Friday, 28 August 2009


Over the last few weeks yours truly has been a bit of a 'culture vulture', i may not be that cultured, but i've been reliably informed i've got the nose of a vulture. But the nose was mixed in with a bit of culture. While in London i was dragged in to see that X-factoring; Celebrity ice skating Scouser Ray Quinn, in Grease. Which was alright. A week, or so later i was shoved into the Echo Arena in Liverpool Docklands to watch the 'Walking with Dinosaurs' show, which was very impressive. Then in Liverpools good ol' Empire Theatre, as a birthday present from the Lovely Lynne i was taken to see the stage show of QUADRAPHEENYAH !!!
When i saw Grease i wasn't enthused to dress and act like a rocking 50's highschool 'jock'. When i saw the dinosaurs, i was informed i was already like a dinosaur as i was always hungry ,always bad-tempered and always roaring at my beloved little offspring, according to my beloved little offspring. But the PETE TOWNSHEND masterwork was different. It was very well done on the stage. The music and singing was really good and the whole thing was powerfully done, Mods n' rockers knocking 7 bells out of each other ,sex, dancing , pills and scooters, etc all very cleverly done. The energy was there. Whenever i was feeling pissed off i would always whack QUADRAPHENIA on the player, and by the end i was fairly charged up and able to face the world again. The Lovely Lynne would see the Quadrophenia box lying open and inquire, "Feeling better now?". The show had a little of that charge.
I left feeling like a mod. The 'Ace-Face', not just a 'number,'Walking the walk,leading with my chin and shoulders in front of my feet, With my 'Zoot-Suit, "white jacket with side vents 5 inches long"; Button down collars and the best Carnaby Street has to offer..Jump on the scooter with the mass of wing mirrors and with my parka with badges , nip down to Brighton to batter a few rockers. Get high on speed, uppers, downers, leapers and good ol' booze. Dance the night away and work on generating my attitude and cool. But there is a few differences from my imagination and life, as is. The clothes dont come from Carnaby Street, but St George, the Asda cheap range. Haven't got a scooter.But i've got a couple of wing mirrors from an old car in the shed. So, cant get to Brighton. The nearest bit of water is the sandbanks of the Mersey, or the nearest place with pier in the title is Wigan pier, even if there is no pier there. Don't pop pills, as i've got to take enough prescription f***'in' pills anyhow, so i'll chew on a packet of smarties,M&M's, or mint imperials. And i'll dance the evening away ,as long as i get my 10 hours beauty sleep in and the musics not too loud and not 'dance' music. I did have a parka, once, but that was designated a health hazard and dissappeared from my cool wardrobe along with a military combat jacket long ago. I s'pose maybe i've not got what it takes to be a mod, but I've got a few button-down collars and do tend to have the occasional drink(!!!!) , have a bad attitude and i'm cool, but that's 'cos the little'un's left the back door open, in fact i'm f***'in freezing.

Tuesday, 25 August 2009


Once upon a time summer went on forever. Long sunny days running around ,playing 12 hour games of footy with your friends or going on 40 mile bike rides to god knows where. Then autumn came as the nights started to draw in, although the evenings were still 'balmy' and pleasant. Then , eventually winter arrived with the clocks going foreward and we were back in school waiting for the run up to x-mas. Now its all different. Summer's no different to any other part of the year, except for the fact that it rains more than most of the rest of the year. The streets and green areas are totally bereft of kid playing. They're all in the back room watching the telly and playing computer games and only making any attempts at communication if they want something. But the main difference to 'everything' is the total disapearance of autumn. Winter replaces summer at approximatly 7.00 pm one Saturday night....'Bang !'....Its now Winter!.......The beginning of the dark depressing oppressive winter is the NEW SERIES OF THE X-FACTOR.
That collection of talentless deadbeats n' no-marks who for some reason consider themselves qualified to be a celebrity, as that is all they want to be, not an artiste, or anything just a celebrity. And it is their god given right to become a star. They are totally oblivious to the fact that they are shite and everyone thinks they're shite. Friends ,family, laughing qualified (?) panellists,( they're in the buisness y'see)...The jeering thousands in the audience; The scoffing millions watching on the telly and re-enjoying the humiliation on 'you-tube, etc. I would love to become famous on the X-Factor set by blowing the bastards on the panel and the chirpy comedian presenter to bits with a high powered rapid fire combat rifle. But ,for some reason i am alone in my hatred of the X-Factor. My family love it,they adore it, its great. We have the SKY+ system, so we can't miss any of it. And to make matters much much worse i also find myself forced to watch STRICTLY COME DANCING. Which i also dislike, although it has to be said ,not with the venom reerved for'X'....So as once saturdays used to be:The wrestling; Football results from every single person in the British Isles who trudged onto a mucky pitch and booted a soggy heavy leather footyball; Doctor Who, adventure series and films. Now its dancing and screeching. And lest we forget the stereotypical celebrity expert panellists which are spreading like a virus on the spawning pandemic of various types of talent shows. The cartoon storm clouds of gloom hover over my head on a Saturday night whilst the Lovely Lynne and the Little'un literally shine with pleasure and joy. And then they start showing it on a Sunday as well......I'm not a celebrity,but get me outta here!

