Nowhere Men

Posted on August 29, 2009 by The Ed

I heard the news today, Oh Boy: Oasis, the world’s 4th best Beatles cover band, have split up. Words cannot accurately express how totally underwhelmed I am to hear that. The Gallagher brothers will perform no more together on stage or in the studio, with Noel, or is it Liam, citing irreconcilable differences with his brother Liam, or is it Noel? Expect to see fans crying all over Manchester, floral tributes outside their posh London homes (do they still live down here? dunno, don’t care) and the Man City players wearing black armbands in memory of the gruesome twosome. The brothers will presumably continue to support their beloved City from their seats at opposite ends of the ground, presumably so they don’t have to hear each other’s voice as they sing “who’s the bastard in the black?” Personally I’d want to be a lot further away than 150 yards from either of these two once they start warbling. My kids were in the crowd at the recent V Festival when Oasis decided not to show up to headline the gig. My girls were mortified, though if I’d have known they weren’t going to play I’d have bought a ticket myself.

finger

Nearly 100 years ago two miserable bastards, Burke and Hare stole bodies and went on a two-year rampage of murder, selling the corpses of their victims to the medical profession. When they were found out, Hare confessed all and shopped his partner Burke thus escaping the gallows. Since 1991 these mono-browed Mancunian Brothers Grimm have plied their own miserable trade, stealing ideas and murdering songs, selling the corpses to gullible children, teenagers and, worse, adults. Liam may well shop Noel, or vice versa, but let’s hope no amount of clemency is shown for their crimes against my inner ear. If you’re gonna copy another band, at least have the good grace to look like you’re having fun spending our money and have the courage to admit you haven’t an original idea in your head. Even off-stage, walking around with a face like a slapped arse, flashing V-signs and flipping the bird at all and sundry is hardly ground-breaking rock-n-roll behaviour. The charm of a Panzer division, the wit of Margaret Thatcher.

In the next few weeks magazines and newspapers will be full of features and specials on The Beatles as the AppleCorp machine churns out the re-digitalized versions of the Fab Four’s back catalogue. This will be another chance to fork out several of your hard-earned Quids, Bucks, Yuans or Euros on The White Album or Sergeant Pepper. For those of us who have previously bought these on vinyl, cassette (cartridge anyone?) ,and cd (twice, but that’s divorce for you) it’s a tough ask to splash out all over again, but don’t think that this will be the last time you’re asked to make that call. For starters, this latest issue comes in a choice of stereo or ‘original’ mono versions ( a mate at work has already stated he’s gonna buy both), and further down the line they will be uploaded onto itunes. What a staggering franchise it is. I guess it will help Mr McCartney’s keep up with his alimony payments.

The Beatles industry shows no sign of slowing down. There are hundreds of tribute bands making a healthy living out of mimicking the Mop Tops. Most will struggle to reach the heights of Oasis, but at least they’re honest about it. Normally rolled out during the holiday season for Christmas or New Year parties The Bootleg Beatles, The Paperback Beatles and the like have a more-than-decent stab at reliving the great days of the world’s first true pop phenomena. I once to stood at the back of a crowded club where the Bootleg Beatles were playing and watched with some amount of mirth as kids in the audience sang along to Hey Jude and She Loves You. But who am I to judge? I was a year off being born when Please Please Me was released, and only 6 years old when the band finally split up so I hardly own them myself.

Now that John and George are no longer with us, and Ringo (sorry, Mr Dontcallmebymystagename Starkey) has washed his hands of his legacy (apart from the royalties, of course), none of us will ever get the chance to see the real Beatles perform live (let’s be honest- you wouldn’t go and see McCartney perform, would you?) and the tribute bands are the only way to get anywhere close to the experience. But there’s always the Rutles, of course. I know they no-longer perform, but there’s still great fun to be had watching All You Need is Cash as I did again recently.

The story of The Prefab Four- Dirk, Barry, Stig and Nasty still stands-up as a piece of Eric Idle genius, with as good a selection of Neil Innes Beatles parodies as Oasis’ Definitely Maybe ever was. In a prime example of art-imitating-life the film documents the frosty relationship between the band and their manager, Leggy Mountbatten, a domineering, half-mad, nasty bastard with a wooden leg. Remind you of anyone in Paul’s later life?
There are even Rutles tribute bands, one called Ouch! and another The Mountbattens who, apparently are “Tokyo’s top Rutles tribute band”. So we now have tribute bands’ tribute bands. Check out The Mountbattens on Youtube below, they’re bloody awful, but I’d rather sit through a night of them than having to listen to 2 bars of Wonderwall ever, ever again.

