True Colours

Posted on June 3, 2009 by The Ed

Smiling Assassin

Has the Gonk finally done for Gordon? On the day when even the corduroy-clad hacks at the Guardian are calling for the PM’s resignation and just a day after The Home Secretary (sic) bravely ran away from office to spend more time with her old man’s porn ficks, the thieving ginger dwarf timed her moment to perfection and jumped ship just 24 hours before the government faces meltdown at the polls, throwing the reshuffle into chaos. Surely now it’s time for Gordon Brown (texture like dung) to man the barricades as No10 is rapidly morphing into Rorke’s Drift. Trouble is, not only are the Zulu’s coming to get him, but his own men (and women) are sharpening their bayonets and waiting to catch Lt Brown off his guard. The 4ft 10 (that’s about 6 cms tall for our European readers) has, as Michael White of the Guardian put it “stabbed him in the front”, and has left him mortally wounded, hemorrhaging in front of the opposition at this afternoon’s PMQs. I can hardly bear to watch. Lord Haw Haw would have been proud of her. Let’s hope she doesn’t have an accident on that motorbike.

There is no doubt that GB is a deluded, sad little soul, who’s totally misjudged every other decision he’s had to make since seizing office from Blair (who first introduced us to Smith and Blears). VAT, Gurkhas, Youtube etc etc. the list goes on. Perhaps his worst mistake was employing all these parasites and fraudulent arses around him, people who can steal taxpayers money, look the camera in the eye and tell the nation they’ve done nothing wrong. Well he’s paying for those mistakes now. He doesn’t seem particularly nasty or evil, just misguided, misbriefed and mistaken. His inability to gauge public anger over the expenses row was astonishing. It smacked of arrogance and has left him with little or no respect in the country.

Hang your head

So the gruesome twosome have sunk their fangs into his buttocks, kneed him in the goolies and buggered off just before he demoted them. Gordon may as well lock himself away with a bottle of scotch and a service-issue revolver. The headline in the Metro this morning read “The Blair Babes are Revolting” They certainly are.

Phew, Wot a Scorcha !

Posted on June 2, 2009 by The Ed

1440x900_Blue_Sky_Flowers_HM030_350A

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I resigned yesterday and that felt very good indeed.

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.

When the Boat Goes Out

Posted on May 25, 2009 by The Ed

Taylor going for the treble vodka

It is, I suppose, the reason we watch sport—for the unpredictability of it all. Unless you support Man Utd or Phil “The Power” Taylor, one thing thing is for certain: nothing is for certain. One minute you’re flying high in the Premier League, or in the Drivers’ Championship, next minute you’re laying low in the bowels of The Sinclair C5 League (South), or at the back of the grid in the world’s most expensive (and dullest) procession. Newcastle United (who, by the way, still insist that they’re a big club) went the way of all things and spontaneously combusted out of the top divison with a performance as bad as I’ve seen since I last watched Charlton play . Their fans (currently a healthy second place in the Fickle Fuckers League, behind Tottenham Chutzpah) cried openly, bereft of pride or shirts, on the terraces as another in a series of Messiahs couldn’t save the bonny wee lads.

H'away, Pet. The Toon are doon>

Meanwhile, in Monaco, a bloke called Jenson (who used to be crap) won a “race”, leaving another bloke called Lewis (who used to be brilliant) in his wake in what looked like a re-enactment of shoppers trying to find a space in Sainsburys’ car park. At Wentworth, Claire Balding, or to use her stage name, Colin Montgomery, Mr-Creosoted around the last day of the PGA finishing, roughly, 137 over-par, where in years gone by you could have bet an extra shilling that he’d be lactating up the 18th fairway as he wobbled towards the Crown. The West Indies cricket team, once the world force in the game, look like my local team could give them a run for their money at the moment (though I’ll need a couple of days more til I can walk again, let alone play), and Scotland are shit at rugby. No, wait a minute, that’s always been the case.

Am I, I hear you thinking, about to launch into a rant that sport is cyclical and that my beloved Charlton Athletic will soon, once again, be amongst the big boys? No. Not a chance. Charlton have plummeted so low that even the local MP has disowned them. No, like a decent Nicolas Cage movie or a solid stool, CAFC as a footballing force are but a distant memory.

