Monthly Archives: February 2012

Horse Feathers

Posted on by
5

Whenever I have thought about getting a pet for myself and the incumbent Mrs B, a gee gee has never really sprung to mind. I know they’re lovely animals and all that, but you could never sit on the sofa watching a weepie with a 3/4 Arab laying at your feet, or send your 15 hand Palomino round to Mr Singh’s to pick up the Grauniad on a sunday morning (that’ll be after they adopt Mr Murdoch’s 7-day publishing ruse, which they surely will), and keeping a(nother) stallion in the the house would play havoc with The Incumbent’s carpets.

No a horse is not for us, and even if it was we couldn’t afford one.  I mean have you seen the price of one ? And it’s not if there’s anywhere you can just hire one or loan one out.

Oh , hang on a minute, there is !

It seems Rebekarhhh Wade loaned a nag from the Old Bill. There is a (very) little-known scheme in which the boys in Blue lend out their old dobbins to selected members of society to ride them ragged and return them in poor health in the twilight years of their lives, just before poor old horsey snuffs it – as happened in this case with Wade’s borrowed nag called Raisa (which would also explain what happened to Mrs Gorbachev).

Rebekah (left) and Raisa (née Gorbachev)

As an aside, yes I know Rebbbekah pretends she’s married now and her name is now Brooks, but she says a lot of things and pretends much, so I have no reason to believe her when she says she’s married any more than I believe her when she says she knows nothing about phone hacking. And anyway, who’d really marry that ? Yeuch.

According to The Telegraph “Met Commissioner Bernard Hogan-Howe expressed his surprise at the arrangement saying there was a lengthy waiting list of people who wanted to re-home former police horses.” But then again few in that lengthy waiting list have furnished the boys in blue with massive wads of cash for privileged info like Rebekahkaka and her mates have. At least I would hope not. There is a lengthy queue of hacks, Masons and MPs waiting to donate sackloads of bunce to plod in return for preferential treatment, of course.

The paper also added that when the horse was returned by Wade (who, funny enough pretends to be married to a racehorse trainer) “Raisa was regarded by officers from Mounted Branch to be in a poor but not serious condition.” Perhaps her “husband” didn’t have any spare nags lying around to loan to his “wife”, nor did he have time to look after the beast properly.

But I suppose if mass, consistent and organized bribing of public officers can’t get you the last few miserable years of a working horse’s existence, what does it get you (apart from an enormous pay-off and the unflinching backing of one of the most powerful men in business) ?

But money, mass corruption, animal cruelty, and fraud aside, a horse has never been for me. When I was a kid my mother would always turn on The Horse of the Year Show to watch Harvey Smith and David Broom, resplendent in their red hunting outfits take their mounts over the jumps at Olympia, or Wembley or maybe Hickstead, ably commentated on by the BBC’s Raymond Brooks Ward (or Raymond Wade Ward as he was known in our house). “C’mo-o-o-n Da-a-a-vid” he would shout though the mic. Which was odd because Princess Anne was in the ring at the time. But who knows what he was thinking of ?

But while mum was jumping up and down during the jump off against the clock, my brother and I were waiting for the gee gee to slam on the anchors and the jockey vault over the handlebars into the wall/hedge/water below. It was our only enjoyment gleaned from the event. We didn’t want the horses harmed, but cared little for the powdered ponces sat astride them.

A similar thing happened when I watched War Horse last night. The lead actor was riding the eponymous hero through the field when they approached a stone wall. The horse came to a sudden halt, through its rider up and over, through the air and eventually onto his arse. I didn’t want the horse hurt, I just wanted the rider to fly though the air, miss the wall, hit the camera full in the lens, shattering metal and glass, which then speared Steven Spielberg, the writer (one can only assume there was one) and the producers of this shite into each other and impaled them all onto a barn door behind. The rest of the cast crew and horses could then mount (geddit??) an asserted and brutal attack on all those who forced such a woeful excuse of a movie onto the general public.

“What’s that, Joey ? You’ve solved the German codes and discovered Uranium ?”

War Horse is a children’s book adapted for the big screen. I just don’t know who it was adapted for ? There are so many “homages” to old movies (Lawrence of Arabia, Gone with the Wind, Lassie Drop Dead) which will surely be lost on the kids. Meanwhile any adults watching (and I include The Incumbent and I) will be bemused in the hokey storyline, Dick Van Dyke accents, Teletubbies sets and crow-barred emotions that the temptation to throw horse excrement is tempered only by the site of so much of it on screen already (both literally and figuratively.)