Not mad for it.

We Will Fight them on the Beaches, but not in Birmingham

Posted on August 17, 2009 by The Ed

tomtom

The longer you’ve been away, the harder it is to come back. I originally quite liked the 4-weeks-on-2-weeks-off lark which I managed eek out of my new employers, but now I’m beginning to see the fault in my plan: I can’t remember a sodding thing. Couldn’t logon this morning, was typing the wrong password into the wrong system; forgot that we had a ten o’clock conference so no idea what we’re doing today; everything they’d taught me about the new system had vanished from my mind; and I addressed three different women colleagues by the right names, but not necessarily in the right order. They’re all very impressed with me.

Since we last met, France came and went, Birmingham just came. I can’t get it out of my head, but more of that later.

How the world changes in a couple of weeks. Before I left England were well in command of The Ashes Series, ham sandwiches didn’t give you cancer and the Tory Party loved the NHS. Yes really. What, you mean you don’t believe them? Shame on you. Don’t you know they’ve changed??? They’re all-for the Welfare State, comprehensive education, spot-the-ball and whippet racing. When they romp home next year they will ban BUPA, shut down Charterhouse and shoot all hounds and huntsmen.

Neil Warnock will become Sports Minister and Peter Tatchell Home Secretary. New Tory will be unrecogiseable. I know all this cos Dave told me, and I’m not the sort of bloke who disbelieves Dave. Why, didn’t you hear him crucify one of his foot soldiers who told Fox News that the NHS was a bag ‘o shite ? Said the Yanks would be mad to adopt a similar model! Dave’s rebuke was quite terrifying, and very, very believable. Honest. It was in The Mail.

Up the Ox and Bucks!!

Meanwhile, back in the real world (well as close to real life as I get) The Incumbent and I travelled to Normandy, sans enfants (did you see what I did then?). First stop Pegasus Bridge. In the early hours of D-Day, 1944, about a hundred British Tommies landed in gliders and stormed the tiny garrison defending this vital crossing over the Orne River. Immortalised by the aforementioned The Longest Day, the Tommies made swift work of dispatching the nasty Hun, secured the bridge for the Allied advance and liberated a small café to boot, so everyone could have a cup of tea afterwards.

These glider pilots really were something else. Under cloudy, moon-less skies, they navigated their heavily-laden craft over the coast of France to the target area with little more than a compass, a stopwatch and a huge moustache. 5 out of six gliders hit their target, with one landing a mere 47 yards from the end of the bridge.

On the other hand, The Incumbent and I were armed with an O.S. map, a Toyota 4×4 and the ubiquitous SatNav and managed to miss the turning three times. Not really Tommies, more TomTommies, and fucking useless ones at that. I’d have missed the whole of the Normandy coastline, and probably more if I was on HMS TallyHo as part of the invasion force armed with that TomTom. I’d have probably liberated Wales. Or perhaps I wouldn’t.

The problem is with these bloody things that we’ve (or rather I’ve) stopped looking at maps. A year ago I’d have never undertaken a journey past Sainsbury’s car park without consulting the old A-Z beforehand, but now I glibly set off on 300 mile journeys without a care in the world, trusting implicitly this little box stuck to the windscreen. Well it gets confused, I can tell you. New roads get built, diversions are enforced, roads blocked and it drives your poor little TomTom beserk. Yes yes yes, I know you’re supposed to update it every 17 minutes and download new maps, but who has the time to do that before you go away? I’m far too busy looking for my passport and the Arret.

How the hell did they get something that big across the Channel? Pic also shows a section of Mulberry harbour

Anyway, SatNav apart, and taking into account everything in France is tres cher (God I’m good!) it was a memorable trip. Pegasus Bridge, The Mulberry harbour at Arromanches, Omaha Beach, the US Cemetery (I know how to show a girl a good time) plus lashings of Kronenbourg (you need it after that lot). The streets of our little town were full of young an old, enjoying good food, dear beer, and great wine to the sound of the odd accordion and the even jazz combo. Lots of munching, quaffing and couples tangoing in the street. All v civilized indeed. I recommend it.

Fade to black with the strains of Edith Piaf in your head

Cut to Broad Street Birmingham, Saturday night. Cue the Housey Housey music.

The carnage.