Start the Car

The Aussies cricketers are here and appear to be in that “transition period” which journos love so much, whereas Team England are being talked up like an Minister’s Mortgage claim. Are we really all set to give they guys from Down Under what for? Alas I doubt it. Whatever has been discussed above, sporting excellence very, very rarely disappears quite so quickly, more often than not it’s a slow process of decline. Steve Williams, Tiger Wood’s caddy, when asked if his boss would be a dominant after he recovered from knee surgery replied that they “haven’t operated on his heart or his head”. Nuff said. I suppose if Tiger falls foul to as many injuries as, say, Johnny Wilkinson or Andrew Flintoff then he might end up texas scrambling around Dog Shit Park with Monty, Sandy and Jack, but this leading light is along way from being snuffed out.

Victor Borg

It’s truly sad when you watch sporting brilliance diminish through the process of age, injury or abuse. Michael Owen has been well past his sell-by date for years, Gazza, had he been handled properly, would surely have had much much more to give, and who knows if we’ve seen the best of Freddie? Let’s hope not. Whoever a “great” plays for, sport needs true class on or in the field. Perhaps that’s it, then? We cheer our own favourites through thick and thin, but the real viewing comes when the masters take the stage, and we secretly want to be enthralled by their art and skill, even if it means them giving own boys a damn good thrashing. The Tigers and the Golden Bears, the Utds and the Juves, Borgs and the Bothams, the Zidanes and Zinzans. Some of us, nay most of us never had what it takes to become a legend and can only sit in our collective underpants in front to the telly and watch in awe. Others kid themselves that, as they were in the same changing room, they were in the same class. They clearly were not.

So if your team was relegated this weekend, or your favourites have lost all form, they might be back, they might not. But they probably deserve all they got. They’re not good enough. So put your shirt back on, for Christ’s sake—you’re a fat, boozed-up, grown-up man. Stop crying and come and dine with us lesser mortals at the lower table. Yours ain’t a big club no more. And, in my memory, it never really was.

BRITAIN SOCCER

Age will not weary them

Posted on May 24, 2009 by The Ed

I had followed the same training schedule as the previous 20 years—I’d done nothing, and I’d been out for a curry and a few pints the night before. I’d packed as many surgical supports as I could fit in my kit-bag, I’d shunned a sandwich for lunch and opted for just-the-one pint (pre-hydration) before the game. But still, as I arrived at the ground for our first cricket match of the season it was clear it was going to be a long, hard day.

SE150-Cricket

My first worry was that our influential skipper was not, as is usual, inspecting the wicket or warming-up on the boundary, but was in fact on assignment in the Hindu Kush. Bugger. But good news came when someone mentioned a young-ish, fast-ish, swing bowler had been selected and was on his way. Excellent! someone to do most of the donkey-work. Then more bad news: another one of our member was stuck in traffic somewhere somewhere between the South Circular and the Guilford bypass and was gonna be late. If at all. Christ.
When we gathered in the visitors’ changing room the full horror struck me: I was 44 years old, overweight and overhung, short on muscle and hair, but long on girth and ralgex, and I calculated that at least six of my team-mates were older than me!. Admittedly a couple of them looked a good deal fitter than I did, but it was clear that I was part of the youth policy. Someone had blundered. My mood didn’t improve when the young fast bowler showed up with his leg in plaster, having gotten injured playing soccer last weekend. Oh poo.

Pic: Freefoto.com

We took the field having dragged a mate out of the pub to make up the XI. Ten of us were resplendent in albeit rather snug-fitting cricket whites, the eleventh (he who was enjoying a quiet half-gallon in the boozer til press-ganged into playing) in my spare cricket shirt, a pair of cargo pants and brown hiking boots. Less WG Grace, more WC Fields.

We bowled. I bowled. It hurt. The batsmen tucked into our bowling like Ranulph Fiennes in a Katmandu Curry House. The opening attack (myself and an Aussie called Jeff) had a combined age of 94. My eyes bled, my calves seized up, my lungs screamed and my head thumped. Between overs I stood in the outfield gasping for breath, my big fat red head sweating audibly. I looked like a fat Swan Vesta.

Catches were taken, many more were dropped. Play was occasionally punctuated by a clatter of stumps, but more often the ‘ping’ of a lump of leather coming of a plank of wood and hurtling over the boundary. One of their young guns scored a hundred as the runs flowed, lbw appeals were turned down and the fielders’ good-humoured chat, banter and yelps of HOWZAT ?? turned into coughs, moans, and yelps of pain.

