat the size of one drop of water can be fatal to an idiot.'

Length in descending order

Around the world: used for something that measures a lot. Example - if you laid the amount of chewing gum that gets spat out onto the street outside Rock City in Nottingham on a Saturday night it would stretch around the world two and a half times
A football pitch: bit of a drop there from around the world to a football pitch, but hey-ho
The wingspan of a jumbo jet: the standard jet being used here is the Boeing 747 (211' 5", fact fans). Can also be used for volume. Example - 'The Vehicle Assembly Building at NASA's Cape Canaveral site is big enough to hold four jumbo jets stacked on top of each other.'
A double-decker bus: yawn

Obligatory annual X Factor post

2010-09-28T15:04:00.002+01:00

Have a look at these two videos:

Two fantastic songs, I think. My take on the Adele song is that it's told from the perspective of someone who has an unrequited love, an unrequited love for someone from a distance (have you ever experienced that? I have. Perhaps some of us are right now), nobody else knows. They want to keep it a secret, and because they want to to keep it a secret, ssshhhhh, they don't want to shout about it.

The second one is just a tender love song. From one person to another. You don't need to shout because they're there with you and you just want to let them know how you feel. I love the way Flack separates her words. For example there's a very clear division between the last 't' of 'first' and the first 't' of 'time'.

So why do these idiots on the X Factor have to go on and sing "TOOOOOOOOOOO MAKE YOU FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL MY LUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRVE!!!!!!!!!" or "THEFIRSTTIIIIIIIIIIIIIME EVERISAAAAAAAAAWWWYERFAAAAAAAAAAAAACE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Ugh! it's horrid and needs to be stopped. Singing it like that doesn't make a better song, indeed for most people you're just spoiling the whole thing and making a bad atmos. Indeed I bought down the atmos at a friend's house I visited on Saturday night where it was on in the background, I mean I don't watch the bloody rubbish. I tutted and sighed all the way through it, and let me tell you, my drum tutor says he's never heard anyone tut the way I tut.
When is this X Factor thing going to stop? It's hateful, staged nonsense where Danni Minogue, that's right, Danni Minogue gets to tell people whether they're talented or not. That can't be right, can it?

Twatter

2010-09-17T14:55:00.000+01:00

Have added a Twitter widget to this blog. If any of you would like to, ugh, 'follow' me on twitter I'm @BrightAmbasador. Though why anyone is interested in anything I've got to say is beyond my comprehension.

Anyway, have this, it's Friday and you need to get yer arse onto a dancefloor. They never bettered it:

Do the Shake 'n' Vac

2010-09-14T15:27:00.002+01:00

What gives with air fresheners? I don't smell. My house doesn't smell. The only bit of my house that may smell is my bathroom after I've been for a no. 2. And even then I'm the only person who uses the bathroom so I know to leave it for ten minutes afterwards. The few guests that come can use the downstairs 'cloakroom'.*
So why do we have this relentless march of air freshener technology? The HQs of Airwick and Glade must be 75% new product development. Every time I switch on the TV there's some hot new thing to get rid of 'unwanted odours.' I don't have unwanted odours, and if I've cooked something smelly I put on the fan or open the window. That normally shifts the bastard. In my day there were two types of air freshener: 1 - Air Ball. A round plastic thing with slits in it. My aunt always had those. Blue Peter showed once how you could use them to make a handy holder for your 7" singles. Yes, really. 2 - Glade. Glade was a plastic thing with some coloured blancmange-like substance inside that shrunk over the weeks. Mum always had those in the bathroom even thought the window was always flung wide open 365 days of the year.

This has all come about by this innovation I saw advertised in the telly the other night. My first thought was that it looks like one of those weird mannequins you see in shops that specialise in underwear and hosiery. No, not like La Senza or Knickerbox, but like those creepy shops you get in the backstreets of small towns that have that awful yellow film on the inside of the windows. You know, those mannequins of a ladies stomach and legs designed to show off corsets (or 'roll-ons' as they were called in our house) and big pants.
Then, if you look closely, look where the smell is coming from. Your home would smell like a knocking shop.

*Why is the downstairs bog suddenly a 'cloakroom'? I don't want to hang my coat where someone might go for a shit, thank you. When I went with my mother to see some estate agents about selling her house, they asked if she had a 'cloakroom.' Mother wasn't aware of this new development and said yes, she had a cloakroom. At which point I had to step in and explain that what the agent was driving at wasn't a room under the stairs that used to be a pantry but now housed, amongst other things, some coat hooks. Cloakroom, she thinks it's a bloody dance hall...

Love in a time of bubble perms*

2010-09-09T11:27:00.000+01:00

With all this talk about Wayne Rooney and prostitutes, I think it's time to hark back to a much simpler time. A time when footballists weren't on mega wages and they had to find much simpler pleasures. A time when football philandering was seen as something quite quaint.
I give you, as an example, Nottingham Forest legend Mr Peter Shilton. To furnish those of you who may be unfamiliar with the fact, here's something pasted from The Observer website:

"Shilton was arrested for drink-driving after being found at 5am in a country lane with a woman called Tina in his car. When Tina's husband Colin arrived he said the pair were partially clothed. Shilton hurriedly drove away and crashed into a lamppost. He admitted 'taking a lady for a meal' and was fined £350 and banned from driving for 15 months. He then had to endure countless terrace chants of 'Shilton, Shilton, where's your wife?'"

Now isn't that just a gorgeous little tale of love in the 70s and early 80s? Shilts was obviously missing something from his marriage so he took 'a lady for a meal', did you get that? A 'lady'. His respect for women knows no bounds. And he's put his hand in his pocket and treated her to a slap-up dinner. What a gent.

Now, Shilts obviously couldn't be seen to be booking into a hotel in Nottingham with which to entertain her. No, no, he's too much of a face in the city and his cover would be blown. So Pete has a Jaguar. A Jaguar has nice reclining leather seats. Throw the guy a bone here, he's trying his best. Now, when Colin arrived, down this lane round the back of Nottingham racecourse, near Holme Pierrepont National Watersports Centre, the couple were partially clothed. Isn't that just a beautiful image? Shilts's little white bum flashing up and down? This was an age before sex became exotic and women started demanding mutual enjoyment. Bloody women. I think the term that could be used here is 'having it off'. This is the time before 'dogging' had been invented so Shilts doesn't hang around, no sir! He's off and crashes into a lamppost, probably with his Farah's Action Slacks and nylon Y-fronts still around his ankles. This is thirty years ago, so there's no Mr Loophole to get him off the charge. Pete takes his punishment like a man and takes his ban and his dreaded returns to the City Ground with Southampton like a man.
Come on, ladies, could you resist a man with a bubble perm, large hair and some blingy medals in the cabinet? Course you can't.

So there's a lesson for today's footballers: you don't have to spend thousands on hookers and Marlboros, just treat a lady with a little respect and she'll deal out what you want in the back of a flashy car round the back of Nottingham racecourse, near Holme Pierrepont National Watersports Centre.

*I love the way the names Colin and Tina are involved in this story. They're names that are so 'of-the-time', do you not think?**

**I know these little footers can be annoying, but you try reading Stewart Lee's new book. They're on every page and go on and on and on and on.... But I kinda like 'em.

The Booker for music (yeah, right)

2010-09-08T11:29:00.002+01:00

Have a listen to this:

That lot won the Mercury Prize last night. I hate to sound like a boring old fart who'd probably say, like that judge in the 60s "Who is this...erm...Lady Gaga?" but I don't think much to that at all. I know that not everything has to be tailored to my taste, but I have they never heard of, you know, a tune?
And why the misery? You're young people for God's sake; jump around, take acid, shag your fans. God, the pained look on their faces. And, I hate to get personal, but that lass could get pickles out of a jar with that chin. I think they'd do well to wear spangly capes and sing songs about inter galactic space galleons. or something. I could be their manager and show them how to do it properly.
Still, at least Paul Weller didn't win. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!

"H'aint you ever met a toff before?"

2010-09-08T10:50:00.003+01:00

Phil Collins then. Where do you stand on him? He makes it very difficult to love him sometimes. As a prog rock aficionado, with an interest in drummers, I should be unremitting in my praise for him. He is, correctly, regarded as one of the all time great drummers (although lesson one, when you have drum lessons, is not to hold the sticks as he is in that photo. One mishit and you'll break your index fingers). The problem he has is that instead of just sticking to the drumming, and singing, with Genesis, he has to do all the other stuff. The stuff that gets people's backs up.
There was a chink of light in his recovery in public perceptions of him last month when he told Mojo magazine that he realised in the 80s and early 90s he could understand why he was viewed as an annoying little turd, and, looking back, he even thought he was himself. How can anyone look back at the cover of No Jacket Required and think it was a good idea - looking like a baked bean with a face?
Why then does he have to undo all that good work by releasing an album of Motown and soul covers? I've heard tow tracks from it, Martha & The Vandellas' (Love Is Like A) Heatwave and Stevie Wonder's Uptight (Everything's Alright). I'm of the opinion that unless you're going to bring something new to a cover, then DON'T DO IT. Both of those records are pretty damn perfect as they are, why does he mess with them and put his voice all over them? Phil, Phil, Phil, is there any way back for you? Just as you were getting everyone else on side.
He can't play the drums any more so he might as well retire. Or go back to Genesis and just sing. But no more covers albums, pur-lease.

Not so Big Yin

2010-09-07T11:02:00.001+01:00

Sorry about that, I've been away again, and work's turning to a pile of steaming shit at the minute so I haven't been arsed to blog.
Anyway, while I was away at the Edinburgh Festival I met Billy Connolly. Well, when I say met I shook his hand. I don't normally hold with approaching famous people for number of reasons: 1) they probably don't want to be disturbed and you might get a 'fuck off' 2 ) I'm incredibly shy 3) I hate massaging egos 4) there's that old adage about meeting your heroes - you'd only be disappointed.
I can count on the fingers of one hand the famous people I've met, they are Mickey Dolenz (a former resident of this town whom I used to serve on a regular basis), Brian Laws (former Nottingham Forest player, now manager of Burnley. His appearance fee was 1.5 ltr bottles of Gordon's gin, Bell's whisky, Smirnoff vodka and Courvoisier brandy. Thing is, we found out later we could have had Stuart Pearce who was the England captain at the time but Laws got in first. Groo!), Bill Maynard (at the height of his "Oh No, It's Selwyn Froggatt" fame. His catchphrase at the time was "Magic, our Morris" and that's exactly what he said to me), John McGovern (former Nottingham Forest twice European Cup-lifting captain, the only man to have captained a European Cup-winning side more times is the great Franz Beckenbauer. It was at a book-signing, my mate asked me to take along his Forest shirt to be signed, when he asked me who it was for I said "Steve" and from then on he addressed me as 'Steve'.).
The only person who I've always said I'd approach is Mark Radcliffe. My admiration for that man knows no bounds. He's my generation's John Peel. I'd just like to shake his hand and thank him for all the great music he's introduced me to and for all the listening pleasure he's given for the past sixteen years. Let me tell you, when you have a job supplementing your income by delivering Chinese takeaways at night in this town his, and Lard's voice, were always welcome. Especially as it was on his show where I first heard Pink Floyd with Syd Barrett. You'd also get poetry mixed with comic turns and top notch session guests. He's still great and whoever decided to put his show down to three nights a week should be shot. I also believe that Radcliffe buys anyone who approaches him as a fan a pint. So, happy days!
Back to Connolly then, I was walking in the Grassmarket area of Edinburgh's Old Town at about ten in the morning. I saw this bloke walking towards me with long white hair and a small pair of spectacles on the end of his nose. I thought to myself "'Ello" I thought "This bloke looks a bit like Billy Connolly". The giveaway was a banjo pin badge on the lapel of his jacket, by this stage he was a few feet in front of me. I just stuck my hand out, he took it shook it and I said "I'm a massive fan. Thanks" to which he just said "Thanks very much" and carried on walking. That's all that was required, no trying to stop and get a picture or chat, I met my ultimate comic hero. End of. The thing is, if I'd had chance to think about it I wouldn't have done anything, I'd have just thought to myself "Oh God, there's Billy". No doubt he completely forgot about it a minute later and went about his business, although I like to think that he hasn't washed his right hand yet. And why he's called 'The Big Yin' is lost on me, he's no taller than my 5' 11".

