What a cu...

I see that Robert Kilroy-Silk is appearing in this year's I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here!
Now, Mr Kilroy-Silk, as I'm sure you're aware, is an elected MEP. He's an MEP 'representing' the East Midlands i.e. where I live. He was elected in 2004 whilst a member of the UK Independence Party; a party who were supposed to be against Britain's membership of the EU and, as such, against any sort of involvement in British affairs by a parliament based in Belgium. Apparently they stood for election to the European parliament in order to destroy it from the inside.
Well, these days Mr Kilroy-Silk turns up once a month to vote. If you don't turn up to vote, you don't get paid. So, as a public servant, claiming tax payers money, he turns up, votes and sods off again. That's really destroying the European parliament and sticking it to those on the Brussels gravy train, isn't it? Not.
I wish he'd go to Brussels to sort out some kind of EU funding for the dualling of the A46 between Newark and the other side of Nottingham. Oh no, how silly of me , he's currently eating insects on a vacuous 'reality' show with a load of other fuckwits.

While he was on the 2004 election campaign, Kilroy-Silk came to Newark to drum up support. I happened to be in town that day myself, a Tuesday afternoon, as I recall. I saw him and his hanger-on (a man so useless that he hadn't bothered to do any research as to when the market days in the town were, so his man would have found a huge increase in the amount of flesh he could have pressed. Which, in turn, Lead to Kilroy-Silk booming at him "Where are all the people!?"), they approached me, Kilroy-Silk with his arm outstretched ready to shake my hand. I carried on walking towards him, and didn't make any eye contact with him at all. Still with his arm outstretched he said to me "May I introduce myself...", now, I'm not usually rude, but I knew who the twat was and just carried on walking. I was quite proud of myself that day. I hope I never clap eyes on the oily, tanned, xenophobic, controlling turd again.

How much...

...would you have to completely hate someone to buy them this for Christmas?

Night of the living dead

That time is nearly upon us again. That's right, I know it's only mid November but plans for Christmas are being made already. I mention this because my boss came to me today to discuss whether our department should go out for a Christmas drink. I normally hate going out with workmates; I don't go out with my 'proper' friends enough, so why would I choose to go out with a bunch of people I can just about tolerate?
The last time I went out on a 'works do' in 2004, the guy who worked the opposite shift to me threatened me with 'I'm going to kick your fucking head in' for no reason whatsoever. Oh, how we laughed on the Monday after when he claimed not to have remembered any of it. Not. Personally, I think he might have wanted to say that for a while but the drink loosened his tongue. Perhaps he wanted to take it out on me because I went on my own and he took his wife who had a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle.
Anyway, I always said that that was the last time. I now think my boss feels as though enough time has elapsed - and the head-kicking guy has since left - to suggest another pre-Christmas snifter. I told him to see what other people on the department thought. And because they're all young and full of spunk they all said 'yes!'. Bah! That means I'll have to go, if only to show how miserable the only guy older than me on the department is for not going. I still like to be down wi' kids, see? And they've convinced me by saying that it's the office staff's night out on the same day, so Knockers O'Neill and the Scottish Siren will be out too. Woo, and indeed, hoo!
I'm not looking forward to it though, they'll all want to go in the pubs I hate. You know the ones, the ones where you feel like Tommy because you can neither see, hear or make yourself heard. And there's bound to be the local market square heroes out looking for a scrap. I'm running if it all kicks off, I don't want a shiner for Christmas Day.

Can I just say that I enjoyed a marathon Charlie Brooker's Dead Set the other night. I'm not usually in to horror but it was rather good. It was about zombies taking over Britain and the action was set in the Big Brother house. Believe me, nothing is more satisfying than seeing Davina McCall get a lamp stand shoved through her head. I also love the fictional idea of some mysterious plague or virus wiping out huge numbers of the population. Which is why I've always had a soft spot for 28 Days Later, The Day of the Triffids, Z for Zachariah and The Stand. I think living on an island nation it doesn't leave much to the imagination to think that something like that may actually occur.

