Disappointed

The Jimmy Savile thing then. I must say that I'm hugely disappointed:

Disappointed that this man used to come into our homes of a Thursday and Saturday night and, as a child, I was sold on him being an eccentric man who was indescribably wealthy who made people's dreams come true and did loads of good works for charity. And that was it.

Disappointed that his colleagues and acquaintances of his knew of rumours of his alleged deviency but did nothing to address the situation.

Disappointed that there may be loads of other people who use their standing in the entertainment world as licence to do the same thing or similar.

Disappointed that people whom I previously respected and thought would have stood up for themselves putting their career before reporting sexual harrasment in the workplace.

Disappointed that The Sun are - quite rightly - expressing their horror at underage sex, and then over the page there's an opinion piece by a Page 3 girl called Peta about why people are wrong to call for Page 3 to be dropped.

Sorry, Coldplay but we live in a horrible world.

Midnight at the lost and found

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.

Just in case...

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

Two men called George

Via the Word magazine weekly mailout comes this link for an excellent blog. I love a bit of George and Lynne. They're so liberated, aren't they? We never 'took' The Sun in our house, mother would have thought it too common* and Dad had The Express. Dad had The Express from the minute he started work in the late 40s up until the day he died in 2003 - that's right, he was lying on his hospital deathbed and we still took him an Express.

My country-dwelling aunt and uncle had The Sun though, so it was always a treat going to their house as, for a young lad, The Sun was manna from Heaven. Not only did you have to contend with top-heavy Page 3 'lovelies' but there was also the joy that was George and Lynne. When I was that age George and Lynne offered a skewed peep into what it was like to be an adult. George and Lynne gave this wonderful impression that childless adults just lazed around in bed all day watching television**. And Lynne ALWAYS had her norks out with a pair of see-through panties on (even though, to my disappointment, only the back was see through). Their conversation was always about some builder who'd wolf-whistled Lynne or George making some double entendre. You just knew that immediately afterwards they were going to have the best sex ever.

How disappointed and disillusioned was I to become with adult life?

Dad's Express only offered the charms of The Gambols. The Gambols were Terry and June to George and Lynne's Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin. The Gambols were George and Gaye, a happily married, middle-aged, childless couple. Their strips usually revolved around anecdotes that George would tell Gaye after a day at work (of course Gaye didn't work, what are you? Nuts?), a misunderstanding Gaye would have with a shopworker, or one of George's golfing mishaps. The only time The Gambols got a little bit sexy was when they were getting ready to go out - no doubt to a fucking dinner party - and you'd see George in his vest and pants (large, white Y-fronts) while Gaye would be wearing stockings and suspenders. But not in a sexy way. It was in a way that tells you the artist hadn't come to terms with the invention of tights (pantyhose for any Americans looking in).

The summer would be livened up by having their niece and nephew, Flivver and Miggy to stay. 'Hilarity' would ensue on a daily basis with those two little sods. By they way, have you ever come across anyone called either Flivver or Miggy? No, me neither.

I mean look at that picture at the top, that's a typical Gambols' drawing. George struggling with a grandfather clock bought at an auction while Gaye excitedly follows him. Don't you just know that was a bad investment?

I'd love to kick George Gambol in the bollocks in front of his missus for not being George and Lynne. The pair of bastards.

*Perversely, she'd buy it on Grand National day because 'it had a list of runners and riders.' Like they didn't in any other newspaper.

**I hate watching telly, and eating, in bed though, as an adult.