Category Archives: food

Ernie was Only 52, He didn’t Wanna Die

Posted on by
4

A poll (why??) released today lists the nation’s favourite ‘pop’ songs played at funerals. Seems to me, if you discount the No1, that my funeral would be the perfect time to play these to me, as I would be unlikely to get up and kick the buggery out of the sound system:

1 My Way – Frank Sinatra/Shirley Bassey
2 Wind Beneath My Wings – Bette Midler/Celine Dion
3 Time To Say Goodbye – Sarah Brightman/Andrea Bocelli
4 Angels – Robbie Williams
5 Over The Rainbow – Eva Cassidy
6 You Raise Me Up – Westlife/Boyzone/Josh Grobin
7 My Heart Will Go On – Celine Dion
8 I Will Always Love You – Whitney Houston
9 You’ll Never Walk Alone – Gerry and the Pacemakers
10 Unforgettable – Nat King Cole

In his will Peter Sellars famously requested the Glen Miller‘s In the Mood be played at his funeral. The tune was loathed by Sellars and sent Milligan, Secombe et al into fits of laughter, knowing that it was the one time it would be played when he couldn’t hear it. Like most of us, I’ve often mused about what tunes I’d like not to hear at the celebration of my termination. Elvis’s Old Shep is right up there, Terry Jacks’ Seasons in the Sun too (“Goodbye papa, it’s hard to die” has always been a fave line of mine). terry_jacks1 Neither of these are on my list cos I don’t want to hear them ever again, just cos they’re so bad it may encourage a few of those gathered to join me in my box. I may prematurely throw a seven if I have to listen to the Scouse tones of You’ll Never Walk Alone ever again. I suspect it won’t be too long before the Bish of Liv dusts off his cassock in remembrance of the fallen. I wish Gerry’s Pacemaker would go on the Fritz.

But before I am planted six-foot Down Down, Deeper and Down, I’d like to draw your attention to the very sad demise of Clement Freud: Cook, Liberal MP, Dog-Food Advertiser, Bon Viveur, Wit and All-Round Good Egg. The grandson of the great shrink, brother of a bohemian artist. Funny as Fuck. Those of you (photographers, probably) who never listened to him on Radio 4 missed a real treat, and it is for that type I relate just one of Clement’s stories, as re-told by Stephen Fry this morning, of his MPs junket to China a while ago, on which he travelled with Winston Churchill (the Tory MP of the 1980’s—not the war leader). In China, apparently, one is rewarded for politeness and kind acts as well as revered for achievement. When Freud noticed that his hotel room was rather smaller Winstons, he asked if it was because Churchill’s party was in power in the UK and the Liberals were not? The answer came “No, No! It is because he has a famous Grandfather”. Freud noted that it was the only time he’d ever been out-grandfathered.
PD*1475525

Bob be Nimble, Bob be Quick

Posted on by
Reply

Did you know that the managing director of Aintree racecourse is called Julian Thick ? No? Terrible, innit? You’d change that name, wouldn’t you? I certainly would. I was about to write to him and suggest some alternatives he might wanna change to, but I see this morning that one of those has already been taken. Step forward Assistant Commissioner Bob Quick of the Met Police. He was apparently the third most senior officer in London’s finest, and the head of counter-terrorism, but entered the doghouse after giving the press a sneak peek at his top secret counter-terrorist plans (looked like a to-do-list to me). Not very Quick-witted, you might say, even for a copper, and capping a great 10 days for Plod in general (see past rants). But, almost at once, he announced his resignation. That’d be within 24 hours. Now that was quick! Shows there’s still some semblance of duty and honour around:” I fucked up, I put my hands up, I will fall on my sword.” It’s a pity our home Secretary isn’t called Jacqui Imaliarandacheatandimorf, then she might take good heed of her name and act on it, once she’s taken the videos back, of course. Where’s Malcolm Tucker when you need him?

Where are you calling from? Nigeria! Ah yes, my credit card details are...

Where are you calling from? Nigeria! Ah yes, my credit card details are...