We’d been to see the cricket at Edgbaston (just how lucky can one girl get on holiday?) and made the short 2-mile walk in good time and in better thirst and needed immediate refreshment. What confronted us was more terrifying than the Allies could have possibly faced on the beaches of France 65 years ago. Legions and legions of pissed, swearing, puking, fighting boys and girls (and I mean boys and girls) in various stages of undress, noticeably unmolested by Her Majesty’s Finest. Not a copper in sight (shock).

Literally hundreds of once-pretty 14 year-olds, now made-up like cheap hookers in barely more than their underwear screaming at each other in the middle of dual carriageways, 16 year old boys hanging on lampposts, gasper on bottom lip, WKD in hand, absolutely wankered, chanting the mantra “ get yer tits out” to all and sundry (yes, to me as well). Doormen, bouncers and stewards sharing looks of fear, boredom or total annoyance, winding up haymakers for the next gobby shite who abuses them. They had my sympathies. It was as close to Dodge City as I’m ever likely to see, and I wanted out. We made a dash for the Hotel bar where the coppers and the specials were sitting in the corner, away from the trouble. And who can blame them? Well I did, at the time, but in the cold light of day it was pretty understandable. Having worked on dozens of stories about Binge Britain, and poo-poo’d all of them as a load of hysterical bollox this was my first real-time, up-close sight of it and it was ‘orrible. My daughters will never go out after 6.30 at night, if I have anything to do with it (which I don’t).

Are all towns like this, or does that honour just fall to Birmingham? Don’t write to me and tell me, I don’t wanna know. I have seen, been involved with and started a few piss-ups in my time, (I will probably be close to one tonight) but the scale of this was mind-boggling. I can only imagine it’s like a chilly version of Tenerife and I’m so very glad I missed out on all of that rubbish. Grubby, ugly, young, fat kids (plus their parents with dreadful outfits and disasterous haircuts). Synchronised obnoxiousness. You can tell, I’m in shock. Shell-suit shock. What a complete and utter shit-hole. Trust my bleeding TomTom to be able to find that one.

And it’s all yours, Dave, whenever you wanna take over.

The Cemetery at Omaha Beach. Twinned with Broad Street, Birmingham

The Talented Mr Rapley

Posted on August 11, 2009 by The Ed

After all the previously discussed misery and mayhem, imagine my delight when the Italian chapter of the Dave Rapley Appreciation Society serenaded us on our last night in the mountains. Their instruments included garden shears and toilet cysterns, and they’d make very Worthy Old Dartfordians, one and all. I could have stayed and listened and sung along all night, had my eldest daughter not dragged me away in embarrassment. I did get a little carried away at the end. CDs available in the foyer.

You Darts.

Zwei Birra, und Quattro Cokes, Si Vous Plait

Posted on August 10, 2009 by The Ed

So I was worried about the flight, and I was worried about the drive across Italy. A little bit of me worried how I’d handle four kids for a week. But for some reason it hadn’t occurred to me to be worried that we didn’t possess a map , a phrasebook or the minutest smattering of the language between us. Whether it was an oversight, what with everything we had to organise and fret about beforehand and all that; or whether my subconscious considered me far to wordly-wise to bother about not being understood I’m not sure. Anyway, we had the Tom Tom, right? Nothing goes wrong when you have a Tom Tom, does it? And this was, after all, an EU country where everyone spoke English, right? Wrong! This was a part of the EU where they had been mercifully ignored by plane-loads of Brits tearing up their towns and abusing their waiters. Sure there were always a few families passing through, but not enough for the indigenous population to feel the need to gen-up on the Oxford English Dictionary.

So, Ich nicht sprechen Italiano, je ne comprends your banter pas, old boy. By the way, can you tell me when the hell I am please, Signor Garcon? What a berk.

Ulysses

No matter, we picked up the motor at one of Rome’s airports (a battered and bruised Fiat Ulysses, prefect for our Odyssey, I thought) and sped east along the Autstrade. 17ks later we hit (almost literally) a string of Toll booths, stretched across the road. In a singularly British way I plumped for the wrong gate. I pressed the red button. Nothing. Pressed it again, still no ticket. Two cars had pulled up behind me. I started sweating-up in the paddock. I pressed the green button, next to the speaker. A conversation was had between 2 people who had no idea what the other was saying. The word “ticket” was the sole common denominator. Four cars behind me now, the third gave several honks on his Italian handbrake (his horn). I made the International Sign for bugger off, back-up, I’m coming out and they begrudgingly obliged and I reversed onto the hard shoulder. Somehow Italians can steer a car, press the horn AND wave both arms in the air all at the same time (yes, I know this sound like a stereotype, but it really is true).

