The Legend Lives On

Posted on September 22, 2009 by The Ed

Remember this day. Remember where you heard the news, for in years to come your grandchildren will surely ask you “Where were you when Chas ‘n’ Dave Split up?”.

Buddy Holly plays Harlem; Dylan goes electric; The Beatles split; Elvis dies, followed by Francis Albert Sinatra and then Freddie; Band AID; Live AID; The CD; the Ipod; Francis Rossi cuts off his ponytail. To this list of rock and pop landmarks we can add the ending of the greatest Rockney group ever to play Blackheath Halls in their vests.

Gilbert and Sullivan, Rogers and Hammerstein, Mick and Keith, Lennon and that other bloke, Robson and Jerome – move over guys, the greatest songwriting partnership ever to come out of North London want a bit of wallspace in that Hall of Fame.

Maybe we’ll be lucky and somewhere down the line the boys will reform and embark on a series of comback tours. In a funny way I rather hope not. Let us be satisfied with the little we have. Fawlty Towers reigns supreme because there were only 12 episodes. Buddy Holly and James Dean performances are revered because their professional lives were cut short. Let us not be greedy with the gifts which Charles and David have left us: a near perfect collection of only 26 albums, stretching across the briefest of 35 years.

Cheers, lads, we’ll make do with that lot. Gertcha.

Nessun Dorma Windows

Posted on July 5, 2009 by The Ed

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It’s all gone a bit how’s-yer-father. Things are not how they should be, here at Railway Cuttings. Between us, the incumbent and I are managing an average of three hours sleep per night. The reasons are many and varied. For starters I have a crap mattress. I forget where I bought it, but by the feel of the springs poking though the sheet, into my left shoulder blade it would appear it came from the set of Midnight Express. My significant other has lost the use of her right arm and shoulder, and the mattress is in the frame as the chief culprit. There are other factors to consider:

Even on a pleasant, temperate night temperatures in my bedroom reach around 240 degrees (gas reg 9), but over the past several days London has been gripped by a heatwave. My bedroom has turned into an Aga. Lay down on my bed and after a couple of minutes you get to appreciate how a Pop Tart must feel during its last few in-tact moments. I tell you, it’s fucking hot. The sweat reaches Cool Hand Luke proportions. Windows need to be opened, fans need to be engaged. Sod it! I remember that I’d donated my room fan to Kate’s youngest son a few weeks ago— he was hot. Bugger. Pas de problem, windows at each end of the house are opened—get a nice breeze through. Ahhhh that’s better.

But there’s another snag: Although it’s not quite Elwood Blues‘ apartment, my house is located quite close to the local railway station—as my pet name for it implies. You don’t notice the trains during the day, nothing more than a gentle hum in the background when you’re grilling your bangers on the barbie. But lay down in bed on a hot, humid night, windows open, and it feels like you’re getting your head down at the far end of platform cinq, Gare Du Nord. They come in and out of the station about every 12½ minutes—synchronized brilliantly with the time I manage to position my body between the razor-wire springs and the boulders in my mattress, get as settled as I can, turn over the sweat-soaked pillow, and drift gently into the land of nod. The sound of the 12.21 from London Bridge sounds like that tank in the last scene of Saving Private Ryan. Terrifying.

Come here, there’s more. Once the last train (The Vomit Comet) carrying the piss-heads of South London home to their caravans has gone through, we then get treated to the heavy artillery: I don’t know what these night trains are they’re carrying, may be milk, maybe coal, maybe nuclear warheads or toxic waste for landfill, but these, slow-moving, creaking, rumbling fuckers make the window frames rattle, the half-full dishwasher dance around the kitchen floor downstairs, glasses rattling therein, and the toilet seat crash down to the closed position (yes, I know).

No matter, at least we’re not being slowly sauteed in our own perspiration. The breeze feels good, though I suspect that it’s the gentle zephyr through the window that’s also contributing to our cricked backs. It’s a price worth paying. When cricket umpires start collapsing at the wicket, as one did yesterday, you know that this global warming which we’ve all been hoping for has finally arrived. Around 4am I try another tack: BBC News24. If anything can induce sleep, surely that can? Well, in part. I drift in-and-out through the night and seem always to wake up at the same time past the hour, therefore catching the same news item, time and time again. Last night I saw brief highlights of the Ladies Singles Final at Wimbledon FOUR TIMES. I didn’t want to see it once. That can be a tad frustrating. I start getting angry with myself that I’m not asleep— which means I can’t sleep.