SPOILER ALERT – ISH

I’m convinced you will take my word for it and save your well-earned cash by not bothering to go see this movie (like WWI itself, it never seems to want to end), but just in case you ignore my advice I shall take you though the final scene:

After the end of the first war, we’re back in Blighty , Devon (apparently), which is indicated by the huge red sky, piercing evening sunlight with the embers of Atlanta burning in the background. Joey (our horsey hero) is back home after his labours, and surrounded by his fiends and family: Albert, Ted, Rose, Uncle Sandy, Ricky, Old Shep and Bernard Cribbens. All of a sudden Skippy and Flipper hove into view and tell Joey the whereabouts of Lee Van Cleef’s buried treasure.  Everyone hugs and laughs and Albert marries Jenny Agutter who, in a moment of sobriety, has forgotten to take her clothes off for this scene.

The End

Or it may as well be.

OscarAdvert

Lost Weekend – But Only Just

Posted on by
1

Dear Trev and Bruce, thanks for the emails.

Personally I am glad the 3rd umpire didn’t give the score: Even though I thought the draw would have been a fair result, I’d much rather delay rugby’s inevitable descent towards a penalty shoot-out for a little while longer (why not have wider posts too???). I also thought if u heard, not read, Strettle’s comments that he came over extremely well- not whiney at all. He thought (as those of us who have ever been in that situation (Trev, u r excused) that he scored. But he didn’t dwell on it either.
Also the fact that ONLY he has mentioned the George North punch into touch (everyone who watched it in my house- even the women- saw it, but not the Kiwi ref) and no other member of the England set up has chosen to do so puts them in a good light. I’d hate to follow a team full of Conspiracy theorists (I’m guessing kiwis must therefore NOT be part of the anglo-saxon conspirancy, right) or not just blame the ref for bad mistakes but the fact that the whole world is against them (some international teams may as well be Scousers. Just where they still blame Thatcher for their shortcomings, you blame the rest of the world).

I had Wales to win by 25 points and Cuthbert to score first. I am pleased that I lost my money because the alleged powerhouses of northern rugby stumbled over the line against a scratch side, and neither of my bets looked remotely like coming in. And by the way the French “breezed” past the Jocks (I know, I know, fucking cheating ref) will give the English pause. But only pause that if they’d have had one more week together they’d have probably won the whole thing. French/Welsh World beaters ? Do me a Favour.

Oh well that’s saved me blogging- tho I think I’ll send it in as a reply.
On a blackberry, in another hospital.
MB

80 Mins of Hurt

Posted on by
2

The England Team to face Wales at Twickenham tomorrow.

15. Can’t tackle
14. Overrated
13. Samoan
12. South African
11. Boy band member
10. First receiver
9. Who cares
8 Welsh reject
7. Warbuton’s breakfast
6. Wishes he was welsh
5. Also South African
4. ask Xavier rush
3. Overweight
2. Kiwi
1. Never heard of him

Shot Put Smuggling

Posted on by
3

The Incumbent has taken to wearing our London 2012 Olympic T-shirts down the gym each morning. This morning nearly saw a coming together of her and the local Blue Rinse Brigade rep. The elderly lady was distracted elsewhere to avoid incident.

Lots of good comments about my girlfriend’s chest, though. (I hope it was just the design of the shirt the boys were looking at.)

The T-shirts are working ! (Not to mention the chest.)

(How you getting on with Seb Coe‘s  third ballot ticketing arrangement, then?)

Droogs and Cleverdicks

Posted on by
2

Oh I’m far too tired to write anything, really. I’m quite knackered having spent 3 hours driving through London. I could have gone around the M25 (as indeed I had on the outward journey) but “that takes ages” and there’s “always queues this time of day” quoth I. So it’s my own fault, really, that I’ve been staring at a Renault’s exhaust pipe for most of the afternoon. But it doesn’t make me any less knackered. Ok, so drop it, will you?

The reason for my drive was to visit one of the few hospitals in the South East I hadn’t been to in the past  6 months. This one was in High Wycombe in …er…Oxfordshire, I guess and the Incumbent and I drove there this morning with all speed. To cut a long story short we ended up in a car park of the ironically entitled Eden shopping centre which was near to the hospital, but closer to a coffee bar which, after 90 minutes on the M25 at Warp Factor 7, you need the services of. I’m no theologian (no, I’m not, honestly) but I suspect when Adam and Eve were in their Eden it didn’t resemble the half-finished set of the Blade Runner remake, nor were they sat on a bench, sipping on their lattes watching the local hooker sort out her diary appointments in between flicking lumps of yet-to-be indentified remnants from her “mink” (probably cat) coat.

As an aside, on the drive up we were surprised to hear an advert in the radio for the Radio 2 Young Brass Award 2012. I didn’t realise they held competition for Brasses nowadays, especially on Her Majesty’s BBC. How things have progressed ! Our girl in the coffee bar was not in the final line-up, but with hard work I’m sure …etc…etc

Not seen in High Wycombe today. Not by us, anyway.