Sometimes fate sells you a pup which turns round and bites you on the arse. There’s not much you can do if your surname happens to be rather daft, embarrassing or inappropriate (and no, I’m not gonna talk about Neville Neville). There was a contract photographer in London called Denzil McNeelance and yes, you’ve guessed it, he was known as McNeelance the Freelance (and maybe still is). What a great moniker. Family names are family names and we’re pretty much stuck with them.
But sometimes your mum and dad down 3 litres of cheap vodka come up with a first name for you that beggars belief. Jamie Oliver‘s wife Jools has given birth to a baby girl and named her Petal Blossom Rainbow. The couple already have two daughters with floral-themed names – Poppy Honey and Daisy Boo. I don’t really know what to say. When they grow up, I do hope one of their daughters inserts a large kitchen utensil into her dad for being such an arse. Would you ever take orders from your boss if she was named Poppy Honey? Can you forsee a time when there’s likely to be a Prime Minister Petal Blossom Rainbow ? I suppose the UN job’s still open to them (Boutros Boutros Ghali Ghali, U Thant etc).
Given that the public appetite (geddit) for this lisping mockney will surely fade (let’s all hold hands and pray for that day to come soon) one can only hope he’s made enough cash out of Sainsburys that those girls need never go out to look for work. Though the way the Met are losing high-flying officers, there would doubtless be a vacancy for them, they’d just have to wait a couple of weeks for one to come along. It would scare the bejeezus out of Bin Laden (cos they still won’t have caught him by then) if Daisy Boo of the Yard was on his case.

How Many Roads Must a Man Walk Down?

Posted on by
Reply

You need militants on a demonstration. You need passion and commitment and a sense of purpose. If you’re undecided or wishy-washy your march is never gonna get off the ground. Can you imagine the leader of the Liberal Party (Simon Pegg, I think his name is) organising a demo? It’d be as effective as a solar panel in Salford. “What do we want?: DON’T KNOW; When do we want it?: SOME TIME IN THE NEAR FUTURE, IF IT’S NOT TOO MUCH TROUBLE” is not gonna get anyone excited.

So you need heart. You need drive. Often, some of this passion boils over into violence which is why we see thousands of Plod on the streets of London this morning, having had Knacker cancel all leave. Shame. But we are (up to a point, Lord Copper) exercising our right to demonstrate, and a march without passion or a smidge of violence becomes a ramble— and the Church organises those, complete with kagools and sponsorship forms. No thanks.

I was 13 when my brother took me on my first demo— The Rock Against Racism/Anti Nazi League march from Trafalgar Square to Victoria Park in East London (30th April 1978, for anyone taking notes). Fucking miles! But it was fantastic. Hundreds of thousands (Police estimate:143) of like-minded people marching for a common cause: crush racism in the UK. It was 1978 and the National Front were becoming a little strong for our liking, so we marched in protest. And we sang. “The National Front is a Nazi Front, SMASH THE NATIONAL FRONT“ We sang it all day. For mile after mile. We ALL sang it. It was bleedin tedious.

RAR_carnival_78_poster

Google Maps tells me the direct route between Trafalgar Square and the park is 5.9 miles. Well we didn’t go the straight route (Plod diverted us away from the posh bits in the City) and my brilliant 13 yr old mind told me we walked at LEAST 15 miles. 15 miles of singing the same song. It was like listening to a Morrisey Album all afternoon: torture. But it was a thrill for me at a tender age: collecting ANL and RAR badges. AND placards, and leaflets and flyers and pamphlets. Oh! Think of the Trees, Mike, all that wood n paper!!! well this was BGB (Before Geldof and Bono) and no-one gave a monkeys about the planet or the rainforest. A witty cardboard slogan nailed to a lovely bit of 4×2 was the weapon of choice for both pacifist and anarchist.