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So I get up, go downstairs to make a cup of tea and to help the garden greet the morning sun. Kate’s been up for hours, her back pain being too much to bear (she’s watched the same report on Michael Jackson’s memorial five times since midnight). We grunt sympathetically at each other and shuffle around the house. We wait for a decent hour to start functioning properly, when we can convince ourselves that it’s not Saturday night any more, it’s actually Sunday morning. Proper conversation starts at about 7.30. and we plan our day. Nothing is open til 10 o’clock when I’ll go get the papers and some eggs from breakfast. Then perhaps a stroll before lunch, and a mass newspaper-reading session in the garden this afternoon. It’s only to delay the inevitable: going back to bed to try to catch up on sleep. If I go to bed before 10pm I’ll be wide awake by 4am, at best (British Rail allowing), so I’ll have to hold out.

Perhaps a couple of sundowners or nightcaps later will help? I start a new job tomorrow and I’m as nervous as a Brazilian backpacker on a London Tube. Yes, perhaps a modicum of claret will chase away the nerves tonight, block out the pain of the springs, and the noise of the chuff-chuffs? But moderation is the key. Hungover, exhausted and walking hunched over like Marley’s ghost is no way to arrive on your first day of a new job.

Dunno, maybe I’ll sleep on it.

Saved By The Big Red

Posted on June 27, 2009 by The Ed

Thanks, Big Fella

It’s a wonderful thing, this old interweb. No Sooner had I posted the last blog about deleting my Jackson rant, then my old mate Jim in New York (who really should be asleep) somehow recovered it for me and sent it back to me (see below). His chilling opening line of “remember, nothing is ever deleted on the internet” does give me pause. Really??? Nothing at all? How does that work then? What if I have a spiritual moment and I discover I actually do like Hazel Blears, Jacko or Clare Balding after all? Say I suddenly convert to Conservatism, or start riding a bike into work? Does that mean I can never hide my tracks by deleting all offensive material I’ve ever written on here? That is scary. Anyway, without further ado here’s the original blog written, please remember, after several gallons of Dr Carlsberg’s cure-all on Thursday night. Apologies to those who are reading it for a second time. (And if you still want more of the same, go and see what Angry from Manchester has to say about it all)

Breaking news: any of you who bothered to enter my ” How-Many-Dates-Will-Michael-Jackson Play in Greenwich” sweep will be sad to learn that I’m keeping the cash. Oddly, no-one predicted “none”. Oh well, one less kiddy-fiddler wandering around the planet, I suppose.

Most perverts, of course, don’t have the money to pay-off their victims so they won’t testify against them, but this bloke (sic) did, so—how can I put it?— bovvered. Odd to say I’m sad I never saw him perform live. As a kid I (like everyone) had Thriller and Off The Wall and musically the bloke was a genius, obviously, (History is still a magnificent piece of work) but I wouldn’t want Mozart wanking-off my eight-year-old either. The only thing I’m amazed at is that, at this early hour, he seems to have died a normal death (conspiracy theorists and later news items may prove me wrong).

Farrah Fawcett is doomed to be the Mother Theresa to Jackson’s Diana. That’s sad. Apart from being an icon to hetros and gays alike, I adored FF and I was sad to here of her demise. She had a few grand moments which we’ll all remember, unlike Jacko who had thousands, but who would you like to babysit your kids? His skin at the end would almost qualify him as a BNP member (I’m guessing he had no Welsh blood?)

Eccentric Peter Pan of pop? My arse. I can say “My arse” now, cos he’s Out of My Life. And thank fuck for that.

Pressing All the Wrong Buttons

Posted on June 27, 2009 by The Ed

You know how it is. You spend all day on the turps, watching cricket with your mates, then come home and turn on your laptop and accidentally delete the last blog you wrote. Bugger. Don’t know how I did it but I did.