But that’s by-the-by. As we gingerly made our way through the Droogs of Wycombe to the hospital, we wondered if we’d ever see our car again. At least in one piece, complete with glass surround and the traditional tyre in each corner. I really didn’t fancy leaving it all alone for very long here, in this homage d’Homs. I wouldn’t do it in downtown Dartford, and I didn’t wanna do it here. I wouldn’t send my ex wife in there.

For better or worse, the appointment with the doc lasted 1 minute, 17 secs. If I knew then what I know now – that I’d spend over 5 hours on the road for less than two minutes consultation, I might have lost my typically jolly demeanour.

So, as they say in all great holiday itineraries, we had the rest of the day to ourselves. Well, to ourselves along with the multitude of motor vehicles running the gauntlet of the M40, the Marylebone Road and all routes South East. There were only about a million of us. None of us managed a speed about 5 mph. Talk about Falling Down.

The radio was our only escape from this misery. Or so I had hoped. You can probably and rightly surmise that I don’t listen to what da kids are calling popular jazz combos, daddy-o very often, but I am not as out of touch, nor tune, as you might think. That big lass from Tottenham certainly can knock out a tune, no mistake – I just wish she’d keep her embarrassing North London quips to herself (I still shudder when I think of her outburst at The Grammys). But that aside, I had no hesitation to believe she was well worth all the gongs she’s been picking up recently. I just hadn’t understood what a shoe-in she really was.

Hour upon hours of music was played , and a lot of it was sung by Adele, but every so often there was another announced “Brit Nominee” or “Grammy runner up” and what a load of old tosh it was. That young ginger bloke with the guitar (it’ll come to me in a minute) is ok, but that’s my point: he’s OK, nothing memorable.  (yes yes yes, I do sound like my dad). Then there’s Rihanna, a warbless who is perfectly fine, even if she does sound like any other artist of her gender from wither side of the pond for the last 25 years. It puts it into perspective how good, strong, special Adele really is. In-the-land-of-the-blind-the-one-eyed-man-is-king sorta thing.

Ed Sheeran. There ! I knew I’d get there in the end. Ed Sheeran’s the ginger bloke !

A lot of this was lost on me last week in the noise surrounding the death of Whitney Houston. I’m not in the habit of speaking ill of the dead for the sake of speaking ill of the dead. No I’m not. However, as sad as I’m sure here demise is and was, I was never a big fan. I’d go so far to say that her brutal treatment of George Benson’s The Greatest Love of All and Dolly’s I will Always Love You needed some serious scrutinizing by someone in the Hague, but that’s just my opinion. I suspect she was as popular as she was because she was a one off (no argument with me there) which is more than you can say about some of the woeful talent picking up the silverware this and last week.

Maybe I shouldn’t be listening to this Radio show ? Maybe I should stick to talk radio where there’s always a good argument taking place. But I hate phone-ins. I hate the public, you see. I always end up veering off the road as I sink my teeth into the steering wheel while listening to Jon Gaunt or Vanessa Feltz opine about some subject close to their hearts (it’s normally ‘chuck the immigrants out’ or ‘scrounging single mums’). How do these people get a job? Vanessa Feltz as a Radio Host ?? Ludicrous.

Why stop there ? We could have former pro boxer , current amateur pugilist and now fugitive from police David Haye presenting Antiques Roadshow; Toby Young as the Political Editor of the Sunday Sun (it would need to be a Murdoch paper, of course); or former Tory MP Ann Widdecombe given her own quiz show on some Murdoch tv station?

Too late, I’m afraid. The last two suggestions are now a reality. Honest. Only Haye is not working somewhere he shouldn’t be, waiting as he is for Fiona Bruce to throw a 7 and let him in. Toby Young is indeed going to be the News of The Sunday Sun Political guru and Widdecombe hosts “Cleverdicks” on Sky . You couldn’t make it up.

Well I couldn’t : I’m far too tired. Good Night.

The One Where Mike Sees Both Sides of the Argument.

Posted on by
8

It’s difficult sometimes to know who to shout for, isn’t it ? I mean if you were watching a Rugby match and Wales were playing, well, anyone really you know you’ll be cheering for whoever that anybody is. No contest there, no flipping of a coin. A cricket match between Australia and er…. well, you know you’ll vocally support “and er…”, don’t you ? Equally true if you don’t happen to hail from Blighty and England are playing Football/Cricket/Anything against Anyone Else. The Anyone Else XI will be the bookies favourites outside these shores.

But what if one of the most evil and vile of all football teams goes into administration? What if a side disappear which has harboured and promoted sectarianism, (along with the other lot), succoured and supported everything that is nasty and abhorrent in football and in British society ? How do we feel if they go to the wall ? Happy ? Perhaps. Good bloody riddance to them ? Maybe.