I know that they're a probably people reading this who meet well known people all the time, who'll think "Wow, you met someone famous" but it was a big deal to me (as someone who spent far too much of his youth listening to his records and watching his videos), and to which I say this, it's about the quality of the personality, not the quantity

Just remember...

2010-09-04T09:51:00.001+01:00

...he's most definitely NOT gay. Okay? His mum always told him to stay a bachelor boy.

Isn't Photoshop a wonderful invention..?

A bunch of James Blunts

2010-08-29T08:10:00.002+01:00

I've seen this poster everywhere over the past couple of weeks. I have to say it's doing a pretty good job of making me not want to see this film. It doesn't take a great leap of the imagination to see what this film's about: a bunch of immature, self-satisfied, smug American 'college chums' wisecracking with each other while their long-suffering 'womenfolk' have to put up with them. If Hollywood wants to know why it's on its knees, they need to look no further than this poster. I'm not a violent man but I could quite easily smack in the mouth all the males who appear on it.

It's a town full of losers, I'm pulling out of here to win

2010-07-22T20:10:00.001+01:00

Yay! I finally figured out how to do all the stuff on Blogger I could do before but then couldn't do...if you see what I mean. I'm not very computer literate I'm afraid. Thanks to all you kind folks who offered suggestions as to the cause of my problems. All I had to do was click Blogger's new thing-a-me-jig. Hurrah!

Anyway, where were we? Aah yes, turning forty. I'll be celebrating my fortieth birthday in less than six months' time, and I'm dreading it already. I can never understand these people who want to celebrate their fortieths. I hate the fact I'm getting older. I suppose if I had kid I'd treat it differently. But how can you have kids when your a big kid yourself? My greatest dilemma in life is to try and choose between Sugar Puffs and Ricicles. See? I even eat kiddies's cereals. I suppose I should be eating Shredded Wheat, but they're so chuffing boring.
And when does it become unacceptable to wear t-shirts with the names of bands on? I'm writing this in a khaki Metallica t-shirt with the band logo on the front and the legend 'Death Magnetic' on the back. Is this type of garment the preserve of the fourteen year-old and not the forty year-old? Likewise, when do you stop wearing Converse sneakers? It's a bloody minefield. I mean, I want to stay 'down wi' kids' but by the same token I don't want to look like Tommy Saxondale (though I wouldn't mind a bit of his hair).

Staying on the subject of having kids, I'm reading Shit My Dad Says by Justin Halpern at the minute. It's based on this Justin's Twitter feed, the title's pretty self explanatory. If I was a dad (some chance!) I hope I'd be like Halpern Snr. He doesn't suffer fools gladly and treats his kids like adults. I don't mean like those awful liberal parents who nip down to the shop to buy their kids fags and believe they've got as much to learn from their kids as they have from them. He's the sort of dad who tells it like it is. No bullshit. What particularly struck a chord with me was when Justin took him a Lego model as a child and his dad told him it was crap. You see even as a kid I could never understand parents who put their kids' artwork up on the wall and tell them how great it was. It really used to annoy me on Blue Peter when they'd get the viewers to design the Christmas stamps. The winner of the first class letter stamp would always be a red splodge with a white splodge on top which was supposed to represent Father Christmas. On the display behind the presenters they'd display the other entrants and you wanted them to pick the really detailed thing done by some art A level students. Can you imagine these Christmas cards being delivered from abroad and the kind of message it sent out about Britain? I always wanted to shout at Simon Groom or Lesley Judd to go back and rethink what they think should have won. I always remember some party on a park in London (don't ask me which one, London parks after Hyde, Regent's and St James's all blur into one for me. You go there looking for two things, to get stabbed or jerked off) when I was about eight or nine in honour of the Queen or something. This must have been quite an important party because it was broadcast live during the school holidays. This party boasted the world's longest poster - painted by bloody kids of course - and at the very end of this poster was The Queen. Her Maj was duly escorted to her part of the poster where a youth worker had let the kids paint Our Lovely Queen Gawd Bless Yer Ma'am black. I seem to remember finding this absolutely hysterical and going to find Mum to show her. She turned around and walked straight out as soon as she saw it was Geoffrey off of Rainbow who was guiding The Queen around because she hated both him and everything to do with Rainbow.
Anyway, just thought I'd tell you that...

Right I'm off on my hols for massive chunks of the next month so there'll be no more posting, Faceberk, Twatter or whatever. I need a break from all this intertwat madness every once in awhile. I'm going to do what 70s rock stars used to do and get my head together in the country. In fact I'll be a bit like Yes when they recorded Tales From Topographic Oceans; they couldn't decide whether to record in the country or the city so they bought in straw bales and stuffed sheep to the recording studio in London. So I'll be going to both the country and the city. Best off both worlds, eh? Whichever, I'm jumping on a freedom moped out of this town.
I'll leave you with something nice and summery and one of only two songs I like by Springsteen, who doesn't like to see the girls in their summer clothes? Pip pip, have a good summer and I'll see you around. You'll have to click here to see it as Broooce doesn't want no Limey, Chevvy-hatin', blue-collar-anthem-deridin' dude embedding it.

WTF?

2010-07-15T10:20:00.000+01:00

Why can't I put pictures and links on blog posts any more?

Charity begins in the street

2010-07-02T11:55:00.004+01:00

I've been into town just now, and it's awash with, what I believe are called 'charity muggers'. Now, I'm a fairly generous person, I think. I donate to charity regularly (though like Smashie and Nicie, I don't like to talk about it), what I hate though is being bullied into it.

These charity muggers today were from the British Red Cross, a worthwhile organisation, I'm sure you'll agree. Today though I really didn't want to set up a standing order for £5 a month to go to them. I don't really like entering into contracts, apart from my employment contract, which is the reason why I refuse to have Sky telly, contract mobile phones etc. The thing is, they must have worked out that they could afford to blitz a town centre with these muggers today as the money they pay the muggers they must be able to recoup and then some. I mean, I take it they're getting paid for doing this as they all look like students. I think I must be an easy target - they see me approaching, floral print shirt, nice jeans, Converse All Stars. "Ah" they must think to themselves "This stocky, balding James Mayalike is just the sort of middle class bloke whose conscious will get the better of him - this is as good as in the bag." Think again, Student Grant, I encountered three, and these are the conversations I had:

Lady Charity Mugger: "Good morning, sir!

Me: "Morning!"

LCM: "Can you spare a couple of minutes for a chat?"

Me: "No"

She made a mistake, if she'd said "Morning, sexy!" then yeah, I may have stopped and indulged in some mild flirting before walking off without opening a standing order and she would have though to herself "Saddo thought he was in with a chance" well, that's her loss.

Next one looked like Hair Bear off of The Hair Bear Bunch:

Hair Bear Charity Mugger bellowing from a hundred yards away: "Morning sir!"

*I look over my shoulder in a mock 'are-you-talking-to-me-manner'*

HBCM: "Yes, you sir, the chap who looks very nice! Have you go time to chat, sir?! I'm not asking for money!"

Me: "No"

Next one approaches after I've stepped out of the music shop to drool over the drum kit I want and had a chat with the proprietor, with a copy of Kerrang!* and a practice pad under my arm.

Charity Mugger: "Morning, sir, have you got time for a chat?"

Me: "What, are you going to buy me a pint to go with it?"

CM: "Ho ho, no sir!"

Me: "Then I haven't got time 'for a chat.'"

Ha! That told him.

So what did I do then? I stepped into the Oxfam books and record shop where charity mugging of another kind was going on. What they hell are they doing with the prices? They had a vinyl copy of Dark Side of the Moon. "Oooh" I thought to myself "I wonder if that's still got the stickers and postcards which came with 1970s pressings?" I was disappointed, there was a card attached to the front which read "Late '70s pressing. No stickers or postcards. Plays okay, just slight jump during Brain Damage." Do you know how much they wanted for it? £9.99! That's nearly ten of your English pounds! What a rip off! Hardly a rare album is it, not when they've sold thirty million of them. If it had stickers and postcards? Yes, then they could have had my £9.99 and that would have made it four times that I'd bought the bloody record.

To compound this, in with the records was a Q magazine guitarists' photo supplement. I used to have that and binned it, now they want a tenner for something that was given away for free!

Compare that with the Oxfam in Nottingham a few months back which had every Q mag from issue 1-50 for sale for £90. I bloody wish I'd bought it now. No, scratch that, I wish I'd not thrown out my Qs which I collected religiously from 1988 to 1997.

I'm not being tight-fisted here, but Oxfam would get a lot more of my business if they looked into their pricing policy, so, in the long run, they've lost out. I mean, a vinyl copy of Blondie's Parallel Lines for £7.99 when you can buy it on CD from Sainsbury's for less than a fiver,? Do me a favour...*wonders off, muttering*...

Anyway, have a good weekend. If, like me you're going out for a picnic, with family, then note these wise words. Oh, and apologies for the 'screamers', went a bid mad with them, didn't I?:

*Yeah, I buy Kerrang every now and again. What are you going to do about it? Besides, this week's has got my four thrash metal heroes on the cover - together at last!

In his life

2010-06-29T11:10:00.004+01:00

I watched that Lennon Naked this morning, you know, that BBC4 play that was on last week about John Lennon.

I'm not the world's biggest Beatles fan, they're great, obviously. I think they've gone above having fans, everyone's a fan. What I'm struggling to understand is the choice of lead actor for this role. Christopher Eccleston is 46 years-old. The person he was playing in the film aged from 27 to 31. It doesn't take a genius to work out the he was much to old to play Lennon. Do you think this was some sort of vanity role for him? You know, "This'll look great on my CV, Wikipedia and IMDB if people see I've played this great man?" As has been pointed out this morning, with that hooter he looks more like Ringo. Something exacerbated by the fact that he sounded like Ringo too. Every time I spoke all I could hear in my head was "'Come along!' shouted Thomas the Tank Engine" or "Peace and love...don't send me owt else to sign, you bastards!" or "They're gonna put me in the movies". And whoever that tit was who was Paul McCartney, well, his voice sounded like the sort of effort Bobby Davro would put into a Macca impression. Still, it was good to see Epstein played by someone who got Buckaroo! for Christmas twenty odd years ago (sorry).

