Monthly Archives: April 2012

Lovely Strolling Weather

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In a break from tradition I decided to go for a walk this morning. Yes I did, honest. Those who know me well know that I regard Shank’s Pony as the least appealing mode of transport – even less agreeable than flying. But it came to my attention that a) I have done little or no physical exercise since last summer (and even then you had to watch intently to spot anything going on); b)  The Incumbent had taken the car to the gym; c) I needed to go to post a package; and d) the Post Office had no helipad nor runway for me to utilise.

Strapping on my Used-As New walking boots, I prepared myself for the hike ahead. A two mile round trip would have seemed nothing to a young fit Bomber as I once was, but over the past 36 years I’ve let myself go a bit. I can hear tittering at the back, but I can assure you that, even by my lowly standards, I am in bad shape. It is time to start back on the road to some sort of fitness. Little steps. Put down the biscuits, pick up the pace. Little steps.

“Blimey”, thought I as I left the house “that’s a bit nippy”. I’d made it to the end of the garden path and I was reconsidering my decision to wear just my Sainsbury’s Tu heavy sweater (coincidentally I am myself a heavy sweater, so I thought it an appropriate garment to don). My neighbour Lou was busy in his garden lugging around dirty great bags of topsoil. I was gonna offer him a hand, but I knew he’d refuse, and anyway he looked happy enough. At 82 he was certainly stronger and fitter than this excuse of a man watching him across the garden fence. That clinched it: I couldn’t turn back now just cos it was feeling a bit parky. What would my octogenarian friend think of me ? I pressed on. The sun was out and but for the biting northerly wind nibbling about at me vitals it could have been pronounced as a Bill Withers Day. I decided to get a move on.

My thinking was that if I got into my stride early, I’d get up a decent pace, get a little sweat on, thus combating the arctic breeze coming off the Thames estuary and the Essex Steppes beyond. I increased speed and, as I did so, the Eton rowing song starting swirling round my head for no apparent reason. I used the rhythm as my pacemaker. Which is a coincidence cos that’s what I felt I needed by the time I reached the top of the road- a pacemaker.

“Lovely Boating Weather…” I sang to myself under my breath- which became a bit boring rather quickly as that was the only line from the song I knew. “La da da DI, da daaa….” I continued. I soon resorted to using the words of a naughty rugby song which had the same tune but is too rude to reprint here. “One day while on a chuff-chuff…there was hardly room to stand...” and so on and so forth. But by the time I’d turned into the alleyway after some 500 yards of my journey I was suffering a worse fate than just forgetting the words of a song. My knee had started to play up. It was as if I hadn’t walked 500 yards for over a year. Which is a coincidence because…

Onward and downwards.

Pressing on through the pain, I crossed over the road at the end of the alley. This was the main route between Crayford and Dartford – a sort of San Diego Freeway without the sunshine. Or the traffic. Nevertheless I found myself having to inject a bit of a spurt on to get out of the way of an oncoming scrap metal dealer’s low-loader. This screeched to a halt ten yards after it passed me. “Oh Christ, what have I done ?” I thought. Six, count ’em, SIX, young lads got out of the cabin of the truck and were making double-quick time towards me. Surely the local Pikey Chapter hadn’t resorted to mugging cripples in broad daylight for whatever was in their brown paper parcels? Before I could creak down to my knees and plead for mercy, the gang turned off the path into a garden to relieve the inhabitants of a bike and a fridge which were standing in front of the house. I decided to let the lads and the current owners of the goods sort out between themselves the fate of the fridge and accompanying BMX (which I have to say looked rather too new and…erm…working to have been discarded). I hobbled on out of harms way as fast as my knee would carry me.

A few more corners turned and I was on the home straight, as far as the outward leg of the journey was concerned, anyway. One of my outward legs was suffering. Apart from the knee going on strike, the shin and calf of the same leg was cramping up (as opposed to camping-up, which I reserve for special occasions). As I’d achieved the goal of working up a sweat, I decided to take the pace down a little. The rest of the journey was taken at glacial pace, packet under my arm, I dragged my right peg slightly behind me, looking like a fourth-place runner-up in a Joseph Merrick look-a-like competition.

Eventually I reached the post office and took my position behind the line of old ladies and gents cashing in their pensions, sending letters to their son who’d fucked off to Canada 28 years ago or paying into the Christmas Club. The woman behind me suggested I take a seat as I looked awful. But I had my pride. Even if I only had one working leg. They shoot horses at Aintree for much less.

Suitably rested, I slowly and delicately made my way home, stopping off at a local shop to by a stick of French bread. In an attempt to stave off hunger, I broke the top off and began munching my way though it. I felt like that bloke at the start of The French Connection, except he had his bread before he was shot in the face. I felt like someone had already taken his Walther PPK to various parts of my body, picking off bits of me for fun.

I finally made it home, sweating audibly, chaffing dangerously, where I collapsed into the shower to rehydrate and lick my wounds. I’m thinking of investing in a bike. I wonder if those scrap dealers would sell me theirs?