The Author (back row, third from left), prepares to leave Trafalgar Square. Note bad haircut

The Author (back row, third from left), prepares to leave Trafalgar Square. Note bad haircut

I was proud to have my photo taken by the Police snapper when it was my turn to carry the big banner (what DID they think I was gonna do?) waved at the spotters on the roofs, and ran away quickly when some of the bigger boys started lobbing stuff at the police. But on the whole it seemed to me to be a good-natured event, (I swear that copper was smiling as they wiped the blood from his head) and it ended with my first rock concert in the park and my first sight of Joe Strummer and the boys. I was in heaven.
So we had one message and one march. And one song.

Fast forward to today. Sit down, I have something to tell you: One of today’s marches goes from London Bridge to The Bank of England.That’s a distance of less than a mile. I have longer nostril hair than that !!

Come on guys, put a bit of effort in.

And the coalition of beefs these people have is mind-boggling: Anti Banks, Anti War, Anti Welsh, Save the Planet, Reclaim the Streets, Right to Work, Right to Left, Anarchists, Pacifists, Cyclists, Monarchists, Buggerists, Typists the list is endless. What are they gonna sing? Is there a running order? (mind you, by the time the London Bridge mob reach their destination they’d have hardly had time for a couple of lines of We Shall Overcome). As far as I’m aware they won’t be passing a McDonalds, a Shell garage, or a branch of Barclays: all classic targets for the mob (I still mourn the end of South Africa House demos). Perhaps they can get more miles under their belts by marching round and round in circles a la American pickets in episodes of The West Wing, Columbo etc. (Why DO they go round in circles??)

Say Cheese!

Say Cheese!

So let’s hope for a good clean fight today. We won’t throw lamp posts at you if you put away the CS gas and the horses. We promise not to lynch anyone, if you promise not to lie about the numbers attending. AND if you’re gonna single us out and snap potential “troublemakers” at least make the pics available to us, so that years from now I’ll have a copy of the photo for my blog.
Up the Revolution !!

Whistleblowing on G20

Posted on by
Reply

Isn’t it always the same? Your wardrobe is full of fine clothes but you still haven’t a clue what to wear. I mean, what DOES one wear to a riot? Knacker of the Yard suggests the merchant bankers among us should refrain from donning the pin-stripes tomorrow, lest Swampy takes offence and goes berserk as you alight at Cannon Street. This is all very worrying. I have, on occasion, had a pot of tea with chums in the square mile, and I can’t honestly remember the last time I saw any of them in a suit. It’s all changed from the Gordon Gecko days, I can tell you. Time was in the 80’s if anyone (me) walked into a bar in the city in anything less than a Hugo Boss he’d be met with howls of derision. Nowadays yer broker wears chinos and mocassins rather than sharktooths and tiepins. The level abuse is just the same though.

Besuited like Merchant Bankers . The Horrors of Excess.

Besuited like Merchant Bankers . The Horrors of Excess.

Ever-the-one to keep my finger on the pulse, just when the barrow boys were shedding their threads, I was venturing into the world of permanent suitage. I used to throw on a suit for work every now and then—usually when Black Dog was nipping round my ankles more than usual that day. My theory was that people would think I was going for an interview and therefore treat me better at work and/or give me more money. It never worked. Mind you, the theory was pretty solid: there was once a Daily Mirror photographer who regularly spread the rumour that he was being courted by The Sun, which led to a succession of gullible editors giving him a pay rise every six months. He came from the Land of the Shiny Suit, earned a fortune and drove a Rolls, chauffeured by an YTS kid. That’s what I aspired to (well, not the shiny suit) but my pathetic attempts to get my guvnors to drown me in extra dollars came to nothing. (An aside: there was once a particularly painful correspondent from a district office of a London national newspaper, again from Shiny Suit Land, who was dubbed by his colleagues the “Shite in Whining Armour”).

 

But it did teach me the power of a Whistle and Flute. You feel better in a suit. You do, I tell ya. You walk taller, bolder and more confidently. If you look like me (like a robber, rather than a robbee) it stops coppers staring at you for quite so long or people changing train compartments when you board. And, of course, you get served quicker in a boozer. You just do, and that’s a fact.