I've never understand this mythologising of Lennon. I went to the house he lived in about three years ago. What struck me was that it was just like the house I was born and bought up in, albeit one with a poncey garden room and a bigger kitchen with a servants' bell display board (God knows why, they could have shouted, had they had servants). What did send a shiver down my spine though was that there was a photo on the wall of his entire grammar school on the wall. I only just glanced at it and my eyes immediately fell on Lennon's face out of hundreds of others. To be honest, you got more of a sense of 'magic happening' at Macca's parents old council house. Probably because you knew it was a happier house and there's photos on the wall, taken by his brother, of Paul playing the guitar and writing things down at the spot where they were taken.

Everyone knows Lennon wasn't a very nice man, you didn't really need this film to tell you. Do yout think it's because he's dead that he gets this treatment? Or the fact that he disappeared from view for about five years while his former bandmates were selling millions of records and appearing in dodgy films? That's the thing with him disappearing to New York: he blamed everything on his father abandoning him, then he did the very same thing to his own son. How do you think Julian feels about his dad giving it all up when his step brother came along? And what about that awful 'mong' face he'd pull at any given opportunity?

He did write some cracking tunes though:

A load of rubbish to kill time

2010-06-28T14:03:00.006+01:00

Let's get the football out the way: I'm not surprised, England will NEVER win the World Cup again in your lifetime. And as for people predicting the results, how can you? As Danny Baker says "Football is chaos and you can't predict the outcome of chaos." I saw one bloke give his prediction that England would win 2-1 yesterday after extra time. How can you be that certain of a scoreline? Tosser. I predicted England would bottle it, Germany ain't that good.
Anyway, I was in Nottingham on Saturday night, walked passed a Nando's with a sign outside that said "Piri piri - so good they named it twice." I know Nando's is now seen a s a bit of a joke but I've never been in one. Until Saturday night I thought it was a Mexican restaurant until it occurred to me that chicken piri piri is a Portuguese dish. I didn't go to Nando's, my pre-theatre restaurant of choice is Pizza Express. You can have junk food like pizza but because it's at cosy middle class haven that is Pizza Express, it's okay. And why do those sort of upmarket chain restaurants insist on playing jazz? It has to be the most un-relaxing music to listen to, after industrial metal and grindcore, I suppose. I once remember Talk Talk's Mark Hollis saying that music should never be used as background. In Pizza Express's case it's not background music because you've got Charlie Parker parping away in your earhole.
I fully intend to be the last person in the UK never to have eaten at a Nando's. Or Aberdeen Steakhouse. Or Spaghetti House. Or Garfunkel's. Or Bella Pasta. Am I missing out?
I saw about twenty minutes of Glastonbury on Friday night. That really is turning into some corporate rock cash cow now, isn't it? Take that John Peel Stage; it featured bands who I don't think Peel would have liked very much. From what I saw it put on bands who record labels pushed on there to up their profile. I came to Peel only when I started working shifts, his shows mainly consisted of unlistenable garbage but every twenty minutes or so a diamond would get pulled out. I recall one night we were given death metal followed by Sandy Denny followed by George Formby. What I don't recall is the singer off of Bloc Party showcasing tracks from his new solo album.
The drums then. I think I'm getting to the stage where I need to play with other people. So if anyone knows a guitarist and bass player in the Newark area who are looking for a distinctly average-to-poor-but-will-get-better drummer, then drop me a line. No timewasters or raggae musicians please.
Here's my drum tutor showing off. He's the one on the drums, by the way:

We're from totally different backgrounds

2010-06-19T09:50:00.004+01:00

Five Centres made a point yesterday about the new background to the blog. One of the main criticisms of Blogger is the lack of variety of templates; they seem to have addressed this problem just recently.

I picked this book theme because I suppose I thought it'd make me look more intelligent. Don't be fooled. I've just finished One Day by David Nicholls (which I enjoyed immensely, even though I originally though it was chick-lit. And I ended up falling in love with the main female character, which I also did with Nick Hornby's last), and I'm currently on the Chris Evans book.

I know I should be reading Proust, EM Forster, Steinbeck, Graham Greene and all that, but I enjoy a bit of crap. Who doesn't secretly enjoy a Big Mac every once in a while?

I'd go as far as to say that the publisher with the most books on my shelves isn't Penguin but Ebury Press, publisher of memoirs and travel guides by 'my sort of people'. Hey-ho, Dostoyevsky's going to have to wait. Why read about some bloke being locked up for murder when you can read about Richard Herring facing up to his fortieth birthday? I'm planning on reaching forty, not murdering someone.

21st Century Fox

2010-06-18T14:18:00.006+01:00

Has anyone ever see anything by Megan Fox? I've only heard of her because every time I switch on my computer, there she is in the entertainment section of the home page staring out at me with her latest bit of news.

Looking at her in that photo - apparently taken at a recent premiere where she wore next to nowt - she looks like a slightly unattractive Anjelina Jolie with skinny legs and is brassierephobic.

Are men supposed to fancy her? Because I always remember Billy Connolly saying about supermodels "They're not the sort of women that men fancy, it'd be like shagging a bike." I just bet she has no sense of humour or personality, let alone a filthy laugh.

No doubt she has a fantastic agent whose making the most of her, I suspect, meagre talents.

I take it she's some sort of actress, but I really can't be bothered to find out because that's exactly what she wants me to do...as well as write a blog post about her. Oops!

Curled Wup

2010-06-14T10:13:00.005+01:00

Well, the World Cup then. It leaves me cold. It does nothing for me. I think I can trace this to a number of factors:

I support Nottingham Forest and Nottingham Forest only. I hate most of the players in the England team (apart from Dawson, James and Milner), and I despise most of their 'fans'.

People who normally hate football who are suddenly 'experts'; like those witches in the canteen at work whose only previous knowledge of Ashley Cole is through his estranged missus. I'm nowhere near a football expert, and I regularly go and watch my team. You know, pay money to go in and everything.

Flags on cars, hanging out of windows, bunting, face paints etc. Normally sported by those in the point above.

Sponsorship. If you buy a Hyundai off the back of ITV's World Cup break-bumpers then you should be shot.

In particular to this world cup: those bloody horns. Make it stop. The sound of the crowd is a much more rewarding experience. One good point about the horns - they'll probably drown out that stupid Pukka Pies England band featuring Bernie Clifton. The band who only know two tunes: The Theme from The Great Escape and This is the Self-Preservation Society. Those horns have resulted in me seeing a grand total of about fifteen minutes worth of football. Apparently FIFA have endorsed their use because it's part of South African football culture. By that token, should England host the 2018/2022 World Cups then I fully expect to see the reintroduction of rattles and mindless violence.

The pubs become unbearable. I'm not a massive drinker these days but I hate TVs in pubs. Pubs are supposed to be all about socialising, not getting a cricked neck watching Slovenia v Algeria. And why go to a pub when it's free to watch at home? Why not leave the pubs free for people who want to escape football.

Football isn't a summer game. By the time May comes around I've had enough of football, and even I'm not an obsessive. I refuse to watch Soccer Saturday because I not only detest Jeff Stelling but I'm not really bothered about Chris Kamara reporting from a ground while the match goes on, unseen, over his shoulder. I do have a weakness for the BBC's Final Score though, but that's because I find Garth Crooks fascinating.

People who, normally those mentioned in the second point, who call it 'footy'. I hate that word. I hate it even more than 'soccer', at least 'soccer' does historically have a point (it was used as a corruption of the word 'association', as in 'association football' to differentiate it from rugby football in the 19th Century).

Anyway, never mind all that, I went to my first folk festival yesterday. That was an experience, people just take musical instruments and start jamming, man. There was also the best food stall ever there, he gloried in the name of The Pie Minister. I spurned his charms to have a curry - it was the worst curry I've ever tasted, I've tasted better Tyne Brand curry out of a tin, and I dribbled a load down my new Gap jeans, that yellow will never come out. Next year it's the Pie Minister all the way for me, especially as he was offering minted mushy peas.
I only really went because The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain were on. I love them. I don't know why they're always associated with folk music. Indeed one of them made a joke of this in the between-song patter, he say "I don't know if you know much about folk music, but..."
The thing is with The UOOGB is that it's just a good fun thing. I think it was a stroke of genius using them as the last act on the last day considering that folk music, and folk music fans are usually pretty serious. They're also a little bit posh - one's called Hester - but that kind of eccentric poshness which is always delightful.

I don't know a lot about folk, but like art, I do know what I like. What I don't like is these bearded types with fingers in their ears singing sea shanties. What I do like is a bit of folk rock (they had a folk rock band yesterday, with, horror of horrors for serious folkies, a drummer) and just the lovely stuff, like what we had yesterday with the excellent gaelic singing of Julie Fowlis. Even I know that she's pretty big news in folk music circles. What I like about music sung in any other language than English is that you can make up your own words (like I do when listening to my beloved Super Furry Animals when they sing in Welsh). I also admit I fell in love a little with Ms Fowlis. Ooops.

Anyway, here's my favourite Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain interpretation, pity they never played it yesterday.

Just in case...

2010-05-26T16:43:00.005+01:00

...you were in any doubt as to how much of a mind-numbingly boring, dull-as-ditchwater, cesspit of a town this is:

'Clarnon around

2010-05-20T13:58:00.009+01:00

I've become a 'fan' of Liz McClarnon on Facebook (that's her in the picture, in the shithouse at The Alan Titchmarsh Show that I nicked off her Facebook page). Do you know who she is? She was one third of the average girl band Atomic Kitten. I fell in love with her a little bit when she did Celebrity Master Chef a couple of years back, and I recently became transfixed by her latest effort for BBC 3 called Hotter Than My Daughter (which, when I first saw listed, thought was a handy guide to the menopause).
I tell you what, it's no surprise everyone wants to be a 'celebrity' these days. To say she was an average singer in an average band I reckon she's not lifted a finger to do any proper work. Ever.
Looking at her Facebook updates her days appear to be filled with appearances on Loose Women, The Alan Titchmarsh Show, The Wright Stuff, Angela Griffin and Friends, This Morning, Live From Studio fucking Five and any other number of inane daytime TV shows you could name.
To be fair she is going on tour with Jeff Wayne's Musical Version of HG Wells's War of the Worlds later in the year. But she gets to go out on tour with 'the lovely Jason Donovan and Rhydian'. Even that's not really work though. I've seen the touring version of Jeff Wayne's Musical Version of HG Wells's War of the Worlds and her part just requires her to sing "No, Nathaniel....no, Nathaniel....no, Nathaniel...." once every few bars. And she's just returned from a cruise which was, no doubt, paid for by Wish You Were Here or someone.
She's got her work cut out tonight though. According to her Facebook status she's in a quandary about what to wear to something called The Butterfly Ball. Apparently showbiz royalty like Elton John and, er, Joan Collins will be there. While she's there I'll be at work throwing shit into a skip. But whose happier, eh? Yeah, her. Groo!
The thing is, she appears on these daytime programmes to obviously give her opinion on all the latest 'news' and 'gossip'. Perhaps she ought to think about becoming one of those self-important tossers who start a blog. Oh, hang on...

I heart the 1980s

2010-05-19T13:45:00.005+01:00

I reckon yesterday's attack on the 1980s may have made me look like a bit of a joy vacuum. Of course it wasn't all that bad, it's just that I get annoyed that the whole decade is summed up into Kajagoogoo, Rubik's Cubes, men in tea towels, Soda Streams and Margaret Thatcher.
I had a chat about the 1980s with my sister this morning. I said to her that I think you can't take part in a revival if you're old enough to remember it the first time around. To which she replied "Speak for yourself!" Mind you, she's hung up about getting older; she's 47 on Friday. Not only that but she's been a bit off with me since I found a booklet entitled Coping With the Menopause while clearing Mum's house, I don't think she took it very well when I tossed it to her and said "This might be of use to you."