At the end of their innings it was clear they’d scored approximately 100 more runs than we were happy with. But no matter. TEA! Sandwiches, pork pies (like we needed more) doughnuts (ditto) and lashings of hot tea had been provided in the pavilion. We devoured. A condemned XI’s last meal.

Our Turn To Bat

Cargo-pant guy (50-odd), now having borrowed the bottom half to his kit, took to the crease with his batting partner (who just might be under 30) and our innings began. Whack, ping, wheeze, clunk. The pair got off to a flier. If the elder of the two hadn’t pulled a muscle in his arse who knows how many more runs they could have run? But it was a great start. All the way up until it wasn’t. The young lad was bowled out when we’d scored 89.

But that was ok. Happy with that. A much better start than usual. In walked our no.3 batsman (more than 50-odd) who really did look the part. He looked comfortable at the crease (both his arse muscles were still working) and started to knock a few balls around to all parts of the field. Very much the man in form. But no sooner had we in the Pavilion got comfortable and ordered more tea when he was hit smack-bang in the face by the ball. Lots of blood. Lots. Quite put me off my fifth sarnie. Our number 11 batsman took him to hospital and we were down to 9 men again.

Our batsmen nudged and nurdled and smacked and smote the ball into gaps in the field as we crept towards the total required. Our ill-clad, aged opener scored 93— ON HIS OWN!. Gradually, two things dawned on me: a) we could win this; b) I might have to bat. Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck! Then it happened: the bloke in front of me was, disaterously, given out LBW (by the then-umpiring Cargo Man) and I was in. I protected my stumps, head and goolies and we sneaked a sharp single. My partner at the other end was caught out. Then I ran-out my next partner. Bugger. The last man in (he’d returned from delivering our man to hospital) joined me in the middle and we needed 14 to win with 2 overs left. Then 13 needed. Then 11. It was tortuous. It was pathetic. Two men who hated batting (combined age 99), swishing and swatting and limping up and down the wicket. One ball left. One run to win. SWISH, PING. The ball shot between two fielders and we ran like buggery (if buggery is very, very, slow and painful, which I suspect it is.) and we’d won. Stone me!

2 Pints

I left the field very gingerly, very sweatily and very happily. Every bone and organ ached like hell. We went to the pub. I had to sit down. Our hospitalized mate was having an x-ray and I was having a pint. Every cloud. This report was typed with the two digits I possess that can actually still move. Silly old sod.

Short Square Legs

Posted on May 19, 2009 by The Ed

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I once had a row (no, honestly) with the bloke who taught me history. He stated that nothing was inevitable. Nothing. I took issue with this and, as is my wont, argued the toss. As I recall it was in a lesson that had supposed to be dealing with the outbreak of WWI—you know the stuff: The Serbs, The Austro-Hungary Empire, Rio Ferdinand, etc etc and after we’d gone through all the build up, I had noted that war was, therefore, inevitable. A debate/row ensued as Mr Lepine (for that was his name) listed the many different ways and points in time when war could have been avoided. Nothing, he repeated again and again, is inevitable.

I only mention this as I’ve just watched our glorious leader, Mr Brown (with my mind he runs), look the camera in the eye and state that no MP who has defied the rules on their Commons expenses will be allowed to stand for election as a Labour Party candidate. Defied the Rules. Hmmmm. Has anyone out there read anything by any MP who has actually admitted to breaking or “defying” the rules? No, of course not— they’ve all made “mistakes” or “errors of judgement” but all of them, of course, were working “within the rules”. I put it to you, Mr Lepine, that it is INEVITABLE that these shitbags (or is that manurebags?) will get away with the fraud and the skulbuggery because they were acting “within the rules”. Also, just look of the smugness as one-by-one, MP after MP queue up for the BBC and Sky News as they celebrate the demise of Speaker Martin— as if we’re supposed to believe the HOC is a good clean-living honest house again. One of them (faceless tory/labour backbencher) actually said “I’m relieved that we’ve put all this behind us”.

A wee dram afore ye go ?