So, even given that I look like a bloke with a head transplant, five or six years ago I began wearing a suit to work daily. I’m the only bloke in the office that does, and that’s ok. It took my colleagues a while to get used to it, but it’s sorta taken as a given now. It doesn’t matter any more whether I’m going down the local, out for dinner or going for an interview. No-one ever knows. They have to guess (and they usually guess right).

My suits have a strict ranking: No.1s for special occasions, (cocktail evenings etc); No.2s :every day suits (generic pub-wear); No.3s: drinking heavily suits (Black Dog days). The order is worked out by the criteria of smartness, age and stain-resistant qualities. It is, of course, not unusual that I’m wearing my No.1s when I unexpectedly find myself drinking heavily. On such occasions I just do the best I can and call into Sketchleys in the morning.

The Author trying to turn No.1s into No.3s

The Author trying to turn No.1s into No.3s

For less than 200 of your English Pounds (about 7 Euros) you can pop into Marks, or Millets or wherever you choose and deck yerself out in something that your dad would be proud of. AND it saves your T-shirts for the weekend. Simples.
So my advice to you tomorrow is Suit-Up so you won’t look like a banker and , as it’s a special occasion, put yer No.1s on.

Nanoo Nanoo

Posted on by
1

I have a confession to make: I have a second home, and I’ve never declared it. It’s 400 yards from my place of work and , according to Google Maps (I’ll show you the photos, if you’d like), is only 5.6 miles from my first home. I SAY I’ve never declared it though many people know it’s my second home— I just haven’t declared OFFICIALLY that it’s my second home. I’m worried I’m going to get in trouble.
42-15535702
No-one TOLD me I couldn’t have a second home when I signed up for this job, I’ve always had one wherever I’ve worked, so I naturally assumed… AND it’s got Toxic Assets (well, the Lager’s particularly rank most nights). I’ve gone all Tony McNulty about it: Indignant, apologetic, pig-headed and red-faced, all at the same time. It’s a good trick if you can do it. I’d like it on record, though, that I haven’t been in there since Friday evening. So that’s ok then, isn’t it? Unlike McNulty, who appears to make money out of his second house, all I seem to do is spend tons of cash in mine. 3 pound 20 for a pint of Guinness! How the hell can you make a profit on that? At least I use mine regularly, which is more than you can say for him.

I may (probably not) stop going in there altogether, once I take delivery of my new Nano. No, not an mp3 player, it’s the world’s cheapest car, launched today out of India. For around 1,400 of your English Pounds you can drive away your very own Nano, which bears a marked resemblance to a motorized bread-bin, and is about as quick (0-60 in 23 seconds). The manufacturer , Tata (which is what you can say to your street-cred once you get in one) says it’ll do 47 miles-per-gallon. WHO CARES???? I’d rather get on the back of one of those cycle-rickshaws driven by some git in a santa hat and who pedals in 1st gear all the way. At least I’d have some Vitamin G in me to numb me on my way home.TATAMOTORS/NANO

I’m off now to shout foul, racist abuse at ethnic minorities in front of a CCTV camera. Hopefully I’ll get a contract with Max Clifford, make a fitness video and, when I finally snuff-it, will be loved and mourned by millions the world over.

Tata.

This Sporting Life

Posted on by
2

Spring has sprung,
Da grass has riz,
I wonder where da boidies is?
Da little boids is on da wing,
Ain’t that absoid,
Da little wings is on da boid.

There’s something different about this morning. It maybe that, for the first time this year, I’m able to sit in my garden with a cup of tea without the fear of losing several digits to frostbite. It may be that the new European Champions at Rugby Union are Ireland. (4th place. FOURTH!! How d’ya like THEM leeks?). It may even be that the blue tits in my garden (no, nothing to do with the cold weather) seems to at last be taking an interest in one of the several bird boxes I nailed up over the winter months.