I found a tall, imposing, para-military-type at the help desk, complete with mirror-shades and, dare-I-say, jackboots. He spoke very little English, so he had the jump on me. “Where you go?” he asked.
I’d forgotten where, indeed, I was going, so I picked a nearby city at random “Ancona” I replied. A puzzled look came across his face. Why would anyone want to go to that sh*t-hole?, he was thinking. Ah wait!: He’s English. He wrote several unconnected words in block capitals onto a scrap of paper and handed it to me.
“You no pay” he said. Then gesturing the International Sign for giving, said “you give this to Ancona”.

What he wrote I cared not one wit, as it was clear he was letting us through without charge. And away we went.

An hour down the road we approached a second set of tolls. This time I was determined not to embarrass myself as before. I chose the one with the International Sign for money above it. But there was no slot to insert neither coins, notes nor credit card. I started to panic again. Then a cardboard ticket spewed out of a hole just in front. In my haste I lunged at it, snatched at it and dropped it on the tarmac.

“Oh sod it ! Sorry kids” I exclaimed.
“Dad, Daaaaaad” yelled one from the back row of the car “it’s open!”.
I looked up to see the gate had indeed opened. WooHoo!!!, I had an escape route. I stuck her into what I hoped was something near 1st and released the clutch. We stalled. I’d stuck her into 5th. All week I would struggle and fail to find the right gear. Left-hand-drive motors call for right-hand gear-changing and I would discover that I was crap at it. I restarted the car, found 2nd-ish and we kangaroo-ed out of the trap.

Ninety minutes of scary motorway driving later and we’d reached our exit. Down the slip road, around the tight hairpin (5th instead of the desired 3rd gear) and up to our final toll booth. I pressed the green button. Nothing, but an LED message in Italian. What good was that to me? I pressed the green button instead.

“Si” came a woman’s voice after a short pause.
“Hello”, I said in my best David Niven, “do you speak English?
“Put in your ticket” she replied, by way of an affirmative.
“I don’t have a ticket”
“Put in your ticket”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a ticket”
“Put in your ticket”
“I don’t have a ticket, sorry. I have a piece of paper”, remembering Signor Jackboot’s gift to me earlier.
“One moment please” There was a pause of no more that 4 seconds.

The LED message changes from the unintelligible message to one I understood clearly. It was the International Sign for 75 Euros. Signora Tollbooth had suddenly gone mute. Hmmm… I knew I was stuffed. I hadn’t the command of the language to argue the toss, even if I had an argument. Two crisp 50 Euro notes were slid into the machine, the change was spat out into the tray bellow. I stuck her into reverse, then 3rd, then finally 1st and limped out under the open gate, my tailpipe between my legs.

“I bet they did that cos we were English” offered one of the small mammals in the back seat.
“Yeah” said another, “They hate the Brits” declared a third.

“Nope” I told them. “We didn’t have a ticket so they charged us for the whole length of the motorway. It’s fair enough. British Rail do similar. We’ll know better next time.” Famous last words.

On day 3 of our trip one of the lads and I parked outside what we took to be a supermarket, but which turned out to be a chemist. Exiting with what little we could find worth buying (Aftersun and loo roll) we noticed a parking ticket for 38 Euros slapped on the windscreen of the car. A tad miffed we yomped to the local Cop Shop. “Hello” I said (trying my Alan Whicker this time), handing him the Duty Sergeant the ticket,”do you speak English? ”
“A little” he smiled.
Sadly, he apparently knew only one English phrase: “Thirty-eight Euros”, he said, holding out his palm and making the International Sign for give me the money.
“What did I do wrong?” I asked
“Thirty-eight Euros” he grinned again. Hmmm…. we’ll know better next time.

Later, in a take-away restaurant I managed to order 6 whole pizzas when I wanted 6 slices. The kids were thrilled and chomped their way through the lot. When we finally found the supermarket I bought 12 litres of water which no-one would drink as it was of the fizzy variety and they’d “clearly asked for still, daaaad”.

Map-less, we managed not to find the biggest water-park in southern Europe, drove up two one-way streets and, on the home trip, spent ninety minutes looking at the airport from a distance of 700 yards while we encircled it trying to find a route in. When we finally did so, I drove into the wrong car park to return the car and had a fruitless two-language argument trying to get out of said car park to go find the proper one. This time the lady took pity on me and opened the gate for nix.