Inevitably (see!) Martin will be blamed for everything from trouser presses to to ghost mortgages. Between them, the election of a new speaker and Gordon turning a blind eye (oops) to the robbers in his own party AND the imminent parliamentary recess will go a long way to the disgraceful behaviour of MP’s becoming a faint memory sooner rather than later. Yes, GB will get a kick up the arse at next month’s elections, but he was gonna get that anyway. Knacker of the Yard is having meetings about having meetings about whether to meet about investigating the scandal. Sir Christopher Kelly’s Committee who are looking into the scam doesn’t report back to the house until November— that’s six months away. So we’ll be left with the corpse of Michael Martin, who seems to be carrying the can for the lot of em. Sure, Douglas Hogg is stepping down to spend more time with his moat and a couple of instantly-forgettable Labour MPs will be shown the door over their houses-that-never-were. (Why didn’t Nick Brown eat the evidence?—he seems to have eaten everything else), but the real news is that they’ve hounded out the fat wee mon, to pay for the sins of others. Dodgy little sod? Yes. The most dishonourable man in the chamber? Not even close.
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In other news, this weekend sees the start of the cricket season for yours truly— time to oil my bat, apply the liniment, strap-up the knees and squeeze into the flannels. Think of me this weekend as I wobble about a corner of a English field that is forever foreign to me, while younger types run around chasing, throwing and hitting balls. I always greet the start of a season with a mixture of glee (I get to see all my mates again in lots of nice pubs) and dread (it fvcking hurts). Thank god for the upcoming bank holiday monday—it gives me one more day to recover the power of walking after I will inevitably be asked by the skipper to bowl several overs (I reckon he’ll get two out of me). As I plummet inevitably towards my 45th birthday Captain David still believes I can bowl quick(ish) out-swingers for over-after-over. I was sure that my puny performance last season would finally prove to him that I’m fat, flatulent and fragile. My little legs no longer have the strength to carry me around at anything faster than glacial pace. I should be making the sandwiches and opening the biscuits, not opening the bowling. Season after season he cocks a deaf’un to my entreaties. Surely he’s found a 20 year-old quickie to take over the duties? Or is he really just trying to kill me? If it happens again this season I am thinking of tabling a motion of no confidence in him. I fear it’s inevitable.

Right arm over(weight)

Tomorrow belongs to the BNP

Posted on May 14, 2009 by The Ed

Pic:FreeFoto.com

How am I expected to keep up with all this? Truth is, I just can’t. Andrew MacKay and Julie Kirkbride, Elliot Morley and John Maples etc etc etc: You win. I shall revert to rants about cricket and rugby and booze and the police and shopping and gardening. Anything really other than MPs’ expense claims. You lot are much funnier than me on this anyway. The only thing that won’t be funny is that people are going to be so off-pissed with the major parties that the rascists and the loonies will gain ground at the ballot box next time round. You fraudsters and scheisters should hang your heads. And I’m sure they’ll be lots more like you along any minute.

I was once hauled up in front of the beak—a particularly nasty, petty editor— who questioned my claim for a lunch with a friend on another publication who’d helped me/us on a really big story. He’d passed me phone numbers and details without which we couldn’t keep up with the then breaking news. Partly because of his help we looked sensational when we published. I took him out one afternoon and I treated him to a curry and a pint in a local restaurant. The bill came to 70 quid, 35 of which was treating myself (I wasn’t gonna let him eat alone).
An ex-colleague once tried to claim for mileage of 40 miles for a round-trip from Canary Wharf to The Millennium Tent in Greenwich. I wondered if he’d gone via Heathrow? Claim refused. Another ex-colleague tried to put her weekly visit to the hairdressers on expenses. Her ruse was discovered and she was shown the door. I’ve been using my own camera for and at work for 6 years now as I was refused funds to claim the cost of buying it, even though my job requires one. (Guess what’s coming out the door with me when I leave?). That’s ok—it’s dead money, but I was miffed at the time. There are always swings and roundabouts in the whacky world of expenses. All trades and professions deal with this. Some we win, some we lose.
Point is, even those jolly journos who are masters of the Dark Arts of dodgy expense forms, the Shakespeares of the blank-receipt have been left open-mouthed at the scale and brazenness of the Commons’ Claims Chronicles. They’ve been out-Shakespeared and want their pound of flesh. Well they’re getting it now, by the moat-load. But if you listen very carefully you’ll hear the unmistakable sound of the BNP and UKIP Nazis marching in tight formation into Brussels and towards a council chamber near you as the undecided are conned by their rhetoric. Not so funny any more, is it?

“I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!” Peter Finch—Network

La Cage aux Fools

Posted on May 14, 2009 by The Ed

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

A Future Poet Laureate?

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

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

Yup, they look done!

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

A Great Bearded Tit

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

Have yer seen me motorbike, Gordon?