Anyway, I've decided to compile a list of what I do like about the 1980s, in no particular order:

Big Country

Brookside

Gregory's Girl

Snogging

CBTV

An American Werewolf in London

Microwavable doner kebabs

Puma G Vilas trainers

Local Hero

The Stone Roses' Fools Gold and the second part of I Am the Resurrection

The Cult's Electric

My paper round

Sagging school

Aztec Camera's Oblivious

No. 73

My dad's delight at his weekly fix of The Dukes of Hazzard

The cancellation of Doctor Who

Tape-to-tape recorders

Simple Minds

The Sledgehammer video

Clare Grogan

The Sony Walkman

John Swallow

The Falklands war - quite entertaining for an 11 year-old

Anything touched by the hand of Trevor Horn

Raw Power (not The Stooges album but a late night heavy rock and metal TV show presented by the now editor-in-chief of Mojo magazine)

Nottingham Forest winning the European Cup again

Frank Sidebottom

Blue Monday

Holidays in Rock, Cornwall

Discovering the joys of Newcastle Brown Ale

The Chart Show

Leaving school

The Tube

The Young Ones

Motorhead's No Sleep 'Til Hammersmith

The poll tax riots

The Comic Strip Presents...

Mullets - that's mine in the photo, enjoy it while you can, it comes off tomorrow. Edit: you're too late, it's another mullet now.

The YTS

The Eight Legged Groove Machine and Astley in the Noose

Eleanor's 'fun' pub in Newark Vegas

The Police splitting

Maconie, Collins and Quantick on the NME

Smash Hits up to 1987

Tom Hibbert in Q

John Peel on Top of the Pops

Ayrton Senna

This record

Fed up

2010-05-18T11:54:00.006+01:00

Sorry about the break, but I have got a life you know, one where I do a proper job instead of staring into a computer all day.

Anyway, Radio 2. I normally hate those wankers who spraff off about their favourite radio station like they own it - I think I've blogged before about Radio 4 listeners - but what's going off at Radio 2? As it's one of the few channels I can get on my radio at work I tend to listen for most of the day. For a start they put Graham Norton on to 'dep' for Chris Evans. He made a balls up of it, not radio fodder at all. Then they go and announce him as the replacement for Jonathan Ross. Who decided that? A deaf person? And what is this show going to consist of? I think I know: him fawning and giggling all over crusty old actresses from the bloody 1970s no bastard's heard of for years, if at all. Gemma Jones, anyone? No, me neither.

Theses tossers at Radio 2 had already incurred my wrath for cutting Radcliffe and Maconie's ace show from four nights to three - then replaced them on night four with Jo Whiley. I realise La Whiley's too old for Radio 1 now (even though Westwood's well into his 50s), but why knock down a perfectly good show so that she can come on and introduce Paul Weller at the BBC theatre for the umpteenth time? (I don't like Weller either, more of him in a future post)

Then over the past week we've had a brace of announcements. For a kick off that walking car crash that is Richard Madeley has announced that he's in talks with Radio 2 'bosses'. I'm hoping he'll be on one of those Sunday morning shows where he reviews the Sunday newspapers, which'll be okay by me because there's nothing more inclined to get me to turn off the radio than listening to some lazy DJ going through newspapers (unless it's Sarah Kennedy which is always fun-for-all-the-wrong-reasons. Especially as last week she read out an article on 'funny' place names and mentioned a place in America called Spunky Puddle which flew straight over her head. Funny how she didn't mention Shitterton though. Or Racistdrunktelegraphreader-on-the-Wold).

And this week we've had to suffer the indignity of Chris Tarrant doing Steve Wright's show. Jesus, I never thought I'd say this but come back Wright, all is forgiven. The fork-throwing funster's interview with Simple Minds' Jim Kerr on an ISDN line was cringeworthy. Get off Tarrant, you're shit. Yeah, you heard, SHIT!

Enough of that, unlike the rest of the UK population between the ages of 35 and 45, I didn't watch that Boy George thing because I hate both Culture Club and so-called New Romantics. If I never hear Karma Chameleon, that Hurt Me thing or that shocking War song again it'll be too soon. I tire of the rose-tinted spectacles everyone of my generation sees the 1980s through. Mind you, I reckon the three greatest albums of the decade were Metallica's Master of Puppets, Slayer's Reign in Blood and Talk Talk's Spirit of Eden. Hardly Pelican West or Deep Sea Skiving, are they? And not a Roland synthesizer in sight.

The drums then. Cor, I had a great time last week. We got into drum fills. I think I'm going to be of the drumming school that twats it as hard as they can because they like to make a noise, a bit like Dave Grohl, not a bespectacled 'thinker' like Bill Bruford. Talking of thoughtful drummers, there was a great one on Young Musician of the Year this week. She played a thing by Frank Zappa, which, as you can imagine, was a little avant garde. She showed amazing restraint, I just like to smack the drums and cymbals. My tutor's asked me to come up with a drum solo ready for next week. Horror of horrors, a drum solo! Not a horror for the bastard playing it though. Tee, and indeed, hee.

I leave you with one of my favourite tracks from my new favourite band. They are *shhh, whisper it * nu-prog. Run for your lives! The drumming on the whole album is immense though, not that anyone reading this will actually play that video of course, but hey-ho, I like it, it's your loss etc...

It's nice to be nice

2010-05-06T10:53:00.006+01:00

I'm currently enjoying BBC 4's sea season - an, if you will, 'sea-son' ah-ha-ha-ha. I don't particularly feel the need to get out on the sea as I'm terrified of it, or, more particularly, I'm terrified of boats and drowning. I love being near to the sea though, it's so romantic, don't you think? I could spend hours looking out to the horizon and wondering what's over that horizon.

What I loved was last night's programme following Timothy Spall (that's him in the photo playing Nottingham's greatest son) and his wife as they journey round the coast of Britain in his sea-going barge. I love the fact that he doesn't particularly know what he's doing but is an enthusiastic amateur living by the mantra of 'if you're in doubt, don't do it.' It's just lovely to watch two soulmates being happy in each other's company even if they don't do much. They don't do much apart from drink wine, gaze out to sea, eat sandwiches the size of doorstops, have good-natured rows, laugh and just love being together. It almost made me fill up.

I'm getting sick of these people who've been on the television over the past month running this country down. I've never believed in so-called 'Broken Britain', much as regular readers of this blog will probably think otherwise, I still think Britain is a fantastic country and that the vast majority of people are decent folks who enjoy a laugh and are more than willing to help out those in need. This programme is the proof that this is still a great country, because, at its heart it's full of nice people doing nice things. I like niceness. Spall has said as much in his publicity for this programme.

Anyway, off my soapbox, and after everything I've said about Britain you can have this: a French song. I haven't got a clue what it's about, apart from the sea, but I love it and I bet the lyrics mean something nice.

Edit: I've just entered La Mer's lyrics into Google Translate, and they are lovely. God, what's wrong with me today?

Mobile phones and dads

2010-05-04T11:46:00.005+01:00

I finally got a new mobile phone then. I went back to my original port of call - O2 in Newark - and dealt with the manager. She asked what my requirements were, I told her and I got a new phone. It's the Samsung Fonemaster 2000, or something. I told you I know bugger all about phones so that's what I ended up with, it does everything I want from a mobile phone. My original intention was for the iPhone, but although I've got the money, something doesn't feel quite right about forking out £350 for a mobile phone.

I think a lot of that has to do with my dad. I could just hear the sharp intake of breath when I told him how much this thing had cost me. "You mean you've spent that much on a phone that plays records?" is what he would have said (Dad didn't really 'do' music. Apart from Brass bands, Russ Conway and, in later years, The Beautiful South but I think that had more to do with the fact that somehow he'd found out that they were from Hull). Swiftly followed with "Your trouble is that you've got more money than sense." I can see his point, this phone's cost me less that half what the iPhone does and it does what I want it to.

Not that my dad had anything against gadgets, no sir. Dad loved gadgets but they had to have a practical application. Like a combined cigar cutter and egg cup, or trousers with a built-in lap tray. When we cleared my parents' house we found a miniature trundle wheel for running over road maps. I'm now the proud owner of that. In his later years he became obsessed with softening water. He spent pounds on those Brita water filters (he had the top-of-the-range, complete with digital readout) and cartridges. He followed this up with a thing that he put in the water inlet pipe which was supposed to soften the water. It ran on electricity. So he had all this gear to soften the water to save on kettles. He was spending pounds on water filters and electricity. I think that might be called a false economy.

That was Dad all over. I don't think he ever had a new lawnmower, I remember as a kid he had a Suffolk Punch, which I think he had given him. Then as his brothers started dying off he always ended up inheriting their old mowers. I once went to see them and there was Dad in the garden mowing the lawn with a petrol-driven mower that looked like it was going to run away with him. Attached to this mower was a jam jar. The mower would, every few seconds, violently spit out petrol. When I asked his what the jam jar was for he told me it was to catch the petrol. Why he didn't just go and get it repaired I'll never know. Or why he just didn't bite the bullet and buy himself a new, decent mower, I'll never know either. But, I suppose, that's quintessential daddery.

Getting back to the phones, the money I saved on the iPhone I can put to better use by buying a gorgeous drum kit that I'm drooling over in a local music shop. I wonder what Dad would have thought to something nice and genteel like playing the drums..?

Island life

2010-04-28T16:55:00.007+01:00

I watched Oil City Confidential: The Dr Feelgood Story on telly the other night and have to say it's the best rock documentary I've ever seen. Dr Feelgood are ace. It even beats an old film about the Kursaal Flyers I saw years ago. Wilko Johnson's ace. Lee Brilleaux's ace. The Big Figure's ace. John B Sparkes is ace. In fact, Wilko Johnson could quite possibly have become my favourite person in the world. Ever. And I love the grubbiness of the other three; they look like the sort of blokes you'd find having it off (and in their case that's the right terminology) with the local bike over the bins behind a pub at chucking out time.
Anyway, if you didn't see it, then watch it here. Or lose out. The choice is yours. Who'd have thought there was romance in a rundown seaside town with a not-very-picturesque oil refinery? I'm just sorry I was born early enough to have seen them in there pomp. I'm sure Johnson would have hypnotised me for the duration of their set. And seeing them with The Blockheads in support would have been one hell of a night out.
Their best, I think:

Mobile phone shops and the idiots who work in them

2010-04-26T15:53:00.008+01:00

I know nothing about mobile phones, right? What I do know is that I'd like a phone which has a big screen to look at the internet while 'I'm on the move.' What I also know is that I've gone on to a new mobile phone tariff which means I get unlimited internet browsing* and texts. So I want to change my phone. I've got the money burning a hole in my pocket, what I don't have is the knowledge.
First port of call is Newark's O2 shop. I tell the bloke what I've just told you and he hands me tons of stuff to take home and read, recommending the Nokia 5800. Take the stuff home, I digest it and go on holiday. Last Saturday I went back into the store and said to the assistant "I'm an existing O2 customer and would like that phone please" pointing at the Nokia 5800. After a lot of toing and froing he decides they don't have any in stock but he'll phone me on Tuesday to tell me he's got one from somewhere else. The phonecall doesn't happen.