And, as it's Friday, and I've mentioned the 'C' word, you can have this:

Remember

What enthusiasm?

As much as I'm not overly keen on Curb Your Enthusiasm, I've found myself, over the past couple of weekends, having Larry David moments.
Take Saturday, for example. I was doing a spot of housework in my kitchen whilst listening to selections from my iPod, in particular playing a pretty mean air guitar to this. Anyhow, while in my cleansing and air-guitaring state, I must have inadvertently pumped a bottle of white Carex hand soap I keep on at the kitchen sink. True to form the postman turned up at the crack of midday to deliver a parcel which needed signing for. I could see that he couldn't make eye contact with me but seemed to be focused on my navy blue pullover. When he'd sodded off, I went back to my household chores. I then noticed a load of Carex hand soap all over the draining board, and, horror of horrors all down the front of my jumper. The postman must have thought, in my red-faced state and with a load of thick, white liquid down my front, that I'd been having a spot of 'me time. Nooooo!!! No doubt he couldn't wait to get back to the sorting office to laugh about it 'with the lads'. Ugh.

And last Sunday, I broke my own rule about not going to pubs where a TV plays to watch the big Forest v Sheep football match. I waited outside the pub for my mate to turn up (I hate going into pubs on my own). I'd bought a Q magazine from the newsagents on the way and was passing the time reading it. While waiting, this woman with a small dog on a lead approached me (The dog was one of those Greyfriars Bobby types - a Wanky Terrier I think they're called). The dog stopped and started sniffing the bottom of my jeans. The owner made no effort to call the dog off, and then it arched its back, as a dog parking its breakfast does, and started to have a shit. Now, I don't know what the dog had been eating, vindaloo by the look of if, but it had serious diarrhoea problems. The woman was then saying to the dog - the fucking dog, mark you, she forwent apologising to me - 'oooh, just a minute, let mummy get a bag'. At this point a wasp landed on my face, I started swatting with the magazine to get it off and ended up stepping in the dog toffee whilst the old bag was scrabbling in her bag to a receptacle to put the shit in. Bah! I had to do that thing where you find some grass and scrape your shoe along it to get the grass off. And then you find you need a stick to poke it out. I spent the rest of the afternoon watching people near me sniffing and looking at the bottom of their shoes. Still, it was a good match. In the second half.

Anyway, in other news, that Q magazine carries a great article by Billy Bragg about how he'd almost given up on his son showing any interest in the guitar. That was until Guitar Hero 3 of course. Now his son's forming a band. How cool is that?
Talking of guitars, this one's still in my local music shop window. When I get my Christmas bonus, a moment of madness may overcome me and I shall probably end up buying the bloody thing. It'll be like the final scene of That'll Be the Day where David Essex goes in to buy his first electric guitar.

Songs that should NEVER be covered no.1

Oh dear. Those of a nervous disposition and small children should look away now. New Zealand, how could you do this to us after the genius of the Finn brothers and The Flight of the Conchords?

A chap called Dennis

I wrote last week about my affection for Brady Haran, the Australian 'video journalist' off of my local news programme. After doing a bit of digging, I can show you my favourite film of his, shown earlier this year and made in a village close to Newark. It's about a chap called Dennis and his History of Farming display in his back garden. It breaks my heart to watch it. Yes, this thing he's done isn't the best exhibit in the world, but who cares? It's his handiwork, which he's put years into and nobody, he thinks, wants to go and see it. Although to be fair, listening to him speak, his family have hardly encouraged him. What I love is the way he's used any old models he can get his hands on. He Man is seen messing around in some straw, one of his Masters of the Universe chums sits astride a tractor while a Pippa doll is completely out of scale on a giant horse riding through a farmyard. What I also love is the way he blows his nose whilst speaking to camera. And he pronounces the word 'make' quite correctly as 'meck'.
I feel like crying at the end when we see Dennis walking off into the distance. You see, underneath this cold, hard exterior beats a heart of marshmallow.
I really hope we don't see this on Russell Brand's Ponderland.