So for those of you who haven’t logged on for a while the was a blog on Michael Jackson. It was basically a rant on about how everyone seems to have forgotten he was a kiddy-fiddler who paid hush money to his victims and yes he was a genius but a perv is a perv de daa de daa de daa… And I thought it wasn’t a bad blog at all- especially when you consider that I was smashed out of my face and writing it at midnight on the night he died. There were even more typos that usual but, hey, I was drunk and in a hurry. But like MJ himself, that blog has now gone. I think I was trying to delete some spam, but deleted the whole story instead. And, to be honest, I feel no compulsion to write it again. We’re entering something like the 36th-straight hour of blanket coverage of this story and I don’t feel the need to add my little contribution. You’ve had enough, right? Yes it’s a big story, obviously, I just feel absolutely no emotion over him whatsoever. So I shall leave you with one last thought:

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Kiddy Fiddler Dies. Fuck him..

Standing Your Corner

Posted on June 21, 2009 by The Ed

As if the result of the first British Lions test wasn’t depressing enough:

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Britons ‘shun birthdays and pubs’

The Press Association

The economic downturn is making Britons mean, with people ignoring friends’ birthdays and refusing to buy rounds of drinks in the pub, a survey has showed.

Nearly a third of people said they would no longer buy a round of drinks when out with friends for fear they would end up out of pocket, according to Moneysupermarket Vouchers.

Four out of 10 people also admitted they now carefully study a restaurant bill to ensure they only pay for what they have ordered, while 27% said they no longer bought their friends birthday presents.

Is anyone else out there thinking what I’m thinking? I reckon this ‘economic downturn’ must have been going on for the last 25 years. I have always ended up in the company of those who are bit backward coming forward. Beer ain’t cheap, I suppose, but if you haven’t got the money then don’t come out and play. Isn’t it always the same few people who end up getting clobbered with the big round, and always the same scheisters who have to leave, seem to be in the loo, or out of sight when it’s time for them to stump-up?

Pint

They often use the tried-and-tested method of getting to the boozer first, when there’s only a couple of you at the bar, buy a round of two drinks and then that’s it for the night—even when five or six others arrive. If they can hang on for another half-dozen rounds, these master tacticians will manage to leave the pub or fall over before they’re called up to contribute to the night’s merriment.

There is, of course, a simple way around this: make sure everyone plays by Greaves’ Rules, as my regular reader will be fully versed in. Amazingly there are still those out there who have never read the great William Greaves’s words of wisdom. Put em right!

Who among us hasn’t watched from a safe distance, (normally at backward square leg, saving the one) while a group of young ‘uns (usually students) approach the bar and each individually, one-after-the-other, order their own drinks ? (a cider, a WKD, a Vodka Red Bull or worse, a Malibu-and-something). The beverage is served then the ubiquitous small-change purse is held up, tilted at an angle as a collection of coins slide out and fingered through while the buyer comes to the right amount. A drink costing 2.95 will usually be paid for with seventeen different coins, with nineteen different denominations. With the amount of 1ps, 2ps and farthings this lot carry around with them, they are never without the correct money (hours of touture when you happen to be standing behind them in the queue for the bar).

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As an aside I’d like to point out that that Lesbian Vampire Killers was released in the UK on March 20. Yet the poster advertising it still hangs in the gents (Dan, Dan’s gents) in my local. I wonder why?

I digress.

There’s a english language school in Blackheath and every Thursday night in one of the village pubs where the scene above is acted-out with the added complication of eight or nine students (known locally as the Mind Your Language cast) speaking eight or nine different languages and offering the bar staff a bewildering array of foreign currency. Whatever they’re teaching them up at the school, lesson one isn’t :” Excuse me barman, can I have a pint of extra cold Guinness and a pickled egg, please?”.

