Mr Noseybonk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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."