But no, there’s a spring in my step this morning because yesterday IT arrived, just as he promised it would. It came in the post yesterday morning (well, lunchtime—my postie likes his lie-ins nowadays) and was accompanied by a piece of paper on which he’d written “Drool Away”. “He” is my long-time pal Andrew, and “it” is my ticket for the first day of the Lords Test Match against the Australians this July. YES.

I can hear monocles flying out all over Tunbridge Wells, teacups smashing in the Garrick, and a million expletives uttered under a million breaths as a large proportion of the population come to terms with the fact that the tickets are out only a lucky few will get them.

I’ve been going to the Thursday of the Lords test with Andrew for nigh on 20 years now. Through thin and thin we’ve supported England as country after country have turned up at HQ with the press predicting they’ll be over-awed by playing at the Holy of Holys, only to teach the home side a lesson in, well, pretty much everything. I think we speak about six words to each other when we’re there, and we certainly never talk during overs. It’s heaven.

Hook THAT one, yer bastard!

Hook THAT one, yer bastard!

Supporting English cricket is not for the faint-hearted or the easily-disappointed (being a Charlton Athletic fan, you’d think I’d suffered enough unpleasantness), but addict and Addick as I am, I just can’t help myself. Imagine the thrill of seeing 2 out of the first 3 Aussie batsmen get clattered on the head when they were last here. It was hilarious beyond words. We stuck it to ’em alright. So they decided to return the compliment and rout us when it was their turn to bowl.

 

It happens with an almost predictable regularity but nothing can dampen the goose-bumped optimism for my team’s chances as I pass though the gates and enter the Great Place, awaiting those flanneled fools in their Green Baggies to skip down the pavilion steps. Anyone who’s been on the Nou Camp, the Augusta National, the Oval Office or the Taj Mahal must surely recognize that feeling. (In the Taj Mahal I always order the Doipaza and the Taka Dal, very tasty, and remember, they stop serving at 11.30 sharp). Twickenham is always a bit of a disappointment—it has to be the coldest , soul-less ground on earth, and oddly The Millennium Stadium, Cardiff knocks it into a cocked hat (have I mentioned that the Welsh came in 4th?).

So now the long build-up to that great day begins: There’s the Lions Squad to be announced (PLEASE DON’T TAKE THAT POWDERED PONCE HENSON), Charlton’s Oozalum season will come to it’s inevitable conclusion, and the drone of millionaires parading round an F1 track will soon be interrupting my Sunday lunchtime pint. But I have my ticket for Lords and that means cricket’s back in town, and the world seems a better place for it.

Now where did I put my lucky jockstrap?

A terrifying site for any Ozzie batsman

A terrifying site for any Ozzie batsman

Oh My God, They’ve Found Tom!

Posted on by
Reply

British Foreign Secretary, David Miliband, wants EU countries to up their efforts in Afghanistan. There’s a feeling by the Brits (and the Yanks) that our continental partners could lend more men to the war effort. As Miliband puts it,”Some countries are doing significant amounts but other countries have got either significant caveats on the deployment of their troops or they’ve got their troops in parts of the country where there isn’t the same level of insurgency.”
In other words, European armies don’t want to get shot at. And fair enough: not being shot at is pretty high up on my to-do-list also.

lobby6

Ever since Carry on up the Khyber, Afghanistan has been a little sod to conquer. The British Empire failed to control the Mullahs, the Soviet Army got its arse kicked, and the Yanks are having a few probs with the Taliban too (who, it turns out, were supplied arms by Tom Hanks in the first place). So what are the chances that the 3rd Copenhagen Rifles or a battalion of the Luxembourg Light Horse will fare any better? It’s a scary place, the Hindu Kush, with a soldier’s life-expectancy only slightly higher than that of a diner at Heston Blumenthal’s Dead Duck.