Through a series of pointing, nodding and smiling, they return to their table with something vaguely close to what they fancied then proceed to sip, squirm then share each others tipple as they laugh about the stupid English and their rank ales and lagers. We all know that feeling of sampling the local brew. Having travelled my fair share of the world and drunk in a goodly number of its bars and pubs, I’ve never been shy of sampling what the natives drink. Never one for visiting “Ye Old Red Lion” in Marbella, or the “Traditional Oirish Pub” in Tripoli (and we all know the type of Brit to be found therein), it’s always a thrill to enter a hostelry offering potions and tinctures unknown to the bar staff of your local highstreet boozer.

How well I remember my first encounter with grappa in a hotel bar in Milan (in fact I don’t remember much after the second one), or that old bloke in the police bar in Bermuda who once poured me a glass of the island’s special dark rum (his toast being “here’s to whatever happens next”). Drinking Dark and Stormies as the sun sets over the Caribbean or gallons of Three Coins in a bar in the Dutch Fort in Galle, Sri Lanka are always the sort of fond memories I like to take home with me from my little trips. After ten days in the States I even found a beer which I could taste. Honest.

So here’s to the foreign students supping on their first pint of warm British ale. Here’s to the 19 year old lad, studying music at Thames Poly (sorry, Greenwich University) who dares to buy his very first pint that he’s seen those old blokes enjoying. Welcome to our world of exciting and exotic brews and potions. Treat the barman well over the next few decades and he’ll introduce you to untold treasures and pleasures from his House of Fun. Drink to excess what you love, shun and spurn what you hate— there’s plenty of alternatives and options for every taste and you’ll find one you like eventually. But whatever you do, do me a favour: Buy your fucking round.

It’ll Never Stand Up in Court

Posted on June 8, 2009 by The Ed

Was Carradine killed by kung fu assassins?
Yahoo: Mon 08 Jun 11:17 AM
David Carradine was killed because he was investigating kung fu crime lords, his family have suggested. The Kill Bill star, 73, was found dead in a Bangkok hotel room last week, with a rope tied around his neck and manhood. While Thai police initially suggested it was a sex act gone horribly wrong, the actor’s family have claimed that he was killed for investigating secret societies in that area.

The lawyer to Carradine’s family, Mark Geragos, was asked on Larry King’s US chat show if the Kung Fu star was “interested in investigating and disclosing secret societies?”
To which, Geragos replied, “Absolutely. And so there is a suspicion that if there was some foul play, that may be the first area they should look.”
Geragos has also revealed that the actor’s family have urged the FBI to investigate Carradine’s death.

First up, the answer to that headline is : No

Secondly, if I ever end up dead, and my body is found next to a copy of Wisden and I’m wearing a mink glove, please do not call in the FBI to investigate my death. I am not investigating any secret societies in the Blackheath area, and the only contact I have from Asia is the delivery bloke from the Golden Dragon who never fails to add free prawn crackers to my weekly delivery.

It never ceases to amaze me what people are doing to themselves (and others) in the comfort of their own homes or hotel bedroom, and indeed how many of these deviant sexual practices end up in someone snuffing it. It’s true that I do experience some arousal at the sight of a cover-drive, or a leg-spinner plying his trade at The Oval, but I’d like to think that whatever the degree of excitement I thrash myself into, I would pull up short, as it were, of coming to a sticky end.

MP Stephen Milligan’s body was found in rather embarrassing circumstances after his apparent penchant for electric flex and satsumas had done for him. But, again, there are those who believe he was the victim of foul play. I’m sorry but if I’d murdered someone, I think I’d be getting away from the scene of the crime soonest, rather than dressing up the corpse in stockings, relieving the kettle of its lead and raiding the fruit bowl. And anyway, did they run out of bananas—the pervert’s friend???

You can’t legislate for what people strap onto and insert into themselves to get their kicks, and anyone who says you can deserves a good spanking. I remember Carradine had to put his wrists on a red-hot bowl every week while Kung Fu was on, so presumably his pain threshold was higher than most. Please leave us with the image of him in that ridiculous bald wig, as well as the memory of his nasty bastard Bill. If he happened to like a little bit of how’s-yer-father, that’s his funeral.

Anyway, must dash—Australia vrs Sri Lanka is on the telly. Oh God!!! Quick Nurse, the screens! It’s happened again.

263985~David-Carradine-Posters

Phew, Wot a Scorcha !