So would I go back? You bet. Apart from the odd jobsworth and copper, the Italians were a superb bunch. Most were very happy to help us through the language barrier, and keen to teach us the few words we needed to get by. Birra, Conto, Prego, Formaggio, Pomadoro and the like now seem second nature to me, which will be handy when I go to France tomorrow.

view

The weather was hot, and the birra cold. The region in which our villa was situated was absolutely beautiful, tiny little medaeval villages dotted around a stunning mountainous landscape. An hour down the road (take a map) is mile-upon-mile of beautiful, clean welcoming beaches, full of elegant,friendly locals, spectacular ice cream parlours and, according to the Incumbent’s 14-year-old boy, beautiful, topless, Italian women (though I never saw any, and if I did, I wasn’t staring, honest).

I’ve never stayed at a better appointed nor better situated villa than The Villa San Raffaello, run by Damien and Sharon, two charming Londoners (albeit, he’s a Gooner) who set up shop there five years ago. Plenty of room, a pool, tv etc etc etc everything a family would want, complete with hot n cold running vegetables and herbs from their gardens surrounding the dwelling. Stick yer straw hat on and play being Don Corleone among the tomato plants (though, hopefully without the final consequences). The vines mature next summer so there will be wine too (or vino, as we like to call it).

Driving through a neighbouring town one afternoon the driver of a parked car I was poodling past opened his door and sliced off my wing mirror. K-LUNK. I pulled in down the road, got out and trudged back to the scene of the accident. The man, elegant, middle-aged, grey hair, mahogany skin and perfect teeth, shirt open to the navel, stood there grinning at me, arms outstretched, palms pointing upwards, the International Sign for sorry mate, but what you gonna do?. I did the only thing I could: I taught him some Anglo Saxon words beginning with ‘F’ and ‘C’, picked up my ex-wing mirror and went back to the car.

Normandy tomorrow, courtesy of Mr Horrible‘s generous hospitality. Now French I’m good at. Cul de Sac, mon amis.

hat

Up There Where the Air is Clear

Posted on July 31, 2009 by The Ed

And so we’re off to Gatwick at 4 o’clock tomorrow morning. Not my favourite thing to do. Aircraft and I don’t really mix. I’m hoping the sheer excitement of the kids (mine and The Incumbent’s) rubs off on me and momentarily lets me forget that I’m bloody terrified of flying. It won’t, of course, but maybe just for a second or two along-the-way I’ll be preoccupied with sheepdogging four youngsters in the right direction rather than concentrating on impending doom at the hands of an Easyjet pilot. I feel sick just typing this. Not having taken a middle-of-the-night flight for years, I’m more than a little concerned that I may not be able to drink my own bodyweight in scotch before I board. Are they open at 5 am? God, I hope so.

I’m not sure quite when this fear of certain excruciating death by plummeting out of the heavens gripped me, but I do wish it would go away. I have tried everything to cure it: Valium, malt whisky, sobbing uncontrollably, soiling myself, but nothing has succeeded in allaying my fears. I don’t like small planes as they get buffetted about by the smallest breeze, and big planes don’t look like like they should be able to stay up. If I walk across the tarmac towards the aircraft I’m always on the lookout for cracks in the wings, or rust on the fuselage. I drive myself nuts.

cocktail

This time, I’m sure, the kids will be killing themselves laughing as dad’s head turns purple and his knuckles white as the big orange bird soars into the sky (well that’s the plan anyway). They’ll think it’s hilarious, as I did when I was their age cos my dad always hated flying too. I used to love it, but no longer. Too many bouts of turbulence and dropping the odd-hundred have done for me.

And they keep happening: Flying to Amsterdam a couple of years ago we flew through the tail of that tornado which hit Watford, or wherever. I tell you here and now, we dropped so quickly that my whisky n dry was suspended in mid air, al la Warner Bros cartoons, before rejoining the glass from whence it came some several feet below. I was petrified, and not wanting to give the whisky another chance to make a bid for freedom I introduced it to several similar of its kind already residing in my stomach.

This time, as I’m driving for several hours at the other end, I guess I’ll have to take it easy on the gold watch, and for similar reasons Diazepam is out (Italian coppers don’t like Brits falling asleep at the wheel whilst driving around the Colloseum, and I think the girls would complain too). Imagine my thirst when we finally arrive at our villa, some 4 hours after we land ? Peroni me up, Guido.