Tuesday, 18 August 2009


Sorry haven't had much to say to you all lately, but since our glorious n' beloved leaders have all decided to bugger off around the world on holidays, Gordo'. Mandelson and Harriet Harmdone. They left the key under the mat of Number 10 for me to take over the running of the country 'till their holiday expenses run out and they have to return to renew their expense claims for the coming year. So, as you can imagine i've had a busy couple of days trying to maintain the high standards of our British way of life, keeping you lot happy n' healthy and even some employed .While fighting wars against terrorism around the world . And this is before i've even got in and put the kettle on. Any requests on what to do to put the empire back on its knees would be gratefully recieved.

Friday, 14 August 2009


In reply to a comment from the lovely Cathy Simpson about me being her lord of the jungle, the lovely lady doesnt realise how close she is to the truth. When i lived in India i spent a little time exploring jungles and forests. I gave a few good RON ELY ,TARZAN calls ,which in the telly series would've had the jungle stampeding. But some bird just fluttered away from me. It's not that easy being king of the jungle. And you never meet those cute little chimps like Tarzans friend CHEETAH. The apes were nasty dirty flea-infested shit covered pains ,best kept well away from. When we lived in Malaysia the compound we lived on was the stomping ground of an aged bad tempered baboon type ape and there was nothing nice about him. He went for a few people , including me .I belted him with a plastic chair and henceforth we just sneered at each other. A friend of ours was sitting on a settee in the living room, reading a paper when his missus came out of the bathroom. He thought she'd been sitting beside him, when she advised him to carefully look to the side, he carefully looked up to see this bloody baboon sitting on the settee picking at his snack, he, then not so carefully shifted very sharpish. The compound security people went to "stun him, sir!".....They certainly did that, stunning us as well, by blowing his bloody head off. So i wasn't a king of the apes either
One thing about being an EXPAT, is that wherever you go people are always giving you business cards, telling you to get in touch. Expats seem a lot more relaxed and funnily enough quite often mean it about getting in touch. I know Tarzan has a holder for his knife, but where does he keep his business cards? I mean you can't be king of the jungle and the apes and not have some cards printed, its bad bizniz!!!!

Friday, 7 August 2009


The other week as i was throwing myself off the top of Alpine mountains in the endless quest for speed, kicks n' thrills. I found my self on what could be described as a tea tray with a handbrake, which slide down a concrete shute all the way down this mountain. I did the easy one, jumped on the cablecar back to the top and jumped down what they classified as the experts run. I shot down this highly cambered swerving run at full belt, no brakes or slowing down for T.B. Leatherbarrow, paah! the merest thought!.....But i must admit to thinking about it once. As i flew off this jump; Landed and flew into this steep bend, whereupon me n' my teatray took off and parted company in mid air before landing back on the run. I carried on flying down the run, with a foot on the teatray. My elbows acted as skids protecting the rest of my precious ,small, but perfectly formed body. I finally clambered back on board the teatray, accelerated and finished the course. As i stood up the Lovely Lynne nearly collapsed when she saw the blood dribbling down my legs. This was a result of resting my bloody elbows on the inside of my thighs as a battled valiently to control the carrerring teatray.
The skin was scrapped off both my elbows and was a beautiful sight to behold. The first day was sore, but it was the days after . You could say my sore elbows were a pain in the arse. It didn't matter where we went ,everything was elbow height, so the elbows hit,scraped n' rubbed against everything. Not my arms, not my forearms or wrists, but right 'on the knuckle', my bloody elbows. I couldn't lean on a table or a chair. As they were scrapped the wounds were oozing, so were sticky. Whenever i moved my arm the bloody elbow stuck to the surface it was resting upon. As well as just being plain sore.
So, i hope you ignorant shower appreciate the pain and suffering thats gone into leaning against the drawing board and computer table trying to keep my elbows above shoulder level.