Posted on June 2, 2009 by The Ed

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As the sun beats down on the ever-increasing skin atop of me old bald ‘ead and another bottle of Pimms is drained of its contents, I sit in my garden and think to myself that life ain’t so bad. (No—you haven’t clicked onto the wrong page, keep with me). The garden is in full bloom owing to a shed-load of cash, the helpful staff at Homebase and The Incumbent’s hard sweat and toil. She’s not bad for an old bird, and to watch her lugging dirty great sacks of topsoil from the car to the back garden just goes to show how committed to the cause she is. I’d offer to help but from where I sit on the sun-lounger she looks as if she enjoys it. Though if she’s not careful she won’t have enough energy to do the washing-up.

The blue tits are still busily feeding the nippers in the bird box, while in the opposite hedge the swinging blackbirds continue their orgy of cross-gender malarky which would make your mother blush. At the bottom of the garden the regular punch-up between two woodpeckers momentarily takes my mind off the fact that my drink has finished. I am left with several options: 1:Go without (yeah, right), stay put and watch Woody and co flap shit out of each other; 2: Get up and go to the fridge for a replacement beverage (not tempting); 3: Wait for The Incumbent to finish trimming her bush, come down off that ladder and go get me a brew. Being the new man I am, I choose option 2 (which also spares me from having a set of hedge-cutters inserted into me).

As evening approaches, we head for one of the locals in the village for sundowners. The boozer we choose has recently had a change of landlord and for a while us customers thought we were to enjoy an upturn in fortunes. For years it had been run by a drunk, rude Celt. I can’t get any more specific than that as his thick accent was augmented by a litre of scotch and 70 cigs-a-day. This made him not only completely incomprehensible but it was also impossible to know from which part of the country he was from. I say Glasgow, others think Belfast. Who knows? Who cares? He’s gone now, and good riddance, miserable old bastard.

So the pub got a new coat of paint a few weeks ago and looks pretty good, and we had high hopes for the new faces behind the jump. Alas I fear the new, presumably married couple may not come up to snuff either: He has taken to wearing a football shirt in the bar (Man Utd, for those keeping score) and I swear he’s inches away from serving customers in his vest, or some other sweat-stained undergarment. She on the other hand is always reasonably turned-out but has a face like a slapped arse. I came very close to getting served by this lemon-sucker the other night but was fortunate enough to be headed off at the pass by a young girl who helps out behind the bar (I give her about 3 weeks before she flees).

However on this glorious summer evening, nothing is going to scupper my good mood. We sit sipping and bathing in the late-evening sun streaming through the window, engage in jolly banter and idle persiflage with several friends and even when I am informed that the sun had gone down hours ago and that it is time to leave I care not one jot. Back home, where usually on a Sunday evening I am pacing the carpet, worrying about work the next day, we repair once more to the back garden to have just-the-one before retiring. I hold and ice-cold bottle in my hand and watch as the insects buzz around the garden light before biting lumps out of me. Unflustered, I take myself up the wooden hill for a long, uninterrupted slumber. I have a smile on my face.

I wake up to even more hot sunshine slapping me round the chops, I leap to my feet like a young gazelle (albeit a slightly hungover one) and prepare for the day ahead. An hour later I am in work. Two hours after that an envelope arrives by courier. I open it, read its contents and smile to myself again. My boss is on holiday so I call him on his mobile. I say the words which I’ve dreamed of saying for a long time, but hadn’t actually said to anyone in seriousness for nine years: “I resign”. He takes it well (it isn’t exactly a surprise to him) and we agree to have a beer and watch some cricket on his return. I’ll spend the next month working my notice with a spring in my step, a song in my heart and a glint in one of my piggy little eyes before I leave for pastures and boozers new. The limbo of working one’s notice is always an odd feeling.

But I resigned yesterday and that felt very good indeed.

Dan Dan the Lavatory Man

Posted on May 27, 2009 by The Ed

urinals

One night last week a bloke talked to me in the pub toilet. Yes, exactly, that’s what I thought. He actually tried to hold a conversation with me while I was going about my business. Yes. He did.

