JW10

Scandinavian themes

2012-01-28T02:51:00.011Z

The bankrupt Swedish car manufacturer, SAAB (Swedish acronym: Svenska Aeroplan AkiteBolaget), has had its loans repaid to the European investment bank by Sweden’s debt office. This move will make it easier for a would-be buyer as the Swedish government is now one of the major creditors in the company.

Never having owned a SAAB I have no emotional ties about their demise. When talking of SAAB I always seem to call them SAB. The extra A seems convoluted, almost like a filler track on a record. The difficulty of pronouncing SA-A-B means that it can be prolonged into a bout of SA-A-A-A-B’s. It is hard to stop the A’s flowing. It feels as if you’re at the doctor’s surgery.

SAAB is almost an anagram of Sweden’s most famous export: ABBA. If only Bjorn (Ulvaeus) was called Sven or Benny (Andersson) was called Sammy they could have rearranged the initials into SAAB or SABA or ABSA or BAAS. As these non-palindrome capitals trip off the tongue the band might have met their Waterloo early in their career. As it was,with the moniker ABBA they flew high becoming immensely popular. Nothing lasts forever (as the two divorces in the group prove) and ABBA are now in the history books where they are joined by their compatriots, SAAB.

On their frequent appearances on Top of the Pops it was always Agnetha for me: Agnetha the blonde. Good as the band were she was the stand-out. She looked pretty, pretty, pretty good. As a youngster, this was my pre-rock period and while I’m now a fully-fledged, devilish head banger, I will admit to singing, if I could find a willing female accompaniment, some SAABBA songs at karaoke. So many good tunes to pick from.

January in the Falklands

2012-01-19T13:37:00.005Z

Much preferring to work in the field than in the office, when Rockhopper Exploration offered me the chance of sailing to an offshore rig in the waters of the Falklands Islands to report on the progress of its oil discoveries, I could not say no. Bye, bye paper clips, hello drill pipes.

The voyage was as uneventful as an episode of Last of the Summer Wine. We waved to the Canary Islanders; we bisected the Equator and languished in the doldrums before reaching the giant Sea Lion oil field just off the Argentinean coast. I cried “Rule, Britannia!” before stepping off the boat. Clumsily, I slipped into the South Atlantic. To my horror nobody noticed, they were too busy with their important oil related business to worry about me. Everybody vanished inside the rig to their charts, memos and kettles.

I remembered I couldn’t swim. This was hairy and scary at the same time. Somehow, I rode the foaming surfs and ran through miles of freezing water to reach land. Totally totalled I lay on the shore with the icy Tyson wind biting my ears. I knew I had to make it inland to shelter

With leaden legs and disorientation I went metric; I struggled through kilometre after kilometre of rugged landscape. The cold did give me one fringe benefit. I needed to sneeze. Sneezing is almost as good as sniffing tractor magazines. Although one goes out and one goes in the euphoric effect is the same. You can’t beat some ins and outs. I let the sneeze grow from its embryonic state. My eyes were half-open, my mouth half-closed, my eyebrows were scrunching, my body tensed, my nose was quivering at first then rattling as the Richter Scale was rising. Then…nothing. It was a false alarm sneeze.

Distraught, I laboured on as my strength was diminishing by the second; I could have used some of Rockhopper’s oil. Fortune threw me a lifeline. A short distance away I saw a tent. Using the last of my energy I entered the cabin of canvas.

My eyes were blinded by the brightness of the inside somewhat though I could see the outline of a sleeping bag on the floor. Exhausted, I crawled into the bag and it occurred to me that there was another human being beside me. My eyes became accustomed to the tent and all I could see was pink. My sleeping partner awoke and said.
“Hello sailor boy! You’re my first foot.”

Voilà! Two turtle doves

2011-12-10T20:45:00.012Z

A standard Christmas present bestowed by benign aunts is the humble and common handkerchief. They obviously feel that you can’t go wrong with this, as this gift is tailor made for men in a one size fits all. The hankie caters for the wide ranges in length and runniness of noses. The hankie is not just for Christmas as it can be blown all year round. I eagerly await this season’s offering.

For jailbirds this would be the ideal present. Gathering a few years worth and tying all the hankies together they’d be able to clamber down the wall outside the window of their cell. What they do afterwards, I don’t know? I’m not a prison break out specialist.

As with all things there is an up range market. Handkerchiefs are no different. M & S might be OK for the common people, in upper salons there are firms that make expensive bespoke silk chiefs. Only the very rich use this for nasal ejection purposes. More properly it is used as a fashion accessory in the breast pocket of a suit jacket.

There are many varied ways to tie a handkerchief.
· The Presidential, perhaps the simplest, is folded at right angles to fit in the pocket.
· The TV Fold looks similar but is folded diagonally with the point inside the pocket.
· The One-point Fold is folded diagonally with the point showing.
· The Two-point Fold is folded off-center so the two points do not completely overlap.
· The Puff is simply shaped into a round puff.
· The Reverse Puff is like the Puff, except with the puff inside and the points out, like petals.
· The Straight Shell is pleated and then folded over to give the appearance of nested shells.
· The Diagonal Shell is pleated diagonally and then folded.
(Thanks to Wiki for the folding methods described)

A cousin of mine, son of the hankie-present-giving aunt, swears by his hanky. He does. Like a second home switching MP, he mutters in anger “Flipping hankie”. My cousin is never seen without a hankie stuck to his face. He constantly blows his nose even when the tubes are plainly empty. The sounds emitted when he’s orchestrating his nostrils vary in pitch and tempo. He can rattle off a foghorn bugle then deliver a larghissimo of low timbre only the wolves can make it out.

And not for him the beautiful folding practices previously said. The used chief goes straight into the trouser pocket without a bye or a leave. The crumpled utensil will reappear at the next hint of a blockage. This time covered in the sticking crumbs from the threads of his pocket.

Once upon a time this disgusting implement of his was used for a different function altogether. At a gathering of family members my sister in-law broke one of her fingernails in an unhappy accident with a can of Irn-Bru. I could relate with my relation to this misadventure as breaking a nail can be distressing. She cried in anguish. Quick as a sneeze, in steps the chivalrous cousin offering his soiled piece of cotton to wipe away the tears.

BARRY THE BRONTOSAURUS 1.2

(Guy) Forget Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, remember Gottfried and Ramírez

2011-12-05T02:08:00.009Z

Anyone who knew me thirty years ago would tell you I was crazy about tennis. I used to play all the time with the inevitable result that I got better. Not having a strong serve didn’t hinder me as I was very quick around the court. I wouldn’t give up on any point and would return most shots that others would have let pass. Soon I was running out of players to play as I guess my regular opponents lost heart and through lack of challenge I drifted from the sport. Since then I have had sporadic games with various friends and colleagues.

One thing I did back then which seemed unusual was that when I played table tennis I played left-handed. I play tennis right-handed. I’m not sure how this came about. Mostly I’m right-handed. The only other thing I do with my left is play guitar, badly I might add. My table tennis ability is average. Losses are dismissed with the “I play with this hand to give you a chance” excuse.

Years later another sporting great changed hands, so to speak. Brian Lara was, at his peak, the best cricketing batsman in the world. He was left-handed. However, when he played golf (Why? For heaven’s sake) he used right-handed clubs. His reasoning was that he didn’t want his golf swing to impair with his natural talent for swinging a cricket bat. Maybe subconsciously that’s why I played TT using the “wrong ’un”. However, the script didn’t quite work out for me. If this were a musical blog: cue violins.

I’m not hung up about it even though in my prime I know I’d have had Andy Murray screaming blue murder as I whip him. In my days wooden racquets were the weaponry employed. I had a Slazenger bat that I wrapped with black masking tape to emulate my hero, Bjorn Borg and his famous Donnay racquet. See, there I go rabbitting on about tennis as if it’s 1981. Thanks for reading my rabbit. For the montage lovers this is a superb editing video. Included in this clip is the old love of my life, the minor tennis princess herself: Andrea Temesvari. Check her out at the 2.10 mark or thereabouts.

The Bucket List #2 - An element of danger

2011-11-23T13:06:00.008Z

Most of us like a nice, quiet, safe life, this is quite normal. However, as the clock ticks on and the natural time span for a body runs out it would be good to try and rock the boat of boredom to tornado levels. There’s a latent daredevil in me that wants to live life just a little bit fuller.

About the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done is venture onto a roller coaster. I get quite a buzz from the spins and descents while at the back of my mind I know the ride is perfectly safe or it should be anyway. Doing perilous stunts or extreme sports would take training and I can’t be bothered with all that. My idea of danger is to use the lazy route. What I’d like to do is walk along a rickety wooden bridge or a slender path at the side of a mountain.

A treacherous bridge is a man-made nightmare and I’d love to slink along a swaying crossing without holding onto the handrail. Wild waves of water would be underneath me and me being a non-swimmer makes it more interesting. Ideally, the precarious bridge would be in a remote location. Trying to navigate the broken and missing slats would be a nerve-wracking experience. Fun and dangerous at the same time.

Then there’s the mountain passes. I’ve seen films where trains travel round mountains with a sheer drop on one side. Trains are good but it would be a more cliff-hanging adventure doing it by foot. The narrower the trail the better. Walking along crumbling ground underfoot as the sun burns down on me with no shade, no hat, and no water while the sharp rocks in the depths below lick their lips in anticipation of a fall, would be exhilarating. The twin dangers of dehydration and vertigo are in full flow, both vying to make this the last Bucket List. It’s only a matter of time before…

Right enough, already. Repeat the first line of the blog and stop.

Keeping Whizz out in front

2011-11-19T20:30:00.009Z

As the economic crisis shows no sign of abating this is a boom time for business blog sites. There are millions of websites out there offering advice and analysis of the global financial problems facing investors and creditors alike. When we first started we had a choice between writing about monetary matters or science. With current affairs programmes and news bulletins awash with the latest disaster affecting the financial world, it looks like we made the right decision. I don’t think they even teach science in schools nowadays.

We can’t rest on our laurels, though. We have to continue to present a fresh and different outlook that can blow away our competitors. It’s a cut-throat business the business blog business. Many respected pages have already passed into history. I chaired the monthly meeting where we could discuss and possibly implement new measures to keep ten steps ahead of the opposition.

In attendance were myself, the sub-editor and my secretary. Before we go any further my secretary is the hard-working lady in the header. She seems destined to be forever climbing the paper mountain. She is called Hillary. Her parents named her after Edmund Hillary, I’d guess. The sub-editor shall remain nameless. Here are some selected minutes from said meeting.

Sub: Why don’t we sell advertising space on this page?

Me: We’ve went through this before. I’m not selling out to shady organisations like the Olive Oil group. If we let them in just even one little bit, they’ll swallow us up like they did the Marmot Foundation and we’ll be nothing but a subsidiary.

Sub: Cool, then I’d be a subsidiary sub-editor.

Hillary: Has anyone seen the Expat United file? I thought I’d logged it under blue chip companies.

Me: Hillary, come down from there for a minute. Go. Jump. I’ll catch you.

(She jumps. I catch her. Don’t tell Mrs W)

Sub: Horoscopes are the future. We should publish a weekly chart with good news for all twelve star signs.

Me: No way. This website has always dealt in hard truth. At no time have we strayed into fantasies and I’m not going to start now. If we take our eye off the ball for a second and start making things up, the readership would never forgive us.

Sub: OK then, what about a cartoon strip? All newspapers have them.

Me: Too expensive. Have you seen the prices for one of the big franchises? It costs a bomb to run a Hagar the Horrible strip. As for Sylvester and Tweetie-Pie, forget it. That darned canary and his exotic islands would bankrupt us.

Hillary: Why don’t we make our own? After all, we have always prided ourselves on our originality.

Me: Hillary, I think I love you. (Don’t tell Mrs W)

BARRY THE BRONTOSAURUS 1.1

If only I had Coppola's lens

2011-11-14T03:41:00.011Z

It’s easy to blame Twitter for everything so I won’t. It’s all mobile phones’ fault. Mobiles that take photographs have contributed to the dying art of philography.

Most of the young upcoming stars of music, film and TV can barely write their name. They don’t need to. Nobody is interested in autographs anymore. Yes, there are still the die-hard collectors out there but they’re in the minority. It’s more rewarding to get a snapshot of the celebrity. Even better if the star agrees to have you in the picture.
Lately, I’ve came across some crashing bores that boast of their conquests-

· This is me with Madonna
· I’m in the middle of Nicole and Tom from when they were an item
· Shaq’s not so big. Look I’m up to his shoulders

The days of the big game autograph hunter are numbered. What use is a Richard Widmark scribble when your friend has a photo of himself having a scramble with Beyonce? Mama, put my pens in the ground, I don’t need them anymore.

As a non-mobile phone user I arm myself with a camera that I found in a drawer. My quest is to take a picture of me with a big star. I wanted to be known as the next Peter Parker. I wandered the alleys and highways looking for my big break. So far, my scoop had eluded me. I ended up in a dingy public house on the outskirts of town. To my disbelief the place was empty save for two men sitting at a table in the corner.

It was Robert De Niro and Al Pacino.

I go over and we shoot the breeze. Jack Nicholson’s a phoney, I say. Bobby and Al agree. How about a three amigos shot, I ask. Certamente, says Al. I don’t know if he’s calling me Shirley or not, it doesn’t matter. I call the barman over to take the shot.
Ok, here we go, wait until the five-a-side team sees this.

“It’s not working there’s no batteries in this...thing” says the barman.
The two hoods are displeased. Before I get whacked, I’m outta there in a flash.

Just for CI. A smouldering Bardot or Bardo, whatever.

Glory days in the second division

2011-11-05T04:10:00.013Z

It’s not just celebrities that write autobiographies, there will be a day when a non-entity, like a blogger for example, publishes his/her life story on paper, and with astute marketing and a bit of luck it will sell like cement. The book won’t even need to have the boring background material in it. The story could centre on just one event. A ski-lift journey, the first time you encountered hot water or tuning in the radio and having the bottle to listen to the police messages. You see every one has a book in them.

And I laboured long in thought, cranium Chronos-like, before the brain epidural concluded that nothing of great interest had ever happened to me. The autobiography would have to wait until a page-turning significant experience manifested itself into the drudgery of my existence. As a would-be writer this was a rebarbative circumstance that shelled me like Hypatia, the last librarian of Alexandria. Ikea! This little-known cataloguer of expiry dates gave me an idea for a book.

Sadly, my other commitment, the musical I’m working on, had to be put on ice, so to speak. However I was excited about the prospect of writing a full-length magnum opus. If my autobiography would be a DeLorean in print there was nothing stopping me writing a Dino de Laurentis biography of someone else instead. Not for me the usual suspects. I wanted to write about a minor figure in history. If you look past the chieftains there are some really interesting underlings.

Step forward with your wooden racquet: Victor Pecci

Victor Pecci was a Paraguayan tennis player that strode through the circuit like a second rate Colossus in the late 70’s/early 80’s. Although he wasn’t even in the second string of hitters like Vitas Gerulaitis and GuillermoVilas he left a mark on me. I watched him on the TV at Wimbledon, and as a fledgling tennis star myself I was mightily impressed with his ground strokes.

Contemporaries at the time cynically pointed out Victor’s uncanny resemblance to the young Freddie Mercury as a source of my idolisation for such an unsung racketeer. The likeness is purely coincidental. Pecci could put a tennis ball on a tanner. Freddie, incidentally, was an accomplished table tennis player in his youth. Strange but true.

My mind was now straight sets up. A Pecci biography was what the English-speaking world was waiting for. Massive research would have to go into this venture. Working on the assumption that Victor still had family in Asuncion I bought a plane ticket to South America and packed my bats.

For want of a nail

2011-10-26T17:09:00.003+01:00

It’s the little things in life that sometimes are the most important. This is probably because without having control of the smaller, seemingly minor, aspects of your day to day existence problems can grow out of all proportion. Police chiefs insist that by stopping less serious crime the criminally-minded won’t progress into the major leagues. I contacted the police to ask for a search party and was brushed-off politely. Private detectives also weren’t willing to investigate. Last week I lost my favourite set of nail clippers and no one would help to find them.

What’s wrong with that, you say? Nail clippers are ten a ~~finger~~ penny. You can buy them in any store in town. That might be so; in my experience nail clippers are all unique individuals with their own DNA. They all exhibit different characteristics in the same way that all guitar picks have varying temperaments. My lost nail clipper had just the right mix of sharpness and bluntness in its jaws to shape a nail perfectly. Its loss was hard to take.

My house has a whole armada of nail clippers and every one of them is useless. The sharp-shooting cutty shark clipper is more suited to clipping fingers than nails. Then there’s the old rusty Uri Geller clipper that bends the nail without cutting it. The worst of them is Buzz saw clipper. This defiler has steam pouring out of it as it slices the nails leaving them ragged. So you see I had to find the lost clipper.

With no sign or sight of the lost implement my nails were now growing out of hand; I had claws to make Wolverine jealous. Then my mind changed tack. Maybe long nails aren’t so bad. With tentacles like these-

● I can strip wallpaper without a scraper
● eat my food without using a knife and fork
● have no need of a shredder
● carve ice-cubes into ice figures

The advantages were far outweighing the disadvantages until the nails started to curl. The circular coils were digging into my wrists. There was no other thing for it than to bite my nails, though they were a foot long. I chewed and gnawed omnivorously tapering them down. Not since primary school had I tasted the sweet nectar of a nail. Suddenly I could feel an excruciating growing pain in my shoes. My larval toe nails, also unclipped, had forced themselves through the leather. There were ten new talons needing a trim.

The Bucket List #1 - Transportation

2011-10-14T12:30:00.005+01:00

Travelling the world is something I’ve not got round to yet. One of the reasons being I’m happy in my own back yard. The Paul Newman steak/cheeseburger analogy when describing his wife comes to mind. I mean, why go to the Amazon when we’ve got more rain here?

It’s not fear of flying that holds me back. Going on an airplane doesn’t bother me. Indeed, I’m quite brave on an enclosed plane. I’ll take the window seat, I’ll walk up and down the aisle, I’ll visit the loo, I try and put other fliers at ease, I sing songs, I really have conquered the aeroplane part of aviatophobia. Helicopters are a different kettle of chicken wings.

First off I must say that I have never been on a helicopter. A few things put me off using this type of aircraft. It does seem quite transparent for a start. It’s one thing standing on the glass floor at the top of Blackpool tower quite another to peer out a chopper’s window. Vertical take-off and landing, my left foot. This is Ver-Ti-Go.

My experiences of helicopters are limited to watching them on Hollywood movies. They always seem to have dramatic scenes. The metallic pterodactyls are desperately trying to take-off while bullets are flying around the heads of actors clinging to the landing skids. Or they’re rescuing people in the most hazardous of places. I’m sure 20th Century Fox et al aren’t exaggerating these events and that they are a typical helicopter day.

Thirdly, and this is a fear that only I seem to have. The rotors don’t look safe. I worry that the alignment of the twin rotors is partially off. When we’re in the air I imagine the big horizontal rotor will come into contact with the tail rotor forcing us to spin out of control. Aeronautical experts tell me I’m talking rudder as usual.

Of the other forms of transport I quite like the train as long as I don’t get a rugby pass seat that makes me go backwards. Going the wrong way gives me locomotive sickness. Crowded buses can be entertaining, if you like that sort of thing. What I would like to do, for a refreshing change, would be to drive a horse drawn carriage. This would be tranquil.

Gently cajoling my faithful steed -no whipping- we’d clip clop down the cobbled roads tipping our hats to passing ladies while ignoring the hitch hikers; three’s a crowd. I’d do my Fonz impersonation when we stop off for a haaaay break. Then we carry on our merry way.

From hair to Ayr

2011-10-04T05:31:00.011+01:00

Political decisions can legitimately be influenced by outside factors. The consciences of MPs can be swayed by the concerns put forth from lobby firms. However, there are cases of unscrupulous organisations offering inducements to affect the political process. I think the word I’m looking for is bribery.

