Category Archives: Entertainment

Nowhere Men

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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.

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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.

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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.

T3

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Ok, I admit it. I’m knackered. Not physically, but mentally shot to pieces. No, mentally too— due to that poxy bed of mine— but both my brain cells have been spinning about all week trying to take it all in. My regular reader will have noticed the distinct lack of entries on these pages. I’m sorry— I haven’t had a minute to scratch my arse, let alone compose my flowery, illiterate prose. It’s hard to believe just a week has gone by since I was saying my farewells to friends and colleagues, leaving the office and the employ of a huge, American news organisation to take my seat in the office of a huge, American news organisation. Variety is the spice of life, so they say.

Telegraph, Time, Times. What next? Tatler or Take a Break ? Answers on a postcard please. Pity Titbits is no longer with us. When I finally throw a seven, and I’m called to meet the great Chief Sub up on the celestial back bench he’ll no doubt ask me to account for myself, and ask me what I’ve done.
“Who have you worked for, down on earth” he’ll ask, not bothering to look up while trying to come up with a pithy headline for a page seven lead (they never look up at you).
“Conrad Black, Jim Kelly and Rupert Murdoch”, I shall bleat, sheepishly.
“That doesn’t seem very many employers for one so old?” he’ll query.
“Ah, yes, well I did freelance for Richard Desmond on the Express for six months, and a couple of moonlight weeks on The Mail”
“Really?” he shall ponder “But it says here you’re a socialist!”
“Yessir, I am, but I was trying to bring down the system from within. Robert Maxwell had snuffed it before I got a chance to work for him”
“Piss off. You are shallow, unprincipled charlatan. You’ll have to work for our Sunday tabloid—The News of the Clouds.”

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As I’ve often had to explain to my father every time I take another job with a less-than-liberal organisation: we can’t all work for the Guardian. Or the Co-Op, or Greenpeace or even Amnesty International. I never bothered to become a doctor, so Medicine Sans Frontiers is out (I even failed to get into Jeux Sans Frontiers as Stuart Hall’s replacement), and my application to succeed Ban Ki Moon has yet to be answered (I put myself down as Mi Ki Bee, as they all have silly names).

So, like most of us, I’ve just followed the fun and the money. Well, that’s been the plan—often it’s been bereft of much of either. I’ve applied ice-cubes to topless girls nipples (both professionally, and for my own amusement), covered Royal funerals (ditto) sent photographers to shoot wars and world cups, elections and erections, found pictures of tsunamis and toon armies, famines and farmers, operas and soap operas, child molesters and politicians*

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And that’s why we all do it: for the randomness of it all. And the best thing about doing it on a daily paper is that the night before, when someone asks you what you’re up to tomorrow, you can honestly say “I haven’t got a clue”, it’s the fun of covering the news. 4 seconds before a plane hit the twin towers on 9/11 I’d put my jacket on in preparation for a pint of lunch. No-one could have ever predicted it (outside the CIA, of course). That pint came eight hours later. And it was good. The adrenaline that flows, and the beer that flows with it is something to behold and savour after a big news day. And that’s why we do what we do in this sometimes silly, often exciting, occasionally distasteful business of, what my mate Tom calls “The Never-Ending Quest for the Truth”. Hmmm.

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My new colleagues at our sister paper The News of The World have been the story themselves this week, having allegedly been naughty boys when obtaining private information on celebs through the medium of Private Eyes and phone-taps. It’s all a matter of opinion, I suppose, but why you’d go to such lengths to listen to what Elle MacPherson, Gwyneth Paltrow, Boris Johnson and Gordon Taylor have to say baffles me. Taylor is as dull as gnu shit, and if you can translate anything Boris says into a coherent sentence, you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din, have a large wad of cash for your efforts. Trust me, I used to sub his stuff. Fluent Swahili.

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So what has been my contribution to News International’s production this week? Well, I bought a round of coffee a couple of times, found a photo for a shopping story, had a row with the IT department (yes, honest), edited a photo shoot of a transvestite nurse (story killed), reshuffled the rota which fucked-off half the department, and got lost on the way back to my desk from the loo. Twice. Not a bad start to my career. But I’m in, I’m a coiled spring, waiting to pounce and source those snaps for the next proper story to hit the headlines. All the gardening stories, shopping features and late-breaking makeup covers act as practice and preparation for the big stuff when it comes, say Thatcher’s death or and England test win.**

So the real stuff starts next week. As soon as I get a pc that works and can remember anyone’s name, I’ll launch myself into action, and they’ll know what they’ve getting for their money. Oh bugger. Better polish-up that CV.