Most of you reading this will fully understand the distress this caused me, but in case a woman has accidentally logged in, I shall explain: Blokes don’t talk to each other in the loo. Never. Never, ever, ever. It’s just not done. I could be standing there at the urinals with my best mate to my left, my dad to my right and my long-lost brother washing his hands at the sink behind me and no words would be exchanged until we left the Gents. Protocol is to have one hand (or in my case two hands) on your willy and stare straight ahead reading the graffiti or the very amusing adverts for online poker on the wall in front of you. But whatever happens KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT, YOUR OPINIONS TO YOURSELF AND YOUR EYES FRONT !!!

A public lavatory is a place where we men feel at our most vulnerable. We’re not the greatest communicators at the best of times, so the chances of indulging in idle persiflage fly out of the window the minute we get our winkles out. Surely, ladies, you recognise that in your man? I put it to you (if you’ll excuse the image) that if he gets his thingy out in your presence he’s unlikely to want to talk to you about last night’s footy results, or the queue at Tescos. I hear tell that, while in the Ladies, the fairer sex do indeed partake in friendly chat and banter (of what nature, I know not) and they seem to get along just fine in there. Maybe it’s a little sanctuary, free from those arseholes outside, where girl can speak to girl without being interrupted or patronised by boy? Bless her pretty little head. No such conversation does, or rather should take place in a blokes’ khazi.

So this bloke—let’s, for the sake of looking for another joke, call him Dan— so this bloke Dan spoke to me in the Gents. I have no idea what he said, I was in shock. All I know is that it wasn’t “Alright, mate?” or “Ooooooooh, that’s better”. No, it was in the form of an opening line of a conversation. I just heard noise, my brain couldn’t process the information. Virtually all of my body froze, though part of it went limp and shriveled. I zipped up, nodded politely (I’m British, after all) and left immediately and quickly, and what I had started in the urinal was left to dribble down the inside of my trouser leg as I fled.

So what was I afraid of? That the man was a homosexual? That he was about to “lend me a hand”? That he was the Barrymore of Blackheath and I’d end up emotionally and internally scarred for life? Don’t talk so much Tommy Rot! I have no leanings in that direction. I’ve always been a big hairy hetro (whatever I look like to you) and have no wish to catch the other bus. I don’t even know if this bloke IS gay. My Gaydar doesn’t work. He may just be very friendly, though a tad inappropriate. Having said that, I’ve never either been worried by or about gay men or women. I have several openly gay friends (yes, I know they all say that, but I actually do) and have never felt threatened by them or had the inkling that they were gonna goose me at any minute (their loss, actually). I like to think I view them with the same contempt as I do all my friends. It’s still your round at the bar, mate, even if you ARE a bit light on your loafers. You’re all the same in my eyes, as long as you do your bit in the office, laugh at my jokes and understand the lbw laws. It’s not as if you’re Welsh or anything.

But maybe this is all a front? Maybe, deep down, I’m scared? A long time ago I spent the night round a mate’s flat after we’d gotten a bit squiffy that evening. I was woken up in the spare room the following morning by my pal delivering a cup of tea. Having placed the cup by the bed, he left the room saying, “There you go mate” says he “I’ll just go get myself sorted, then I’ll give you a shower”
“WHAT!!!!!!”— I’d sat bolt upright in the bed, my head thumping, back in spasm, legs shaking like leaves, willy recoiling into my body. Fortunately I’d misheard him. What he’d actually said was “I’ll give you a shout”. Phew! He’s a big bloke and could have quite easily showered me against my will.

It annoys me, my reaction to these situations. I’ve always considered myself a good Socialist, with a capital ‘S’ and a liberal with a small ‘l’, inside this beer-swilling, rugby-loving, pickled-egg eating oaf, there’s a kind, sensitive, modern man screaming to get out and mince about a bit. I remember getting severe stick from my city mates when I wore a red ribbon pin badge for world AIDS day, and got accused of being either a “faggot” or a “poof-lover”. Well, what would you expect from that lot? But I’m surely above that, aren’t I? I sure am. Perhaps it was just that on the two occasions above I was taken by surprise ? Or maybe it is just what we’ve discussed: that no man feels safe with his penis al fresco? I’ve been mulling over this all week, about how stupid my immediate reaction was, and how I shall make every effort to change.