I had to go to Nottingham yesterday so thought I'd pop along to the O2 shop there and see if they had one. The shop was busy but that didn't stop three members of the staff talking at the till about one of them having problems with is flatmate. I paced up and down, sighing, finally grabbing the man with the flatmate issues. I said to him "I'm an existing O2 customer and would like that phone please" pointing at the Nokia 5800. After a lot of toing and froing he decides that there are none in stock. "Have you tried the store near the Broadmarsh Centre?" he asked. I replied I hadn't but perhaps he'd like to phone that shop and ask if they've one in stock to save me the walk. To do this he needs to go back behind the counter. He shouts, shouts, across the shop "THEY HAVEN'T GOT ONE EITHER! HAVE YOU TRIED OUR ONLINE SHOP!" I told him the Nokia 58-fucking-00 isn't available from the O2 online store (although I didn't really say "58-fucking-00" because I'm polite). "OH, MAYBE THEY'VE DISCONTINUED IT THEN!" he bellowed back. Right 1) if they've discontinued it, why is it still on display in the shops and 2) the little fucker didn't bother offering me an alternative, he just wandered off. I left in a huff.

Walked into the Victoria shopping centre across the road and tried the Carphone Warehouse. Told the guy my requirements and he sold me on something that would have suited my needs perfectly. "Right, I'll take one" I said. Apparently if I wanted one he'd have to order it from Head Office. Jesus wept, all I want is a new mobile to take home. What's wrong with these people?

Phones 4 U next (God, I fucking hate their name). Didn't even get to speak to anyone in there because the shop was empty and the five members of staff were bust jerking each other off behind the counter. What looked like the manager was peering out of the shop front and down the concourse. As I passed him on my way out I said to him "You've just lost a sale, mate."

I fucking hate mobile phone shopping. Why is it so difficult? I know the staff are probably underpaid and bored, but I was always taught about customer service when I worked direct with the public. Sorry for boring you...

Why can't all mobile phone shops be like this:

*subject to fair usage

How to make cuckoo clocks even better pt.2

2010-04-22T16:01:00.003+01:00

Thanks to a very lovely Facebook friend of mine, here's something that trumps even the Flying Scotsman clock. Who wouldn't purchase one after reading this:
Handcrafted and handpainted RAF 90th Anniversary Dawn Patrol Clock, officially endorsed by the RAF and featuring genuine Spitfire sounds!
As dawn breaks across the grassy airfield, the unmistakable sound of a Spitfire's Merlin engine roaring to life fills the crisp morning air. In the cockpit, a brave RAF fighter pilot waits for the signal to scramble and defend our skies…
Now is your chance to join him in this exhilarating moment, with the official RAF 90th Anniversary Dawn Patrol Clock.
Boasting authentic 1940s detail, this exclusive first-of-a-kind RAF edition salutes the courageous men and women who have served the Royal Air Force over the past 90 years – and also pays homage to their remarkable flying machines! Intricate handcrafting and handpainting give each edition a unique finish. A replica Spitfire appears every hour along with the sounds of its Merlin engine roaring to life. An abundance of features make this a one-of-a-kind clock - officially endorsed by the RAF!

Brings a tear to the eye, don't it? The 90th anniversary of the RAF was 2008, so they're obviously not selling. Wonder why..?
Here, have some rousing music to play while you read it again.

How to make cuckoo clocks even better.

2010-04-19T16:28:00.005+01:00

I'd love one of these. I'd never tire of the thrill of the seeing LNER No. 4472 make its way around the base of the clock on the hour, every hour. And the joy that one must experience as the Station Master pops out of his little hut to announce the Flying Scotsman's arrival must be better than any heroin hit. I want one, and I want one now. And all for the bargain price of £124.90 (plus £9.99 p&p), a snip!

Surely this Bradford company must be up for some sort of innovation award, what with this clock and their kitten fleece, not to mention the limited edition Concorde chronograph and the classy I Wish You Angel.

The DMS

2010-03-31T16:01:00.009+01:00

This post was going to be a complete slagging of The Delicious Miss Dahl, which I watched for the first time last night. I gather the poor lass has got a big enough kicking for it as it is (look what happens when you let Jamie Oliver run his own production company), so I'll just leave you with a few random thoughts:

Ruined rhubarb by putting it in Eton Mess
Shepherd's pie made with those awful puy lentils?
Poetry readings?
Incredibly stodgy-looking blinis
I hate smoked salmon so she wouldn't be dishing that up to me in the hope it would bring me onside
Notice she didn't cook on the immaculate Aga - that's because everything would take days to cook and she's only got half an hour
Dicking around in a second hand bookshop
Dicking around in a railway station
I still would though - and look at who she married, there's clearly no accounting for taste

Anyway, I heard this song on the radio today. I remember it getting loads of play in our house when we were kids because Mum had it on a country compilation album called, you guessed it, Country Life. I reckon she loved it because she knew all the words. Hearing it today, for the first time in years, made me realise that it's clearly about al fresco shagging. I hope she didn't love it so much because it brought back happy memories of her callow youth. Still, it's a great song.

'Lusty'

2010-03-29T16:33:00.004+01:00

I've just received this newsletter from Airfix (yeah, I get Airfix newsletters, what are you going to do about it?) on their latest kit: "HMS Illustrious is an impressive 209m long, with a beam of 36m and a displacement of 22,000 tonnes. She has 1400 compartments and 15 lifts, and is powered by four Gas Turbine Olympus engines (a marinised version of Concorde's), giving her a top speed in excess of 30 knots. When fully operational she has a full complement of over 1000 people, and can operate with a range of both rotary and fixed wing aircraft from the Harrier GR9 to troop- carrying Chinooks. This collection comes with extra unique information supplied exclusively by the Royal Navy. (This Gift set includes paints, brushes and glue)"

That's a bloody big model kit, isn't it? It sounds like 1:1 scale to me. How will I get it on my kitchen table to construct it? Or will I need to make it in sections to be put together outside? I don't have a slipway handy either.

Edward the Caresser

2010-03-26T21:38:00.004+01:00

I watched that documentary about Edward VII that was on recently earlier tonight. I'm nowhere near a monarchist but I do feel that if we have to have a monarch they should all be like old Eddie.

Let's start with his mother. I love the fact that she had a face like an old boot and was about three feet tall but still had a voracious sexual appetite and made damn sure she married a bloke with an enormous Johnson.

Moving onto Eddie, he behaved exactly like I believe the first in line to the throne should behave - he spent as much time as possible in Parisian knocking shops sitting in bathfuls of champagne while entertaining at least one French tart. He also used to go to these country house weekends where it all used to descend into mass orgies that would have made Caligula blush. His earlier life is peppered with tales of comely young actresses and music hall stars being snuck into university parlours and army mess rooms.

Of course, when he came to the throne everyone thought he'd be an unmitigated disaster - especially as his mother didn't trust him to take any of her responsibilities in her old age so he was completely clueless - guess what? He was a rip-roaring success, with a common touch! Hurrah for Edward VII!

I reckon they're still up to those tricks now, I mean even someone as lowly as Prince Edward has had a go on Ulrika Jonsson (mind you, who hasn't? By my reckoning, at the rate she gets through blokes, my turn's due in September 2018). And Prince Charles was knocking off that Kanga woman and Camilla at the same time. He did make sure they'd both produced sons by their husbands first though. He has some standards, clearly...

Thing is, if I found myself in the same position I'd be exactly the same - it'd be Party Central, oh yes. Take people like Keith Moon or John Bonham, is it any wonder they acted the way they did with all that put in their path? If it were me I'd be driving Rolls Royces into swimming pools while off my tits on some kind of stimulant, or taking blow jobs just prior to stepping into a top fuel dragster. Looks like I'd better get my head down with the drums then...

Escape from the cinema

2010-03-24T19:40:00.007+01:00

Hey, remember that film Escape to Victory? Yeah, terrible, isn't it? Well they're only going to remake it. The ringleader? One Mr Vinnie Jones. Oh dear. Why remake something that bad? The original starred footballing greats like Pele, Bobby Moore and, er, John Wark. Who does Mr Jones want to put in the Bobby Moore role? Yes, that's right, David Beckham aka The World's Most Overrated Footballer. Three cheers for Becks! Not.
He'd love that, Beckham, wouldn't he? He can really mix it up with his mates in La-La Land if he's made a fil-m. Perhaps his big buddy Tom Cruise could give him some acting tips. Or then again, maybe not.

Another irritation this week:

The new Jacob's Creek ad. The very idea of dinner parties fills me with dread at the best of time, but this ad is set at a dinner party with a bunch of wise-cracking Australians. In my head I shoot the fucking lot with an AK47.

Those pricks who sat behind me at Forest last night. For their information that 'little Scottish twat' is the same 'little Scottish twat' who got our team to third in the table. Oh, and to the woman who shouted out "I'm missing Holby City for this!", why didn't you stay at home then? Although someone's retort of "Who are they playing?!" was inspired. Sometimes the things people shout out are hilarious (there's nothing more life-affirming than hearing a nine year-old boy, in full view of his parents ,shout "The ref-er-ree's a wanker!"), not that crew, they were just full of bullshit from the first whistle. Even when we were coasting to a win. What makes it worse is that they were clearly season ticket holders. Groo!

Non-irritations this week:

Alison Steadman and David Troughton in Alan Bennett's Enjoy at the Theatre Royal in Nottingham. Good to see quality actors actually at work. And who'd have thought Bennett would have put blow job gags in one of his plays? Steadman looked absolutely knackered during the curtain calls though.

Alice in Wonderland. I got caught up in the whole 3D gimmick with this. The 3D doesn't actually make that much difference apart from a few spears being thrust towards the screen, but thoroughly enjoyable nevertheless. I reckon it's only the second Tim Burton film I've seen too.

Drums. My man got me to do some hard stuff this week. I need to practise, so it's good I've bought my own drum kit, int'it?

Forest manager Billy Davies's match programme notes; I'd love to hear them read aloud by a five year-old.

Anyway, if you don't like this then you don't like music:

O baterista

2010-03-17T17:37:00.008+01:00

The drums then. Well it all went rather swimmingly, especially as I was having my doubts approaching the rehearsal studio where the lesson took place; it was at some industrial units at a farm just out of town. Very dark and very lonely during the evening.

I introduced myself to the teacher and after we exchanged pleasantries he sat me behind the drums straight away and we were in. I don't like blowing smoke up my own trumpet but he said that he couldn't believe that I'd never played the drums before as I was picking it up straight away and had bags of 'natural rhythm', oo-er. Or do you think that was a ploy to give me confidence and go back? After twenty minutes I was playing a basic rock drum pattern which he said can be heard, most famously, on AC/DC's Back in Black. Which is handy as that's the ringtone on my mobile.
He then stood there and said "We'll have you playing Rush fills in no time." the word 'fills' means nothing to me, it must be something technical, but I smiled to make out I knew what he was on about. In fact, we spent half the lesson talking about which bands we liked in common.

The upshot is that he says I need to practise, practise, practise. So to that end I'm in the process of buying an electronic drum kit. I'd love an acoustic drum kit but space is at a premium and there are other people to consider. If I get good at it I'll have an acoustic kit though. So my teacher is coming with me tomorrow afternoon to demo a drum kit I've seen and tell me if it's any good or not.
I'll bugger off before I turn into a drum bore. Next lesson on Monday. Can't wait.