As a respected, important and fast-growing website we are Scottish terrier-like biting at the ankles of the footsie: expect to see us in the top 100(000...) any day soon. Not wanting to jeopardise our rise by any taint of corruption we have avoided scandal. And then trouble walked in the door.

A pre-arranged interview with a straight-legged, mild-mannered salesman from the Comb-i-nation Company got a bit hairy. It started innocently enough as he made his pitch for an article on our esteemed domain. He gave me a USB stick with information on his range of combs.

Most combs have only two sets of teeth and his firm were about to market a comb with three different lengths of molars. An innovative intermediate set in the middle of the appliance was intended for the thinning. This middle class spoke would go with the standard close knit teeth for the hirsute and gap tooth spikes for the Kojak community. I didn’t think this was newsworthy enough so I politely said we wouldn’t be publicising his idea.

Undeterred, he pulled out a meter stick from his trouser leg revealing a prototype comb with multiple combinations of teeth for every sort of hair: from the steel wool mane to the paper mache strips to the archipelago of the great basin head barnets. This could change the world of the wrap-over as we know it.
I nit-picked “It’s just a tad too unwieldy.”
This slight criticism brought an armed response as the salesman pulled out a Swiss Army Knife from his other pocket and I expected to be attacked by the scissors tool or the can opener. Only it wasn’t a Swiss Army Knife it was a Swiss Army Comb. Stowed inside the handle of the knife were varied combinational combs.

I still wasn’t convinced of going to print as combs aren’t that exciting to read about until the lobbyist offered me an all-expenses paid weekend caravan holiday in Ayr. Everyone’s got a price and who can refuse a trip through the lovely countryside of Ayrshire to the fair seaside town of Ayr. I took the bribe and packed my bucket and spade for the beach. Unfairly, it rained for three days and the wind was of the type that ravages your hair. Still, it was still nice to have a wee break.

4. Numbers- nine titles, one shared

2011-09-16T03:11:00.012+01:00

One of the attractions of the fabulous seaside Lancastrian town of Blackpool is its bingo. Friendly hotels offer relatively cheap games that are full of fun with the bonus of some big cash for the eventual winner. Bingo is, of course, a game all about luck. It doesn’t detract from the fun when the caller can, without fail, tickle you pink with the bingo number nicknames and phrases.

Cup of tea. Number 3. (note: no coffee references)
Key of the Door. Number 21.
Droopy drawers. Number 44.
Heinz varieties. Number 57.
Crutch with a flea. Number 73.
Nearly there. Number 89.

At last, after all the sevens (admittedly, not the best of the bingo shouts), seventy seven years without championship success, I have great pleasure (beach) in congratulating Lancashire county cricket club on finally shouting house by becoming county champions of 2011.

All season I have followed their fortunes in newsprint hoping that the red rose county would triumph. My loyalty to Blackpool has extended county wide to make them my favourite English county cricket side. On a riveting cup of tea, three-sided final day race to the crown, Lancs prevailed against the odds yesterday with luck having nothing to do with it, only skill and determination.

Lancashire not only boasts the best cricket writer in the world, Michael Atherton’s magnificent cricket articles that appear in The Times, we (yes I said we) have the finest mascot: Lanky the giraffe. I’ll stick my neck out here and say, if you’ve got to have a mascot there can be no finer creature than a cuddly giraffe. He’s as big a crowd puller as a bingo caller.

One more cup of tea for the road

2011-09-12T22:21:00.012+01:00

On the commodities front, coffee fell to a two-week low on concern that slowing economies will dent demand as supplies climb. The temperamental coffee market is economically sensitive and prices had gotten well above where the fundamental values say they should be. Shares in all the major coffee firms have plummeted.

During a lunch break last week I overheard a diner remark to a colleague on what a beautiful coffee table they were dining on. I had grounds to rebuff his sugary sweet comment because I’m a tea drinker. Why is it not called a tea table? Is it anything to do with the poor alliteration? I’m not trying to stir the pot here but why are us tea drinkers given such short shrift? The snobbery of the coffee genie knows no bounds; none of them would be seen dead with a T-mobile phone.

Being brought to the boil by the raving injustice that tea drinkers have to face, I stared at the other drinkers that were dotted around the room. Tetley’s bitter! There seems to be lots more alternative choices on the menu than tea or plain coffee. There’s a plethora of fancy coffees on the market: Cappuccino, Skinny Latte, Café Bombon, Macchiato to name a few, not forgetting the ghastly dubbed one called Green Eye. Not being intimidated in the least by the coven of coffeeistas I slurped my tea with a vengeance.

The response was instant. A Café Mocha drinker took three, quick as an espresso train, slugs of her poison. Unperturbed, I drained my cup and let out a huge gasp of satisfaction. She was running out of steam as her next sip was pitiful; she was crumbling like her coffee cookie accompaniment. I had plenty more left in the tank or to be more precise the teapot. The teapot, Ha! Your coffee pot’s up at the counter. I poured myself seconds from the pure porcelain piece of perfection that is the teapot spout. What have they got? A coffee pot is just a jumped up jug.

The pretentious coffee drinkers were giving me the pinkie in the air gesture so I decided to play my joker. As they imbibed their strange beverage looking as smug as milk I got their attention all right. My tea was a bit warm so rather than blowing on the surface I tilted my cup and let the flavour flood out onto my saucer. Now at the perfect temperature due to the wider area of the wild plains of the small plate, the tea was ready. I dived headlong into the pool of boiled dried leaves. Soon the tea break was up and it was now time for the pub. Let’s hope there are no lager drinkers in there; I’m a real ale man, born and brewed.

Swagbaggers treasure hunt

2011-09-03T01:40:00.008+01:00

The days of using Swiss banks to evade paying tax are over. While still upholding the secrecy of their clients, the Swiss will begin to tax existing account holders between 19% and 34% and send the monies to the UK government. An up front payment of £384 million will be winged to Britain to compensate for some of the hidden, undeclared taxes. Financial experts predict a vast amount of depositors leaving Switzerland for other tax-havens like Singapore.

Swiss banks also provide safety deposit boxes in their vaults for various eminent items: documents, passports, gemstones, precious metals, currency. In some cases these safes will be loaded with the ill-gotten gains of crime. The Swiss ask no questions and the criminals feel secure about the rigorous security measures that make theft of their spoils improbable.

I’m still not convinced of this as numerous Hollywood films have shown that burglary in these locations is commonplace. And if they can break into Fort Knox how easy must it be to slip into your block. Not everyone can afford the biometrics of a retina scan at the front door to gain access.

Without sounding alarmist or anything but robberies are on the increase. There’s an absolute Tattenham Corner bottleneck of robbers outside your window jockeying for position. Even robbers are being robbed after they’ve robbed; there’s no honour between thieves nowadays. And the secondary plunderers are no Robin Hoods, they‘re hoodlums. Your stolen TV will be hawked in a pub or crushed in a vault.

Which begs the question, where do we put our valuables? A home has a million possibilities for concealing goods. You know under the bed isn’t as silly as it sounds. Most cat burglars have poor joints with all the climbing over roofs so they try not to bend their knees unnecessarily. Your beautiful pint glasses should be safe as houses down there so long as they don’t lose their bottle and tinkle together with fright.

Important data discs can easily be hidden in the cover of a Howard the Duck DVD. While if you’re flush, rolls of cash can be stuffed inside rolls of toilet paper. I wouldn’t worry too much about the Bechstein Grand piano being taken; most robbers don’t have a Pickford’s van as a get away vehicle.

In closing, to make it harder for the thieves, it is advisable to locate and utilise unusual hiding spots for your loot. It is important you remember the whereabouts of these places. Over the years I’ve lost a small fortune by continually forgetting the secret chambers. Though it is pleasing to come across, by accident, an old hiding place. Last week I rediscovered an old dusty pint glass with £20 in it. Trouble is I’d halved the £20 for super safety and don’t know where the other half is. Still, I’ve got the glass and it’s half-full.

Ghost story

2011-08-27T20:30:00.002+01:00

A group of middle aged men sat around a camp fire and told each other ghost stories. This is one of the tales. This is Cordoba Mendoza’s story.

I was an only child and had a room all to myself. This was great during the day when I could pretend to be anything I wanted as I played with my toys. At night it was lonely.

We lived in a street that ran parallel to a new motorway. There weren’t as many vehicles back then compared to today’s unrelenting traffic. From my window I could count the cars and Lorries as they passed. When I was out with my mum I came across a man wearing a yellow jacket who was counting cars on a calculator device. I wanted to be him when I grew up.

To help me get to sleep I would watch the lights of cars as their illumination passed through the window blinds and blazed a trail over the ceiling before finally disappearing. From my bed I could track the various speeds using the simple time and distance formula.
With expectation I would wait for the next car to pass my house. Sometimes it was a long vigil, as I said, traffic was quiet, more so in the dead of night. This was how I got through my lonely nights.

One night it was exceptionally quiet until I sensed an approaching car. I felt great joy towards this night time traveller as his dazzling light gave me some comfort.

The beam from the head lamp traversed the side wall and snaked across the roof of my room.
Then it stopped.
Halfway across.
This had never happened before.
The sparkling fire work beam of the stationary vehicle remained on the ceiling. Its brightness was brighter than a thousand and one suns. It hung there like an alien space craft.

Scarily other late night drivers continued on their journey. Their lights whizzed right through the frozen light as if it were invisible.
But it wasn’t.
This one big eyeball light stared at me from on high.

Another car and another light invaded my room. This one was travelling very slowly, almost at a snail’s pace. Eventually it stopped at the precise same place as the original intruder.

For many tense minutes I knew something unknown and unbelievably strange was going to happen. Gradually, one of the lights extricated itself from the other and ambled along the flight path on the ceiling until it got to the end and vanished.
Still one orb remained.
The light flashed on and off a few times.
Then it slowly moved off leaving the room in darkness.
That night I vowed never to count cars again.

Airbourne

2011-08-18T18:24:00.006+01:00

Having never been flush enough to afford a brand new car I always take a back seat when a more affluent neighbour waxes about the plastic and adhesive combination that makes their automobile smell like teen spirit. Go ahead, smell my car. I sniff and admit it is a great smell. A dealer should bottle this smell. It would sell like hot ~~rods~~ dogs.

In space there is no sound. Excluding, of course, the obligatory fart lurking in the space suit, we will have to ask Major Tom if there is any smell. Because, count them yourself, there are more aromas on earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. As we speak there will be new smells bubbling away in a laboratory somewhere. The good ones will be mass-produced while the rotten ones will be thrown on the dung heap.

Then there are the odours that can evoke memories. We neglect the sense of smell as we much favour the lazier option of seeing. However, you can’t see smell. Sometimes perception can only be achieved via the olfactory nerves. A long forgotten scent might be tasted anew and you remember where you were when it first squatted in your nostrils. The nose can be a time machine. Though it’s not a genuine all-rounder as it is limited by not being able to smell what’s around the corner.

All noses have their own preferences. One man’s cologne is another mans Rot-Weiss Essen if we’re being Teutonic. Freshly cut grass is a prime example. While some smoke in the sweetness becoming pastorally poetical others are expelling all kinds of mucous from their blow holes. The human animal does have an exhalation problem or two. Hotel cleaners complain about unpleasant smells guests leave in their rooms. Unions have demanded the staff be given a uniform much like the outfit of The Hurt Locker bomb disposal guy. Some professions are more dangerous than others; cleaning is high-stress.

We must move on and finish with a high note. With great anticipation I shall stake out the newsagents with my tent. Tomorrow is Friday and a huge clutch of new magazines will be on sale. I love the newly-minted smell of new magazines in the morning. And I’m not alone. There are a pack of us, hungry as wolves, jostling for an inhalation of the glossy paper when the doors open. With great speed I will head for my favourite: the manifold, greasy, high torque, super-strength Tractor magazine, and bury my snout in it.

The politics of dancing

2011-08-13T04:17:00.008+01:00

Without bumping my gums too much, I’d say I’m quite adept at Djalminha overheel flicks, Panenka penalties and Laudrup drag-dribbles. All this fancy footwork stands me in no stead when I Ronaldo stepover to the dance floor. Suddenly, I’m the worst player on the park.

Routine dance movements like waltzes or ballroom dancing can be practised and smacks of socialism to me. These sketches are too conformist with everyone in robotic choreography and lacks individualism, if you ask me. A few lessons and you’re on your way, one big happy line dance. Freestyle dancing or make it up as the beat goes on is a more celebrated type of dance. This is the choice dance of discos, parties, shindigs, raves, knees-ups and the like. The trouble, of course, is if you are a poor dancer.

Regularly at a family get together I’ll stay on the sidelines (the subs bench) while the music plays. In this environment I know my part and I‘m more attuned to acting as a coach. My sister is a good sport who will play along with my directions. When she’s dancing I’ll shout out to her to incorporate some occupational dancing to the party.
Do the fisherman: She’ll cast an imaginary line and reel in a whopper of a fish.
Do the lumberjack: Axe-wielding manoeuvres of cutting down trees are enacted on the dance floor.
Do the biker: Wheelies abound with wide chopper handlebars to the fore.
She soon tires of my machinations content to go with the flow, joining the other shakers in the jumbled field of sound, lights and movement.

As there is no coordination between my arms, legs and hips I can only talk a good dance. The Maradona/Pele conundrum exists in the dancing world; you’re either in the Fred Astaire camp or the John Travolta one. Notwithstanding the trinity believers who would add the dark horse, Nijinsky, into the mix.
Being a right-winger most of my life- though I have played centre-mid on occasion- it's surprising that the dancing I most admired was the Marxist collectivism of Pan’s People. Teenage joy, indeed.

For too long I have fretted over my poor reflex to rhythmic songs. It has crossed my mind to hone my technique while in the privacy of my own home. As an adherent to the run before you walk school I started break-dancing. In all likelihood it was the worst hip-hop performance ever. Still, it cured my back of that itch I couldn’t reach.

Treasures lost...and found

2011-08-08T01:53:00.014+01:00

Pets, children and mothers say the funniest things. “You’d lose your head if it weren’t screwed on” being a favourite of mums everywhere. Dodgy anatomical design structures excluded, why is the head singled out to be the lost part? Why not the bigger, better statement: “You’d lose your body if it wasn’t riveted on.” Definitely, a case of the heart ruling the head.

As you know I’ve been years perfecting the musical I’m writing. In my head I was harmonising the scratchy rhythms of Bach with tinkles of Glass when I exited the bus last week. Disastrously, I had left my tuba behind. Understandable really, I mean when you get off a bus and check your things, you never say “I must remember the tuba” now do you?

The next day I ventured to the lost property department at the bus depot. I was told there was no tuba on the premises and to try the subway instead. I was brassed off. There are only about five people in the world that can play the tuba. Who would want a tuba? I espied all the other items, paraphernalia and appurtenances, lying unclaimed on the cluttered shelves. In this lost world a full-size replica of a complete skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex stood menacingly in an aisle. I can just picture a curator waking up and exclaiming- one of our dinosaurs is missing.

Another hullabaloo happened when I left my Daily Telegraph in the pub. Next day I asked the owner if a Guardian of the mighty print medium had handed the paper in. Nup. Nothing. Stolen. How can these people look at themselves in the mirror?

By this time my sunny disposition had evaporated as now out in the street rain clouds broke forth, fifth, sixth and seventh from the heavens. Shelter was found in the nearby train station and I expressed in with a drenched member of the human race by my side. I took a seat on a bench while my fellow from the flood fled to the lost property section. He asked if anybody had found an umbrella. What colour, asked the man in charge. Black. Yeah, we’ve got a black. What an opportunistic strike! Now with a deterrent from the rain, my ex-companion braved the inclement weather.

Four hours later as it dried I ended up at my mother’s to find her in an absent mind. My sister was on holiday and left her cat in my mum’s house for cat sitting purposes. Mum couldn’t find the cat. It was nowhere to be seen. She had lost the cat.

Cagily, we searched all over as this cat had attitude. On being surprised it was known to spring at a space invader. It was a tigress in all but name. There was no way a cat burglar had intruded; the feline was hiding for keeps.
Searching high
Searching low
In the light
In the shadow
Come hell or high water
We (scan it, man) sought her.
Here, there, everywhere. Yep, you've cat 'o nine tails'd it. This farce was a comedy of clichés.

There was none so blind as us until a slinky, sleekit, boss-like “top cat in the slats” silhouette appeared behind the window blinds. Lost threat status downgraded or so we thought. My dad appeared, fresh or not so fresh as his whisky breath was omnipotent, from his local bar. After patting the top of his soldered on head he said “I’ve lost my hat somewhere”. Poor soul, at least he remembered the way home.

This Rex is as old as my dad. Note the screwed on hatless Jurassic head.

This blog has been rated F

2011-08-01T01:40:00.002+01:00

“My name is JW10 and I haven’t said a swear word in eighteen months.”

Cue- a deafening round of applause at the latest Professionals In Swearing Help (PISH) meeting.

I gave up coarse language when I realised it’s a negative use of the vocal chords- My baritone atoms are now super-charged with protons. There is also no shock value in profanities anymore. Given, sometimes, an expletive does add emphasis to certain types of jokes; however, crudity is poor form, I think.

The first few weeks of abstinence were the hardest for me as you can imagine. Many a sentence I started and not finished when a rude word was on the tip of my tongue about to pollute the atmosphere. I considered carrying a bleeper about with me to use whenever a lashing of bad language might have been unleashed accidentally. This would be no good as my timing- I could never master the spin ten plates on ten sticks trick- is terrible. I would bleep the good words by mistake in an unintentional parody of Julius Caesar.
The evil that men say lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bleeps.

Another worry for the non-swearer is the substitute word. Drat and double drat can be used once in company invoking some mirth. Overuse could result in mockery. “Dearie me” would see my reputation in the pub disintegrate like a 1990’s England innings batting collapse. “Did you just say “Dearie f****** me?” ” would be thrown back at me by a hardened hard man drinker completely misquoting me. I’ll sue, so help me god, I’ll sue, for slander or libel or whatever the Fox News it is.

Success. Words that closely resemble the foul phrase can be used instead or a few syllables can be dropped from the offending item without much being lost in the message. If said quickly no one notices. That basta needs a good kick in the ar. The hard man will buy you a pint for that one.

It helps if you don’t have a bad temper. If you try to sail through life with all its storms and try to treat it like a teacup, there’s no need to swear. PISH tells us to face every day foibles with a sugary outlook.

The computer’s on the blink as windows has crashed again, though literally I suppose it has just frozen- its real windows that crash though you can understand the dramatic overtones of a crash. The boiler’s broke. Nothing unusual there. Like a potboiler Jackie Collins novel, the world is full of broken boilers. You see, there’s nothing worth getting worked up for. Ooops, dearie me, I’ve just remembered I’ve some wood to saw for decking. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to ....(the saw slips on my fingers)...Arrggghh....you....

It's an easy one, Hamlet: 3D not for me

2011-07-24T23:15:00.006+01:00

Most movie blockbusters come with the option of viewing the film in 3D. Not once, and not just because it is the more expensive alternative, have I watched a 3D picture. 2D still works for me today.

Defenders of 3D tell me it is a magical experience of stereophonic depth perspectives with the intensity of a thousand surrealistic paintings. This wasn’t music to my ears as I imagined my watch melting in the heat. My only close encounter with the third dimensional kind was a TV demonstration in-store that you could test for yourself. A kind of try before you buy experiment.

First off I didn’t like the glasses. I was looking forward to donning the two-toned blue and red whizz from bizz font colour scheme sparkling eye-pieces. I found out they’ve been replaced by bland jet black Top Gun shades instead. Progress, my uneducated left foot. During long films on occasion, because of my goldfish attention span my eyes have wandered from the drama which is not a problem with my 20/12 vision. With these spectacles on however, apart from the screen the surroundings are devoid of definition.