"Can I Get a Proof of Postage, Please?"

The Shrinking Jobs Market

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What do you reckon this bloke told his careers officer he wanted to be when he left school ? How do you get on the bottom rung of the Rasputin Impersonator ladder ? Is it fair that one bloke can take all these jobs on ? What about sharing the wealth, mate ? So many questions.  There’s others around here who want a chance, greedy bastard.

Polls Apart

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Don’t you hate it when you’re told what to think ? Tune into the 6 o’clock or 10 o’clock news and get bombarded with stories stoking up the ‘excitement’ in anticipation of the Olympic Games and the patriotic revelry over HMQs 60th Jubilee. Everyone’s excited, everyone’s throwing a street party/volunteering to help/ buying a ticket/wearing a funny hat cos THE WHOLE OF THE COUNTRY LOVES IT !!!!!. Really ? Come down my street, mate and test the waters. You could cut the atmosphere with a block of  lard. But there is no doubt that all of us are behind both Brenda and Seb when it comes to this year’s celebrations – well, not according to the force-fed stories the Beeb are putting out. There’s nothing like objective journalism, and this is nothing like it.

If you’ve been watching the BBC’s coverage of the London Mayoral election, you could be forgiven for thinking there were only two candidates – Bonkers Boris Johnson and Honest Ken Livingstone (and by the way, Manchester, Brimingham, Glasgow et all, you ARE interested in all this:cos the BBC TELLS you that you are, that’s why). Admittedly, between them they do make a riveting contest, albeit in the way that watching two grandmothers argue over who’s gonna look after the grandkids is riveting. Mind you, I’ve yet to hear any nan in my family call the other a “fucking liar” as Boris did to Ken after their LBC bust up this week.

With a month or so still to go, I’m sure someone will dig something up on the other one which will tip the balance at the polls, but my bet is both will distance themselves from their party leaders over in Westminster – two of the most loathed men in the kingdom. Ken and Boris are bright enough to employ that bargepole when Dave and Milibean come to town, and who can blame them ?

But there are others involved in this contest. The other coalition candidate is Pc McGarry Number 452. Brian Paddick is gay, a former policeman and Liberal Democrat. (yes I know, Monty Python’s sketch when a quiz contestants hobbies are “golf, masturbation and strangling animals” springs to mind). Paddick came out and admitted his sexuality as a way to divert attention that he was a Liberal Democrat.

As a copper, Brian was and is one of the very few not to currently be under investigation for racial abuse, or arrested for his dealings with News International. So a Copper and a LibDem. The rush of the electorate scrambling to vote for him will be deafening. Nice bum, though.

The BNP triumphantly announced that their candidate was to be  their press officer Carlos Cortiglia. The more alert of you will notice a less than British ring to his name. Carlos was born in Uruguay to parents of Italian and Spanish ancestry then moved to England in 1989, presumably on his never-ending quest to find a someone who doesn’t feel the urge to slap that face. The Nazis see his appointment as proof that the BNP are no racists. As their website puts it “So much for ‘xenophobic’!” British National Party chooses Italian for London mayor“. It certainly has already proved to be a little taxing for the knuckle-draggers in my local pub l as the regulars debate on the merits of choosing between “a bender, a wop and a commie” (I am unsure which one of these descriptions was aimed at Boris ).

UKIP seem like they’ve finally decided to call it a day and not put up a candidate for the post. At least it looks like that when you see the list of candidates. But on further investigation into Lawrence Webb reveals that, although he is standing on the ticket of “Fresh Choice for London”, he is in fact he UKIP candidate. Perhaps they thought having UKIP, BNP and LibDem on the polling card would split the Complete Cvnt vote ? (there’s also a bit of a visual clue to who he represents in some of the photos of him they’re touting about.

Then there’s the token genuinely independent candidate, Siobhan Benita, who is the daughter of an Anglo-Indian mum and Cornish dad (more issues which I’m sure Carlos and Lawrence would dearly love to chat to her about as she’s deported).

Benita has several obvious advantages over her rivals: 1) she’s a woman; 2) she’s not Ken; 3) or Boris; 4) she doesn’t look like a complete bonkeroonee crook (note I said she doesn’t look like one – I stand to be corrected) . She has been accused of playing the ‘babe’ card, but let’s be honest if you look like she does and stand next to any of the above, how can the fact that you don’t make people feel physically ill not be worth promoting.

Which brings me nicely to our final contestant, Jenny Jones, representing the Hosepipe Ban party. Somewhere in East Sussex, there’s a room full of hessian-wearing 70s throwbacks who thought picking a bona fide loony would be a good idea. Jenny wants us all to return to wearing Wode and get our water from droplets left on rose petals. It’s difficult to vote for a political party who’s policies to bring us out of recession start and end at forcing the army to wear British-made organically-grown wicker helmets. She also looks like an explosion in a Scary Spice factory, but that would be too cruel to point out.

Don’t forget to register to vote.  Oooh! me minge.

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