*delete where applicable
**perm any two from two

Nessun Dorma Windows

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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.

.

Time after Time

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Every morning in my office at 10.00hrs (ZULU) all the journalists in the office assemble in a meeting room to discuss the schedule for the day. We call it the Story Meeting, elsewhere on other publications they call this Conference (note no “the” or “a”, just “Conference”). It’s at these gatherings where ideas are tossed around and discussed and the magazine/website takes shape. Now I say “all” our journalists attend these 10.00 meets—they do eventually—but there is one guy who never EVER manages to make a 10am start. He bowls up at 10.04, 10.07, sometimes he even gets as close as 10.02 but never does he make it in for 10.00. Occasionally we meet at 12.00 and guess what? He can’t make those on time either. 12.10, 12.08— sometimes he doesn’t bother showing up at all! He’s not alone in this. Over the years we have had several serial offenders, those who struggle to make the trip from London to London for 10 o’clock. It can’t be that difficult, can it? A photographer once called me from his car saying he was going to be late for a 10 o’clock assignment cos the traffic on the M25/M4 junction was heavy. At 9.30 in the morning. Really??????? YOU CABBAGE!!!! After reading him his life story and suggesting he might have thought of getting up earlier to beat the traffic (if you’re an hour early for a job, you can go get a cup of coffee) I pulled the line on him. Never employed him again.

Let's think of something to write about

Let\’s think of something to write about

I hate being late. If I am ever late for anything I get all anxious, sweaty and nervy. I’m anal— at least that’s what I think the ex-wife called me. If a party invite reads “8 til late” I turn up at 8 o’clock —and more often-than-not 7.45. That’s not because I want to get there before the booze runs out (honest), it’s just because I treat tardiness as an insult to the host, and therefore when people are late on me I tend to get a wee bit peeved. Of course none of us can ever be on time for everything, but repeat offenders don’t cut much ice with yours truly. And everyone will know one of these types. You will all have mates or couples who are always late for appointments/drinks/meals/concerts etc. They leave you hanging around at the bar, outside the cinema or in an eaterie for minutes even hours. And they do it every time you arrange to meet, AND YOU STILL TRUST THEM TO TURN UP ON TIME THE NEXT TIME!!! They all do the same trick of gigling when they finally arrive, laughing it off “oh sorry, I fell asleep, tee hee”, “sorry, mate, the cab was late, ha ha” “have you been waiting long? Jesus you look pissed, snigger”etc etc . Well I don’t think it’s funny. I think it’s fucking rude!

Late is very rarely a good thing: A late tackle in soccer or rugby is never to be condoned (unless you’re a South African, apparently); If your girlfriend tells you she’s “late” that usually focusses the mind; The Late Michael Jackson, doesn’t cheer a lot of people up; Andy Murray looked cream-crackered after his match went on late into the night; the US turned up late for the last two World Wars (been nice and early ever since though) and my postman seems to have swapped his morning delivery for one in the late afternoon. On the other hand if you get a “late one” in a pub, you’ve had a result!. But in general, late bad, early good.

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So we come to Andrew Flintoff. Master bowler, intimidating batsmen and an all-round piss-head. He turned up late the other day for a bus which was taking the England team to a bonding session as part of their build-up to the Ashes. Apparently there had been a players’ “dinner” the night before and Andy felt a little “tired” in the morning so missed the bus. He has previous with this type of thing and it’s getting worrying for us fans, annoying for the coaches and staff. A hangover is a self-inflicted injury, and not an excuse to miss work, whatever you do for a living. It’s definitely not the sort of thing you should be sporting a week before you face the Aussies in the series of all series. If you wanna go out and play in the pub on a school night then you have to face the consequences of feeling like shit in the morning. But GET INTO WORK whatever happens. I myself am not adverse to the odd one of a midweek evening, but whatever state I get into, I make it into work the following day and I expect others to do the same. The worse thing that could happen to me is that I stick all the photos for the magazine in upside down. A hungover or off-form Flintoff could LOSE US A TEST MATCH!!!!!!! For Christ’s sake !!!!

C'mon Andy, you're in next

C\’mon Andy, you\’re in next

A worrying line that came out of official England channels was that Flintoff “working very hard to avoid issues fuelled by drink.” I put it to you, yer honour, that if you have to “work very hard” at not getting pissed you really do have a problem. I’m sure I must know lots of people who don’t have to work hard not to have a drink, I just can’t think of any at the moment. So enough, already. Come on, Andy, knock it on the head for a few weeks. Yes we all wanna laugh at you, rat-arsed, walking down Downing Street at the end of the summer, but try to keep the cork in the bottle until you’ve given the Strines a mauling. It’s really much more important than going on the piss.