Nausea and disorientation also set in after a short time as my head wasn’t used to this alien environment. Now the five minute 3D attractions at fairgrounds where you fly a Naboo space ship or plunge into the ocean avoiding giant piranhas are exciting. That’s a five minute ride and you are the star not a three hour extravaganza full of funny nosed Avatar humanoids.

3D is not new. I can recall my mum telling me she saw House of Wax (1953) starring Vincent Price in 3D. She said before the main feature an advertisement in 3D for cigarettes ended with the actor throwing ciggies into the audience. The crowd were agog and ducked or tried to catch the tobacco missiles. For the time this was cutting room edge technology. Unfortunately, the novelty of the effects soon wore off on customers and the original 3D had a small shelf life.

Producers are trying again. Their influence has even spilled onto other medium. My sub-editor suggested we should do this blog in 3D to set a trend. To be frank I wasn’t happy with him and this week he’s been wearing dark glasses after the disciplinary meeting I had with him.

This 2G 3D will also run its course and then be consigned to the dustbin alongside other scientific nightmares: Betamax, DeLorean supercar, Concorde, Vuvuzela, New Coke...

Three men in a pool (not forgetting the beautiful mermaid)

2011-07-16T12:07:00.004+01:00

It was time for my annual learn to swim escapade. Tutoring me were my sons. After last year’s disappointment they felt confident this time of turning their pupil into the Man from Atlantis. SAS techniques were to be adopted beginning with me being thrown into the pool.

“Not so fast.” I said. I picked up my knife, clenching it between my teeth.
“What are you doing?” they chimed.
“Weeess..rRthhcrroccc…oh.” I took the knife out of mouth. “I need this in case I see any crocodiles. Johnny Weissmuller never left home without a blade.”
“Who’s Johnny Weissmuller?” they piped.

I refused to answer not even giving them a clue by yodelling. Without a Google at hand they were all at sea. Google has a lot to answer for including killing the pub quiz. With great satisfaction my sons threw the non-swimmer into the pool.

My instructors joined me giving me a lecture before the next lesson. One of them said.
“You live on an island. You are surrounded by water. For survival you must learn to swim.”
I wished I lived in land-locked Bolivia. In the film version, Butch Cassidy took the kid to Bolivia where the terra-firma loving Sundance didn’t need to swim. Knowing my luck, though, I’d be drafted into Bolivia’s navy. You heard that right. The land-lubbing Bolivians have a navy.

The teaching continued. “The human body has natural buoyancy which allows you to float.”
My sons held me horizontally on the water’s surface. One boy was holding my stomach the other my legs. This was my first planking experience.
“When we let go, you will float.” They let go and I sank. Buoy, oh buoy.

While all the lessons were going on Mrs W was effortlessly doing lap after lap of the pool. She knew I was a lost cause. My sons were determined to prove her wrong. The next part of the training involved holding my breath while placing my head under water. I asked them to demonstrate and they both submerged.
In the distance my sensory analysis picked up something radiant. A rush of pleasure overtook me and I walked through the shallow end in a magnetic trance all the way to the pool bar.

Now I could happily drown myself here all day. Anchored on a high stool I enjoyed an array of bright coloured drinks while over there, go compare, the family swam, played volleyball and had a splashing time in the water. They gave me a wave now and then; it was the best of times for everyone.

First serve: Do no harm

2011-06-30T00:20:00.020+01:00

This is the season of strawberries. After a healthy game of tennis with my friend, Chibber, we passed a hospital with a casualty department. I say this because not all medical centres have emergency depots. Tennis players beware. If while mistiming the ball yet still using the obligatory open-mouthed scream a tennis ball sticks in your throat the nearest hospital might not attend to you as A and E is not in their syllabus.

As we sat on the steps outside drinking our cola and eating mars bars, into the conversation I lobbed a possible winner. Forgoing a check-in, how long could you sit in the waiting room before a nurse or administrator asked if you were OK. Now these places are open 24/7 with rotating staff you could be in a perpetual kind of medical limbo. Not giving your details you are not in the triage system and could just sit there as a concerned family member waiting for your sickly kin. There's a strong possibility of being overlooked.

Chibber reasoned -divinely- that when the waiting room eventually emptied in the small hours someone with a uniform would enquire if they could help you thus abiding by their motto: Primoris operor non punctum. I was not so sure of his logic or the motto. There was only one thing for it. We went and waited in the waiting room.

A few hours passed, a lot of bandaged persons came and went, many unfortunates on trolleys were wheeled in and out, concerned family members sat and stood and slunk away, noticed and yet unnoticed. Sat in our uncomfortable chairs we were invisible men to the receptionists. Chibber came round to my way of thinking: this could last as long as Isner and Mahut.

We watched the smokers drift outdoors for a puff. This gave us a chance to discuss the most famous smokers of all time. This was a list and a half: Churchill. JFK, Castro, Sinatra, Freud, Socrates (Brazil football World Cup star). After a much heated discussion as though both cola addicts we were puritan non-smokers, we couldn’t put a fag paper between Michelle Pfeiffer and Catherine Deneuve over who was the more glamorous.

We dozed the doze of a cola haze. The small hours came and they transformed into the long hours; nobody annoyed us. A new balls please batch of tennis ball stuck in the throat patients appeared.

Chibber unleashed the breakfast serve: when do the long hours begin, are they after the halfway mark at 7 o’clock and he yawned a grunting Sharapova yawn. Seven is still a small number when you think about it. Numbers go on forever and seven is near the start. We waited until nine, nine is a long houred number, nearly double-figured and home to centre forwards, nine was the time when the tennis courts opened again. Experiment over, we left the waiting room and went back to the land of the strawberries with our racquets fully refreshed. As it was in season it was busy, there was a queue. We waited.

Butterflies and Windmills

2011-06-24T16:55:00.009+01:00

Wind turbines would not win any beauty contests. Only an inhabitant of the Isle of Man would marvel at the triskelion structure of a wind-powered device. These tripod monstrosities are housed in wind farms. There are no sheep on wind farms. Or cows. Or chickens. Just rows upon rows of rejects from War Of The Worlds.

In contrast there is aesthetic beauty in windmills. These wind-driven pieces of architectural splendour have been around since antiquity. Like an overflowing rubbish skip in the road, nobody walks past a windmill without having a look. Sonnets, TV dramas and operas have been written about windmills. The artistically named, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), wrote a piece about a windmill, unimaginatively titled: The Windmill.

I stand here in my place,
With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow
I meet it face to face,
As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.

The land of the windmills is the Netherlands and was a popular subject for the mad Dutchman, Vincent Van Gogh. The painter depicted a prodigious amount of work on this object as it was part and parcel of the lowlands scenery. A windmill was a common fixture in the Dutch landscape though today this is now decreasing.

Although windmills are gasping for air, will anyone write a poem about a wind farm? Will there be a soap opera commissioned called Wind Turbine farm? Apart from the decorator, will anyone paint a wind turbine? I think not. Only Windmills have the power to captivate the cultural set.

In the course of writing this essay I have been knocked over by the sway of wind. Wind is definitely my favourite meteorological phenomena.

Lieutenant Columbo endings

2011-06-18T02:22:00.010+01:00

Two films. Two stories that are well-known. Two different takes.

The problem with making a film called Titanic is that every man and his panther knows the ending. No amount of characterisation and intrigue or the romance between Kate and ~~William~~ Leo stops you from wondering when the iceberg will appear. And when the big ice cube does hit the ship filmgoers think, about time too.

Senna the movie has the same problem most biographical stories have. If you know your subject, there are no surprises. This does not take away the gripping chequered-flagged finale. An on board camera films Senna’s last lap. The hairs on the back of your neck tingle for two minutes as you await the shocking denouement. Knowing the inevitable makes this vehicle more thrilling. Two films. Two different takes.

Ayrton Senna was an absolute master at driving in wet conditions. I would go so far to say that in all probability he could have driven his McLaren Honda over the Atlantic. He would have danced his automobile with white bears, iced icebergs, glided over the water with the complete control of a messiah. Miraculous and inspiring this fictional endeavour could be the greatest film ever told. All it needs is an ending. And a decent script, possibly.

With the script at the embryonic stage let’s tenuously move on. There are no Schubertian jokes. All jokes are finished and have an ending. New jokes are rare; arthritic oldies are regularly brought out of retirement. A friend could be halfway through a joke before you remember you’ve heard it before. In this instance, people react differently. Some will interrupt the comedian, thawing him in full flow with the cattling "herd it". The more humane will let the joke run its course and laugh like a steam engine. A few will wait to almost the end before blurting out the punch line utterly destroying the comic’s timing. Nobody likes the third camp.

A satisfactory ending is paramount; although I’ve always been a 20th Century Fox man myself. The to be continued cop-out is not an option neither is a pass the parcel “Here is the weather report” or an unoriginal: The End. Therefore, in true intellectual writer status that I have fought hard to attain, I’ll leave with an unfinished joke.

Darth Vader meets The Dalai Lama on the frozen wastes of the Planet Hoth and says…

This is your peg

2011-06-10T14:35:00.008+01:00

By diversification and shrewd management Peggy’s Pegs limited have taken a firm hold in the cut-throat world of clothes peg production. One peg has led to another and they now have a strong portfolio of pegs based merchandise.

I’ve always had a fascination with pegs since I was small as my gran and her cronies would talk about washing lines for hours. Behind the sofa pretending to play with my wooden rail track I’d listen in to the stimulating conversation. The subject had a broad spectrum ranging from the quality of washing being hanged to the positioning of the pegs on the garments.

There were unwritten rules regarding tenement washing line etiquette. The varied families had a designated day to display their wares. It was in the lap of the gods if it rained on your parade day. Newcomers to the close had to quickly change their usual way of washing and succumb to the new environment. Disputes over washing line rope were commonplace. Certain neighbours would roll in their line and not let any one else use it. As I said, fascinating stuff.

Peggy’s Pegs (PP) have branched out from the wooden peg of old into new industries. You’d think, only if there were an outbreak of skunk pestilence would you pin a peg on your nose. Not so. PP is the proud sponsor of the Synchronized Swimming world championships. If you’ve a magnifying glass handy you’ll see the PP logo on the swim dancers nose clips.

Designer earrings in the form of a peg are another bold venture. Initial sales reports are promising added to the fact that QVC (the home shopping channel) have given PP an upcoming slot in their schedule to sell their branded spring-loaded plastic/wood jewellery. All that glisters is not gold, apparently.

Through all this innovation they haven’t forgotten where they came from. The humble, two-pronged, stake you in the heart, ball-headed wooden peg is still available from their stores. The equine fragility of this artefact that made it into A History of the World in 100 Objects has been given a shot in the arm. A special repair centre will fix any broken legs in your pegs.

Pegs in popular culture

● The National Clothespin Defence League in 1978 introduced a slogan advocating pegs as gifts: a peg is for life, and a great Christmas present.

● in one of the first drafts of Shakespeare’s Richard III, the Plantagenet King was writ the almost immortal words. “A peg! A peg! My kingdom for a peg!”

● ZZ Top recorded a song called “Pegs”

The minor Tennis Princess and the mediocre School Champion

2011-06-08T10:54:00.013+01:00

Once upon a time there was a beautiful Hungarian tennis player called Andrea Temesvari. She batted balls in the 1980’s and is a contemporary of me. When she was winning the Italian Open in 1982 I was celebrating being crowned school champion.

Miss Temesvari never quite reached the top in tennis though she was top drawer in other respects. Blessed with a stunning figure highlighted by a dazzling smile, the impression given was one of feminine grace and charm. I dreamed of playing mixed doubles with her and whispering in her ear, “Fifteen, love” instead of fifteen-love.

Another thing that attracted me to tennis was the drinks breaks. After every two games refreshments are taken. This is cola heaven to me. Andrea and I could have shared a cola while towelling sweat from our rigours. I wondered whatever happened to Andrea.

And then someone told me. She was held captive by an ogre in an imposing castle. To reach the ramparts the villagers told me I had to swim in shark-infested waters and then scale the heights of a steep hill. Having nothing else in particular to do I jumped into the River Perrault.

Swept along by a quickening tide I never saw any sharks in the water; they must have been on holiday. The lack of sharks gave me food for thought that a lot of adventure stories are far-fetched. Too many writers embellish their tales and I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and the truth was there were no sharks in the water. My watery journey came to an end when I grabbed a creeper that draped from the shore.

Taking hold of a fallen branch I made my way up through the undergrowth. For future reference for would-be ramblers, it’s easier to hill walk when you’ve got a stick. It aids balance. Along the way to the castle wall, again adventure-less, I met no snakes or nesting baby pterodactyls. Workmen must have been cleaning the castle windows as a ladder was nearby. Using these steps I clambered into the castle.

The giant appeared before me. He was twelve foot tall if he was an inch. His fe-fi and fo’s didn’t scare me. Though one thing did startle me, my eyes nearly popped out of my head. I saw that the giant had a green beard. Nothing gets me snorting like a red rag to a bull than someone wearing green. He was in big trouble.
Using my multi-purpose branch I hit him with a forehand into the shin followed by a backhand into his kidneys. He staggered back and it was time for a rest.

“Have you any cola?” I asked Greenbeard.

“Cola? No, I haven’t. I’ve got some limeade.”

This was taking things too far. All this green nonsense brought me to break point. I lunged at the emerald-haired monster, landing a perfect smash on his head. He was out like a Lendl. I dragged the behemoth and locked him in a room full of bats. Before you start feeling sorry for him I should add, the room was full of tennis bats.

Finally, there stood my princess, who had seen my bravura performance. She was slightly older though still sultry and radiating a passionate aura towards me. Or maybe I got the wrong signal because when she opened her mouth to speak her voice echoed off the walls.

“Damsels in distress aren’t meant to be saved by a married man.”

“Well I know, it’s just that I had some free time and-”

“What’s that backhand all about? It was all wrong. The weight should be on the front foot.”

“Jade-jaws was coming forwa-”

“As for cola. Have you no idea the damage that does to your stomach. Tests have proved that...”

She went on and on, a full five sets of nagging. Andrea and I are not compatible as mixed doubles partners. I wonder if I should give Gigi Fernandez a call.　

Fly High, Fall Far

2011-05-29T12:04:00.004+01:00

J.G. Ballard’s novella High Rise is about a luxury skyscraper building whose occupants are roomed literally according to their wealth and class. The lower classes are at the bottom, middle class in the centre and upper class have the most expensive apartments at the top. Petty squabbles take place that escalate and events descend into anarchy as class wars erupt. A nice holiday read.

The building where our company resides also has a hierarchical structure in place, though the placement of companies in our block fluctuates depending on their success. Some firms move up and down the floors as their fortunes change. No sooner do you get to know someone before Shazam! A rights issue has catapulted the risers up two floors into a better office. JW10, by sensible management, has kept its feet on the ground in its niche. Though, one day The Rockefeller suite will be ours.

One corporation in serious trouble is the Shere Group. High-flying empire builders, they used to be called The Shere Khan Group until Mr G. Khan fell off his corporate chair horse and had to be carried down the steppes. This journey taxed the firm so much they kicked Khan out. Shares in Shere toppled forcing them to decamp to a destitute lower floor with less floor space. The walls were bare except for a crumpled old photograph of Cher which mocked their arrival.

Before long the Shere Group will be in the underground car park; the lowest of the low. From day to day they will have to shift their desks as automobiles aggressively compete for the parking bays with little sympathy for the rights of the squatters. Squashed by a car will seem like a piece of carcass for Shere compared with the nightmarish scenario of being thrown out of the car park. Out in the street, it’s a jungle out there.

I'll name that tune in two

2011-05-25T15:50:00.012+01:00

The recent “external intrusion” or hacking as it’s called in computer lingo, of the Sony PlayStation network has raised serious doubts, yet again, about the safety of users’ personal information on “secure” servers. Sometimes to distance itself from a scandal a company may change its name. Sony used to be called Tokyo Tsushin Kogyo K.K (Tokyo Telecommunications Engineering Corporation). If they dump the new name and bring back the old, you heard it here first.

With the Sony empire caught in the kill zone, who will be next in the sights of a first-person shooter with the ability to hack? The forecast is overcast for Google and other rugged pioneers who have plans for a cloud computing scheme to soar over the atmosphere. Storing files, music and photos on a remote server is a ray of sunshine right enough, what happens if that valuable blog you’ve typed up in five minutes is corrupted or stolen by an invader? Have Google (originally called BackRub) a retrieving device or will that blog be beyond reach like an itch in the middle of your back you can’t scratch.

Personal computer attacks are as common as Wimbledon. Passwords are the first line of defence against intruders. It is recommended that you change your passwords often and try to incorporate x, y and z in the codes. This gives you a licence to use neologisms. Be careful though when playing scrabble lest you forget your word doesn’t exist except in your password box. It’s not nice to be labelled a scrabble cheat.

A three-strikes and you’re out mechanism exists on certain websites to stop cold callers guessing your password. Three wrong attempts and you’re frozen out. This makes it imperative you memorise your secret word. Experimentation with contextualizations is safer in the long run than your mother’s maiden name unless you happen to be the Singaporean Finance Minister, Tharman Shanmugaratnam.

As the digital world is awash with bugs, paper is making a comeback. Backing-up copy on Xerox (founded in 1906 as The Haloid Photographic Company) printers and filing in cabinets is the way forward. Kept at the correct temperature these documents will remain immortal as long as when you pore over old scripts you don’t pour cola (Pepsi was originally “Brad’s Drink”) on them. Apart from that, paper is foolscap, foolproof and invincible.

A Tribute to the Gers

2011-05-16T01:51:00.005+01:00

Managing to wrangle a day off today, I took full advantage by partying all day yesterday. Still on a high I have only a sore throat to show for the excesses.

In what seemed mission impossible only a few weeks ago, Glasgow Rangers won their 54th (World Record) Scottish football league championship beating Kilmarnock in Ayrshire. A curio for the non-sporting and curious out there. Kilmarnock F.C’s home ground is called Rugby Park! Fittingly, the score was almost rugbyish. (Must remember to use rugbyish again when describing rugby)

Along with 40,000 other supporters my friends and I made our way to Ibrox Stadium after the match to celebrate with the team as they brought the trophy home. My camera phone captured poor quality images forcing me to raid You tube for better versions to parade. My pillaging is still at the betamax stage and the follow following video could change. Don’t adjust your settings or buy new glasses if you see different takes.

Forgive me this little diversion from more serious matters. At the beginning of the night (to turn around the old football cliché, at the end of the day) sport is just a form of entertainment and escapism. Now and then, though, it does bring fulfilling happiness. It was a day of good cheer, good beer with lively, good company.

Two Tribes go to the mattresses

2011-05-14T00:23:00.008+01:00

Cyber surfers must be sick of reading about Word Press v Blogger match reports. The pro’s and con’s of both platforms are well-documented and these two giant blog-service providers divide public opinion sometimes to the detriment of more important issues. For instance, the ongoing legal dispute between Barbie and Bratz over ownership rights has been pushed to the sidelines. Barbie's boyfriend Ken is not happy with this.

I had a domain over at Word Press (WP) which I retired or so I thought. Every time I try to get out, they pull me back in.

Sensing an opportunity against a weakened Blogger, the WP CEO paid me an unexpected visit. With SWAT precision he grounded his helicopter on my Helipad. He produced important documents and made me an offer that was hard to refuse. Come back over to them or I’ll wake up with a dead tractor at the bottom of my bed. Now I’ve been headhunted before and I don’t scare easily- I’ve seen Saw and all its Roman numeral sequels- it was the Massey Ferguson 690 I was worried about. 4x2 2WD chassis, 90 inch wheelbase, 52.38 drawbar horse power. It was too beautiful to die.

