Very Passable

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Ah Christmas ! That time of year when you end up drinking with people you don’t like, in bars you don’t like and getting presents you don’t like from people you don’t know. Yes: the office lunch. Secret Fucking Santa.

Is there any more gruesome event than sitting in the back room of some local office pub-ette, around a table with ten people you wouldn’t otherwise share a cup of oxygen with outside of the work environment, sipping gently at your half pint of shandy (you don’t want to give the wrong impression, do you?), resplendent in your paper hat and unwrapping a “gift” bought half an hour ago from the nearest corner shop, wrapped up in haste in the stationary cupboard with an internal envelope and presented to you between the fucking Yule log and the fucking filter coffee as some sort of token of your colleagues’ affection?

You explode into fits of mock laughter and your cheeks turn scarlet as you unwrap the clockwork hopping-and-singing willy. Those gathered burst into fits of laughter and immediately demand to know which “sick bastard” bought that ? Of course no-one owns up – it wouldn’t be called Secret Fucking Santa otherwise, would it ? Strangely, nobody seems to mind owning up to who ordered yet another round of Asti Sodding Spumante to wash down this lovely Yuletide fare.

The only thing on your mind is when would be the very earliest you could decently make your excuses and leave to find a proper pub with proper company with whom to share your Happy Holiday Humour.

Fortunately, the life of a freelancer (yes I’m still calling myself that, flying in the face of all reason) precludes me having to attend such events. Not spending long enough in the office means you rarely get invited out with the staffers, or if you do you can always employ the temp worker’s air of mystery by having to go “meet someone” or “see a man about a dog”. Then you can sod off to whichever dark and dusty boozer you choose til the heat is off and the lunch is over.

Office lunches, at whatever time of year, should be either spent standing at the bar with a few carefully selected chums or , at worst, at your desk munching on a Pret-a-Manger All Day Breakfast sarnie while catching up with emails or reading the sports pages.

Oh did I say ? Happy Christmas everyone.

Vodpod videos no longer available.

Don’t Say I didn’t Warn You

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Sydney Morning Herald, http://www.smh.com.au, Dec 7th 2010

England’s thumping of Australia in the second Ashes Test nearly sparked a different type of thumping between veteran cricket rivals Ian Botham and Ian Chappell in Adelaide.

The English knight and the Aussie had to be dragged apart after reportedly clashing in the Adelaide Oval car park.


The two men, who are said not to have spoken to each other since 1980 despite being regular cricket commentators at the same events, squared up as Botham waited to be picked to go to the airport, Britain’s Daily Mail reported.

Chappell, from Channel Nine, “muttered something highly provocative as he went past”, reported the paper, and Botham, from Sky, snapped: “What did you say?”

They dropped their bags and “went for each other” before being separated by their colleagues from Channel Nine and Sky.

“It could have got very nasty if there hadn’t been people on hand to keep them apart,” a Channel Nine source was reported as telling the Mail.


“They reacted quickly because we all know the history between these two. They might be aged 55 and 67, but neither of them are the type of people to give an inch in the face of conflict.”

Vaguely similar to The Sharp Single’s “It is Written” Dec 30 2009:

Brisbane…

Ian Botham arrested pending inquiries into an alleged incident in the bar afterwards which leaves 6 members of the Aussie press corps needing treatment. Four (empty) cases of Shiraz and a cricket stump are bagged and sent to forenics.

Surely…?

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Leslie Nielson. Silly sod.

“The reason they call it ‘golf’ is that all the other 4 letter words were used up.”

“You’re excited? You should feel my nipples.”

“She had a full set of curves, and the kind of legs you’d like to suck on for a day.”

“I like my sex the way I play basketball, one-on-one with as little dribbling as possible.”

“Like a midget at a urinal, I was gonna have to stay on my toes.”

“That’s right isn’t it? Signal yes by shooting yourself in the head three times.”

“The life of everyone on board depends upon just one thing: finding someone back there who can not only fly this plane, but who didn’t have fish for dinner.”

“I’ll deal with that later. Right now I want to find out what happens to the duck.”

“No, crazy is walking down the street with half a cantaloupe on your head, muttering ‘I’m a hamster, I’m a hamster.'”

“All I know is never bet on the white guy.”

“I’ve been like a father to you! I raised you, just like your father did! I believed in you, just like your father did! I slept with your mother, just like your father did.”

Snow Patrol

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Thanks go to Mrs Hunter of SE23 for pointing me in the direction of this little gem.

bbc.co.uk

Woman dials 999 to report snowman theft in Kent

3 December 2010

A woman who dialled 999 to report the theft of a snowman from outside her home has been branded “completely irresponsible” by Kent Police.