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

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

The Beast is back

I’ve Never Wronged an Onion

Posted on May 8, 2009 by The Ed

john arlott

English cricketer Graham Onions had a debut of dreams yesterday. The 26 year old was player-of-the-day at Lords as he helped England take control of the first test vrs the West Indies at Lords. But I put it to you he didn’t have as much fun as Fleet St’s headline writers:”Onions slices open..” (The Times); “Cheers and Onions” (Telegraph) “Onions Reduces Windies to Tears” (Metro) etc etc etc. I guess we should be thankful that Phil Mustard and Alan Lamb were not playing yesterday too as the sports depts would have gone into meltdown.There’s nothing a journalist or commentator likes more than a name that gives them great scope for a pun. Many a schoolboy titter was to be heard when commentator Brian Johnston announced during a match in the 1976 “The bowler’s Holding, the batsmen’s Willey” fnnarrrr fnnarrrr. Then there was the time BBC’s John Arlott (above) pondered aloud on air on the surname of New Zealand all-rounder Bob Cunis. He mused “It’s a bit like his bowling—neither one thing nor the other”. Another one from Arlott in 1947 when South African Tuffy Mann clean bowled England’s George Mann at Lord’s, Arlott was moved to say, “Ah, here’s one more example of man’s inhumanity to man.” I wonder if the guy who wrote “Onions Bags a Wicket” for this morning’s Metro aspires to be the next Arlott? Dream on.

bayleaf Anyway, back to onions: Mine are coming up just fine, thank you very much. I have plunged head-first into the exciting, giddy world of kitchen gardening this year and the row of spring onions are coming along very well indeed. As are , if you’re interested, the beetroot, the squashes, and the sweetcorn— though I’m worried about my garlic, and the tomatoes are off to a shaky start. The bay, sage , coriander, fennel, chillies and chives are well too, thanks for asking. Fact is, I’ve had so much success with my first season of seedlings that I’m already handing some of my babies out to friends and colleagues as I’ve run out of room in my little patch. The Incumbent has made room in her garden and has taken the overspill from my plot. How exciting is that?

Can I have another telly?

I was thinking of putting in an exes claim for all the topsoil I’ve bought, and then there’s that new garden hose—that set me back 30 quid. I reckon if Hazel Blears (yes it’s her again) can re-furnish three houses on expenses, Prescott bought 3 mock tudor beams on taxpayer’s money (as Harry Hill said—why is it only Tudor homes we mock?) and a (male) tory MP can claim £2.22 for tampax (no idea) then I reckon my company’s shareholders can fork out a few quid to me for several sacks of John Innes No3 Compost and and a new shovel. Jack Straw, when asked why he claimed for full council tax on one of his houses when he was receiving a 50% discount on the property, said that accountancy wasn’t his strong suit. Well I have news for you, mate: nor is politics. In a week when a Norwegian has been chased out of the country cos he wasn’t good enough at his job to manage a game between 22 overpaid, over-rated, cheating show-ponies, how is it that our politicians are left to continue their chosen profession by swindling me and you out our taxes and feathering their own nests?

Throw a brick, hit a crook

Their arrogance is staggering and, in the words of Deep Throat “it goes everywhere”. I’m not sure, but claiming to have your swimming pool heater mended, and putting through a chit for the services of a piano tuner doesn’t seem to be a correct use of an MPs expense account—yet that’s what two Tory MPs have claimed for. A piano tuner. Perhaps we should send Ballack and Drogba to the House of Commons register our displeasure—they know a thing or too about complaining. Imagine what you cold buy just with the taxes those two pay between them (they ARE paying tax, right?) More revelations are promised over the next few days but for those keeping score, Margaret Beckett‘s £1,480.84 shopping spree to Comet, when she was environment secretary, surely heads the Fantasy Cheeky Bastard League. She bought a new larder fridge, a freezer, a dishwasher, a dryer and a washing machine, and we reimbursed her. Still, as environment secretary she was probably doing her bit towards the study of CFC emissions. But I think my favourite claim was for an IKEA carrier bag: bought for 5p by a Scottish Labour MP. It writes itself, this stuff, you know.