No. Leave it to the professionals. The US did, after all, defeat Nazism single-handedly, having captured Enigma machine and deciphered Ultra, landed virtually alone on the Normandy beaches, forced Hitler to retreat from Moscow and all without a single bit of help from anyone else. Rock Hudson chewed on a huge stogey throughout the D-Day landings, Steve McQueen was the only man on either side not to have to wear a uniform, and only William Holden understood war’s cruelty and madness. In-between shagging nurses on beaches.
sinden22
The Brits were buffoons. If you were British and managed to grab a line you either sounded like Sam Kydd or Donald Sinden (right). While GI Joes were challenging strangers with the rather cool “Thunder” to get the friendly reply “Flash”, the silly Tommies used the rather more clipped “Leicester” and “Square” (pronounced “squar”). Brits were rescued from Stalags and Bulges by the the Marines or the Airborne, were always depicted holding a cuppa or downing a brown sludgy pint though buck-teeth, and sported some of the finest moustaches seen in modern warfare. And every Man Jack of them was a complete Berk. Edward Fox deserves particular credit for this one.

Alec Guinness built bridges for the Japanese, Dirk Bogarde sent Gene Hackman’s Polish Brigade to be slaughtered at Arnhem, Gordon Jackson said “thank you” when he meant “merci” and poor old Donald Pleasance couldn’t see a bloody thing. Only Richard Todd, who stormed the Pegasus Bridge ( “Up the Ox and Bucks, Up the Ox and Bucks”) gave any help at all to Ike and co. (In fairness, the actor actually WAS in the invading forces at D-Day). Richard Burton was Welsh and is therefore excluded from this conversation. But the rest? :Useless Limey wankers.

brug1

No-one, for the whole war, ever stopped for a pee. .

So perhaps the British government’s initial reluctance to attend the 65th Anniversary of D-Day is completely understandable. Miliband is only about 12 so all the movies he would have seen on the subject would show him that the Brits were never there. (In Saving Private Ryan Ted Danson does mention Monty once, as the bloke who’s cocking up everything). I wouldn’t turn up either— if I didn’t even make the end credits.

So Mr Miliband, the next time Obama asks you or your EU pals to supply more troops for Operation Certain Death, tell him you want at least 2nd billing, more and better lines and a cut of the royalties. Dunno why they need us there in the first place. We’ll only bugger it up.

A Warm Gin and a Stale Whelk

Posted on by
Reply

Following my trip down memory lane yesterday, a friend asks if my local pub was ever visited by the seafood man? Well of course it was. A rather dishevelled and smelly man (for obvious reasons) in a white coat and carrying a wicker basket who would announce his arrival in the bar with a hearty “SEAFOOD!”. We’d then queue up and by prawns (shrimps), or crabsticks (mulched shrimp) winkles, whelks or whatever, which he’d hand over in individual portions in polystyrene trays . “Pepper and vinegar, guv?” he’d ask. Now for ten points, what was the name of the bloody company he worked for? He had a blue logo on the back of his jacket. I know one of you out there will remember.

2925816003_661e405213

At the risk of dwelling too much on the past (again), it warms the cockles (geddit???) of the heart thinking back to that sort of thing. Remember when you could go for your Sunday lunchtime sharpener and the bar would be laden with Roast potatoes and sometimes drumsticks—to persuade you from going home for lunch? One pub I know (The British Sailor, Greenwich—now demolished) had the revolutionary idea that a treat need merely be a whole, raw onion chopped up and served on a ‘silver’ salver. And we stood there and ate it !!

We were thrown out of a pub on a Sunday at 2 o’clock and kicked our heels til they opened again at 7. One Sunday afternoon 6 of us went into a Pizza parlour and ordered a medium Four Seasons and 3 bottles of Mateus Rose, just to pass the time before pub opening hours.

But the seafood man and the raw onions have long gone, along with free school milk and rickets. It was a time when Twitter was what your mum did during The Big Match, Neil Kinnock was gonna be the next PM and no-one had heard of (or believed) in peanut-allergies or RSI (so not everything’s changed)

Happy days.

And now, an advert:

If you find this blog is far too tame or pub-based for your liking, please check out my mate’s blog. Want a real rant? He’s your man (and he kindly plugged me on his! So there.)

spitfire32