But , in truth, they won’t be going anywhere. They will immediately be docked 10 points for going into administration which will take the club from 2nd place in the league down to …er…2nd place in the league. That’s how far the top 2 are ahead of the chasing pack. (if you take 10 points off them right now, they’ll still be 9 points ahead of third place, such is the joke of the pointless Scottish Football set up).

So they won’t win the league this year, but they probably wasn’t going to anyway. That bunch of bigots from the other side of the tracks are 4 points clear anyway and look set fair to win it. Again. Rampant sectarianism and bigotry aside, (and, no it hasn’t or ever will go away from the Auld Firm) can you be forgiven for feeling sorry for Rangers getting themselves into so much trouble ? Spending more than they could justify in the never-ending effort to beat rivals Glasgow Celtic and win at least one match against European oppo each year ? Shouldn’t we say “oh fuck ’em” and be done with it ?

But what about all the little people behind the scenes who make the club tick, who rely on the club for their wages, the income from the fans on a Saturday, the club shop and the local Union Jack supplier ? They can’t all be Unionist Nutters, can they ? Then again, without Rangers, what’s the point of Celtic ? If Alec Salmond gets his way, there’ll be no hopping over the border for a kick about in the English Premier League so the Bhoys will be left with a dull Saturday at ForfarfiveFifefour Academicals, or a wet Wednesday night playing Partick Thistlenil. That’s no existance for anyone.

But doubtless the Gers will return next season, just with cheaper flags and one or two fewer bowler hats. The two teams will spend the next millenia hurling abuse at each other, punctuated only by a football match breaking out occasionally (well, 4 times a year, if you don’t mind, excluding cup matches) because if this isn’t allowed to happen, scottish football will go the same way its rugby went – bereft of fans or supporters, with the authorities having to give away tickets to primary schools to foster the illusion that people actually want to turn up to watch this shite. So we have to hope the industry that is Rangers FC survives. I know, I can’t believe I’m writing it either.

Meanwhile, another bunch of hard-nosed bastards face extinction and extermination. The poor old tabloid journalist is under the cosh and he does not like it. Trevor Kavanagh, Associate editor of The Sun attacked the arrests of his colleagues by police as “heavy handed” and a “witch hunt” and “disproportionate”. And he would know. If there was ever a witch hunt which could be described as heavy handed and disproportionate look no further than the Joanna Yeates murder investigation, when the paper (among others) hounded and publicly hung Christopher Jefferies for the woman’s killing. According to the paper this was an open-and-shut case of a beardy-wierdy attacking and killing a young blonde luvverly. (And thank fuck she was blonde and luvverly or we’d have never read a word of it).

The paper (manfully aided and abetted by the Mirror and the Mail) were judge, jury and executioner on this case, just one of the many, many occasions where a private individual was hounded out of house and home because a hack didn’t like the cut of his jib. Will anybody shed a tear for these reptiles who have made so many lives a misery ? Probably not. I dunno why these blokes are worrying about anyway. If they’d read their own copy over the years they’d realise that prison is like a holiday camp and that it’s better on the inside than it is out.

But Kavanagh does point out that an example seems to being made of the Sun. Well, that’s as may be. It does help, of course, that my former employers over at News International (d’you know ? I miss them more than ever at the moment) seem hell bent on shopping anyone and everyone that’s come within a gnat’s chuff of this story, just as long as Rupe, James and Rebekah are spared the ignominy of a 4 o’clock wakey wakey call. But all this certainly seems to be buying Trinity Mirror and Associated Newspapers enough time to nip down to Staples and order another half dozen shredders before the rozzers arrive. Trevor is right that, at the moment, it seems like the only crooks in town are Sun journos.

But what of the arresting officers ? Have we forgotten that the coppers waking up shagging Sun journos in the early hours are working for the force which is the other half of the same mucky coin. There are far more bent coppers being questioned and suspended on Operation Fuck They’ve Caught Us Out than anyone imagined – an early indication of the Met Police’s  “Buy One Get One Free” policy, available to all good news outlets up until very recently.

So we have bent coppers arresting bent journos. Now it depends on which side of the fence you sit, but corrupt state law enforcers against privately paid operators carrying out the orders of their superiors ? It’s a tough one, innit ? Rangers or Celtic ?

In a final oddity, Sean Penn has come out on the side or Argentina in the Falklands row. Now then, that’s a teaser. If you were judging Sean on Shanghai Surprise I may be shouting GOTCHA! from the rooftops. As it is, his role as Harvey Milk has saved him in my eyes, so Viva Las Malvinas it is. And if settling a major political military crisis by judging a man’s filmography isn’t the way forward, then I don’t know what is.

Related articles