See you in a couple of weeks.

1412992032_2fbf267e5a

Dealing with Tragedy

Posted on June 27, 2009 by The Ed

Can you imagine what the funeral will be like? The world’s weirdest and worst-dressed family queuing up to see who’s the most upset. Sales of dark glasses will rocket in Beverly Hills. The pallbearers, jacket sleeves rolled-up, moonwalk backwards down the aisle, MJ’s silver glove (god alone knows where that’s been) atop of the casket. The vicar screeches woo-hoo at the top of his voice, spins, grabs his crotch and leads the congregation in a rousing chorus of We Are the World (Where Are Your Children?).
As the hearse drives slowly along Paedophile Boulevard, the weeping masses toss monkey nuts onto the bonnet, in respect to Bubbles, the one small mammal who didn’t have to be paid not to reveal what his mate had done to him during those long winter evenings by the fire. Liz Taylor, looking like an extra from Thriller says a few words of thanks, and Diana Ross collapses. No-one is sure if it’s the emotion that gets to her, or merely a sudden puff of wind that catches her off-balance. Liza Minnelli helps the 40 pound diva to her feet then announces a comeback tour and that she’s to stand-in for Michael at the O2. That’ll be a real treat for all concerned. Dame Reginald Dwight accompanies her on keyboard in a rather inappropriate rendition of Johnny Cash’s Jackson. Paul McCartney mutters a few words, something about a woman called Linda and and bloke called John, then flashes several Victory signs to the cameras. The service is concluded by Lisa Marie Presley’s un-plugged version of her dad’s Old Shep. Not a dry leg in the house.

President Obama, who thankfully is still the same colour as when he was born, announces a national day of yawning, three Jacko impersonators are arrested for trying to string up a series of Hollywood Doctors from lamposts by their goolies, Ben reaches No1 in every pop chart in the world, and schools cancel all exams to spare grief-sticken children the terrible ordeal of getting on with their lives. June 25th is named MJ Day, when masks will be worn and babies hung over balconies in celebration of the great man’s life. On that day buggery will be made legal in 36 states. Compulsory in California.

Elsewhere the bodies of young men and women are returned from Afghanistan and Iraq to be buried in simple services by their loved ones. Innocent civilians caught in the cross-fire of war, or by suicide bombers are buried in paupers’ graves. Millions are laid-off as recession bites, nuclear weapons are built by madmen and pointed at their neighbours, floods and earthquakes hit the poorest nations in the world, tens of thousands die. People have their operations delayed or canceled because they’re not on the right medical insurance scheme, and the National Health Service hasn’t the money nor capacity to carry out procedures for cancers, heart defects or the like.

Just as long as we keep it all in perspective.

baqubah

Les Miserables? You Ain’t seen Nothin’ Yet

Posted on June 4, 2009 by The Ed

bobo

There’s a joke doing the rounds that Susan Boyle called The Prime Minister last night to see how his mental health was. It’s not been a good week for either of them and one suspects GB may have asked her if there’s any room for him in the next bed to her at the Priory clinic. They would make a lovely couple if they hooked up, actually. The tabloids would have a new pair of nutcases to stalk, and doubtless dub them Brobo: “Brobo in all-night binge at China White”, “Exclusive pics of Brobo on beach in Barbados” (best not think about that one too long), and hopefully “Brobo to Adopt African Orphan”—well let’s hope they do adopt as I hate to think what their offspring would look like.

But of course this is all nonsense. Gordon is many things but he is a loyal man. Loyal to his wife Sarah, loyal to Blair, loyal to himself. He’ll never do the dirty on his wife, and it will take a monumental effort to oust him from office. The knives are out but he’s committed to the work which he so strongly believes his God has sent him to do. Maybe by the time you’ve read this (or even by the time I’ve finished typing it) he would have committed Edwina Kari and fallen on his sword, but I suspect not.

I can just imagine in 20 years time watching TV and looking at the grainy, long lens images of a man in a shabby white shirt, bag in hand, fingernails bitten to the quick, and smiling out of context as he tries to stop Cameron’s tanks advancing across Trafalgar Square down Whitehall. News correspondents and historians will discuss the images: “Whatever happened to that man? we don’t even know his name”. The government, about to sit for their 6th straight term owing to the complete lack of opposition, will refuse to release any details of the man’s whereabout or fate. They’d have long ago closed down the BBC and Youtube but still rumours abound that he once went on camera, weeks before he made the ultimate sacrifice, and made a complete arse of himself. But all evidence of that footage will have been erased, along with The Stranglers back catalogue.