(Drop dead gorgeous: The Massey Ferguson 690)

Alerted to WP’s overtures, at a stroke the CEO of Blogger, shot straight from Blogger HQ, jettisoned in from a cannonball to the bottom of my swimming pool. After it was hung out and dried, a new improved contract for me at Blog Spot was put on the table. WP man doubled the stakes on his manuscript forcing Blogger guy to raise his price. The bidding and counter-bidding continued. This was a live version of e-bay with my worthless vocation at stake. We reached DEFCON I. The WP executive called in Action Man.

This was a considerable show of strength as it was the figure with the movable eagle eyes. Resistance was pointless against this formidable commando as he frog-marched me towards the dotted front line. Then from outside the window a car’s horn was heard. Looking out I saw Ken. Yes, that Ken. With Barbie never out of court these days Ken had nothing to do so he fancied a fight. Furthermore he had brought back-up. In the pink car all dressed in pink battle fatigues was someone familiar.

“Hello sailor boy! I’ve come to save your rear, umm, career.”

Scar Wars

2011-05-08T18:57:00.013+01:00

Long ago, in an outpost of cyberspace as far, far away as France, a magnificent blog post was published in All the Days of Dolores. This innocent story of gravel brought about an act of war perpetrated by a member of the evil Galactic Empire of Rugbyistas. Darth Islander dared challenge his blood brother from the footballing side of the family to a “Scars” contest.

Precedence shows that the rugby guy is a ham B-movie actor, while the footballer is a true Captain. You probably won’t believe this but the football player is called Butcher. We love you, Terry.

Darth’s paltry scratch can be viewed here at the Canary Hotspot.

Football scars have I many. No one in the family was brave enough to photograph the gravel rash on the back of my thigh and as I am not a contortionist it will have to remain anonymous. Ominously, I add, for now.

Therefore I have decided to put forward my forearm scar. Now how did you get a scar on your forearm playing football, you may ask? Without a word of lie, I did. Our ball was miskicked into a nearby field by a player who ended up playing rugby, naturally. As the best climber I was told to climb this high metal mesh fence to retrieve the round ball. On reaching the top and jumping down I caught my arm on a ragged piece of metal that was sticking out.

The photograph is clearly not a fake as an almanac of the complete record of Scotland’s greatest institution is on show. This means I don’t need to scribble my JW10 copyright. I’m not sure if anybody is familiar with an old competition in the newspapers called “Spot the Ball”. This was a photo of a football match with the ball airbrushed out. Entrants were invited to mark an x where they thought the ball was. The winner was the nearest x. This photo is more “Spot the Scar”.

Action: On and Off the screen

2011-05-06T22:38:00.011+01:00

Cineworld have adopted a new policy stating that only food and drink purchased in the foyer may be taken into the film theatre. Therefore, adopting the similar smuggling techniques mastered recently, my son and I managed to conceal our contraband about our persons.

This was done with military precision as my son’s soft drink container was the size of a fire extinguisher. It was a full four litres of a cheap Red Bull alternative. We adhere to the aphorism of the well-known philosopher, I Forget His Name, “Quantity over Quality, every day of the week”. I mean, why buy one cake from Bradford’s when you can get four from Greggs.

We went to see the latest big screen extravaganza from Marvel, an adaptation of the Norse Gods myth called Thor. My imagination probably comes from reading all those Mighty Marvel comic books in my youth. The films don’t capture the same excitement for me; Stan Lee cameos aside, of course. In the end it‘s true what every one says, the films are not as good as the comics.

As one of the first to arrive, we elected to sit in the middle of the back row for the best view. We didn’t expect courting couples at Thor; in fact because it was a sunny day I thought it would be quiet. This wasn’t the case and a fair crowd of Asgardian aficionados were there including, a few seats either way of us, book ending us, two sets of Viking-helmeted cinemagoers.

Halfway through the film my son fuelled by the Bull substitute, needed to go visit the toilet and choose the quickest route which was on our right side. He apologised for clambering over the disgruntled horn-helmeters. After a short time he returned with another clamber. Fifteen minutes later after guzzling more fuel, he had to go again. Not wanting him to disturb the same people again, I told him to go the left. He protested that way is too far and he’d miss lots of the film. He added history proves there’s no point in starting a war on two fronts. He was determined to go right and I can't argue if he wants to stay on the right track.

As he pondered the problem I reminded him how I always told him to forget practising keepie-uppies and instead work on teleportation skills. We’ll switch t-shirts, he said and they’ll think I’m you.
As we began to undrape the bicepless actor who played Thor appeared topless in the movie. Feeling sorry for the poor shape of Thor’s Pecs and not wanting to steal his thunder, we decided to keep our shirts on.

At bursting point as a last resort my son turned on his phone making out he needed to make an important call, which is truthful to an extent. Clambering over bodies he made it to the stairwell before he received a text message. A Batman ring tone reverberated throughout the arena. The Thorists were not amused. Lightning crackled around the amphitheatre and I must say I was impressed with their secret stashes. From all over their persons the hordes menacingly hoisted hammers in the air. Oh well, let's get ready to Ragnarok.

"A Great Occasion"

2011-04-30T01:27:00.038+01:00

As passionate Royalists and lucky enough to have the day off work (not compulsory in Scotland: a rare political JW10 comment coming up: shame on you, Salmond), my family and I enjoyed the spectacular Royal wedding yesterday, super glued to the box we zapped from ITV, BBC and Sky. In a celebratory mood other friends and family were invited to a little indoor Royalty rave on randan at oor place later on.

My darling wife decided to take photos of the events on the TV screen. She was having a great time with the camera giving me the inspirational Flash (A-Ahh) of saddling her with the moniker, Lord Snowden. I’ve plastered her works all over this page while at the same time copyrighting them with my unreadable scribble. The three TV channels could sue me as it is their camera work; however, I’ve got a lawyer acquaintance who will claim that it’s my telly therefore my property.

The night’s proceedings continued in a similar red, white and blue-blooded vein. Various discussions on monarchy and Regal issues were discussed. I weighed in with some little-known facts namely that purple has always been the colour of Royalty. Purple dye was expensive and rare in the old days and was exclusive to the privileged class. Going off at a tangent I then said that the Golden Grail of record collecting, the blue vinyl Bohemian Rhapsody, by the majestic, magnificent, aptly-named Queen was supposed to be purple vinyl but the printers made a colour blunder. I got a few oohs and aahs with that one. At this point Snowden brought out her portfolio of bootleg snaps and suddenly Logie Baird televisions were the order of the night. My dear mum, I love her so much, an archetypal Glaswegian wummin of the old school, began reminiscing of all the great tellies she’d had over the years.

The 60’s: A rented set that had a slot for ten-bob bits for when the power ran out. Glory days were when the TV man would come to empty the takings and put in a free 50p shot before he left.

1978: Our first colour TV just in time for the Argentine World Cup, although, umm, Ally’s Tartan Army, umm, narrowly failed to win it. (Probably the only time I’ve cried for ~~Argentina~~ Scotland)

2007: A Panasonic that had a faulty slat giving a distorted picture. She knew where to take it back and took it back to Comet, giving the well-salaried manager an earful...

Nonetheless, the small screen is a wonder of the universe. I’d like to thank it for a very memorable day and wish the newly-weds all the best.

Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives and I decline

2011-04-21T23:40:00.006+01:00

One of the few times I’ve been really worried was just before the end of the century and the oncoming threat of the Millennium bug that was predicted to wreck havoc on the world’s computer systems. The Y2K problem as it was also known turned out to be a damp squib in the end. All that fretting I did over one’s and zeroes was for nothing. Stupidly, I was scared of a 1-0. And if the bug did become infectious it wouldn’t have harmed me anyway; in 1999 I didn’t have a computer. Though, I did have a DVD player so maybe my channels might have got mixed up, I don’t know, I’m not a scientist.

From that day forth, although it was the first (Jan 1 2000), I vowed to never worry again. This peace of mind has helped me to remain calm while all around are falling to pieces. As a well-known, famous, popular philosopher said - I forget his name- “it is better to have a happy Etch-a-Sketch face than a Nostradamus on your back”. This outlook has made me cope with life’s little struggles while ignoring stories of the end of civilisation.

Yesterday, I was on a bus to pass the time and I noticed it was getting very busy. The travellers had a steely look of intent in their eyes. My judgement of their body language was telling me they were having money difficulties, possibly their portfolio of stocks was in a bad way, or they were deranged criminals. At times like these it’s hard not to worry. Enigmatically, I put a Mona Lisa half-smile on my face to temper the emotions of the crew.

The bus stopped and the whole congregation rushed past me and hurtled into the building of the Department of health and Social Security. There must be a new benefit up for grabs. At this time I could feel wetness on my chest. I looked down and saw a red stain on the breast pocket of my shirt; one of the unemployed had stabbed me during the stampede. I remained undeterred to my injury as there was no ache from my chest. Obviously, my nonchalance had made me immune to pain.

Deciding to investigate the wound I stuck my hand in the pocket. I fished out a red pen that had burst. This marker was my weapon of choice for writing in the margins of my books, now it was no more. The shirt would also have to go to shirt heaven. This double-whammy would have tested most individuals. It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

Just another tractor blog

2011-04-15T10:40:00.008+01:00

A scene had developed on the periphery of the city. The townspeople were laughing and their mocking tones made me rubberneck in their direction. As usual to get the best view I barged through the crowd shouting “Coming through. Make way for the doctor”. One wag, that’s wag and not WAG, responded, “it’s not a doctor that thing needs, it’s a scrap yard.”

Soon I saw the object of their derision. And it was beautiful. The object that is, not their derision; English can be a handful at times. Broken down in the middle of the road was a vintage tractor. Mine eyes were seeing the glory of a 1960 Massey Ferguson. Manual recirculating ball steering, two-stage clutch rear power take-off, 72 inch wheel base and a maximum drawbar pull of 3,965 Lbs. This is the Debbie Harry of tractors.

At this point I would like to add that not all the townspeople were mocking the rural driver and his broken down angel. Two intrepid entrepreneurs, spotting the absence of a windscreen, were washing Massey’s bonnet and taxing the stranded owner a fiver for their troubles.

I warned everyone to stand back as I was about to perform a miracle. Everybody likes to see a miracle done for free so they backed off a yard. With all my might I was Samson and Simon of Cyrene rolled into one and I heaved the backside of the voluptuous tractor. Creaking noises of an engine sparked into life and the push had done the trick. The tractor sped away at the speed of tortoise.

The townspeople had seen the light, were won over by this extreme act of charity and clapped like duelling cymbals. It was a seminal moment that was cut short by bursts of laughter from across the road. Another set of townspeople were laughing at a broken down steamroller. This might be harder to shift so I took off my jacket and rolled my shirt sleeves up.

No half-measures, only Pints

2011-04-07T22:26:00.009+01:00

I received, typed with gold lettering in a laminated card, an invitation to a fortieth birthday bash. Now this do was not going to be a picnic. The venue chosen was a hoity-toity place of splendour and snobbery; a five-star hotel with, I’d guess, three-ply toilet paper in their Louvre’s. Nothing wrong with any of these things and the free buffet at the party would be a treat; I had only one misgiving: the possible wallet-emptying price of the alcoholic drinks.

In these austere times, desperate measures are undertaken just to stay afloat. I planned to plan ahead by staking the joint out. My sources told me there was a soiree taking place and I cased the function hall of the hotel. Going undercover my investigations were in the style of all the great Private detectives: Jim Rockford, Thomas Magnum, and Lew Harper (called Archer, in the books).

Sitting in my car I eased down my Fedora beforea easing it up again as I couldn’t see a thing. It was eight in the morning. I was a bit early. Most of these parties don’t start until eight at night. No matter, I waited.

And waited. And waited. And waited. I watched a few waiters arrive. I had as much experience of waiting as them.

As night fell, guests appeared. I studied the young ladies closely. Not in a dirty old man type of way, that would be unprofessional. It was through the monitoring of the women’s handbags I would find out what I needed to know. My worst fears were realised. Every one of the females, beautifully dressed as they were, exquisite to a fault, turned up to the ball with a huge handbag. Their bags were expensive and stylish but they were overly large compared to the rest of their outfits. Soberly, I went home with food for thought.

There are many traditions in the West of Scotland and one of the old ones would have to be pulled out of the hat or more accurately, the bag, for the upcoming event. It was clear that the ladies were smuggling drinks into the hotel. Using lookouts these drinks were then dispensed from the bountiful stores in their handbags/suitcases into the obligatory, so as to not arouse suspicion, glass of paid for alcohol, thus laundering the elicit goods.

Mostly, it is bottled spirits, vodka or gin that are illegally carried into the over-priced bars. My predicament is that I don’t drink spirits. How can I get nine of the best buys in beer past the bouncers?

To Subscribe or not to Subscribe

2011-03-30T12:13:00.008+01:00

When visiting a news or magazine website the proprietors will try to entice you to subscribe to their printed manuscript, normally in the form of a little pop-up form. Extra benefits are promised as certain periodicals have material that can only be accessed by subscribers only.

Personally, I have always avoided subscribing to printed magazines even though the inducements to new subscribers are favourable. I would always worry about when the first issue of my tenure would be delivered and therefore I’d continue to buy my magazine from the shops. Terrifyingly, I could end up with two copies of the same issue. More alarmingly, is the possibility of an issue getting lost in the post; it does happen. The procedure of informing the seller of the problem is too dramatic an event for me.

My sub-editor, duly demoted from photographic duties and trying to steer his way back into favour, insisted we should set up a follow by E-Mail service. Using this Blogger facility, the reader would be alerted to new posts. We have always strived to be original in our prose though in this instance we have to venture into cliché: the articles would be “Hot off the press”, as they say.

Nearing lunchtime I was unsure as I didn’t want to be spammed. The sub-editor interrupted me by claiming it won’t be us that gets spammed it will be the readers. He went on. And they wouldn’t bother because it would be good spam as it was our spam. Still hesitating, he won me over when he said “our competitors do it.” Our competitors do it (I always repeat things when I’m angry), those charlatans.

To seal the deal, stick the icing on the cake, put the bribe in subscribe, we decided to give a surprise present to every reader who takes advantage of our offer. And every prize will be different and unique. What more could you ask for? Corporate enlightenment, up to date market information, incisive commentary and a free lucky bag gift. You don’t get this with the Financial Times.

The Sentinel's Tale

2011-03-19T23:25:00.005Z

Any casual viewer of Bloomberg television or CNBC would be forgiven for not having an earthly what the visuals are all about. Information overload is screened as the broadcasters funnel and cram as much statistics as possible; carbon copying an almanac of Wisden.

Only a superhuman computer could decipher and decide what margins are worth buying or selling. Therefore, it is a team game and excuse me while I plagiarise Blair to an extent, it’s all about delegation, delegation, delegation. This week I have given the responsibility for uploading images to my sub-editor as I am fed up doing all the work here.

The bewildering figures in the graphics above are a cornucopia of yields, futures and share prices. Understanding the glossary of terms is one thing, remembering them, another. Even logging in to your accounts can be problematic as there’s so many passwords to remember.

Passwords go back to well before the internet age. One time my dad had a week’s holiday and for a bit of fun, every day when my sister and I returned from school he would take guard behind the front door.

“What’s the password?”

All week we remembered the magic word and gained entry to our house. I still wonder what he would have done if we forgot. Friday came and it was about the time we were due home. There was a knock at the door. He opened the letterbox and mouthed.

“What’s the password?”

My dad had forgotten that my gran, who lived with us, was unwell and my mum had phoned for the doctor to pay a house call. Unfortunately, for my dad, the medical man had appeared seconds before us.

“I don’t know the password.” said the doctor.

Just then we arrived and said the password, thus bypassing the sentry and delivering the doctor to my suffering gran. After this day, my dad avoided the doctor’s surgery like the plague. He still fears the men in white coats.

3.Leviticus- The highs and laws of Blackpool Cabaret

2011-03-11T23:36:00.011Z

With razzmatazz trimmings, Caesar’s Palace has had Celine Dion, Elton John and Cher captivate and entertain some seriously rich concertgoers. The Vegas of the North has got by with luminaries like Cannon and Ball and Little and Large. Currently doing the rounds of the pier is the Legends Show. Essentially, this is tribute acts of various qualities depending on the amount of John Smith Bitter that’s been necked.

From the professionalism of Ken Dodd to Elvis impersonators to hotel hopping singers/comedians to amateur street entertainers, Blackpool has artistes in abundance. There’s the human statue that doesn’t blink, the plate-jugglers that keep on spinning and the guy who will take your photo with his monkey. Yeah that’s right, that’s his gig. He takes a snapshot of you, grinning with a monkey.

All the world’s a stage and we all must play our part. After some serious Strictly Come Dancing cha-cha-chaing in the ballroom of the Tower and guzzling many Bitter's, our party retired to the stalls. It was here that my good friend, Rab, did his party trick. The first big hearty laugh you hear is me, the lady guffawing is Rab’s missus and finally my son cackles at the end. We have no idea who is doing the gurning noise. Maybe one of the disgruntled dancers from the dance floor.

Apologies for the poor uploading. This was taken from a camera phone. Rab also has in his repertoire, The lift, The Escalator going up and a marvellous Going down the Stairs routine.

Extra responsibilities thrust onto an already laden Department

2011-03-05T00:44:00.014Z

It’s been known for years that in my family I am in charge of the Sports and Leisure Department. However, with the boys all grown up I am no longer needed to chaperone them to the park and coach them in all things sporty (apart from rugby and golf, of course). This department is now defunct from the Government.

The Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer, my good lady wife, now says I must justify my existence in the cabinet. I asked for the role of Minister without Portfolio knowing full well she would guillotine my suggestion. After chairing a committee meeting comprised of herself she decided to expand my duties in my other, less glamorous, cabinet post.

Since entering into marriage and without any discussion, it was just naturally assumed, I have been responsible for taking the rubbish out. This laborious and mundane task was sexed up to appeal to my love of self-importance. Bestowed on me was the grandiose title of Environment Secretary. For the first few months I was as happy as a pig in mud as I trudged to the bins in all weathers with my garbage. I soon became pig-sick of, basically, trudging to the bins in all weathers with garbage.

In a startling new development the PM has added further responsibilities to the Environmental Department. The rubbish has to be separated into the respective recycle bins. Colour-coded receptacles are provided for the household and it is an onerous undertaking remembering what item of recycle material goes where. These added chores are taxing on my brain and I might have known that it’s all down to the green lobby. I am the last person in the world that will go green, if you know what I mean.

(Exterminate! Exterminate!)

There are so many problems in my new job that could unexpectedly arise. For one, the bin men could go on strike leaving my filled to capacity containers to bloat in the yard. Nobody wants a bloater in their back garden. Demanding a downsizing of a shelf or two from my cabinet post I barged into the PM’s parliamentary study for a showdown. She was online viewing the shopping channel, QVC. Before I could utter a word she said. “Do me a favour, love. Be a dear and empty my recycle bin on the computer when I'm finished here.”

The great big shoe gig in the sky

2011-02-26T02:11:00.014Z

Old elephants, fearing a trip to the dentist having worn out their sixth set of teeth, take an instinctive one-way journey to the fabled land called the elephant’s graveyard. This final resting place is where they will lay their pachyderm head, all ivory and gums, for the last time. OK, get your handkerchief out and have a big cry for the elephant before we continue.

My Adidas training shoes had seen better days. Scuffed and torn, the intestines of a sweat-drenched cotton fabric garment burst forth from the belly of my boots. My trusty trainers had fared me well over the years. Many a goal or two had been scored by a controlled instep. Many a bus had been caught by the ground-eating blistering pace of the soles. Now exhausted Adidas was on the road out, lacking that Nike Swoosh.

I wanted to move left but my feet went right and carried on moving that way against my will. Powerless to stop this force, it was clear that my footwear was in command and taking me on a trip to the unknown. I ceded to my training shoes anddidas it demanded.