Tuesday, 4 August 2009


Once upon a donkeys years ago, man was a fairly sensible sort of creature and was quite content to spend his time down on the 'flat', as opposed to the top of hills and mountains. He'd invent, build, farm, and get together in massive groups on a flat plain facing another massive group and proceed to beat the shit out of each other. They built boats to sail the flattish seas to find other flat plains were they could gather and beat the shit out of the 'home' gathering. As far as they were concerned hills and mountains were ok, if you could use them to grow grapes on the slopes to make the vino to help the fighting groups get 'tanked up' on the flat plain below for the forthcoming 'beating the shit out of'. As far as they were concerned going uphill was hard work, so the tops of the big hills and mountains were allocated as the homes of the gods, so, totally off limits to 'us mere mortals down on the 'flat'. This was before they invented gravity!...
Over in our part of the world , there was a pile of plain out n' out nutjobs who lived in the 'highlands' and would come racing down to the flat from time to time to batter the 'flattee's', but rarely would the 'flatee's' follow them back up, wisely thinking. "Why should i virtually kill meself and freeze me nuts off chasing them gobshites up the side of a mountain?".A fairly understandable sentiment, i think you bunch of lazy gets would sympathise with. In some places like the Alpine regions, esspecially. The farmers would move their cattle to the upper pastures in the summer and back down in the winter. They invented planks of wood to strap on their feet and with the aid of sticks tramp up the snowy slopes and sometimes use the planks of wood on their feet to slide back down on the snow. This was the ski. An aid to get to the village strasse ;the boozenfarter and back to the fraulein(???)er. And that was that.

When Issac Newton decided to invent gravity it was handy for getting apples out of trees, and working out where the moon would be, or where a cannon ball may drop. But the real streamlining of gravity was with a swiss chappie by the name of ALBERT EINSTEIN.
Before our hero gave the world the new sporty model of gravity. Gravity was this 'stuff' that kept you on the floor. There were a few strange sorts who wanted to oppose this perfectly natural force. They would risk life and limb and climb up almost vertical slopes and cliffs to get to the top of mountains ,"cos' it was there?". But man is basically a lazy git and much preferred coming down to busting a gut going up. So, somebody invented the cablecar so people could go up higher than your screaming thighs and howling calf muscles would let you walk, and then you could slide down on those wooden planks called ski's. The higher you went the faster you skied. Einstein, apparently was a keen skier. So, wether he discovered the Relative theory of general insanity, The only possible reason for hurling yourself off the top of a mountain to see how fast you can get to the bottom.(E=MC2....ego=madness x craziness 2 )... And if this inspired the general theory of relativity, which to the average non skier makes much more sense, we may never know.
But this fascination with gravity has made parts of the world into haunts of the rich n' famous,(thats not us)..Gravity has made the Alpine regions and the various countries thereabouts very rich indeed. Even richer now, since some maniac decided to launch a kiddie-sized bike off the top of a mountain when the snow wasn't about. The mountain bike craze had begun. So now the whole reigion has an ever expanding variety of ways of falling down mountains at ridiculous speeds in and out of the snowy season. I know this having just come back from LES GETS, in the FRENCH ALPS...As the week wore on the numbers of wrecked bikes and legs and arms in plaster mounted up. I think the skiers are ok, as apparently they do like to drink and have a good time...Whereas the bikers go back to their tent , van or hotel to fix their bike to wreck it again tomorrow ,then' hit the sack'. For my money i reckon the bikers are the real maniacs as they stay sober, so they've no excuse.