030

The events of the politcal meltdown leading up to the 2029 election will have been well documented. It started with the expenses row back in 2009 when some bloke called Darling and his ugly sisters, Hazel and Jacqui stuck their politcal knees into the private parts of the party that had previously brought them fame and fortune. In the local and European elections that followed, the sitting government recorded nil points as the voters, like lemmings, fled over the cliff of ignorance and onto the rocks of fascism below. The BNP and UKIP (later to amalgamate into BUNKUP) came in a close third behind what used to be called the Liberal Democrats, led by the charismatic erm…

But it was the Tory party who reigned supreme and by the time of the next general election (about three weeks later) the Labour Party had declared thermo-nuclear war on itself. In a last act of madness, Dame Petra Mandleson had re-instated David Blunkett (‘The Bonker of Brightside’) and his mate John ‘Two Face’ Prescott to charm the country. Pedictably none of the remaining few labour stalwarts could vote for laughing and the party disbanded. The Tories achieved a landslide, the former Blair Babes joined BUNKUP and within five years they’d done to the fascists what Blunkett had been doing to other people’s wives for years. In 2024, King Charles the Bonkers, tired of waiting for the LibGreen Party (as they now were) to win any votes in a proper election, threw in the towel and dissolved the Monarchy. President Osborne, fresh from a successful season of peasant-shooting, officially took office in October 2025.

So anyway…

When I went to the Polling station today there were no checkers outside. No old grannies in rosettes asking for your number, no-one taking exit polls. First time I’ve seen that. I suspect the major parties fear the worse and don’t want to lose too many of the party activists and faithful to violent assault by the angry mob. Pity actually because, as usual, I’d donned my best bib-and-tucker (always no1s on polling day) and I do like to have a gentle chat with these old dears and beardy-wierdies outside the school where I vote, before shouting “bugger off and mind your own business” when they ask me who I voted for. It’s a great thing, voting, no matter what the current circumstances. The bastards will soon-enough take the vote away from us if it seems that we don’t want it. So go out and exercise your right. You don’t need to wear your Sunday Best—you can wear a vest and a thong if you prefer. And vote for a proper, mainstream party—any of them—just not the Nazis, the Xenophobes or the single-issue mob. Cos you know what’ll happen if you don’t: You’ll get loonies and extremists like me taking over.

The Friday Quiz

Posted on May 29, 2009 by The Ed

The Guardian:

Mother in court accused of using fake address to get son into school

A mother will appear in court today charged with fraud after being accused of providing a false address in an attempt to get her son into a leading state school.
She faces up to a year in prison or a £5,000 fine if found guilty of using a false address to get around the rules intended to ensure children go to schools within a certain catchment area.

The Telegraph:

MPs’ expenses: Julie Kirkbride agrees to stand down after one claim too many

Julie Kirkbride, the Tory MP at the centre of a row over her expenses, yesterday agreed to step down. She said she would not stand at the next election after a telephone conversation with David Cameron. She told the Tory leader that she was “under pressure” and had to go. But she failed to apologise for any of her claims or admit that they had been unreasonable.

One of the women in the stories above faces jail merely for lying to get her kid into a decent school, while one of them doesn’t face jail for claiming £170,000 in allowances to simultaneously fund both both her and her husband’s homes.

Quiz Question: Where’s my twelve-bore?

When in Rome, Roam as the Romans Roam

Posted on May 27, 2009 by The Ed

Sleep ok last night, did you? No, nor me. I’m so excited. Hey, you too? Not long now and the match will be upon us. It has all the potential to be a classic. Two teams going at each other hammer-and-tong, let’s just hope it lives up to all the hype. Anyway, before all the excitement of The Ashes is upon us we will have to busy ourselves with lesser pastimes. There seems to be an awful lot of re-born Man Utd supporters around me recently and it’s been very difficult to get through ten minutes in the office today without someone asking “where you watching the match tonight?” (answer: in the office—I’m working). The excitement is tenable—not that there’s a Mancunian in earshot— but everyone seems to be stirring themselves up into a frenzy, convincing themselves that this is gonna be a classic.

Well perhaps.

I had the great misfortune to watch the first leg of Barcelona vrs Chelsea, one of the dullest, spiteful and nasty performances I’ve seen on a football pitch for a long time (and I’ve seen Dartford Ladies Under 12’s), so I’m not getting my hopes up. The Law of Sod will apply: If I watch it, it’ll be crap, if I don’t it’ll be The Game of the Century. Either way, I’m far too interested in the Lions and The Ashes to really give a toss. Now THAT’S proper sport.