Eighteen and a half blocks later -I counted them- we reached the point where all good trainers shoe-shuffle off this mortal coil. There were a gang of a dozen teenagers all partaking in the last rites of used shoe ceremonies. Up above, a phone line stretched and heaved with the skeletons of previous deaths. All shoes go to heaven and are thrown airborne.

Various throwing methods are employed in this fun -for the human if not the shoe- enterprise. In all cases the laces are tied together and then it’s a freestyle paradise. Only the very skilled will land their “plane” on the line with one shot. Adopting the hammer-throw technique, I swung the shoes in a fast circular motion over my head. At great speed I hurled my Adidas up, up and away. To much applause from the Reebok-booted young, my projectile dangled like diamond earrings. Definitely, a cut above the rest.

“Here comes the law. Run, everybody.” screamed one of the shoe undertakers.

It dawned on me that this sacrilegious practise is a form of vandalism and the police would not be happy. My fellow vandals were prepared for this eventuality and their new trainers made them fleet-footed. I had thrown mine away and was shoeless; I would know better next time. In agony, I hobbled away on the unforgiving concrete. Luckily, the cops were wearing new shiny boots that weren’t broken in yet and they ran slower than me.

Paul Newman in the 1960's

2011-02-16T12:52:00.009Z

While not having the acting ability of Marlon Brando or the stage mannerisms of Laurence Olivier, Paul Newman was a Hollywood giant nonetheless. Charismatic is how to describe his towering screen persona. Sadly, he died in 2008.
He had a successful business life away from film sets and donated generously to good causes. But it’s the films me and millions others will remember him for and the 1960’s were his Golden age. Bear with me as I look back on some dazzling highlights of a great movie career.

The Hustler (1961)

Newman gives a gritty performance as a small-time pool player reaching for the top. His self-destructive ways lifts this film way above other sports based vehicles of the era. The sequel, The Color of Money, made twenty-five years later is lesser- one ball short in the Rack.
As a perennial loser at creative writing contests, Battleships games and Draughts, I have adopted "Fast" Eddie Felson’s maxim- “I'm the best you ever seen, Fats. I'm the best there is. And even if you beat me, I'm still the best.”

Sweet Bird of Youth (1962)

A Southern soap opera based on the play by Tennessee Williams. Hollywood cashed in on Newman’s good looks as a gold-digging gigolo. As Mozart was wont to play too many notes, Williams was noted for writing lots of words, however, fine acting by the ensemble makes this a rich, rewarding melodrama to watch.

Cool Hand Luke (1967)

Allegedly, there are numerous illusions to the life of Jesus in this tale of a prison chain-gang; believe it if you will. After a shaky start Luke starts to win over the rest of his inmates and they follow his lead. A terrific film that as the critics would tell you -it will leave you thinking. Memorable scenes abound, none more so than the famous egg-eating competition.

This was re-enacted tenuously in a challenge I received by a fat man in the pub many years ago. He said he could eat more Kit Kats than me. Now he was big but I was the chocoholic and I left him folded in a heap like a crumpled wrapper.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)

Quite possibly my joint favourite film of all-time. I’ve watched this a dozen times and can quote vast tracts of the script. A lot of people memorise monologues and dialogues from Shakespeare which is a waste of memory space in my book. Give me “I swear if Sweetface told me that I rode out of town ten minutes ago, I'd believe him” any day. Newman as Butch exudes charm and humour throughout the film and is ably assisted by his partner in crime, Robert Redford. Despite the subject matter, on every level this picture is tremendous, script, photography, music, the works.

A Day at the Zoo

2011-02-11T23:19:00.008Z

It was a beautiful day to go to the zoo. Donning a safari hat, black reflector shades and a white muscle Brando T-shirt tucked into -floppy to circulate air- multi-coloured shorts, I looked every bit the part of a big game hunter. The black socks and training shoes were the only part of my apparel uncool but who looks at feet anyway?

Zoos have a polarising effect on people. For some it seems cruel to have animals away from their natural habitat and kept in captivity for the amusement of customers. Zookeepers will tell you that the animals are well treated and that they have a lot of conservation projects in place that help the welfare of some of the endangered beasts. I’ve always enjoyed visiting zoos but as I walked through the park I began to feel sorry for the beings behind bars.

Giraffes have always been a favourite of mine. Anyone with a fireman’s pole for a neck is the bees' knees in my book. At the giraffe station I opened the gate and walked into the herd. Like a cowboy I yee-hawed and slapped the giraffes on the bottom. This started a stampede and they escaped through the gate. Run free my children, I shouted.

I decided there and then to free as many of the imprisoned beasts as I could. Not wanting any fatalities on my conscience it would only be tame non-carnivores I would liberate. Obviously, the big lions growled at me as I was Noah good to them. The good-looking camels kissed me (the ugly ones shook my hand), the meerkats hugged me and the monkeys ate bananas with me such was the unrestrained joy of freedom.

The entire zoo was a pandemonium of shrieking guests, animals wandering here and there and zookeepers trying to recapture their pets. The scene was straight out of a Benny Hill show. My laughter came to an abrupt halt when a snake sneakily slid into the gap in my baggy shorts and bit me high up in the groin. Some fool had aped my plan and let loose the reptile house. I fell to the floor in agony and shock. A crowd surrounded me and I could hear murmurs of “who wears black socks with shorts nowadays?” “Look at the state of those old-fashioned trainers”.

Lapsing into unconsciousness as the venom was entering my system a snake handler pushed through the crowd in the campest of fashion. He was draped in pink overalls and called to me. From the pitch of his voice I recognised it was my old adversary who never failed to catch me when I was at a disadvantage.

“Hello, sailor boy.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were a masseur.”

“The place got raided. By the way we’ve no anti-venom left, I’ll have to bite the poison out.”

And he pulled my shorts to the side.

The consequences of sub-standard biscuits

2011-02-05T12:48:00.013Z

To avoid bad publicity and to protect against corporate liability some manufacturers will recall defective products. In recent years the car maker Toyota has had to recall a lot of its models due to serious defects in their make-up. Toyota has never been one of my favourite automobiles as their slogan “The car in front is a Toyota” was dreamed up by me in a dream and was carjacked.

In this age of “the customer is always right” it is vital that corporations do everything in their power to guard against claims by irate consumers. It is also the age of the claimant. Many claims can instigate a knock-on effect leading to closure for many firms. Guiltily, I still get the feeling I started the landslide that led to a well-known high street retailer to close.

It is common practise for supermarkets to sell poor imitation rival goods that aped more illustrious brands. To give an example, let’s compare Asda’s Puffin biscuit with the real McCoist, McVitie’s Penguin biscuit. The Penguin is a more rewarding feast and as a bonus there’s a joke on the wrapper.

What do penguins sing on a birthday? ........ Freeze a jolly good fellow.

Why do seagulls fly over the sea?
Because if they fly over bays they would be baygels.

"What kinds of fish do penguins catch at night?
Starfish"

All jokes © blame the penguins

One day while being on the wrong side of rich I decided to buy an inferior make of Breakaway biscuits from a, at the time, leading grocer. When I got home problems occurred as soon as I ate the goods. The biscuit was faulty as it was hard chocolate all the way through. To use American idiom, there was no cookie in it. Now I knew how disgruntled from Tunbridge Wells felt. Perhaps, there was a complete bad batch of take-a-breaks.

Re-wrapping the produce in a recorded delivery envelope I vented my displeasure in a letter to the company’s complaints department. In a Jaffa, sorry I mean in a jiffy, I received a reply. A humbling apology was written to me with a cheque for the princely sum of £20. A veritable lottery win in those days. Happy with my lot, it was only a few months later when the high street giant collapsed and closed down forever. I felt as if I had flapped my butterfly wings and caused a hurricane.

Party Games and Songs

2011-01-29T02:12:00.004Z

In a few days time it will be my friend’s daughter’s nineteenth birthday. She had a party for her tenth birthday and my youngest son, then aged eight, was there. This was a big birthday bash that was held in a hall. I took my place on the sidelines with other parents and watched the proceedings.

There was a DJ installed who was Master of Ceremonies. He was very good at his job. He captivated his kid audience with various party games and assorted pop tunes. Various prizes were issued to winners in the competitions and generally all was well except my boy had won nothing. Now I knew at the end of the gig there would be a party bag for all the attendant children, that was expected, but the games offered the chance of winning a bonus goodie. And a goodie won is better than a goodie earned (© almost Paul Newman in The Color of Money).

The DJ began a game that was similar to the old TV programme Runaround. The DJ would ask a multiple choice question and in the four corners of the hall were four different colours. The children had to run to where the colour they thought was the correct answer. If they ran to the wrong colour they were out. Gently coaxing my eight year old to learn a code, I coded the answers to him. Everything was going well until a hard question came up and I had to guess the answer for him. I guessed wrong and he was out. To this day he mocks me for my lack of knowledge.

Another great idea of the DJ’s was to have a notice board with a pen attached to an elastic band. Children were invited to write down the names of songs they’d like to hear. Every now and then the DJ would look at the board and play the songs from his vast collection of pop records. The hits included songs by artists such as Britney Spears, The Corrs, Pink, Dido and Mr C the Slide Man. Not my cup of tea, any of this, so I picked the pen up in my left hand and in imitation of a ten year old’s hand writing I wrote: Metallica- Whiskey in the Jar. The DJ ignored my request. Ten years or so down the line the Cha Cha Slide is growing on me but I’m still a die-hard metal fan.

A collection of poems by B.Keeper

2011-01-21T17:27:00.004Z

One of the most beautiful creatures on this planet is the bee. According to a good friend of mine that is an expert on the subject, there are 20,000 different species in the world. Mr Bee Keeper has written extensively on bees and has a new book of poems about the flying insect about to be published. With the author’s permission I have included here three of the odes from the upcoming book. Hope you enjoy and happy thoughts to one and all.

Kite

Close to heaven
I saw a kite fly high
By wind driven
It glided in the sky
Unafraid
Of falling
From a great height
It was aware of its calling

Farther down, in the pleasant green
I spied a flying ship with a sting
And I recoiled first, before disarming
For this was no predator
No preening matador
There was no malice in its face
Its masts were set sail to sail with glee
And it hugged on the tree
The bee embraced the flowers round the bark
And on its body bore a kitemark

You can’t kid a kidder

Bedecked with bright colours
I lounge on the decking
Waiting for my discoverer
Waiting, anticipating
The flowers in the garden draw me a quizzical look
Confused by my disguise have they mistook
Me for a Crocus, a Narcissus, an Aramanthus?
Do they see me as a Water Lily, a Chrysanthemum
A Violet or Rosemary
An Ivy or Daisy
Or even an Andy?
A flower is a flower is a flower in my book
And the flowers thought I was one of them

As the sun smiles with a shiny face
There is a buzz about the place
The air is alive with a kaleidoscope of a thousand Joseph coats
I open my drawbridge and drain my moat
The beautiful Princess of the air nears me
Is she pretending not to see me?
She sniffs me and I’m sure she laughed
She disappears; the bees not daft

Summer Day

The ice-cream van airs out a merry chime
I buy my sundae and bask in the summertime
On a deckchair I recline
My ear hears the sound of a whirring whine
From my vantage point I survey the landscape
A wooded garden guarded by a metal gate
Flowers are alive of every colour and shape
The intruder has no intention of escape

I see the bee but does it see me?
It looks busy
Or is it having fun
Rushing about in the sun?
I know next to nothing about bees
When all’s told
But I know when I see one
All’s well in the world

All poems © Bee Keeper- 2011

Twenty-first century wrapping procedures

2011-01-09T10:08:00.034Z

All the various branches of science are continually exploring and creating new marvels for the wider world. That's nice but I think that they should stop looking for the next best thing and improve current inventions. Naturally, scientific farmers should maintain their research into developing the rectangular potato as this would make peeling easier.

The destructive tool of beauty, the shredder, has always impressed me. This should be left alone as it does its job beautifully. Shredding utility bills has a pleasing, relaxing effect. The shredder’s computer equivalent, the recycle bin, doesn’t have the same motorised teeth appeal to it. The shredder does not give you the option to change your mind. Are you sure you want to permanently delete this blog? The shredder never asks you this. You know where you are with the shredder.

There is one small favour I would like to ask the professors of the white coats. Can they make DVD packaging a bit easier to open? Like most people, I have a burgeoning collection of DVD’s that overfills the limited space available on the shelves. Capacity is one thing, it’s the opening of these discs I find unbearable.

The elastic modulus, the yield strength, the ultimate tensile strength, and the fracture strain are all clearly exhibited in the packaging that is packed with a metallurgist’s fanaticism. The high stress point of the plastic drives me to high stress levels. My big clunky fingers can’t find the little fag wrapper bit that gives you a starty. So I turn the disc over and try to peel away at it from all angles desperately looking for a loose edge, scratching and gnawing at the perimeter of this Fort Knoxian abomination.
No joy.
I contemplate the shredder then I remember the big knife. So the big knife comes out and the little triangular corner bits on the end elevation of the cover are going to be shredded meat. Complete satisfaction is gained when I manage to make inroads into the packaging. After this, there’s only one winner and the plastic cellophane is crunched up and bowled into the bin beside its plastic pals.

(Photographs: Top left- "There goes the bill" & Middle right- "The only good piece of wrapping: Ashanti"

It is hungry work opening up DVD’s and usually I’ll have a cup of tea afterwards. The long lived and trusty old invention, the Roger Kettle boils happily and a wee cuppa goes down a treat. To compliment the tea I’ll have a few digestives. Trouble is the packet is not open. So I’m in a struggle once more with over-zealous packaging. There’s a little fiddly bit that unlocks the safe though locating it is as difficult as finding the end of the sellotape. Time for violence and the big knife rears its ugly head again. Its crumbs for the biscuits.

Out with the old...well most of it, anyway

2011-01-01T19:25:00.001Z

You can get attached to some of your wardrobe. Even when that trusty old jacket is showing signs of wear and tear it doesn‘t seem right to let it go. But there has to be a cull somewhere because if you don’t your house will be as packed as a stall in a Blackpool market. Twice a year it is culling season for clothes in my house.

Both my sons are slightly bigger than me though clothes wise we are the same size. At Christmas time their two grans and other assorted family members present them with clothes as they are too old for toys. (I miss those days and sometimes buy myself a toy to play with.) Most of the presents have the gift receipt inside the wrapping paper and if the boys don’t like the clothes it is easy enough to exchange them. Quite thoughtful, my immediate family, to give them their due.

After they have made their exchanges and/or kept the items they liked, their wardrobe is full to the gunnels. So now it’s the boys turn to cull. With sadness they place a heap of old clothes at the door. Before the charity shop beckons for these garments I have a ruffle through them. Now the lads’ old clothes are in better nick than my new ones. From the bundle I claim a few of the unwanted and squash them in my chest of drawers.

The transfer of this clothing can confuse my wife and after a washing she forgets whose stuff is whose and where it should go. When the laundered items they discarded are put in their rooms by innocent mistake, my sons throw the T-shirts and polo shirts at me. “They’re yours” they say. Charming, only a few days ago they were upset at losing these things. But now with all their brand new clothes they’ve forgotten about the old puppy they had. The hand-me-downs don’t deserve to be treated like this. For hand-me-downs everywhere, the not pressed oppressed, I’m thinking of you at this crucial time of year.

Talking of hand-me-downs. When I was young no one in my area was well-off and everybody was struggling to make ends meet. It was not uncommon for families to pass clothing down the line from oldest to youngest. Nobody made a big deal of this and as far as I can remember nobody was teased about it. I was lucky to be the only son of my parents although I did receive some of my cousins cast-offs. Even luckier for me was that my parents didn’t dress me in my sisters clothes. I could have turned out differently, if you know what I mean and not be the muscular, macho, masculine individual that you know today. I did cry when watching Toy Story 3 but we‘ll keep that to ourselves.

In the coming year I’d like to wish everyone health and happiness. Hope all of you had a great time at the bells. Happy New Year.

Phoney War

2010-12-11T21:04:00.007Z

It was a pleasant journey as the bus trudged through the remains of the snow in a leisurely fashion. There were only three of us on the coach and although closely bunched we weren’t invading anyone’s space. Then the girls mobile rang.

She proceeded to have a losing conversation with a friend. The friend was the alpha-female and in total control of the chat. Sitting across from me the passenger on the bus could only remark in fragmentary sentences into her cell.

On the bus, post office, shelves for idiots, on the bus, 4X4 times two, clocked him.

Struggling to get a foothold against the formidable orator at the end of the line, the commuter -who I was now rooting for as the underdog is always popular and in solidarity I felt as if she was my comrade- was having her attempts at a fight back cut short.

Well she sa- life can be- wait a secon- on the bus- there’s no wa- listen up a-

If this were a heavyweight boxing bout the ref would have stopped the fight. I was tempted to grab the phone from her and outtalk the chatterbox. Then the tone of my fellow traveller changed and she started speaking in exclamation marks.

She did what! Robbie Winters! On the bus! Five Times! No protection!

Her high-pitched voice was whining in my ears and was only drowned out by the sound of a blaring version of the Tom Jones classic: It’s not unusual. This was the ring tone of the old bald guy in front of me. Having a guess I’d say he was about ninety-three. He answered his Samsung.

EHHH? HUHHH? CANNAE HEAR YE. SPEAK UP. EHHHH?

Call me old-fashioned but I thought of Logan’s Run. If this book were written today it would state that no one over the age of forty-five should possess a mobile phone. Don’t call me ageist I also think it silly all the young men that sport a d’Artagnan goatee beard but that’s for another tale.

The tranquil journey had now turned into a discordant symphony of banshees and croaking frogs. The girl had found a second wind and was tearing lumps out of her opponent as she began to dominate the telecommunication tête-à-tête with left/right hand switching combinations and rapid fire vocal deliveries. Great, great granddad had changed the phone to his good ear and he continued to shout while his hearing aid beeped like R2D2.

Call me gullible if you will. I’ve always believed the scare-mongering about mobile phones harming your brain. Only in emergencies will I step into the super highway telephony network. With little chance of respite I had no option other than to join the fray; if you can’t beat ‘em and all that. I pulled out my mobile phone and had a game of Pac-Man.

Not that I need any encouragement, this little adventure gives me the excuse to play some Blondie. I wish Debbie would call me. The risk would be worth it.

It started with a cough

2010-12-04T02:48:00.009Z

Most doctors will tell you any form of mild exercise is good for you. Walking for instance is a cheap way to get fit and a nice walk is therapeutic. Steering clear of Brownfield areas I walked the lush grassy parks of my fine city. Unfortunately, the temperature fell and the UK was hit by Arctic weather. Nonplussed I continued walking forgetting that I wasn’t really clothed for the snowy conditions. The result being a sore throat and a cough that was as relentless as an express train.

An embarrassing bout of coughing possessed me while I was in the library. The librarian drew me daggers and I could sense my splutters were breaking the concentration of readers. From out of nowhere an Asian man took me by the elbow and led me to the lobby. I feared the worst as I thought I was in the hands of a karate expert. But he wasn’t, he was a Yoga practitioner.

“This yoga exercise should help your cough.” he said.

He showed me the Roaring Lion (Simhasana) technique, calm consciousness was invoked and the coughs subsided. The “Lion” involves breathing in a lungful of fresh air through the nose and expelling violently the poisonous air out of your mouth giving an instant cure for sore throat, coughs and bad breath. Try it, it works.

In a state of nirvana I thanked my teacher. The guru went on to extol the virtues of yoga and enthused on the healthy benefits of a full body massage. Advising me to visit a massage parlour, I politely declined saying that they don’t have a good reputation in these parts. Nonsense, he said, and he recommended a salon on the main road in the city. He went on, everything is above board and the soft hands of the Goddess will refresh the body and soul.