The force said the woman, from Chatham, thought the incident required their involvement because she used pound coins for eyes and teaspoons for arms. During the call the woman said: “It ain’t a nice road but you don’t expect someone to nick your snowman.”

(click on the pic to go to the bbc page and listen to the call)

Kent Police said officers had given her advice on real 999 emergencies. The force said the call was made at the same time as operators fielded thousands of other phone calls about the heavy snowfall and sub-zero temperatures in the county.

During the conversation she said: “There’s been a theft from outside my house.

“I haven’t been out to check on him for five hours but I went outside for a fag and he’s gone.”

When she was asked who had gone, the woman replied: “My snowman. I thought that with it being icy and there not being anybody about, he’d be safe.”

She was then asked whether it was an ornament, and answered: “No, a snowman made of snow, I made him myself.”

“It ain’t a nice road but at the end of the day, you don’t expect someone to nick your snowman, you know what I mean?”

The operator then told her she had rung an emergency line and she should not be calling it to report the theft of a snowman. Ch Insp Simon Black said: “This call could have cost someone’s life if there was a genuine emergency and they couldn’t get through.

“It was completely irresponsible. We have spoken to her and advised her what is a 999 call, and this clearly was not.”

Ashes to Ashes

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freephoto.com

Dearly Beloved…

Ever go to a funeral (at a crematorium) when the vicar’s opening gambit was “Christ that’s cold outside, much warmer in here” ?  I did yesterday.

Ever been to one where a whole row of the congregation spontaneously burst into laughter when the organist opened up with “The Lord’s My Shepherd” ?  Don’t ask me why but that’s what happened at the service where I was.

At any of the funerals which you’ve attended in the past, did any of the mourners talk loudly about last night’s television throughout the vicar’s opening address, completely drowning out what he had to say about the deceased ? Or did any think wearing white puffer jackets was de rigueur ? Again, some of those gathered yesterday did.

I’ve watched comedy shows or movies where a hapless hero rushes in late to a funeral service, makes a kerfuffle coming through the door, prompts the back row of the mourners shuffle along the pews, and plonks himself down to listen to the service. Three minutes later he still hasn’t seen anyone or heard anything vaguely relevant to the deceased and it dawns on him that he’s at the wrong service. He leaps to his feet and exits (noisily) back out of the door from whence he came to find the correct chapel of rest. Classic Richard Curtis-type stuff and as hackneyed a sit-com scene as they come. Except this is exactly what happened at this very same funeral yesterday, I kid you not. I looked at The Incumbent, but she dared not catch my eye for fear of giggling. I scanned the room for hidden cameras.

Things started to calm down a bit so I could stop biting my lip. The vicar delivered a lovely service, eulogy, whatever before he read the Committal. As he made his speech of send-off, the curtains gradually drew closed on the coffin and he committed the poor soul’s body to the ground. This is a particularly painful and emotional moment at any funeral service. Certainly was yesterday as he got the deceased’s name completely and utterly wrong. Presumably he was reading from the day before’s notes. I gripped tightly onto The Incumbent’s hand, my eyes snapped shut.  An audible gasp swept through the congregation.

Outside in the rose garden afterwards it was as if nothing had happened. Old ladies thanked the vic for a “luvverly service”, people commented on how wonderful it was that so many had come “to see the old girl off” (though no mention was made of mystery late arrival who didn’t appear to still be here). The missus and I suggested that it had been a service fit for Dick Emery. That fell on deaf ears.

But that’s the thing about funerals: as miserable as you are (or as one supposes you are) there are rarely few repercussions or altercations following what went on during the service. Tell a dodgy joke at a wedding, or get the bride’s name wrong and there’s a massive punch-up in the car park. But at a funeral, wear something more appropriate for a snowboarding weekend than for burying your nan, or commit the body of Violet Hodgson to the ground, when body is that of Elsie Thwaites then you’re all invited back to the house “for a nice cup of tea”.

“Now let us stand and sing our last hymn : “Down Down, Deeper and Down”



Anatevka

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So we’re making progress. The advert is in and the dustman are on steroids.  The house has never look tidier although, to be honest, that’s no great boast. But everything is heading in the right direction, if not quite at ramming speed, then at a very jaunty pace.