Genius:

De slagwerker

2010-03-15T16:27:00.004+01:00

Would you say I've got something wrong with me? I ask this because over the course of the last couple of weeks, three different people have said I've 'got problems'. All this stems from me constantly spraffing off about people on the telly/radio/in the public eye generally.
First up my gaffer insists on listening to Chris Moyles in his office, every time I go in there he says I moan about the guests he has on. He claims I 'have a problem'.
Secondly, I was at Forest last weekend and moaned to my mate about Gary Lineker appearing in the match programme promoting the Nottingham Sport Relief Mile. I think my words to him were "Why is this jug-eared Leicester c**t in my Forest programme?" to which he, quite rightly I suppose, replied "Jesus, it's for charity, calm down."
Thirdly I spent some time at my sister's house at the weekend when that Redknapp Thomas Cook ad came on the telly. That really got me riled up, to which she said "Are you all right? It's not worth getting stroppy about." Again, I guess she's right.
I think I can make a list of the people I've moaned about either on the internet or to other people in my day-to-day life over the past couple of weeks:

Larry Lamb

George Lamb

Anvil

Judas Priest

Burke Shelley

The entire cast of Married Single Other

Graham Norton

Jonathan Ross

Alan Carr

Fearne Rotten

John Terry

Frank Lampard

Robbie Savage

Nigel Clough

Wogan

Mark Owen

Sue Perkins

Kerry Katona

Steve Claridge

Martin Samuel

Patrick Barclay

Lady GaGa

Florence off of Florence and The Machine

Louise and Jamie Redknapp

David Beckham

Cheryl Cole

Simon Cowell

Amanda Holden

Totimoshi

Tom O'Connor

Mike Dilger

Jay Rayner

James Martin

That other prick off of Saturday Kitchen

Lesley Joseph

Lee Westwood

Marcus Brigstocke

And they're just the ones I can remember. Perhaps I ought to stop wasting my time thinking about people I don't like and start concentrating on the people I do like. The people I do like are the sort of people who like Mastercrafts. I love Mastercrafts, have you seen it? It's not a very rock 'n' roll TV show I'm afraid, but it does feature Monty Don. A few years ago Monty Don might have appeared in that list above. That was until I saw him in a series where he let the local smackheads come and work on his smallholding, on the condition that they didn't bring any of The H with them. My opinion of him immediately changed from 'huh, another TV gardener' to 'hmm, what a patient and tolerant gentleman.' Anyway, Mastercrafts is a programme where three people each get the chance to try out different crafts each week, like carpentry, stonemasoning (?) or farriering (?). That's ordinary people, not so-called celebrities. And there's no grand prize, the prize is that you get your work exhibited somewhere, or you get six months work experience. This week's was particularly good on weaving. A bit of a dry subject, eh? But made a bit less dry by the fact that I totally fell in love with one of the ladies doing it, the improbably-named Holly Berry. She reminded me of a girl I used to go out with: made her own clothes in the way that art students do, always looked like she'd just got out of bed, a bit whey-faced, very good with her hands (she, me ex, knitted Van Gogh's Sunflowers for an end of year exhibition at college, it was very good), likes Tracey Chapman etc. Mastercrafts is a bit like a long soak in the bath - not much happens but it's extremely satisfying. It's nice people doing nice things.

And, in the spirit of Mastercrafts, I'm trying something new tonight when I go for my first drumming lesson. Some have already scoffed at the idea of drum lessons. Let them scoff is all I can say. I don't have much in life to look forward to or get excited about at the moment, so I thought I'd try something new to get enthusiastic about, and I'm very enthusiastic about this. What's wrong with self-improvement and picking up a new skill? I'll report back later in the week after I've find out if I'm going to be the next Buddy Rich or the next Meg White.

Wassocks

2010-03-10T16:18:00.007+01:00

What gives with Larry Lamb, the actor? I don't really like him as he always reminds me of the kind of guy who runs an amateur porn business - as featured about ten years ago on Channel 4's excellent Boogie Nights in Suburbia documentary.

Aside for the fact that he looks like a rubbish version of Larry Flynt he also made a complete arse of himself on a thing last night called Famous, Rich and Jobless. The premise being that four 'celebrities' are out in the real world to find out what it's like to be unemployed. They're all given cash equal to four days worth of benefits to live on and a roof over their head. Then they're supposed to look for work. Old Larry thought it'd be a jolly wheeze not to bother looking for work but to go to Asda and buy the cheapest food possible ("Look at this, eighty two tea bags for twenty eight pence!") and toss it off the rest of the time. While he was in Asda he was recognised and loved playing up to the crowd, waving and asking people if they watched Eastenders and so on. What a dick. But he did pick up an application to work in Asda. He never filled it in claiming that he didn't have a pen with which to do it. Larry was seen filling it in later though - on behalf of the woman whose flat he was living in.

His son gets my goat too. I had the misfortune to see a little bit of the Baftas red carpet programme which George Lamb was presenting. As well as having the dullest voice on the planet, he then proceeded to ask almost everyone he interviewed about how great an actor his dad was, like he was Brando or De Niro or something. That's Larry Lamb who appeared in Triangle. What a pair of cocks.

Anyway, someone else who lives in a bit of a bubble is the hapless, but strangely loveable, Jeremy Vine. On his radio show this lunchtime they had some old dear on who was trying out the internet for the first time. She was being given instructions down the phone about how to go about connecting to the internet and doing a basic search with the aid of Martha Lane Fox:

Old Dear: "I've got a big white Google page."

Martha Lane Fox: "Okay, now, type into the box something you'd like to know about. What are you interested in?"

Old Dear: "I love craft work."

Jeremy Vine: "The German band...?"

Old Dear: "Eh?"

Jesus wept...

Metal on metal

2010-02-24T17:12:00.006+01:00

I watched that Anvil: The Story of Anvil the other night. It's not very good despite all the plaudits it received. What I was expecting was a warm-hearted look back at a band who could have been contenders but never quite made. A film that investigated why they never made it, and their peers like Metallica, Motley Crue and Guns 'n' Roses did.

According to the blurb "Anvil were a major influence on the burgeoning thrash metal scene at the time. Members of Metallica, Anthrax and Slayer pay tribute." No they don't, they just come on at the start of the film and say "Anvil? Oh yeah, I remember them." That's it, not "Anvil? Well without Anvil we wouldn't be where we are today." And do you know why they don't say that? It's because Anvil aren't very good. Their so-called anthem, Metal on Metal, is just pretty average. The rest of the stuff I heard is third rate metal using adolescent sex (or the lack of it) as its subject matter. Look over any rock festival posters from the 1980s and there's Anvil at the bottom of the bill.

We're also told, according to the DVD box, to expect a "warm-hearted film about friendship." That's not really possible when Anvil's main man, Lips, is such an annoying prick given to moments of violence towards tight-fisted club promoters and even his own drummer, the man he was supposed to have made this pact with when he was fourteen that they'd "carry on rocking together forever." The drummer's name, by the way, is Robb Reiner, just one consonant too many away from sharing the same name as the director of This is Spinal Tap. Which is quite apt as Anvil's career trajectory mirrors that of Spinal Tap, especially the closing scenes of a rapturous return to Japan. The Japanese have a thing for a sub genre of heavy metal that I like to call 'Shit Metal.'

So the blurb's all wrong and what you get is a slightly depressing film about Lips cajoling Robb to go out on tour/make demos/try and get funding to make a new album in the UK. Fortunately for Lips - if not for the listening public - his older, and much more successful sister, stumps up the $12,000 to enable the band to record their new record in the Kent countryside. What follows are scenes of Lips chucking his toys out of his pram while sacking Robb. Robb returns to the fold about half an hour later when Lips has calmed down a bit. We then have to endure Lips hawking his record around major record labels without success. Lips gets upset.

Fortunately for Lips some bright spark invented the internet and you can buy it off him direct. Result! Not.

The saddest scenes though are near the beginning when a dodgy East European promoter books them on a European tour. It's very nearly heartbreaking to watch Lips approach metal luminaries like Michael Schenker, Carmine Appice and Tommy Aldridge at a Swedish metal festival to be met with blank 'who is this guy?' looks.

Robb emerges as kind of likable. You can tell he thinks they're flogging a dead horse but doesn't want to let his mate down. Surely there must have come a point in the past twenty years where he thought to himself 'enough is enough.' They both have day jobs, by the way - Lips delivers school dinners in a van.

No doubt Anvil will find short term gain from making the film, but they're still only making bottom of the bill at this summer's heavy rock festivals. More for curiosity value at a man who plays a guitar solo with a vibrator. Yes, really.

Anyroad, I went to see one of my favourite metal bands of the moment last night. The Amazon review for their new album contains this: "Fourth album from the successful American progressive metallers and follow up to their 2006 major label debut 'Blood Mountain'. That album, while their most successful, drew criticism from some fans for its seeming lack of focus. This album seeks to remedy that issue by having a unified concept in which an astral traveller wanders the spirit realm, exploring themes from quantum physics to Czarist Russia, and musically is as complex, brutal and enthralling as their earlier work." Which is pretty much what I want from heavy metal, not a turd with a Flying V and a dildo.

Pass my revolver

2010-02-17T18:39:00.004+01:00

In years gone by families would pass on the secrets of their trades to their children. So you'd get small dynasties of coopers, fletchers, carpenters, sagger maker's bottom knockers etc. Now it seems that vile Jordan woman is actually encouraging her two year-old daughter to start a new type of dynasty called tits-getter-outers. Jesus wept. Can we not switch that woman off?

Any parents of girls reading this - would you like your small daughter to find titilating Britain's builders and van drivers a worthwhile career option?

"Oh God, please, no, not again"

2010-02-16T16:39:00.007+01:00

It was forty years ago last Saturday that Black Sabbath's debut album was released. So it's forty years ago last Saturday that heavy metal was invented. I can't let the passing of such an important anniversary (well, it's important to me) go without being marked. So may I direct you to my heavy metal blog for the lowdown on, to nick a phrase from The Beatles' statue in Liverpool, 'four lads from Aston who shook the world'.

As an aside I watched a BBC documentary about heavy metal recently. Ozzy was on there explaining how they came up with the sound; they used to rehearse in a room opposite a cinema that happened to be showing a horror film. They looked on the crowd queueing up outside and decided that people liked being scared, so decided to make scary music. At their early gigs playing this music, according to Ozzy "Chicks would run out screaming, so we looked at each other and said 'This scary music's working a treat, isn't it?'" Priceless.

A gentle, lilting ballad...

2010-02-14T17:38:00.003+01:00

...for fucking Valentine's Day about the horrors of Nazi death camp doctor Josef Mengele. Enjoy. (like anyone who reads this will actually want to listen)

I believe it's called 'schadenfreude'

2010-02-11T18:07:00.005+01:00

I hate Vernon Kay. I know hate is a pretty strong word, but in my case, with Vernon Kay, I really do hate him. So imagine how I felt when I found out earlier this week that he's been caught sending naughty messages to Page 3 stunnas. I laughed and laughed and laughed. Funny how his official website makes no mention of it, especially as, according to the blurb on Google, you can "Find out what Vernon Kay is up to, get exclusive content, and register for Vernon Kay updates." Nothing on there about what he's been up to over the last few weeks though. Funny, that.