In a state of excitement I went on a reconnaissance mission near the premises. Sure enough, it was sitting in the middle of town besides other retailers. Signs on its window indicated it didn’t just do massages. Hypnotherapy and acupuncture were also on the menu. And the receptionists, they were stunning! If this were the receptionists what are the masseuses going to be like?

I took the plunge and on entering was greeted by one of the most pleasant, beautiful Asian women I have ever seen. She led me down a corridor and into a room. Let me make it perfectly clear I absolutely love my wife. I was only here to relieve my aches and strains. The fact that the establishment was full of pretty women was not important.

“Take your clothes off and lie on the bed. There’s a towel over there, sir. Please use it to protect your modesty. Your masseur will be in presently.”

Lying on my back with the flimsy hand towel over my midriff I looked forward to the experience of being manipulated into a blissful realm. I closed my eyes and dreamed of floating on a clear white ocean. Gently bobbing in the water far, far from the deep snow that lay outside. I imagined being adrift with only the sounds of birds of paradise for company.

“Hello, sailor boy.”

That girly voice rings a bell, oh no, it can’t be. I craned my neck and sure enough in front of me dressed in a pink kimono stood the camp young man from the petrol station.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you work at the garage?”

Pouring oil on his hands he replied.

“I got laid off from the pumps. Come on now, don’t be shy. We’re old friends.”

And he yanked off my towel.

Still Life is a bowl of Cherries

2010-11-27T16:10:00.009Z

“If every instinct you have is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right.”
Jerry Seinfeld trumping Confucius.

We practise routines and rituals every day sometimes without not even noticing it. You tie your shoe laces the same way without ever experimenting with new loop the loops. You’ll read the same newspaper instead of broadening your horizons and taking in other perspectives. And you’ll never consider trying out a different way to walk. You’re happy with the walk you’ve got even though you know your particular method of walking is dreadful.

Before you know it, you’ve got in a rut. The abrupt glottal stop in this short word makes it one of the most brutal words in the English dictionary. Say rut three times. See what I mean. Its close connection to drat is no coincidence. We’re all dratted in a rut. It’s time to get out of this rut.

I started the re-invigorating process slowly. I tied my laces in a basic reef knot. By the end of the week I will be doing sheepshanks and catshanks. Now primed for walking, tentatively I took new steps and went out to face the world. Upwardly mobile I declined my Daily Sport from my usual vendor and continued to foxtrot down the street.

Suddenly hunger came upon me and the urge for cola and pastries was strong. Then I saw it. Big Fruit Bag: only £5. Now me and fruit are like Connors and McEnroe, the Sundance Kid and swimming, Ring Nebula and casement windows. Me and fruit are not bed fellows. Preparing to do a tango away from the shop, the impulse to do the opposite came over me and I purchased the big fruit bag.

Back home with the tension building like a horror film I gradually opened the big fruit bag. Strange red balls looked out at me. After consulting Wikipedia I found out that they are called cherries. I took the plunge and ate a cherry. Wham! My head was dancing and my palate was screaming as this delicious taste sensation kicked like a mule and knocked me to the floor. This should be a category A drug.

(Still Life is a bowl of Cherries by a drunken Picasso)

I went back for more. Soon I’d consumed the whole lot. Now I couldn’t stop and moved on to things called apples and oranges (thanks again, Wiki). In a small amount of time the big fruit bag was devoured. I was Twist and wanted more. With one big fruit bag I had become a fruit addict. A five pound fi had turned my rut to fruit.

Truly, I can’t believe what I’ve been missing all these years. The wonderful world of fruit has embraced me and welcomed me into its church. At the moment I’m a lowly mason in the fruit degrees but tantalising glimpses of exotic fruits have been promised. Fringe benefits of fruit-eating are many. My liver has been cleansed, my toe nails are getting stronger and I’ve mastered a brand new walk.

Battle of the Black Socks

2010-11-20T00:10:00.015Z

To the best of my knowledge there are only two Scots who follow, follow the England cricket team; me and some guy from the East. In all honesty we want them to win and next week sees the start of the Ashes when “we” face Australia.

To attune my body clock to down under timescales I have been in Dracula mode by sleeping all day and haunting the house by night. The hypocritical neighbours aren’t too happy about the loud rock music I play in the early hours. Double standards here as I make no fuss about the noise they make all day. Nevertheless I have turned down the volume because the other night they were at my door with pitchforks and torches braying for my ashes.

Before the Ashes another Battle of Britain looms. On November 24th at Ibrox Stadium the most successful football team in the world, Glasgow Rangers, take on the cream of England, Manchester United in the Champions league. Tickets for the three home European games were £105; Bursapor from Turkey and Valencia from Spain are the other two teams in the group. My sons and a few friends ~~robbed a bank~~ found some money and six of us will be in the Broomloan Road Stand cheering on the blues.

Traditionally, Rangers wear red and black socks. Only in certain European and occasional away domestic fixtures do the colours change driving the Conservatives amongst us crazy. These distinctive socks, the legend goes, are attributed to a great Scottish institution: Govan Shipbuilders. They are tailored on the colours of the funnels of the ships produced in bygone days. The South side shipyard will not be forgotten as homage is paid weekly by the greatest Scottish institution: Glasgow Rangers.

(A short history of socks from medieval times to ones not out the wrapper yet)

In a nice tie-in, a short drive from the stadium brings you to Govan High School. The uniform of this modern comprehensive is red and black and always has been. It is also the school where Sir Alex Ferguson, the abrasive United manager and former Rangers player was educated. Man U also wear black socks, though I can offer no explanation for their origins. The coincidence of the colours does raise a few questions. Was it the case that Ferguson was attracted to Manchester because of the socks? Did he pine for his lost schooldays and previous Rangers incarnation? Are socks the meaning to the answer of life? Posers, posers.

Convention dictates that the away team change their strips to avoid clashing. This means that the Gers will run out on Wednesday with their customary kit. Rangers are universally associated with Royal blue, though I have always loved the addition of black on the socks. A familiar tune played on match days is Tina Turner’s Simply the Best, the unique socks makes us also....different from all the rest.

One of my favourite Rangers tunes with a flag tribute of Davie Cooper’s famous quote. “I played for the team I loved.”

Postscript 25/11/10-

Just in case anyone reads this in a hundred years time and to point out I'm not a bad loser, the final score was 1-0 to Man United.

Smile

2010-11-14T16:47:00.025Z

Never smile for newspapers. When your firm makes a loss they will print your photo on the financial pages with you smiling.
--Alan Sugar, British entrepreneur, The Observer, December 12, 1992

Thus spake Alan Michael Sugar, founder of Amstrad and TV star of The Apprentice. His harsh quote is hung on the walls of most budding tycoons. For eighteen years I refused to smile. Even in holiday photographs or at private parties. The family would try and cajole me, “Come on, it’s easy. Just curl the lips upwards”, still I remained steadfast in my sternness.

My unshakeable belief in Sugar’s maxim was almost broken on a few occasions. To force a smile and bring me happiness incredible gifts were given to me. Happiness usually goes hand in hand with smiling. My wife handed me a blue vinyl Bohemian Rhapsody and I could feel my lips quiver as I held in my hands a limited edition rarity; only 200 copies were pressed. Then I noticed blue paint underneath my fingernails. She had painted over a black vinyl issue (3 million sold, not very rare) with a dye of blue. This took the gloss off my joy and my lips curled downwards.

Other more frightening remedies were inflicted on me. The gang of them caught me by surprise and bound me hand and feet. Soon I was subjected to a prolonged session of tickling. Luckily, I had been taught interrogation resistance techniques from my mate, James Bond. He stayed just round the corner from my gran next to Elvis’s chip shop.

Being dour-faced has fringe benefits. By not chuckling I have no laughter lines and completely wrinkle free I can get on the bus for half price. Buying alcohol can be difficult, though. My facial immortality has been attributed to a Faustian pact. I tell my detractors I have never used cream or pacts on my face. My face will never crack.

And then yesterday I overheard two men arguing over whom was the funnier comedian: Michael McIntyre or Peter Kay? Both of them recited material from their favourites and I could feel a smile coming on. I bit my lip.

-I was doing some decorating, so I got out my step-ladder, I don't get on with my real ladder.
-N for…erm…knickers.
-I'm not homophobic. I'm not scared of my house.
-We trust the fridge!

I laughed a loud hyena laugh. I’m not like Sugar any more; I’ve sweetened up. The uncontrollable laughter has made me look a hundred and eighty. Pass the Oil of Ulay, please.

Have any of the regular commentators any other favourite comedians/sketches? Post a link and I’ll copy it on the post. Big smiles.

One from me.

King of the Jams

2010-11-06T20:24:00.009Z

No one can dispute that this is the age of the car. And cars begat traffic. And traffic begets traffic jams. Anyone who has seen the Michael Douglas movie Falling Down can emphasize with his frustration while waiting in a long jam. He leaves his vehicle on the road, exacerbating the situation and hot tails it away from the congestion to seek a cold drink. In real life we are more conservative and wait for the stand still to pass. Waiting, dehydrating...

An entrepreneurial whizz kid, although he’s pushing forty-four, devised a plan to make some cash from the swelling jams of automobiles, reasoning that in every losing position, there’s a winning solution. While rummaging in his loft he found one of the inventions that time forgot and also forgot the word for this defining moment. Ulrika? Urethra? Fandabi-dozi? Nope, the word was lost. Fittingly, you could say, as he was in the loft. His eyes dwelt on an unwanted, unloved Sodastream dispenser that sat disconsolate. “Today you go to work” he told the carbonated beverage system.

Investing in a horde of paper cups the drinks magnet set sail on his bike to sell refreshments to thirsty drivers. A bike can easily dissect and bypass stationary cars and this dextrous mobility was used to dispense drinks to the drought mouths of motorists on long, hot, traffic-jam laden, summer days. Unhappy drivers had no choice except Sodastream as the cyclist had cornered the market and somehow side-stepped the Monopolies Commission. “Have you any cola, buddy?” was a popular question asked while he did his rounds. Only for myself would reply the vendor.

Autumn came and Sodastream was out of season. Third quarter revenue fell in the fall. The Sodastream was banished once more to the outer reaches of the highest floor. His spirits broken, not helped by burning his tongue on a too hot cup of soup. Supra! Subarua! Scooby-doobra! Still can’t recall the Archimedean word of discovery, alas. Now he treads lightly with a huge pot of broth in his bike basket and his mobile soup kitchen retails to the shivering tail-backed line of drivers in a jam.

Six degrees of Bacon and a slice of Hudson

2010-10-30T22:06:00.009+01:00

It’s a small world, right enough. Film buffs have long linked Kevin Bacon to every other star in Hollywood. Quite a complex game and too hard for me to explain, try reading this.

A little known fact about me was that in my younger days I dated Goldie Hawn. She was in Scotland filming and I got introduced to her. One thing led to another and we were an item. The romance didn’t last long as she had to go back to the USA. These were the days before mobile phones, e-mail, Skype and other technical marvels. We parted amicably, although I was the more upset. Eventually I got my life back on track and lived happily ever after with my dearest wife.

My favourite rock band of the moment is a trio called Muse and musically they are similar to Queen. Having seen them live I can vouch that they do put on a good show. The singer/lead guitarist is called Matt Bellamy and while not having Freddie’s voice (nobody has) he is a talented musician. A good many close members of my family are chairmen and chief executives but I haven’t any, even distant relations that are rock stars. There is a musical gap in my family tree.

While chairing a board meeting the other day the discussion turned to Unit Trusts and Index-Linked funds. I wanted a supermassive black hole to swallow me up but my dreams never come true so I picked up a copy of a celebrity magazine that was lying about. Flicking through it I nearly choked on one of my yawns when I read the latest gossipy news: Matt Bellamy is seeing Kate Hudson. For years I have kept my adventures with Goldie secret not wanting to harm anyone. Now the past had caught up with me, I had forgotten Goldie had a daughter. Kate Hudson is of course, Goldie’s daughter. I called in the firm's accountant to tote up Kate's age with my fling with Goldie.

The jury is still out on the time scale on account of having a useless accountant and Bill Hudson might appear on the Jeremy Kyle show demanding a DNA test, however, posers abound amidst all this hullabaloo. Is Kate really mine? Will Matt marry Kate? Would Matt be my son-in-law? Will this tenuous blood link get me free tickets to Muse concerts? Where does Kevin Bacon feature in this? Is Kurt Russell a better fighter than me? I’ve a thousand and one unanswered questions so I’d best stop right now. Here is some classic Muse. Play it loud.

And my favourite track from their last album.

Thunderclap

2010-10-17T09:18:00.005+01:00

Audiences clap at the end of theatrical performances signifying appreciation. Supporters will clap the scoring of a goal, the winning serve on match point, the participants in women’s beach volleyball etc. Speeches, political or otherwise receive a hearty round of applause. Kittens rescued from trees are always given an ovation. The prevalence of clapping is everywhere. Now I have studied clapping and concluded there’s a lot of cheating going on in there.

Let me explain. Even the strongest of thunderers will fade out and struggle to keep rhythm. Only the most masochistic can maintain momentum to continue clapping forcefully throughout one long burst of sycophancy. By analysing people I have saw them change their clap technique. All begin by clapping with two hands a gusto like a seal then a wide variety of styles are employed to lessen the hurt inflicted on the palms and carry on the Champagne sham praise.

These non-traditional clapping methods include: One hand remains static while the other hammers out the beat, after awhile hands are changed. Both hands cupped rendering a tender fingertip clap. The one hand lower than the other approach where the fingers of one hand hit the palm of the other. As pain and boredom sets in participants will utilise every last bit of skin on their grasping appendage, some exceeding boundaries and slapping their thighs in appreciation.

Which brings us to the cheats: The mute clappers. These bogus bounders simulate clapping. They make no sound, if everyone stopped abruptly, they would be exposed as counterfeit clappers. There are many of these impostors about and I would love to see a room full of them. Imagine them at a concert in Las Vegas and Celine Dion has just belted out a cracker of a “My Heart will go on”. She bows to milk the acclaim and she sees a sea of hands imitating clapping. Poor Celine sticks a finger in her ear to clear the wax and still it’s all so quiet.

Maybe there’s cheats in the choir as well. When Beethoven’s Ode to Joy is performed, feeling lazy a few of the singers could mime their way through it. Then there’s the orchestra itself. It would be hard for the string section to dodge work but if there are four horn players in the ensemble, might one of them be tempted to pretend to blow? What if, without knowing of the others intentions, the four of them faked blowing? This would render the whole thing a farce. The musicians are not playing and the audience are not clapping.

Using these themes I gave a lecture last week at The Royal Albert Hall in front of the 1895 Last Night at the Proms backbench committee. My speech was going down well, there was constant clapping throughout. It was very slow clapping and I don’t have the foggiest what that means. But I’m sure it’s good, after all, they were genuinely clapping.

Pulp Fiction Moment

2010-10-09T20:08:00.011+01:00

During the summer months when the kids were young I would take them for a drive and we’d try to locate new grass areas to play football. All over the outskirts of town we’d find places to indulge in our love of football orientated games: 7-in 7-bye, Longies, Waw’ay, keepie-uppies etc. With lots of practise both of them have become decent footballers and even as kids were quite good.

Sometimes we’d just play by ourselves but other times we’d instigate or be invited to an impromptu game with other players. If Heaven exists it must be like these games, the sheer joy that is called kickabouts. Kickabouts are football without any rules. Playing against strangers hones your technique as you must expect the unexpected. You will encounter a whole range of playing styles from roughhouses, one-footed (not literally) players, quick and skilful to mediocre and finally dreadful. In my youth some street games (“Sidey’s”) were twenty a side with everybody eager to join in: dads, granddads, the police, shop workers and strangers passing-by. The rise of the automobile caused the decline of street football. Shame...

Not that long ago we discovered a new grass pitch not far from my mum’s house and kicked the ball about. Three of the locals were playing nearby; inevitably a three-a-side match was set-up. During play it started to rain and soon turned into one of the worst storms I’ve ever witnessed. However, the show must go on and squelching through the quagmire we soldiered on. These games don’t have a time limit; usually it is the first to reach a pre-determined amount of goals that is the winner. The rain was relentless and we were covered in mud from head to toe, it was worth it though, we won in the end.

Our filthy odorous bodies went into the car and it too became mucked with sludge and the smell of dirt. This was OK because I could clean it in the morning, as for us a short detour to my mum’s would fix us. Always welcoming no matter the situation or state of us, Gran hugged her boys. Three hot showers later we were kitted out in some of my dad’s gear. This consisted of shorts and t-shirts for the boys and pairs of flip-flops, of course nothing was matching and they were multi-coloured, while I was given a Val Doonican purple cardigan, old grey trousers that were too short in the leg for me and a pair of bright red sneakers. Again this was OK as by now it was dark and late, making it unlikely that anyone would see us drive home.

Our appearance reminded me of the scene in Pulp Fiction when the two gangsters accidentally kill an accomplice who bleeds all over their suits, forcing them to get their clothes changed. Funnily or coincidentally my wife loves John Travolta and I lo...uh, I mean, ermm...am fond of big Sammy Jackson. The garish clothes they are given in the film weren’t as bad as the outfits my dad dons.

Avoiding the caked soil in the car we made it back home clean but with nightmare clothes on. We entered the living room to see my wife quaffing drinks with a couple of friends I haven’t seen in years. This was obviously a surprise visit. No doubt my wife had been extolling on the merits of her spouse and offspring. We stood there looking like a jumble sale.
And I hoped they didn't want a lift home.

No Scope for Horror

2010-09-29T10:10:00.005+01:00

There was a TV programme on in the UK when I was very young that was not to be missed, it was called Play School. Every day they asked the question, which window will we look through today? You had a two to one chance of being correct and bragging rights all day if you were. Could this innocent game of chance have subsequently turned the country into rampant gamblers? Was Play School subversive?

Predictions and predictors are big business and everywhere. From the horrorscopes in your papers to the burgeoning gypsies that guess their way to money and laugh all the way to the bank. The fortune teller might say: red is a significant colour in your fate. Wild theories run riot and you hope for nothing more than a nose bleed. For sensible precautions you avoid revolving doors and bulls. A lucky or unlucky number is revealed to you signifying that luck or lack of it will start with this letter. Funnily, it’s always a common letter and never an X or a Z. Clearly, they make all this stuff up.

The charlatans come in many guises and will use any tool to wrench the cash from your hands. Take palm readers, they don’t even need to purchase a crystal ball all the equipment they use are in your hands. Well, they’re out of luck with me. As I’ve told you before I have no wrinkles and wrinkle free me has no lifeline to be read. The tea leaf readers are also shaken and strained to the ground by my imbibing habit. I only drink Tetley one-cup which-

A) Leafs no leafs
B) Leaves no leaves
C) Leafs no leaves
D) Leaves no leafs

(There’s a little multiple choice gamble for the Play School generation)

Some things are predictable and you don’t need Paul the octopus for these ones. At least one of the library books I hire today will have pages missing; probably the final ones, the Muse CD I buy will have a scratch on it and to fulfill the red prophecy I'll bash my nose on a revolving door. Better luck hopefully and a win for the Mighty Glasgow Rangers in their Champions League tie tonight. I've said this since pre-Play School: Come on the Gers!

In Vogue

2010-09-19T22:07:00.010+01:00

Currently taking place is London Fashion Week, a gig that lasts from Friday 17th to Wednesday 22nd of September. This is one of the Grand Slam events for designers who constantly try to outdo one another in the outrageous stakes. Crop tops, busty dresses, swimsuits, feathers and furs- real or imagined- all attired in dazzling colours parade down the catwalk. Of course, there’s a model in them as the clothes might be loud but they can’t walk by themselves.