Dan was in the pub last night again (hiding behind three Mancunians). I didn’t spot him until he was standing right next next to me, when I turned to be almost nose-to-nose with him. “Hello mate, alright?” he asked.
I blushed “Yes mate…great… thanks”. I left for another pub. I have a new friend and I’m being an arse about it. What a wanker.

La Cage aux Fools

Posted on May 14, 2009 by The Ed

As the great Pam Ayres once might or should have said: I’m ‘aving trouble with me tits. As my regular reader will know I was very pleased earlier in the spring to see a pair of Blue Tits setting up home in my newly-nailed-up bird box in my back garden. For the next few weeks there was a flurry of feathers and a chirruping from tiny birdy beaks as mum and dad took it in turns to bring back a selection of worms, maggots and caterpillars for their young to devour.

A Future Poet Laureate?

Well, I say it was mum and dad feeding them, though you never can be too sure: I also have a pair of male Blackbirds in the garden (again, you’ve met one of them here before) who seem to have taken a real shine to each other. I’ve read all the books about competition between the males of the species and of the punch-ups which regularly occur between rivals and, true to form, these two when first sighted were fighting like bird and bird over the local bit of skirt, and I thought that was all very Bill Oddie. Trouble is, they now seem to be best of pals. BEST of pals. More power to their elbows, I say—given that they have elbows— but it’s now made me wonder if my tits are male and female or if one is, ow yu say, a bearded tit? Well you never know, do you?

Anyroadup, I digress again. So weeks of twittery-twittery action and I’m getting all excited and I’m making up names for the babies and I’m still filling the feeder with nuts and THEN. Nothing. Not a sausage. Bugger all. The twittering and the flurrying and the chirpy chirpy cheeping stopped. Last Saturday. It was all very worrying. What had happened? What had scared them away? Chief suspect immediately became, you’ve guessed it, me. I’d prepared for the Incumbent and some friends the world’s smokiest and smelliest barbeque, and had arranged the fire and the seating arrangements far too close to the bird box. THAT’S what scared them away! It was an open and shut case, apparently. My claim that they probably had a second home cut no ice whatsoever.

Yup, they look done!

Pic:FreeFoto.com
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What would you do if your tits disappeared? It’d be a worry, wouldn’t it? Well I guess if you’re Gordon Brown (finer temptress) you’d kneel at the altar in the church of St Alastair of St Campbell and pray that they never come back. But I fear that although Gordon’s final hope of winning, or even competing in, next year’s election has flown the coop, his Great Tits are never gonna leave his nest. The old devils are at it again. Poor old Gordy must be livid. It’s one unmitigated disaster after another, though half of them (of course) are due to his own shoddy judgement. No point listing all the cock-ups again but it’s like watching your doddery old maths master getting waterboarded by the lower fourth, lesson after lesson, day after day, term after term. His mouth’s so full of water he can’t catch enough breath to shout “I resign”. You wanna go help him but as odious as Blears junior, Beckett minor and Under-Clarke are, a little bit of you wants to shout “Serves you right, you manky Scotch Git: You’re supposed to be a Socialist!!”.

A Great Bearded Tit

Such is Gordon’s luck that he can’t even rely on Tory boy opposite to be a traditional money-grabbing, pissed, lard-bucket. Nope, our Dave not only seems to have been a good an honest boy with taxpayers’ cash, but he seems to be showing Gordon the way home by demonstrating he has, at least, some modicum of understanding of what the rest of us are so angry about. He uses phrases like “come down on them like a ton of bricks” and “won’t stand for it”. Cameron’s gonna make sure that we never see a bill for a moat cleaner ever again (did any of us really ever think we’d ever see one in the first place?). He can smell victory and no trouser-pressed pillock is gonna ruin his party. Gordon, on the other hand, seems to have faith in his lucky Gonk, Hazel, and chums to do the decent thing and admit to their “mistakes”.

Have yer seen me motorbike, Gordon?