"Have you been shagging my girlfriend?"

2010-02-08T18:03:00.003+01:00

Now I'm a fan of Local Hero, The Crow Road and Soft Top, Hard Shoulder as much as the next man. I'm also currently searching for a new piece of wall art to go with a new settee I've just ordered, but even I'd draw the line at this. Who would order such a thing? His stalker?

Oh, while I'm on, no good ever comes of giving stupid people huge sums of money. Just ask John Terry.

Thanks for nothing

2010-02-02T17:11:00.006+01:00

I quite clearly never learn with books written by comedians, do I? I asked for the Jack Dee autobiography for Christmas, and actually got it. Another disappointment. I like Dee, and, as a, ugh, 'student of comedy', thought it would be all about his way in to the world of stand-up with his life story thrown in.
Oh no it isn't. What you get is this trend these days for stretching autobiographies out over more than one volume. Now I could understand it if it was by, say, David Attenborough; someone whose lead a full and varied life. Not for a moderately successful comedian and sitcom writer/actor.
So to pad the book out you get Dee's opinion on everything from football (he doesn't like it), to people who claim not to watch television (he doesn't like them), to people who use Facebook and Twitter (he doesn't like them).
Am I being old-fashioned, or is it wrong of me to expect an autobiography to follow a pattern as laid down by The Godfathers on their excellent single of the late 80s, ie birth, school, work, death? I know the death bit's pretty difficult as he's not dead and would find that bit hard to write anyway, what with not being dead and everything. But there's very little of his formative years, apart form being sent to boarding school (he didn't like it) and a load of stuff about working as a waiter/chef/restaurant manager (he didn't like it).
The parts where he tries stand-up on open spots at The Comedy Store, decides on his miserable persona and being contacted by his future manager, Addison Cresswell, are dashed off in the last thirty pages as though he realised he was approaching his word limit and he had to hurry things along.
If he wants a true guide as to how to do multiple autobiographical volumes then I suggest he reads Vic Reeves's Me Moir. It's a straight autobiography that's thoroughly entertaining and leaves the reader at the point he gets on the train to London in the late 70s. It also contains one of the funniest stories about attending prog rock concerts I've ever read. It's a pity he never got round to writing volume two...

So Dee's book's a wasted opportunity from the man who came up with this, one of my favourite stand-up routines ever. Made even better by the fact that I used to work for a company called Mojo, and I've eaten more Mojos than you can shake a stick at in my time.

Do have nightmares

2010-01-28T17:01:00.005+01:00

Nothing much on telly at the minute, is there? Well apart from Mad Men but we'll take that as read. Nothing much on telly found me recording I Believe in UFOs with Danny Dyer for a bit of fluff for me who likes a UFO story.
Who is this man, Dyer? He's supposed to be some sort of actor but I'm buggered if I've ever seen him in anything. He looks like the sort of berk who appears in films glamourising football violence. He looks like the type who'd describe himself as an "East End hard man, a bit woo, a bit whey". I've never been in a fight in my life but I guarantee that I could floor him. Whatever, his main 'talents' appear to be looking at all times like he's just woken up with a hangover and swearing a lot. And I mean a lot. Regular readers have probably noticed that I like a good swear, but where it's fitting. This Dyer seems to use it as punctuation.
Anyway, the programme was incredibly tedious. He has no skills for making an investigative film whatsoever. The programme seemed to obsess itself with Dyer wandering around like he'd just smoked a spliff going "Gor fackin' blimey, these fackin' crop circles are weird, ain't they?" The 'high point' came with Dyer buggering off to Colorado (with my licence fee) to talk to a bloke who claimed to once have an alien look through his window. And guess what? He only had a video camera set up with night vision to hand to record the whole thing on, didn't he? This so-called alien was clearly a man wearing the sort of alien mask you can find in any party shop. The 'alien' then thought he saw the guy filming and bobbed down from the window, then re-appeared as if playing a game of intergalactic peek-a-boo. Cue "Cor, fackin' 'ells!" aplenty from Dyer, clearly the world's most gullible man.
Anyway, it was so mind-numbingly dull I dropped off to sleep before the end.

Dropping off to sleep made me miss the beginning of Crimewatch. I don't normally watch Crimewatch but last night's featured a case my sister's working on, so I thought I'd better look in and see if I could be of any assistance and to encourage her along via the television. Thanks to Dyer's dreary antics I missed it.
What I want to say is that Kirsty Young doesn't say "Don't have nightmares" at the end. What's all that about? Just because she's some Glaswegian nutcase who probably isn't frightened of anything doesn't mean I am. I didn't sleep very well at all, thank you, Kirsty.

Ugh, why do I do it?

2010-01-26T17:10:00.005+01:00

Facebook, eh? Facebook. I had a load of Facebook 'friends' from work on my profile up until about ten months ago and then deleted them all off. I was getting sick of all the comments in the canteen about stuff I'd put on there. I use that 'status update' feature just to put throwaway stuff on, not anything particularly to chew over, something to keep me amused and alleviate the mundanity of my job.

Anyway, a colleague of mine was giving me a lift to work during the cold weather and he started banging on about why I was no longer on Facebook. So I had to make up this cock and bull story about deleting my profile (as it happens, every now and again I deactivate my profile just to have a rest from that whole Facebook thang) and that I'd now got a new one and would add him as a friend. I did this, much against my better judgement, but that guy had been doing me a favour all week and wouldn't let the Facebook thing drop.

So now it's started. His locker's next to mine so I have to look at him with his trousers around his ankles at 2.30pm while he asks what I've been buying in Argos (I'd made a throwaway comment about queueing in Argos), what the fuck's it got to do with him? Is he some kind of stalker who needs to know about the minutiae of my existence?

Today there's been lots of giggling and pointing in the canteen about something I'd said on Facebook about Angelina Jolie. You know it was just a joke, let it go, it's not important, get a life.

I think the fact is that most of them use Facebook purely as a means of poking their noses into other people's lives and perving over photos of them on holiday. I've had to delete a blog in the past because some nosey bastard at work couldn't let it lie that I had a blog. He trawled through Rush message boards searching for my profile, he eventually found me and the link to my blog, even though I used a pseudonym. I found the whole thing quite unnerving. Aren't you glad you don't work where I work?

This is what the air attack warning sounds like

2010-01-25T17:29:00.005+01:00

As part of my fascination with all things Cold War (when I finally get my new car, I'm taking it for a run out to here), I've spent a chunk of the weekend and today watching Protect and Survive videos on You Tube. Jesus, they expect you to get busy in the lead up to a nuclear attack, don't they? For a start they expect you to start thickening the walls of your home. Do you know how to lay bricks?
Then they want you to start a fallout room in your home, preferably a room with no outside walls and windows. The only room in my home which fits that description is a cupboard where I keep the Hoover, shoes, manbags, mops and the such like. I'm never going to be able to live in there for weeks at a time, it's too small. Even smaller when you see the list of stuff they want you to take in there. They also expect you to bolster the room by placing suitcases around it, I have one suitcase. What else am I supposed to use? And how am I supposed to heat up the dozens of tins of soup they want me to eat without gas or electricity? I'm sorry but I can't eat cold soup, I'm not Spanish.
The clincher for me though are the toilet arrangements. You have to go for no.2s in front of other people. I'm prepared to make some sacrifices in the event of nuclear Armageddon but come on! How can you poop in front of someone else? I know some people find it a turn on (I'm NOT one of them, incidentally) but I couldn't possibly do that. And an ex-boyfriend of my sister used to drive tanks in the army, they had to practise nuclear conditions and shut themselves in the tank for days on end, pooing in front of each other, but I'm guessing there must be hidey holes in a Chieftain tank somewhere. I'd just have to live on the tins of pop in my cupboard and forgo the soup.

I reckon these guidelines need thinking through again. Now where did I put that What To Do In a Major Terrorist Attack leaflet they pumped out in 2002 (I never did buy a wind-up radio, although I have a wind-up torch)? It's probably with the Swine Flu advice and precautions leaflet.

The spirit of radio

2010-01-21T17:50:00.005+01:00

Why is it that some words fall out of fashion? I say this because yesterday I was moaning about a DJ on our dreadful local independent radio station who sounds like the teacher off of Charlie Brown. I was talking to this chap and said I'd heard him on 'the wireless'. To which he started laughing and said "What's a wireless, granddad?" I was quite taken aback, doesn't anyone say 'wireless' any more? My dad always used to bang on about an item on milk yields and cattle market prices "on the wireless" (not that he was a farmer, but when you listen to Radio Lincolnshire all day it becomes an obsession. Not that we lived in Lincolnshire).
It's the same whenever anyone asks me if I went to the pub to watch Forest matches, I don't believe in televisions in pubs so always tell them "I listened to it on the wireless." Cue quizzical looks all round.

My sister told me a story the other week: she was speaking to me on the phone, while she was at work, and I was asking her where I could park my car when I met with her later that evening. She replied "You know where the pictures is? Well there's a car park at the back." To which, apparently, the colleagues in her office started on her for the use of 'the pictures' the minute she put the phone down. Apparently the proper name for it now is 'cinema'. Not in my book. Mind you, to me the BT Tower will always be The Post Office Tower...

I'm not looking for a cheap Happy Birthday...

2010-01-18T16:48:00.008+01:00

...but I've been watching this DVD about Brian Clough today, and it gradually dawned on me that I'm now the same age God was when he gave the interview on the You Tube link (that's God as in Clough, not Revie. Or, indeed, Austin flaming Mitchell.).
That puts a perspective on things - he was dead almost exactly thirty years later.
Hey ho, it's the big one this time next year. I won't be shouting about that, let me tell you.

Order! Order!

2010-01-12T17:34:00.007+01:00

I don't know why I spent a load of time in mid-November compiling an Amazon wishlist. Well, I do, it was so that when I got the inevitable question "What do you want for Christmas, Bright Ambassador?" from my sisters, I could just direct them to my wishlist (obviously, they don't call me 'Bright Ambassador', that'd be stupid as it's not my real name). Imagine then, my disappointment come Christmas Day when one of my sisters had ignored the wishlist and bought me a DVD of Wheeltappers and Shunters.
For those not in the know, W&S was TV variety show from the mid-70s supposedly set in a Working Man's Club. Imagine Phoenix Nights - only even shitter. It's truly terrible. I've only managed twenty minutes of it so far and had to switch it off. When you get those turds on telly spraffing off about a lack of variety on TV these days, I suggest they're given a copy of the W&S DVD.

For a kick off, series 1, episode 1 starts with Bernard Manning - the club host - crooning his way through a number about how he'd like to 'make sweet love to you all night.' Form an orderly queue there, ladies. We then get an act involving Cossack dancing - mildly entertaining for about thirty seconds, unfortunately it went on for about three and a half minutes. Then it's straight into a double act called, something like, Lambert and Butler. Oh dear. Get this, the stooge purports to be gay. Cue loads of jokes involving the word 'queer'. Hilarity ensues. Not.
They're followed by 'the barmaid' singing a medley. It's rubbish. After the break it's a knife-throwing act. The thrower of which was wearing the most alarming pair of trousers I've ever seen. His 'prancer' was wearing very little. By that time I'd lost the will to live and switched it off.
It's not all bad news though. The club committee 'chairman', Colin Crompton makes some witty interjections (best of which is "All those going on the Territorial Army weekend next Saturday - please be informed that reveille is at 6AM. Those who don't like Italian food are advised to take butties"). And the clothes and haircuts of the audience are always worth a gander on this kind of thing.