This haute couture industry does only cater for the well off and if you can afford one of these monstrosities, I mean delicacies you have to be selective about when to wear. For the less fortunate cheaper imitations of the basic trimmings filter down to the mass market which is a good thing and a bad thing. For ladies, there’s nothing worse than turning up at an event to see a rival with the same dress on. I often wonder what the ladies do in this situation. Do they try and re-arrange their apparel? Maybe go to the little girl’s room and hem the dress up a few inches to make a micro-dress. Tear a sleeve off and use it as a makeshift bandana. Look for a “Warning: Wet Paint” sign and rub up and down or roll over the painted surface furiously. I guess I’ll never know.

As for me, I’ve never been into designer garb. Mrs W will tell you, my clothes mantra is I’ll wear anything as long as there’s no green in it. And if the garment is semi-expensive I have to take it off when I eat as I am a clumsy eater. Fine if we’re entertaining in the house, restaurants are a bit more embarrassing. Many’s the time I’ve seen couples stare at my bare torso while they dine; lust from the women and envy from the men. (Or maybe disgust and mockery, I don’t know, I’m not a body language expert)

Looking at some of the creations on show at the Fashion extravaganza, it seems to be a success all you have to be is original. Therefore, I am thinking of starting my own clothes line (nothing to do with drying the washing) and have a few prototypes ready. Denim trousers with different coloured legs could be the future of casual clothing as we know it. And to boot, why not wear different footwear, too? Even Naomi Campbell wouldn't trip over with odd trainer's on, now would she? Mind you, she has two left feet.

2.Exodus- Blackpool 1986

2010-09-13T23:58:00.003+01:00

To the best of my knowledge all of the following recollection is true-

There were nine of us altogether. Me, my future wife, my future brother-in-law, my future sister-in-law, my future mother-in-law, my future wife’s auntie, my future wife’s uncle and a futureless male/female couple who were friends of the uncle. Not having learned to drive at this particular juncture the uncle and friend agreed to share the driving duties on the mini-bus they had hired from their work. At six AM we headed south on a day trip to Blackpool.

The early morning ride was uneventful and with good progress we’d made it to the service station halfway there. There were picnic seats outside and we ate some sandwiches. Unbeknownst to the uncle his friend was swigging whisky from a flask on the bus and felt the effects of the alcohol as soon as he hit the outside air. A bit of a scene occurred with the non-drivers complaining that they didn’t trust this man to drive us back. Eventually so as not waste the day for everyone, the uncle said he would do all the driving thereby forgoing drinking.

Amidst this mayhem the future brother-in-law and I went eye to eye. Not in a fighting manner, it was all to do with size. You see we are the same height and we measure ourselves constantly to see if one of us has grown or shortened. It really all depends on the footwear and usually if we know we’ll be meeting, platform boots are the order of the day. On this day our statures were the same.

The atmosphere on the bus was better as we neared and arrived at Blackpool. Just as a cheer erupts on a plane when it touches down, a Glasgow roar is shouted on first sight of the Tower. It was pre-nuptially agreed that the young ones and old ones would split up and meet again later in a designated popular pub. So that left me with three of my futures. My future wife was the only one of her siblings to be romantically attached at the time and what a catch she’d caught. Me.

Firstly we looked in a few of the market stalls and then had some drinks in a run down and rough hostelry. These were the days of the afternoon closing of pubs and so at 2.30 PM we were chucked out and dusting ourselves down we headed for the amusements. I bet even Omar Sharif couldn’t win on these dodgy, fixed penny arcades. And try as I might I couldn’t claw a gonk out of the squashed soft toy machines. Now it was time for a bite to eat.

The café was filled to capacity, standing room only left, and the waitresses were working like dogs. In a nearby table two young men were chatting with two young girls, it was obvious they’d just met. Holding on tightly to a girl’s hand one of the men said.

“Look. This girl can’t leave me alone.”

And they all laughed at his good-natured bonhomie. I envisaged my future brother-in-law in the future using this routine on a potential date and getting smacked in the face with the lady’s free hand. Time was getting on and we were still not served. Using the well-worn patter of the age, my future wife said.

“C’mon. Rubber it.”

We met up with the old ones in the busy pub and had a good dance and sing-a-long. This was no nostalgia trip, it was a real 80’s night in the 80’s. Incredibly, I saw a guy I used to play football with. We started talking about all the goals we’d scored; it was a short conversation. Going back to my company I bumped into an old schoolmate and later was tapped on the shoulder by one of my dad’s neighbours. This was like the twilight Zone. Bizarre.

Darkness descended and now it was time to go north. The uncle’s friend was snoring in the back of the bus, pure lightweight if you ask me. The future mother-in-law was talking incessantly and not accepting interventions. Mother Filibuster I christened her because she could sure fill a bus. Next to the car park was a small toilet and the future brother-in-law and me excused ourselves to ease our bursting bladders brimful of bitter before the journey back. In the confined space our eyeballs were fixed to the tiles in front of us and not a word was said. Just then, stumbling drunkenly into the wrong toilet was the future sister-in-law and she laughed a huge, hearty laugh.

“Tee-hee. Now I know which one of you two is the biggest.”

From no-prizes to presents

2010-09-01T16:48:00.011+01:00

Roars of applause greeted us on our arrival at the huge Lidl superstore. This was the venue chosen to host The Best Advertising Slogans of All-Time. With much excitement and anticipation we attended the presentation with high hopes of glory; our little ship on the edge of cyber space had been nominated in the Finance category.

A sumptuous buffet was on offer before the event including cheese and ham toasties, peanuts and flaming hot Monster Munch. We mingled amongst fellow nominees who all shared our dreams of being winners. My secretary was just glad to be out the office and away from the steep paper mountain on her desk. Yes, I took my wife out at the same time as my secretary. Who said three was a crowd?

A gong signalled the beginning of the ceremony and we sat on the wooden stools provided. The host was some unknown academic called Brian Braddock who sported a huge amulet round his neck. He fairly rifled through the categories as if he had an engagement elsewhere. The winners were-

BEVERAGES- "Sch... You know who?" – Schweppes
FOOD- "57 Varieties" - H. J. Heinz Company
HOUSEHOLD- "For hands that do dishes can feel soft as your face, with mild green Fairy Liquid" - Fairy Liquid
MOTORING- "If only everything in life was as reliabale as a Volkswagen"
TRANSPORT- “The Un-official carrier of the you-know what.” Kulula Air (very funny livery)

And then came the big one: the Finance category. All the whizz from bizz was in there with the big boys. Without blowing our trumpet too loudly, we agreed our brilliant catchphrase was a work of genius. The big envelope was opened and the winner was... "Don't leave home without it" - American Express.

Being beaten by a plastic card was a sore one to take. Braddock had also beaten a hasty retreat, touching his amulet as he whizzed past cavorting in a costume.Wonder what bizz he’s in?

Gracious in defeat we offered our congratulations and headed home where it was champagne for the ladies and “McEwans is the best buy, the best buy, the best buy, McEwan’s is the best buyyyyyyy, the best buy....in beer.” (Should have won the beverages award) McEwans Export for me. We celebrated anyway because its JW10's birthday. We’re one year old on the second.

Off the beaten track

2010-08-17T10:24:00.013+01:00

Living in an over-populated urban metropolis means that when outdoors there are very few moments for quiet reflection. The bustle of crowds and the usual noises emanating from a big city environment are contributory factors to the dearth of good pastoral poets in this neighbourhood.

Deep in the heart of the city my son and I jostled with consumers, commuters and window shoppers. As we walked and ate our lunchtime snack of sausage rolls using our elbows to keep passers-by at a distance I gave him some business news. The rising wheat costs in Russia will drive up the price of our pastries.

(The rise and rise of wheat. A lot of dough)

We continued our squash through the pell-mell and were in an unexplored part of the town. The people were thinning out and turning a corner we noticed there was nobody about. Sandwiched between two rows of deathly quiet houses stood a small swing park. We sat on a bench and finished our meal.

My son was a bit big for the park and I’m an adult, however. At first reticent, I managed to persuade my son to have a revolution on the swings. Hesitantly and looking about to check the coast was clear he began to rotate. Try the big chute next, I dare you, I said. Now after the Dragon Khan this was a piece of cake. He slid down the not very scary chute but laughed heartily, nonetheless.

(A sanctuary far from the madding crowd, complete with frightening chute)

Soon he was enjoying himself and with little self-control I had to join in this caper. We had a competition to see whose swing could go the highest. We slid down the chute backwards; now that takes bravery. And on the see-saw we sprang like a demented jack in the box. Fearing that our luck would run out we left the vacant playground to its lonely existence and resolved to keep secret our little hideaway.
OK, who’s buying the sausage rolls this week?

High Art meets Lowlander

2010-08-08T08:57:00.006+01:00

The famous art forger, John Myatt, now earns a living making genuine fakes and teaching students how to draw. A movie based on his life is in the offing. Some of the things he’s done might seem unpalatable but this poacher turned gamekeeper has had an eventful life.

The world of painting has always interested me and while cubism and surrealism and all the other isms can look nonsensical, realistic art impresses me. JMW Turner and Rembrandt are two of my favourite artists. Many times have I feasted my eyes on Rembrandts Man in Armour (see left) which is situated in Kelvinbridge Art Gallery. While I can spend hours staring at the amazing landscapes Turner created.

(Chichester canal, 1828, Turner)

Polished and immaculate art can sell for thousands or millions depending on the buyer. Not one to miss a trick I started practising with my crayons and what began merely as a hobby has snowballed into something different. Portraiture is my forte in this line of work and I got my first commission from a patron who wished to remain anonymous. Word of mouth of my prints hanging in the local bar must have reached him.

This is a rough draft and purportedly even these sketches can fetch a few quid. I am still working on the masterpiece and it should see the light of day sometime soon. Respected art dealers have told me I could be nominated for the Turner prize. Lurvly.

The man who gave it all away

2010-07-30T21:37:00.011+01:00

Counterfeiters have changed their strategy. They have given up on duplicating notes and find it easier to forge coinage. Unfortunately, coins come in small denominations, however, I suppose if you make enough of them...

Getting rid of a fake tenner is difficult as the quality of the paper, lack of watermark and poor copy render them impossible to pass on. On the other hand, nobody takes a second glance at a coin and as long as the weight is similar the coin can be circulated.

While checking my pound coins I noticed I had a duff one. It was poorly made and badly misshapen. Now I had the vexed issue of trading with this valueless commodity. I weighed up my options. It would be too dangerous to con Big Tam the barman as that baseball bat of his packs a punch. And as an all round nice guy and charming humane human being I did not want to give it to the old lady who works in the paper shop; the poor old dear.

In this technological age there are many machines and I had no qualms of ridding my fake in a faceless apparatus. The coca-cola vending machine leered at me lovingly; there’s nothing better than cola. Not be long now, old fella, and I popped the coin in the slot. Ding. It went right through and ended up in the change station. Try again. Ding. Five times I tried to the same result. How do these stupid contraptions know the difference? I looked fondly at the can of cola and it looked back at me, an unrequited love.

Moving on I came to a games arcade. I’m not one for gambling as inevitably all gamblers lose. This time I wanted to lose and looked forward to it. I side stepped the penny falls and went to the high rollers den: the pound falls. A bit ironic this as I have been monitoring the fall of the pound in my professional capacity.

Scanning the available droppings I selected the least likely winning drop and plopped my pound. Shoom, screech, ding, ding, ding. Three pound coins fell into the chute at the bottom of the machine. I’ve won. Or have I? I looked over to the players at the penny falls and they all smiled at one another. Oh no, I’ve won three dud coins. The others might be playing for coppers but at least it’s real copper.

Now lumbered with three bits of metallic currency of no realm and no worth I had to let them go. Finding a remote piece of wasteland I hurled with all my might the bogus tender into the long grass. I watched the flight of the three miniature objects and in mid-air they changed their direction. Remember I said they were misshapen. Well the counterfeiters botched up big time with this particular batch, they were shaped like boomerangs. Look out! Duck!

An accessory of monkeys

2010-07-23T11:20:00.005+01:00

For some women it’s jewellery, for others it's shoes, in my wife’s case it's bags. She has a specific liking for Kipling bags. These come in a variety of styles ranging from backpacks to toiletry bags. My wife loves their handbags.

I’m not fully clued up in the history of the Kipling Company and will have to hire a new researcher though it seems elementary dear Wilson that the name derives from the poet Rudyard Kipling. A familiar motif running right through their lines is the use of a monkey. Kipling wrote The Jungle Book and they’ve used this cuddly character to decorate their bags. The monkeys come in an assortment of colours and all have individual names. Funnily, one of the monkeys bears my wife’s name.

Kipling is one of my favourite poets, mainly because he’s quite easy to understand. His works do possess startling imagery, appropriate metaphors and clever rhymes. Yet he is never considered a great on account of his simplicity. I’ve also grown to like his namesake descendant bags. Unfortunately, Kipling doesn’t make any man bags. My wife suggested taking the monkey off. I quickly quashed the thought of walking about with a hand bag; it’ll be high heels next.

My wife’s Kipling enthusiasm can cause embarrassing moments. While waiting for the plane home from our holiday recently, she spied a woman with a Kipling suitcase she hadn’t seen before. She grabbed my Hawaii shirt by the lapels and squeezing my sunburn in the process, she hollered.
“I want that case! I want that case!”
Many minutes later when I had calmed down her hysteria, just before the airport police arrived with their rifles, I explained to the frightened travellers she was suffering from pre-flight nerves.

The home shopping channel, QVC, is where my wife purchases her Kipling bags. There is not a store in our town, thank heavens. Every now and then there is a Kipling night devoted to six hours of Kipling wares. As the person responsible for electrical maintenance in our house when the next Kipling night draws near I am going to take the fuse out of the TV plug. Or maybe I shouldn’t. As the great Rudyard succinctly wrote.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Two Planes and a bit in the Middle

2010-07-16T14:00:00.009+01:00

Amid much fanfare and colossal amounts of bunting, thirty five thousand people waved us off and soon we were 35,000 feet in the air heading to the sunny climes of Spain. This was our third time in Salou, which has the wonderful PortAventura theme park.

The last time was a few years ago when the kids were younger and played happily, youthfully at childish things. In those days I was their hero as I was fearless on the middle ranking roller coasters of PortAventura, now however, they were big enough to adventure onto the main rides (that’s the giant scary ones). Feigning injury wouldn’t do as I’d be mocked forever, so summoning up all my Braveheart spirit I joined them on these man made crazy trains.

First up was the big Daddy of them all: The Dragon Khan; Better to get the most daunting one out of the way. My wife became the cricket umpire and was charged with watching the bags, flip-flops, sun glasses and Boycott hats while we queued or in my case sweated profusely at the turnstiles. I’ll slide right out of this thing if I’m not careful, I said. Don’t be like Steff, my kids told me, get yourself together.

The Khan launched into a small dip before climbing 150 feet of rails in the blazing sunshine. Then we fell to earth and began a series of loop the loops, corkscrews, side rolls with probably a triple salchow in there as well. In my book, there’s too many turns in the ride in quick succession that spoils the Wow effect. I like a longer lasting thrill in a spin before the next one. However, as is the norm in these things, after finishing we ran back round to the start for another shot ignoring the over-laden camel with our clothing stuff. Back in a minute, mum.

The other main attraction is Europe’s fastest rollercoaster: Furius Baco. The furious wife was lumbered with our kit again and we took our seats in the belly of the beast. One of my kids told me the best way to enjoy a coaster ride is to relax completely and let the train soar you through the skies as if you’re flying. Gripping the handle bars and tensing up should be avoided, instead, go with the flow of the free fall. Giving this a try, the Furius Baco propelled us at high speed through longer turns than the Khan. This was a stomach churning experience but brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

A funny thing happened on the Stampida (middle ranking ride, not worth much fuss, over the hill). As we queued we saw a man in his sixties with his grandson on a train about to depart. We noticed he had his hat on and wondered if it would still be there when he got back. No such luck, he returned hatless (his grandson had made it back so it wasn’t all bad). He searched around but it was nowhere to be seen. He left sadly and we took his place.

All the way round the ride we laughed as we scanned the areas to look for the man’s hat, oblivious to the twists and dives of the coaster. I espied a walking jumble sale that turned out to be my wife with our gear, poor lass! Near the end at one of the dips we saw the shiny red cap the man was wearing. It was lying disoriented on the ground in one of the maintenance sections; the world is full of lost property. We came off howling in hysterics to a bemused crowd of customers.

The expectation of thousands of people at the airport to greet us back sent shivers down our spines. I envisaged scenes like the reception the Espana football team got in Madrid after being successful in South Africa. We came off the plane and...Nothing. Not a soul, not a sausage. The whole place was a ghost town. They’ve all packed up and left us. It's not fair.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glasgow_fair

Surf's up, School's out

2010-07-02T23:37:00.002+01:00

I have used the construction method of the first little pig and squashed my Geoff Boycott straw hat into my suitcase. Everybody knows the sun is bad for your skin so sun block 70+ is also stowed away. Wrinkle free at the moment; I am taking no chances to let the first one appear; your starter for ten as Bamber Gascoigne would say.

What I am hinting at is we’re off on holiday to Spain for a week. One week of complete enjoyment that will take another week to reDavieCooperate. Not content with being crazy all year round, holiday time brings out the full moon in my family and we’re all filled with excitement. Strangely, the neighbours are happy as well.

When abroad, I don’t go near a computer or phone or any technological gadget, I go totally primitive. Completely and utterly...what is it....Lord of the Fleas. I would like to express gratitude to the regular readers and commentators. There are a million and one other places you could be, thanks for dropping in here. I’ll leave you with a nice summery song from The Boss.

Stage Fright

2010-06-27T11:47:00.004+01:00

One of my many interests is show business and I am an agent for two up and coming singers. It is a hard job and my duties include writing the song number on the karaoke slip and taking it up to the karaoke presenter. After the song I instigate the round of applause by clapping and cheering wildly. Hopefully, this strategy will help my tenors to get discovered.

A disastrous thing happened last night that didn't just throw a spanner in the works it threw in a 1000 piece socket set and the kitchen sink with dirty dishes. My number one singer, Steff, got nervous and couldn't perform.

A word about Steff before we continue. Steff is a nickname in these parts for Steven. Instead of Stevie or Steve, Steff is the moniker of choice for tough guys. The irony here is that my Steff is an all round nice guy and as dangerous as soup. As a stage name it's not particularly groovy and I keep telling him we'll have to change it.

"Come on Steff, the show must go on."
"I can't. I'm a bag of nerves."
The Karaoke guy gave us an auctioneer's countdown to take up the mike. But after three cajoles still Steff sat still. The crowd hissed. This was strange, Steff had sang in public hundreds of times before without showing any signs of panic. The crowd threw tomatoes. Steff’s career had gone down the drain like a dropped ten bob bit. Anxiety had got the better of him and I had some empathy for him.

Twice in my life I have had the honour of being a best man. The first time I was quite young and dictated my speech without any notes, making it up as I go along (a bit like this place). I was in a state between slightly drunk and on the way to being mostly drunk where spontaneous anecdotes and some verbal tennis with hecklers made the oration a rip-roaring success.

The last time was a few years ago. One of my mates was marrying his second wife and I prepared my speech meticulously. Nobody laughed at the first few jokes. They looked good on paper but my timing was off. Stony silence descended and stern faces stared at me; the bride’s family were a serious lot. Shakily, I stumbled through the rest of it and there was not one smile in the room.

“Cheer up Steff. I know what. We’ll fly out to Spain for a short holiday.”
“No. No. No.”
Looking completely terrified I forgot that Steff had a fear of flying. Drinking my pint I consoled myself with the fact that my other client in the stable was a great warbler. Though, I’m not happy with his stage name either. I mean, who is going to listen to someone called Elvis?

The Grand Hational

2010-06-19T03:10:00.008+01:00

And here are the runners and riders for this years annual hat hunters chase at Wincannone.
1. Beer Can Expat Hat worn and sipped by Expat.
2. All the days of Marmot, a domesticated hat tamed by Dolores.
3. The Vendee Helicopter piloted by Jon.
4. Canary Express, sadly a non-hatter.