I was in the pub last night, for just the one, when a conversation struck up between a few lads beside me.
“So what are we ‘aving for us tea later then? Caaaarbonaaaaara, Tapaaaas or Cooorry, and if you say Cooorry I’ll fooking kill yer.”
The Henry Higgins in me led me to deduce these were not from round these here parts. My guess was they were from some part of Mancunia. The conversation continued: “Ah could ‘ave fooking killed that little bastard in that coorry house laast night. ”
It emerged that these lads were down south on business (something involving a hod, I’ll wager) and had been involved in a lively discussion over the bill in one of the local curry houses (see previous rants). The bill had arrived with the service charge included. They paid it but vowed never to return, with the obligatory two fingered salute as they left the premises. I leant over and told them that they didn’t have to pay it (that’s right, isn’t it?) and they could scrub it out and pay the balance. If they wanna give anything, give a cash tip to the waiter. It’s discretionary—a bit like a Government Minister’s tax bill.

I hope I haven’t spun them an urban myth and I’m right about all this. They were a nice enough bunch of lads and I wouldn’t like to think I’ve sent them into a row when they visit The Cactus Pit, DeNiros, or any other of the wittily-named eateries in the village. Mind you, they didn’t look like the kind of blokes to shy away from a row.
“Where you watching the match tomorrow, lads? Utd should romp it, eh?” I offered by way of ingratiation.
“Fook off yer fat bastard” they retorted, almost as one.

City fans.

We Are Family

Posted on May 21, 2009 by The Ed

I may have been a bit harsh on HMQ and Phil the Greek. You can’t help who your ancestors were. Is it really the fault of William, Harry et al that they’re direct descendants (at least some of them) of Germans, or that some of their more recently departed relatives actively supported the Third Reich? No, of course it isn’t, and shame on you for thinking otherwise. We’re all accidents of birth and none of us can chose who our parents are or how much dosh they have or what privileges you get by being born into the right lineage.

Love yer boots, Os

Can Max Mosley help it if the old man was the British Fascist leader of the 30’s and 40’s? A man who wanted to be Hitler’s UK rep during the war, and PM after it? No, don’t be daft. The only thing we can pin on him is his apparent penchant for women in Nazi uniform beating the buggery out of him of a wednesday night, between Grand Prix. Who amongst us hasn’t done that? Nope, we can’t help where we come from. I can trace my lineage back to someone called Sir Richard Arundell-Bealing, Secretary to Queen Catherine of Bragaza (1601-1689). I quote from the History of Tea: “In Europe tea was sold as a medicinal drink in the 1650s. Tea drinking really took hold when Catherine of Bragaza, a Portuguese princess, married Charles II in 1662. She brought tea and served it to friends at court. The tea started being served at what was called tea gardens all over London” proof, if any were needed, that there has not only been a whiff of aristocracy in or near our family in days gone by, but that some of them could actually write (two things that haven’t been passed down the generations). So my ancestor probably took tea with the King. Pass the biscuits!

Put kettle on, Bealing, I'm gasping

Yesterday we read that a woman called Carole Tovey, 66, of Ilfracombe, is the closest living relative to Bob Marley. Apparently her great uncle, Albert Thomas Marley, who was of white British descent, settled in Jamaica in the late 19th Century. Now if Bob was anything to go by (he had 12 kids of his own) Uncle Albert may well have made himself busy between harvesting bananas. As the seeds of his loins went forth and multiplied, they sailed the seven seas, and at least one of them ended up in Devon. Who’d a thunk it? In a wonderful quote which only your mum could utter, Mrs Tovey said to The Times: “I’ve never heard his music before today. I used to like people like Neil Sedaka and the Everly Brothers. No reggae. No heavy metal”. No-one cared to ask if she had a spliff-fixation but I suspect I know the answer. My ancestor’s love of tea managed to survive the generations while all Mrs Tovey got was a tin-ear but no natty-dreads. Max Mosely retains his father’s love of a jackboot, Prince Harry has a shock of Ginger hair(!) while others receive no tell-tale signs of who their ancestors were, what their traits were, or where they came from. It’s a bugger of nature, nothing we can do, but nevertheless mystifying. Innit?

It's not linear, it's glandular

The Sharp Single

All Done

Category Archives: Children