She said "I saw it and thought of you." Is that because she thinks of me whenever she thinks of shocking 1970s televsion? I hope not. Thing is, she'll ask me about it. Then she'll want to borrow it. So I'm going to have to watch all of it because she'll want to discuss it. I've got six hours of it to watch. The DVD cover promises an early appearance by Little and Large. I can hardly wait.

She'd best get me something decent for my impending birthday, otherwise I'll be mardy.

Edit: To help along those who've never seen W&S, like Thumper, here's a choice You Tube clip. It features Norman Collier's famous faulty microphone routine. I saw Norman Collier in summer season in Bournemouth in 1980, on the same bill as Little and Large - he did the sodding faulty microphone routine. The same routine I'd seen him do on TV dozens of times before. Who once called him Norman 'Two Joke' Collier?

Let's have a heated debate!

2010-01-11T17:23:00.008+01:00

Do you know what I hate?.......Give up yet? I know that regular readers will know there's loads of things I hate. BUT, listening to the radio an hour or so ago I was throwing things to the sound of, the 'actor', Max Beesley. He was on Richard Bacon's Radio 5 show, a show which was to feature a David Cameron interview later on. Bacon asked Beesley if there was a question he'd like to put to Cameron on Beesley's behalf. The question went something like this: "David, I like your billboards about how you're going to do stuff for the NHS, but please, please can you not raise top line income tax to 50%?" This is Max Beesley who'd, just a few seconds before, been saying how he whoops it up in Los Angeles for six months of the year. So he loves the NHS so much he doesn't see why his uber-rich showbiz mates shouldn't perhaps pay a little bit more to keep it going. It's nice to know where his priorities lay politically. The country's fucked, mortgaged up to the hilt but he doesn't want to see Robbie Williams et al piss off to LA full time. Which would be a shame, wouldn't it? Not.

This followed on from, ugh, David Tennant (I'm getting sick of typing his name now), going on about how he wants everyone to vote Labour in the election. Bear in mind that this was originally said in an interview to a comic. Missing your target there David, I think. In fact, I hate Tennant so much I think I'll do the opposite and vote Tory (Not that it'd make much difference round here. The last Labour MP we had got investigated by the police, got thrown out in the 2001 election and then drank herself to death a few years later).
And Tennant's mate isn't much better, the bloke who writes those lame scripts for the children's TV show has weighed into the debate about who we should all be voting for in 2010. He's weighed into the debate from the side of his LA pool. Well done.

What I'm trying to say is that I hate it when well known people pin their colours to political masts. Just keep acting, making records or whatever, but we're really not interested in your opinions.

Staying on the theme. I saw a teaser trailer for an interview given by Arsenal's short-arsed, annoying-shushing-motion-goal-celebrationer, Andrey Arshavin. Apparently the Russian made clear his displeasure at having to have a UK bank account. Oh, boo-hoo, you live and work here and have to pay UK tax, oh woe is you, sob, wail...

Tennant's Extra

2010-01-05T16:24:00.009+01:00

Well, that's Christmas over with for another year. Mine was, seemingly like everyone else's, quite quiet.
What a shite year for festive telly though. I know people say that every year, but this year, Jesus, it was abysmal. Obviously your luck was running on empty if you don't like looking at David Tennant's hatchet fizzogg. He was never off - I saw him on, and immediately switched off: Never Mind the Buzzcocks, The Catherine Tate Show, QI, Alan Carr's crap chat vehicle and a load of other stuff I've forgotten about. I certainly didn't see him on that children's sci-fi drama thingy he does. Because it's for children. And I don't like sci-fi. And I don't like David Tennant.

Other Xmas TV lowlights (bear in mind I spent a lot of Christmas in other people's houses so didn't have a lot of choice in the televisual delights on offer):

The Catherine Tate Show nan thing. Get her off.

That Victoria Wood thing. Probably would have found it mildly amusing if I'd ever seen that Lark Rise to Cranford. But I haven't.

Ant and Dec's Christmas Show. No, you're not Morcambe and Wise. Especially when you're show just features a load of other ITV-promoted divvys.

The All Star Impressions Show. Where to start with this? Imagine the worst impressions you've ever seen multiplied by ten and done by 'some of Britain's favourite celebrities.' By 'Britain's favourite celebrities', they mean, for example, twat-in-chief Tony Blackburn doing Prince Charles, Chesney Hawks (that's right, Chesney Hawks, 'Britain's favourite celebrities' remember?) as Prince William and Mackenzie Crook as Albert Steptoe. I couldn't work out whether it was serious or not. And it was a joint venture by the production companies of Steve Coogan and Vic Reeves. There was one glimmer of hope in a sketch, with 'proper' impressionists, revolving around those warring Gallagher brothers appearing on Jeremy Kyle. Otherwise I had to keep checking to make sure it wasn't April 1st instead of December 26th.

All Star Mr and Mrs. This had Joan Collins who kept being described as 'a legend.' How is she a legend please? She was best known for appearing in B-Movies and for marrying Anthony Newley. Then she got her minge out in two films and went into Dynasty. That does not a legend make, in my book at least. The other 'stars' involved were a bit-part actor off of Coronation Street and someone I've forgotten.

The Royle Family. Had its day. I don't particularly want to see Ricky Tomlinson's skidmarks on Christmas Day, thank you very much.

So, what did I enjoy?

Queen at Hammersmith Odeon 1975. I'm not a massive Queen fan, and I certainly don't like anything they recorded after 1980, but this was rather good. Plus it's always fun looking back, isn't it? Especially as when this was recorded they were just breaking through, with Bohemian Rhapsody at no. 1. Watching the video for Bohemian Rhapsody, week in, week out, on Top of the Pops, is one of my earliest memories.

The Not the Nine O'Clock News documentary. I used to love the TV show and books when I was a kid. And who knew that Stephenson and Atkinson hated each others guts? Not I. Pity the 'classic' episode shown after was just a load of 'best bits' spliced together.

Wallace and Gromit in The Wrong Trousers. Never get tired of watching that.

Some Like it Hot.

Knowing Me Knowing Yule with Alan Partridge.

So there you go, a 34 year-old concert, a thing about a thirty year-old satirical TV show, a fifteen year-old kids animation, a fifteen year-old spoof chat show and a 50 year-old film. They don't make 'em like they used to, eh?
The rest of the time I spent getting addicted to an Xbox game my sister bought me for Christmas. Who needs Catherine Tate when you can race a Bentley Speed 80 around Le Mans?

By the way, here's the first irritation of 2010: those two smug, 'look at us, aren't we beautiful?' idiots the Redknapps on that Thomas Cook advert. Where's my AK47?

An even bigger splash

2009-12-29T09:30:00.007+01:00

I love overhearing snippets of other people's conversations. Yesterday I was getting cultured up in Nottingham Contemporary Gallery (I've seen better Hockney exhibitions, by the way. Yeah, get me, the culture vulture) and overheard two women in their mid-twenties: "The trouble with Jen is that she's like a dog on heat. She's moved back here because there aren't enough men for her in Sheffield". At which point I had to restrain myself from asking for Jen's number.

Mind you, I quite often find art galleries a sexually charged environment. Especially that Tate Modern.

May I extend Yuletide felicitations to you?

2009-12-23T16:34:00.008+01:00

Well another year over, and 2009 was a right old bag of shite: the death of a parent, a massive disappointment selling her house (thanks a bunch Ms fucking Miller of 15 Dunghill Mansions, Newark. You knew the circumstances under which we were selling the house, you sow) and then topped off nicely with a redundancy scare (I'm still in gainful employment, unlike forty of my ex-colleagues, poor sods). So it'll be a massive relief to see the back of it. I'm not normally one for New Year's Eve but I'm going to buy the biggest firework available to let off this Dec. 31st/Jan. 1st as a final 'piss off' to a shit year.

Anyway, I know I don't normally give much away on this blog, but I've been thinking about Mum and Dad a lot these past few days. Things reached a peak when I heard this on the radio last night. It's a song I remember from my childhood and surprised myself by knowing all the words. It's lovely.

Add to that all the Alan Bennett stuff that's been on telly lately (both Mum and Dad loved him, and as a tribute I'm going with sis to see one of his plays with Alison Steadman next year, which Mum said she'd liked to have seen), Ed Stewart promoting Junior Choice on Radio 2 ("'Ello darlin'!") a general air of melancholy and the fact we won't taste her trifle this Christmas has left me feeling incredibly sad. I daren't even watch that Oliver Postgate documentary that was on last night, I'll save that till after Crimbo, I think. Postgate's voice just transports me back to the front room of our 1930s three bed semi on Elm Avenue with Mum in the kitchen making something yummy. And don't even get me started on the organ, flute and Richard Baker intro to Mary, Mungo and Midge "A town is full of buildings..."

I'm not one to burst into tears - I'm a man after all, and not given to tears - but I think Christmas has highlighted the fact that I'm now, technically, an orphan. Boo-hoo for me.

Anyway, enough of the self-pity, which I normally hate, and may I wish you a Merry Christmas and a spiffing 2010. I'll see you on the other side, hopefully a bit more regularly than of late. Sorry this post's a bit depressing. To cheer you up have this Top Tip from Viz: "Former member of 10cc Lol Creme, don't sign your name at the end of text messages conveying bad news." Aah, LOL!

Have this for Christmas too, Mark Radcliffe always used to play it at Christmas and I love it.

Thanks to Mr Clearbrook...

2009-12-07T15:44:00.004+01:00

...I've been reminded how shit this advert it. I seem to remember blogging about the Iceland Christmas ad last year, and this year they've really surpassed themselves.
For starters they've made all the food look completely unappetising, surely not the desired effect.
Secondly, why are they still obsessed with prawns?
Thirdly, how can Coleen Nolan push all this crap food when she's been banging on in the Daily Mirror all year about how to lose weight?
Fourthly (is that a word?), why is everything miniaturised? Mini this, mini, that, mini the other. Is it so the mouth-breathers who buy this cack don't know how to eat with cutlery and so have to shove everything in whole?
Fifthly (okay, that's definitely not a word), why the aside about smoked salmon, as though it's some new innovation? Or is it because the people eating this shite regard smoked salmon as something a bit swish? I don't know why if that's the case, I can't stand the stuff.
Sixthly, chocolate-covered frozen strawberries? What sort of sick mind came up with that?
Seventhly, who'd like to give Coleen, Jason and that twat who says "Yer not kiddin'" a miniature vile of paraquat?

Enjoy:

Get me out of here. Please.

2009-11-19T17:57:00.006+01:00

I had the grave misfortune of watching the last half hour of I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here last night. Hopefully you didn't see it. I don't know what it is but I was slightly shocked at what was happening to Katie Price during her so-called 'Bush Tucker Trial'. Regular readers will know that I don't hold her in particularly high regard but some people must surely have gained some pleasure in seeing her get a ton of cockroaches shoved down her coat, boots and hat, wretch over a beetle smoothie and tip her head into a school desk full of frogspawn and live meal worms. Surely this is just some kind of masochism for the masses watching on TV? Yes, I know it's her choice to do it and she's getting paid well blah blah blah, but quite frankly I went to bed a little disturbed about what we've become as a nation of telly watchers.

Here's something much more palatable, because it really is nice to be nice.