I don’t believe I just typed that.

.

Boracic Park

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I’ve got all the money I’ll ever need, provided I die by four o’clock this afternoon. I wish I’d said that. Actually it’s a old joke told by comedian Henny Youngman, but I know exactly what he meant. I’ve always been skint. It doesn’t matter how much I’m earning, what the economic climate is, or how good I’ve been in any given month, I’ve always been skint. Like most of us, I drink and eat my way through 10% more money each month than goes into my bank account. Towards the end of every month I start making plans and forming strategies on either how I’m gonna make it til next payday, which card I’m gonna use to pay for that meal/trip/suit/beer and/or what lie I’m gonna tell the bank manager when he makes his regular threatening call.

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All of these plans are, of course, bollox and never work, so inevitably I drift ever-further into debt month-by-month as I ply my King Cnut-like efforts to ward off the bailiffs until “that christmas bonus” (that’s one for our older readers) comes along and saves me. What a silly cnut! The age of bonuses and proper pay-rises (at least in this neck-of-the-woods) is long-gone, and just like a Labour election victory or an exciting Grand Prix, I doubt if I’ll see another one in my lifetime.

As I head towards my last pay-cheque from my current employer (we’re paid in advance) and await the first from my next (they pay in arrears) I dawns on me that next month could be a disaster, even by my fiscal fuck-up standards. There’s a voice in the back of my head telling me that I might get away with not getting the traditional bollocking from NatWest because everyone is feeling the pinch and they’ll take pity on me. The UK economy shrank by its worst rate in half a century. So did mine !! Will the bank manager excuse my ever-increasing overdraft? Fat chance. There’s another voice telling me to drink myself into oblivion and forget how potless I am. Hmmmm…. tempting.

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But it’s true: everyone is feeling the pinch. I read with interest this morning that HRH Queenie is in such dire a financial mess that she’ll be forced to eat the corgis by 2012. The government too, we’re told, can’t afford to build aircraft carriers (but they’re going to anyway) or buy the new Trident nuclear missile system (ditto). One thing’s for sure, the way that Brown and Cameron are swinging at each other over cuts, cum the next election we are all of us going to be worse off, as will be our schools, hospitals and local services— whoever gets in— but at least we can enjoy our shiny new weapons which they’ve bought with our money.

If you were feeling a bit flush earlier on in the year, doubtless you would have invested a couple of quid in Michael Jackson tickets. That was a waste of time, wasn’t it? However all is not lost: The promoters have come up with a brilliant idea: They can either give you your money back , or you don’t get your money back and they will send you the tickets you would have got— as a sort of momento ! They’ll look nice on your wall, even nicer on eBay. If all 800,000 of those who bought tickets take up this offer, the promoters AEG save paying out around £50m. Jacko is said to have owed around £100m and I’m not sure how much of the gate would go back to his estate, but the gold rush certainly seems to be well under way, thanks to his untimely demise. Ipod downloads of his back catalogue are at biblical proportions. It’s baffling.

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I’m not sure what the score is for those trying to recoup the money which they lost to Bernie Madoff, but yesterday he went down for 150 years. Is that fair? I dunno. Seems a bit steep and a tad unrealistic, but I’m sure those poor sods who he swindled will not give a toss. I suspect my bank manager is considering similar penalties for me if I don’t sort my act out . It’s alright for him, he hasn’t got to buy a round of sandwiches and several halves of lager for his leaving do. Who in their right mind holds a piss-up in the week before they get paid? I might offer to pay back my debt at £1 per-month for the next 150 years. I’m in a little recession all of my own. My GDP is in a slump. I have revised my figures and they still look bloody awful. There is still hope, however: the Royal Mint announced yesterday that there’s some 20p pieces out there without dates on them. If you find one, they’ll pay 50 quid for it. No great shakes, you might think, but someone on eBay has just sold one for over £5000 ! I just need to find ten of the buggers and I’m laughing!

But until I do, it’s my round. So what are you having? I’ve got 20 pence.

2008_TWENTYPENCEDESIGNS

Dealing with Tragedy

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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

Saved By The Big Red

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Thanks, Big Fella

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)

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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

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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

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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.

Italian leather coin purse pic

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.

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