As you know, Railway Cuttings is to be put up for rent as the company,  Sharp Single International Holdings (UK Ltd) seeks to consolidate its position in the market. Last week the agent came round to assess the estate. It’s a nervous time, renting your house. Will other people see it as you do ? Will they ignore all the little imperfections and those little-jobs-you-were-going-to-get-around-to-but-never-managed-to ? The door to the barn is hanging off its hinges and the mock tudor gabling atop of the east wing still needs attention for a touch of rot, but otherwise my man was quite impressed.

The drainage in the lower field is still a problem, but only the keenest of eyes would spot it. Seven of the nine bedrooms are in excellent order, he said, and of other two he said the fact that one contains a gin distilling apparatus and the other a bowling machine with practise net shouldn’t be too off-putting to prospective tenants.

“You never know, Mr B,” he chuckled “we might find an alcoholic cricket nut?”
“I doubt if there’s another one in the area” I sighed.

The duck house was, he thought, a rather charming feature and once the moat and the gravel drive had had a little de-clagging then he couldn’t see any reason why the property shouldn’t fly off the shelf. He took a couple of snaps and left me to my chores, while he contacted Country Life to negotiate an acceptable rate for a display ad, hopefully opposite the Girl with Pearls. He’s suggested putting an advert in House and Hound but I thought that would be just a little pretentious.

OscarAdvert

So for the worst part of a week now that’s what I’ve been doing : de-clagging. I read somewhere that to make your house more attractive to buyers you should remove every third item from the shelves, bookcases and kitchen. Apparently it gives the impression of space and cleanliness, a minimalist look that’s so popular these days. Hmmm ok.  I decided that I’d remove every other item on show. I’m moving out anyway so the more I remove now the less work for me later on.

Out went the stack of old newspapers I’d been keeping “just in case” (you remember newspapers, right?). Off the walls came the hat collection, gathered from around the world and my travels on eBay, and hung on hooks to cover unsightly marks, scratches or stains. But I did need to keep something on the walls – to make it look lived-in and homely- so I left hanging my display of memorabilia from the 1947 Cup Final – Charlton Athletic 1-0 Burnely (aet)- and my framed Derek Underwood jockstrap.

Hidden from sight was the, now I come to look at it, worrying-looking collection of exotic, once opened booze bottles – the type that you have a crack at late on Boxing Day when there’s nothing else left (and then hurriedly replace the stopper): Greek gin, Spanish vodka and Japanese scotch, Pink Cloves, Jamaican ouzo and grappa. Some of it donated to the cause over the years, and some collected by myself at some time, somewhere and in a some heightened state of optimism that it’d taste just as delicious as it did when that dodgy waiter served it to me during that summer holiday all those years ago. No, the bottles definitely had to be put away. Not disposed of, you understand, just hidden. Well, you never know, do you?

Some of this stuff MUST be drinkable

The first swoop through the house was pretty successful, if a little tiresome and depressing. Thanks to staying up all hours to watch the Ashes cricket in Australia (you knew I’d get to it in the end, didn’t you ?) I’ve been suffering from sleep deprivation and there are early signs of exhaustion. Usually the English are so piss-poor that after the first match I could ignore the rest of the series, but it seems that the Aussies are rather less than average this time out so I fear I shall feel like this for the next 6 weeks.

So I wasn’t in the best of condition to lug dirty great bags of rubbish to-and-from the attic to the rubbish bin outside. Poor bloody dustmen. I trudged through the house carrying two bin-liners: one for stuff for the tip, the other for eBay (they’re pretty much interchangeable), in my semi-conscious state dreaming of Australian wickets to the soundtrack of Fiddler on the Roof. I snapped myself out of my malaise. It’s not as if the Tsar’s Cossacks are running me out of my little dwelling but the Tossacks from Natwest surely will if I don’t make other arrangements soon, so moving out before the bailiffs move in is by far the best plan of action.

But nevertheless I can’t say it made for happy work. When you systematically go through each and every item in your home you find yourself dwelling over the history of it and the enjoying memories for several minutes, before stuffing it into one bag or the other. Most bits you find, of course, turn out to be complete crap and something you haven’t thought about, let alone looked at for several years. It’s a time for that good clear-out you always promised yourself, but it’s still a less-than satisfying thing to do, if for no other reason that you realise just how much useless shite you’ve accumulated over the years.

The exciting news, of course, is that the new property is taking shape. The Incumbent is, as I write, overseeing work on The Sharp Single’s new HQ down in the pretty little hamlet of Dartford. Unfortunately somehow we managed to hire the firm of Hamza and Hawking to carry out the refurbishments of the new offices and they are less than perfect. If you poke your head out of the window and listen hard you may be able to hear the squeals of pain as The Incumbent inserts a spirit level into Mr Hawking.  The Incumbent doesn’t suffer fools gladly (she makes allowances for me, bless her) and these cowboy builders obviously didn’t realise there was a new Sheriff in town. If by the end of the day they’re not strung up by their plumb-lines I shall be very surprised.