My cleaner’s in today, I might start asking her for a receipt. Make it out for a nice round 40 quid, would you luv ?

herbs-2

We’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat

Posted on May 6, 2009 by The Ed

Captain Quint: “Japanese submarine slammed two torpedoes into our side, chief… Just delivered the bomb, the Hiroshima bomb. Eleven hundred men went into the water. Vessel went down in twelve minutes. Didn’t see the first shark for about half an hour. Tiger. Thirteen-footer. … Very first light, chief, sharks came cruising, so we formed ourselves into tight groups… you know, kind of like old squares in a battle like you see in a calendar, like the battle of Waterloo, and the idea was, shark comes to the nearest man and then you start pounding and hollering and screaming. Sometimes the shark goes, sometimes he wouldn’t go away… I don’t know how many sharks. Maybe a thousand, I don’t know how many men, they averaged six an hour.
On Thursday morning, Chief, I bumped into a friend of mine, Herbie Robinson from Cleveland. Baseball player. Boatswain’s mate. I thought he was asleep. I reached over to wake him up. Bobbed up, down in the water just like a kinda top. Upended. Well, he’d been bitten in half below the waist…Noon the fifth day…a Lockheed Ventura saw us, he swung in low… and three hours later a big fat PBY comes down, starts to pick us up…
So, eleven hundred men went into the water, three hundred and sixteen men come out and the sharks took the rest, June 29th 1945. Anyway, we delivered the bomb.”
Robert Shaw, Jaws

When the Good Ship Printjournalism was torpedoed just off the coast of Profitability thousands of journalists went into the water and huddled together in tight groups, clinging to the lifeboats of the online editions. Not too long after first light the sharks came cruising. The guys on the outside pounded and hollered and screamed and sometimes the sharks would go away…sometimes they didn’t. One by one journos were picked off and sank to a watery grave. There just wasn’t room for everyone in the lifeboats.

Steady as she goes, Number 1

Similar stories of carnage are commonplace across hundreds of professions—shops and stores are shut down while the company continues trading online with a fraction of the staff. Tens of thousands of workers in small factories, dispatch depts, counting houses, accounts offices and production lines have been let go as technical advances in web transactions and processing speeds have left many redundant. Business and Commerce have caught a cold before, but this is a pandemic.

We can’t walk around with hammers like 21st Century Luddites; We can’t uninvent the wheel or even the web—not that anyone wants to—we just need Baldrick’s Cunning Plan and the nouse to navigate the way ahead. The way we work and live is changing so fast that those of us still shooting film and playing 45s are often taken by surprise by the mp3 generation, but we can (and do) sit, watch and marvel at the little bits of the New World we manage to understand. I know how to work an ipod, for example, and I’m aware of Google (and who he plays for). If it wasn’t for Tim Berners-Lee‘s pretty smart idea you wouldn’t be reading this. The web can also be entertaining.

But there’s plenty of collateral damage in this Guerre du Gigabyte. Those once-merry stokers belowdecks on HMS Old Media are having to rethink and retrain as the ship is holed below the water line and the lifeboats are manned by a new breed of young whizz-kids and tech-heads. Some of the old seadogs are lucky enough to have been thrown an oar and asked to keep rowing— trouble is there used to be three-times the men manning the rollocks. Some are asked to row, steer and chart a course all at the same time. Shore leave gets cancelled or reduced as the Admiralty hasn’t left itself a full ship’s compliment. The few who are left keep schtum (on the whole) for fear of being tossed overboard. Many of the others already in the water were hit by the Credit Crunch Tsunami before they had a chance to get their Mae Wests on. Many a bloated and battered body of an ex-journo has been washed up on the shores of the world’s job centres.

Having spent too long in the water, survivors emerge bloated and wrinkly

Newspaper and magazine publishers invest more and more cash into their online vessels while barely pumping the bilges of their old, ailing craft. They tell us that one day soon the advertisers will change tack, buy some ads (online or in print—we don’t mind) cruise over in their big, fat PBY and fish us out of the shark-infested waters of recession, but I see no ships. Til then we’re surrounded by friends and colleagues bobbing up and down in the water, having been bitten in half below the waist by an HR missive, or a redundancy notice. Sooner or later someone will realise they can’t leave the tiller in the hands of the Unable Seamen and Very Petty Officers, the green and the graceless. But I fear by the time that it dawns on them all the old hands will be enjoying their grog in Davey Jones’ Lock-in.

Thankfully there are still some Captains willing to hand out commissions but there are not nearly enough lifejackets to go round. The Fleet has been scuppered after nearly 300 years of ruling the waves while across the journalism’s seven seas newspaper after newspaper takes a hit and goes under with all souls lost. Anyway, we delivered the bomb.

Farewell and adieu unto you Spanish ladies,
Farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain;
For it’s we’ve received orders for to sail for old England,
But we hope very soon we shall see you again.

The Sharp Single

All Done

Category Archives: Journalism