Mistakes? These weren’t mistakes, they were crimes against the electorate. Their favourite phrase is that they acted “within the rules”. Yes, they acted within the rules which MPs themselves drew up. what next? Centre-forwards deciding there are no off-sides? Michael Barrymore appointing all the swimming pool attendants? I think I shall write my own rules that Guinness should be £1-a-pint. What do you mean you want more money than that? I’m living within the rules. MY RULES!!!! And, while I’m at it, I think I’ll take all those biros and staplers and Post It notes from the office cupboard and sell them on ebay. If I’m caught after a few years by the Personnel Dept I shall admit my “mistake”, apologise on behalf of ALL office workers and demand a committee be formed to see if I’ve done anything wrong. I’m writing my own lbw laws too, by the way. The old ones are far too batsman-friendly.

Anyway, just like a new series of Big Brother, the tits are back in their house, but unlike a new series of Big Brother they’re back making pleasant, heart-warming noises, and are not picking on the alleged gay, black neighbours, sunning themselves outside in the garden. They came back on Monday. Don’t know where they went, maybe went to treat their holiday home for dry rot? But like having Dennis Skinner back, the house seems complete again.

The Beast is back

Rogue Traders

Posted on May 13, 2009 by The Ed

DoorbellHeader
The doorbell rang the other day. So I put my trousers on and opened the door.
“Mr Bealing?” asked the lad in an ill-fitting black suit.
“I’ve been called worse, yes”
“Marks and Spencer”
“That’s a big name for a little boy. Is it hyphenated?”
“You bought a shirt from us last month”
“Er..yes, correct”
“You haven’t told us what you thought of it. Nor of our service”
“Come again?”
“You haven’t come back to the shop to tell us how you found our service or how you liked the shirt”
“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. You want me to do what?”
“You’re supposed to come back and tell us what your shopping experience with M&S was like”
“It was a white shirt. I wear a lot of em. For work. I went into the shop, went to the white shirt section, chose my size and went and paid for it. Didn’t try it on—it was wrapped. I knew what it was gonna be like cos I have another six at home. What do you want me to say?”
“Can you rate us?”
(I’m starting to get a little peeved now.) “What??”
“You need to come in and rate us—from one to five stars”
“You’re joking?”
“And leave a small comment”
“Ok, here’s a small comment: Fuck off”
“Sorry, sir, but you do. It’s very important for our future trade if customers know what you thought of us”
“Well ok, sonny, on the basis of this little conversation let’s go up there now cos I’m gonna write ‘A pain in the arse’ and give you a rating of minus one”
“Ah no, sir, you can’t do that.”
“But that’s how I feel right now”
“But you mustn’t put bad ratings or comments because that will reflect badly on the company”
“Ok, let’s skip it then, goodbye”

M&S Ultimate Non-Iron Pure Cotton Plain Long Sleeve Shirt (£25.00)

I went to slam the door, but his Autograph Leather Slip-on Gusset Apron Loafers (£45.00) were across the threshold.
“Owwwwww! Bloody hell sir, there’s no need for that”
“I’m sorry, but get your foot out of my door.”
“But you HAVE to rate our store, Mr Bealing, you just must”
“But you only want me to rate it if I give it a positive mark?”
“Yes, sir”
“What about an average score”
“No, that looks bad too”
“Ok, at the risk of repeating myself, Fuck Off”
“Well what about the chicken breasts and the tomatoes you bought at the weekend? I need a mark for those too”
“Sigh. And what if I don’t want to?”
“We’ll just keep coming back and asking you to til you do”
“I shall ignore the doorbell”
“Then you’ll go on the list of ‘bad shoppers’ which we post in all our stores. Now will you mark us please?”
I left my mark by kneeing him in the crotch of his Performance Stormwear™ Wool with Lycra® Single Breasted 3 Button Black Suit (£149.00) and watched him crawling about my lawn, presumably looking for a testicle, as I finally closed my door.

I may have made some of this up. None of us would stand for being hounded and bullied by shops in this way, would we? So why do we allow Ebay and Amazon get away with it?

The Sharp Single

All Done

Category Archives: Blackheath