For those of you who don’t know it, Dartford is in the heart of the county of Kent in the South East of England. Set amid rolling hills of fabulous English countryside, it is famous for The Peasants’ Revolt (tick), hop fields (tick tick) and for being the main escape route out of Essex (tickety tick tick).

Inshallah,  the 2011 Sharp Single will be published from its new premises, a huge purpose-built, neo-Georgian villa complete with billiards room, a nine-hole putting green and bar. From my desk (I’ve been allocated the potting shed) I shall enjoy the grand vistas of the oast houses, apple orchards and cement works of the surrounding area which some critics aren’t already calling the most exiting and up-and-coming town east of Erith. There is, of course, ample parking.

So now I sit and I wait for the phone to ring. I imagine in a week or two there will be a long queue forming outside of people eager to rent this undes-res. I envisage scenes akin to Shallow Grave as I carefully select my first tenants. It might be fun. It could be tortuous. It will be another story.

In Bed with Ingrid

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I remember catching my first glimpse of Ingrid Pitt. Back in the early-70s I was given my first tv set which I’d be allowed to keep in my room. It was a black and white, 6 inch, (analogue, kids) metal-clad affair with a dirty great carrying handle on top. My parents had, after some lobbying from yours truly, bought it for Christmas one year with the express orders that, not only should I watch it every night between 9pm (beddie-byes time) until I could no longer keep my eyes open, but that I should thrash myself within an inch of my life while doing so, when appropriate. Well that’s how I remember it anyway.

It took me a good few months to realise that the tv came with a tiny earphone-jack which would enable me to watch The Sweeney, I CLAVDIVS or The Beguiled without giving the game away to my parents in the next door bedroom. I didn’t actually own any headphones, so guess what was on my Christmas list the following year ? That’s right – an England football shirt.

Back in those heady, sweaty days, there was no internet to amuse me, and no dvd players. The home video age was still several years away. You could buy video recorders but they were the size of Belgium and when played dimmed the street lights outside. So we were left to the whims of the tv executives who decided when and what we were to watch on a Tuesday night from the comfort of our three-piece suite or, in my case, under the blankets in bed. (A duvet was known in my house as a “continental quilt” and I’d have to wait a few years yet to get my bum under one.)

And it was through this tv that I became aware of Ingrid. This blonde, buxom bird who’s face (and often much more) was projected onto my little black and white screen during the hours of darkness. This woman was magnificent. This woman was gorgeous. She was sexy. And she seemed to be in every other movie that I managed to see.

I was only interested in two types of movie: War and Horror (note the distinction). War because, obviously, there was a lot of shooting of Germans to be had. Horror because at some stage during the 90 minutes you could guarantee that some victorian wench would end up starkers and screaming for her life as her blouse was ripped from her lithe, white flesh and she was ravaged by someone in an unconvincing werewolf outfit (where were those bloody  headphones ?). Anton Diffring was in all the war movies, Ingrid Pitt was in all the horrors. (They were both in Where Eagles Dare)

As I’d yet to experience any homo-erotic tendencies towards masculine, blue-eyed Germans (and I’m still waiting), my affections lay with Ingrid. Even if I couldn’t. And why not ? Look at the picture at the top of this story. It’s a studio still from Vampire Lovers – the erotic goth horror classic. Ingrid’s on the far left. How sexy is she ?? She didn’t squeak annoyingly like Madeline Smith and didn’t scare the bejesus out of me as did Kate O’Mara. No, Ingrid was the one for me. I spent those nights listening to her soft sensual Swedish voice (well, how was I supposed to know she was actually Polish?) and hoping that soon all her clothes would fall off. I never had to wait long, bless her.

So now sadly, at the age of 73, she has gone upstairs to meet up again with Peter Cushing, Vincent Price and the rest. Perhaps her and Anton Diffring will relive old times ? She might even let Richard Burton’s Broadsword finally meet her Danny Boy.

…and now a word from our sponsor:

Don’t Look, Ethel

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(Yes yes yes, it’s cricket again – but you’ll like this one)

I think if I ever had to face an Australian fast bowler I’d ask for a blindfold. ‘England’ batsmen Kevin Pietersen has a go at facing a bowling machine, cranked up to serious speeds. He’s pretty good at it. Perhaps that’s the answer, KP ?