They’re coming up to the tape and under starter’s orders. Make mine a double, he shouts before the clerk of the course reminds him of his official duty. The starter with a long face shoehorns the hats into place and they’re off.

And the early leader is the favourite, Beer Can Expat Hat. The rider has shown adroit skill by changing the empties in her hat and continuing to consume the lager at a great gallop. What a pace she’s set! Oliver Reed and Richard Burton would have fallen under the table by now. Oh no, her limit has been reached, she’s staggering off course. No, I was wrong she’s only heading to the toilet. However, this break to powder her nose has got her disqualified.

And All the days of Marmot takes advantage by squirreling into first place. This hat is set perfectly in that it does not cover the beautiful Bo Derekesque ears of the rider. The crowd don’t know whether to watch the Marmot or the ears. Suddenly the Marmot breaks free from its cage and makes a dart for a hedge. The crowd cheer. The Marmot turns round and blows Dolores a raspberry before burrowing its way to freedom.

This leaves the Vendee Helicopter a simple flight to the finish. The strains of Ride of the Valkyries plays in the background and Jon looks to have capped off a memorable victory. He flicks a V sign to the bookmakers below who dismissed his chances. Presumably the V is for Vendee. Wait a moment, there’s a horrendous smell polluting the air forcing Jon to beat a hasty retreat. From below one of the race goers with a Canary hat is wearing Monday socks but it’s Saturday. Has he been wearing them all week? And the Hat Race has been declared void. There are no winners. Oh well, there’s always next year.

The Horse and the Hat

2010-06-16T22:13:00.011+01:00

A huge sporting event started this week. It is one of horse racing’s big meetings in the calendar. The Royal Ascot fixture in Berkshire is regularly attended by members of Royalty and the aristocracy. Thoroughbred horses mingle with well bred Lords and Ladies of the nobility and it’s hard to tell which is which.

One of the delights of Royal Ascot is the varied assortment of hats on show. Wimbledon might have strawberries and cream, Forfar Athletic might have the best bridies and Bovril, for fashion stakes the Ascot ladies win hands down. Chaffing champagne and discussing Voltaire, the smart set at the race goers Vanity Fair have the looks and the brains to kill for. ‘Tis a Pity about the bird’s nest on their grey matter.

Many times I’ve thought about making my own design for a hat while going to the races. By races I mean a cold September weekend at Hamilton and not the distinguished Ascot. Therefore the hat must be resilient when faced with the elements. A saucepan with a few bricks tied and dangling from the handle would fit the bill. It could also come in handy if there's any trouble.

This talk of hats reminded me that it’s holiday time soon. Normally I wear the boring skip caps that are popular. This time, against the wishes of my wife, I am going to invest in a Geoff Boycott hat. A refreshing change, I think, and while I’m sinking my San Miguel’s I can talk Voltaire or more likely Dan Dare with the bar man.

(Our Geoff. No looks, not much brains but what a hat!)

Anyway back to designs as its competition time at the JW10 website. You know you’ve got to be as mad as a milliner to be here and this is your chance to be a hatter. What is your invention for a suitable piece of attire for the top of your head? The most barking is the winner and multiple entries are allowed as there are no rules.
No prize, either.

Flammable Flirting

2010-06-09T11:35:00.006+01:00

The current price of crude oil is $72.53 b/bl. That’s your latest up to date business news.

A friend of mine has found a way of dating women and it’s all to do with petrol. Any driver when not filling the tank will tell you that it is the norm to round off your filling to an easy, quick payment number; £10, £15, £20 and so on and so forth. Now if my friend spots an attractive lady teller by her lonesome in the station he deliberately pumps in an odd number; £14.71, £17.77, £19.23 and so on and so forth.

His reasoning is that this gives him plenty of scope to start a conversation and he varies his chat up lines from woman to woman. “I need a woman’s guiding hand to help me.” “When I saw you I didn’t know when to stop.” “There’s so much emptiness in my life, I need change.”

Well, I decided to give this a go. Not, of course, as dating, merely as harmless mild flirting. Eventually an opportunity arose. As I squeezed my nozzle at the station I saw this beautiful woman behind the desk and I was feeling bold. Putting £18.73 (this is my favourite number) of fuel in my car I strolled over to the garage shop.

As I neared the pay-in desk there was no one there. A minute passed and when I looked out the window I saw the beautiful woman wearing a coat and walking hand in hand with, presumably, her boyfriend.
“Hello, sailor boy.” From the back store of the shop bouncing to the till emerged the effeminate young man who cut my hair recently.
“Don’t you cut hair any more?” I asked, trying hard not to look at his pink trousers.
“The place closed because people stopped coming in, so here I am. What’s this, £18.73? And I thought I was camp.”

A Subway named Desire

2010-05-29T02:26:00.012+01:00

Commuting back and forth to work we come across familiar faces who are complete strangers to us. Sometimes after a while you might find the time to nod at these passing acquaintances. Furthering the friendship, conversation can be entered into. This is where it gets tricky. Soon flaws could be found in the character of your new buddy and try as hard as you can to avoid future contact, you're stuck with him.

A good idea could be to shift allegiance and attempt to engage with a different traveller who, hopefully, will reciprocate your friendship. Worryingly, a ménage a trios could be formed whereby the original friend joins in the conversation. You can use this to your advantage by limiting your input to the chat gradually until you have left them to their own devices and returned to peaceful anonymity.

However, when sharing the same subway section with the usual collection of human beings if a regular passenger has disappeared all manner of variables go through your head: Has he/she a new job, change of hours, moved to another town, been sacked, unwell? And then you wish you took the time to get to know the person better. They have an affinity with you; they've been riding in your carriage for years. Even a friendly smile would not have gone amiss. Now, that face is lost forever, like a pen.

Sometimes love can be found in the claustrophobic sweaty air of the warren; tales of romance in the subway are not the stuff of myth. Many's the time innocent introductions blossom into love watched by fare paying chaperones enjoying this real life Mills and Boon affair. Petrol stations and book shops are losing their allure for lonely hearts as the clack-clacking of the underground becomes a tunnel of love.

Informing an unattached friend of my observations of these trysts he has now changed his mode of travelling to utilise the subway in his endeavour for relations with the opposite sex. He's still on the tracks, poor soul, and it's a pity he doesn't live in London or New York. Compare the sizes.com.

Small in stature, uncomplicated in structure the Glasgow underground has one beautiful stop that is the true love to millions.

Fredebbie

2010-05-22T03:43:00.010+01:00

Every Action has an Equal and Opposite Reaction - Newton’s third law.

This Newton guy knew what he was talking about. For every Borg there’s a McEnroe, for every snake there’s a ladder, for every sneeze there’s a tissue. No matter what (copyright Westlife) field we are talking about there is a nemesis, a difference, a chalk or cheese, an oil or water, an oil painting or a watercolour, out there.

(An oil painting if ever there was one)

Recently my son got engaged and to formalise relations my wife and I met up with the other parents. Being a conservative (quick disclaimer: the JW10 website is apolitical) I stick to the tried and trusted and avoid anything that could change my circumstances. In this instance I had no control and had to meet these complete strangers who will figure largely, if the engagement goes to plan; and the girl is a lovely lass to be sure, in my life in the future.

Me and the other dad got on warmly as did the women. The other guy was of the same kick balling favourites of me i.e. he was a Rangers fan. And we had lots more in common, he had the same absurd sense of humour as me and we seemed to agree on everything. And then I thought this Newton guy is not the genius he’s cracked up to be. His third law is mince; all our actions have an equal same reaction. Me and the other dad both liked Debbie Harry and Queen. Gaining confidence from this I recited excerpts from one of my poems about the Blondie singer.

(A little known Blondie song but beautiful, nonetheless)

BLONDIE’S CHEEKBONES

They’re a temple
That the Incas couldn’t assemble
Euclidean geometry
With angles of flawless symmetry
They’re the golden grail
Corpses strewn far and wide on the trail

Nothing on Earth is as desirable as this
The most incredible wonder in the universe
I fall to my feet at your throne
Expressing worship of the glory of Blondie’s cheekbones
It’s almost like they’ve been chiselled in stone
The immaculate conception of Blondie’s cheekbones

With much struggle, I was trying to steer the conversation toward the glory of the mighty Queen but my son’s future father-in-law kept going on about Glorious Debbie. And then he came away with the Newtonian the Third statement that made me think we are poles apart. He said in his teenage years his bedroom wall was a shrine to HRH Debbie Harry and multitudes of portraits of this beautiful woman adorned his four walls. What about you, he asked? After awhile, while weighing up the consequences, I said mine was the same. Truth be told, my teenage walls were decked out with the charismatic photographs of Freddie Mercury. Keep this one to yourself. And no, I haven’t written any poems about Freddie...

One day, watch this space, coming your way, in true Newtonian Third, the ode: Freddie’s Teeth.

Another cut that wasn't in the manifesto

2010-05-08T02:28:00.001+01:00

In a recession there are some industries you can bank on; sex and hairdressing are two of those. I’m not sure if it was Heffner, Raymond or McGregor (google it folks!) who said “sex is constant”. The world’s oldest trade is a steady enterprise with not much fluctuating up and down’s. Similarly -vainglorious lot that we are- nobody can do without hair styling; follically challenged excepted. Thick, luscious hair that can be tailored to our demands does not care a jot about budget deficit’s or falling Sterling.

Everything is cut these days and to follow suit I was in need of a haircut. A friend suggested instead of the traditional barber I upgrade to, dum-de-de-dum-dum-Dummm (fanfare noise), a hairdresser. Oh well cut and blow me down I’ll try anything once, pioneer that I am, so I Christopher Columbesed a booking with a respected Sweeney Todder.

Woody Allen famously said he would like to be reincarnated as Warren Beatty’s fingertips. That is quite touching; however, I would love to be resurrected as David Bowie’s hair. Truly this man has a Hairculean head of hair. It’s been dyed Joseph coloury, shaped Rubikly, styled Ferrarily and still not a hint of recede, grey or balding. DB, who loves ya baby; and a great songwriter too.

My friend told me a fringe benefit of going upmarket was the beautiful female dangling over you smelling of a thousand and one dollars while she crimps your locks. It has to be said that most hairdressers are absolute Helen of Troy’s and with the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end I looked forward to the experience. Sitting on the comfy chair I wondered which one of the lovely Aphrodite's would be having a shorn at me.

From out of nowhere a male snipper appeared and dangled over me, I shrank in my comfy chair. Reluctantly, small talk ensued and the, to be fair, quite cheery male hairdresser said his favourite song was Bowie’s- Rebel Rebel. He made a big point of saying that the lyric
You’ve got your mother in a whirl
She’s not sure if you’re a boy or a girl
could have been written about him. With my back hairs retreating into a shell I agreed with him. I looked down the queue of waiting customers. The men in the line were mathematically and drastically trying to work out if they were going to get the male dresser; the women in total nonchalance were laid back.

Saturday Night at the Casualty

2010-05-01T21:47:00.000+01:00

It occurred to me the other day that I had never been sick in some forty years. No days off work, no heavy colds and no serious sports injuries. The latter is a strange one; I play a lot of football, tennis and cricket. The cricket I play is without a ball as I bowl imaginary fast yorkers in imitation of Brett Lee. Yet, no leg knocks, tennis elbow or shoulder strains do I own. Definitely I have not been a drain on the NHS.

My healthiness began to irk me. Illness garners a lot of sympathy and I felt I was missing out on pity big time; pity is an under rated emotion in my book. It is widely popular this ailing, feeling unwell business and I wondered if being under the weather is all it’s cracked up to be. Before you die you should try everything once so I hoped to be not well sometime soon.

Hanging about the local bar with some friends and in deep thought of sickness I launched from my seat with a meaty run-up and bowled another 90 MPH invisible cricket ball down the pub. None of the regulars batted an eyelid as they are used to - what they call- my harmless tourettes moments. There’s no swearing involved, no windows smashed, no wickets taken, as it is all just a bowling impersonation.

Conversation turned to the shark game. The shark game is played in bars up and down Scotland. In a famous scene in the film Jaws the shark hunters show off their scars in a modified version of the Miss World competition. The winner is the one with the deepest wound and most painful looking disfigurement. The voting can be subjective and sometimes new scars are inflicted during the event. My jaw sank; as a great white coward my cursed healthy body is free of blemishes. This is not my game.

The boisterous participants in the impromptu contest were lifting their shirts and dropping their trousers to reveal past mutilations. An appendix scar was ruled out as it was a premeditated cut; rules just get made on the spur of the moment. Big Al was proud to reveal a lengthy gash on his arm, the legacy of catching his limb on a fence when climbing, which kind of takes the glory away from his beloved blemish. Another explained a mammoth bite on his leg as the result of being attacked by a hippopotamus, but nobody believed him.
And now it was my turn.
Desperately I had been examining myself for the hint of a cut. Nothing. No acne, no rogue freckles, no moles, no badgers, no ferrets, nothing. Deliberately I decided to do my tourettes party piece and hurtling along the length of the bar I hurled a harpoon at the gantry...and something clicked...in my shoulder. Pain. So this is what it feels like. It's a bit sore.

Not wanting to make a fuss I called a cab and went to the accident and emergency department. The ward was full of patients with their heads hanging off; these guys should enter the shark game. As for me I didn't want to be a drain on anyone and about turned for home. The shoulder was getting better and I could see myself bowling in a day or two.

Saturday Night at the Trailers

2010-04-24T21:00:00.000+01:00

The media group STV is to sell its cinema advertising business Pearl & Dean for £1. There must be a catch in the small print somewhere. Surely you can’t go to Poundland and purchase Pearl & Dean?

The P&D contracted adverts are a prequel before the film. Lively and increasingly entertaining as they are, when all’s said and done they are just adverts. Consider this, nobody sits around watching the ad’s on TV, there’s other things to do during the break. Water the plants, take the rubbish out, read the My Telegraph home page, pick your ears and inspect the results. You know what I mean, make your own lists up.

As an infrequent moviegoer when I plunge into the theatre I pay no attention to Pearly Deans. However, one of the delights in a trip to the pictures is the trailers for upcoming films. These tasters for future attractions are getting longer and the editors seem to have bulleted in all the major lines and scenes in the films. On account of this you drool that you will definitely want to see this. Sometimes the best bits are in the trailer and the film fails to live up to the hype.

It is annoying the people who see a film as soon as it is released and give away all the twists and conclusions. Websites have a name for this sort of thing: spoilers. I’d love to put all these air deflector individuals on a trailer and send them Barefoot to Timbuktu. A law should be passed that films should only be discussed in certain places. A suitable arena could be the foyer after you have watched the film...making sure that the next lot of patrons overhear your conversation.

Another regular complaint about going to the flicks is the noise. Some members of the public ignore the mobile phone warning and then there’s the loud eating of hungry film buffs. These criticisms can not be thrown at me. My phone always needs charged up and I’ve consumed all my Coca-Cola and crisps during the trailers. However, in the past I have been guilty of uh...having my feet on the seat in front of me. Normally it isn’t a problem but if somebody is sitting there...

Science fiction blockbusters work the best on the big screen in my opinion, you might prefer romantic comedies, and I look forward to Iron Man II.

The Only Way is Up

2010-04-17T21:35:00.001+01:00

A bonding trip of mountain climbing was just what the doctor ordered: Fresh air, camaraderie and a unique sense of fulfilment. After much debate the company drew up an itinerary to climb three peaks. First on the list were the Annapurna peaks in the Himalayas. As we ascended, abreast of me a colleague remarked. “I wouldn’t mind climbing the Anna Kournikova Mountains.” This guy’s well on the road to blindness and we haven’t seen any snow yet.

Gaining height the valley narrows and our party was surrounded by glaciers, great rock buttresses and magical visions of the sun. Extraordinarily we were cold and sunburnt at the same time. The scintillating panoramic view made this long trek worthwhile. It was a bit of a downer thinking about the long journey down until I espied a lake many miles below the mountain.
“We’ll jump.” I said.
“Like hell we will.” said one of the sunstroke kids.
“If the waters deep enough and we don’t get squished to death we’ll be OK.”
My sound reasoning prevailed and we jumped off the mountain to climb another day.

Next on the agenda was Everest. We aimed to join the five and a half mile club. Setting off on the usual route we came across vendors of many items along the trail. A coca-cola stand stood beside a stall with oxygen equipment. A furniture wholesaler traded next to a seller of heavy clothing. Spotting a bargain I couldn’t resist buying a blown up inflatable Yeti to take up the mountain with me. What fun I’d have scaring other parties.

Nearing the top the going got tough; indeed, Everest has many double glaciers. On reaching the pinnacle of the world we bumped and barged into fellow ascenders as the place was as busy as the subway. Agonisingly, we were presented with a common problem of mountaineering. Yes, you’re right, our old pal: the descent.

Nobody fancied jumping again so I asked if anybody wanted a winch. We’re not that way inclined, said the male chorus; the fools thought I meant kissing. Calling in one of my pilot friends a helicopter appeared and lifted us up, up and away, high over the peaks.

Finally we took a vacation to South Africa to scale the beautiful Table Mountain in Cape Town. Completely shattered by hammering with ice picks on the previous legs of our adventure, we took the cable car to the top. Now this was our kind of mountain. Totally flat with a true surface, we indulged in all the activities a giant table can muster. We played subbutteo, snooker and of course, table tennis. Retrieving the mishit balls was the only downer.

Financing News

2010-04-08T02:16:00.000+01:00

It was too good to last. It was the world’s best drummer, Neil Peart of Rush who wrote “You don’t get something for nothing; you can’t have freedom for free.” The bombshell that from June viewers will have to pay a fee to visit The Times and Sunday Times website is alarming news. The hacks have it in for us.

The fear is that soon all the main news broadcasters will follow suit and the World Wide Web will not be a metro anymore. However, there are millions, nay googleions of news sites out there and they all can’t ask for a subscription. So you have a choice of reading an obscure journal or paying for a popular news organisation.

(Where's my secretary gone? I never gave her the day off)

Personally, I much prefer a “paper” newspaper than the online version. Turning and folding the pages with big inky fingers, spilling tea on it, drawing moustaches on my least favourite politicians (the JW10 website likes to remain politically neutral because it will do its utmost to avoid confrontation on account of its cowardice) and finally re-enacting the Battle of Britain with my carefully constructed paper planes. Great fun these newspapers, one of these days I might get round to reading one.

Newspaper sales are in decline as everything is electronic today and maybe someday we will see the end of the printing industry, leaving us with e-news broadsheets full of annoying distractions at the side of the page. The only winners are the trees. Neil Peart (him again) wrote the lyrics to The Trees. There are even arguments in the forest.

The maples formed a union
And demanded equal rights
'The oaks are just too greedy
We will make them give us light'
Now there's no more oak oppression
For they passed a noble law
And the trees are all kept equal
By hatchet, axe and saw

P.S The management can state unequivocally that there are no plans in the pipeline to charge for its business news updates. We don’t want you switching to the Financial Times.

Hit the pause button, willya?

2010-03-23T14:22:00.000Z

Three painstaking years it took me to transfer my valuable TV specials, interviews and live clips from VHS to DVD, and then Blu-ray appeared and zapped me like a stingray. Blu-ray is hated in most quarters and no wonder. How much clearer can the picture get? How blue can a Blu-ray sky be? It’s too clear; I miss the fuzziness of an old fashioned VHS. And I yearn to be tied up in the spools of a VHS tape that has stuck in the recorder. It was great trying to repair a mangled or split video. Putting on a doctor’s overcoat I took the Hippocratic Oath then applied sellotape to the injured parts.

But it looks terminal for Blu-ray as new technology will leave it to console with other fossils like Atari’s and Spectrums. A new masterpiece player is in the works and it will be a three dimensional holographic marvel of engineering. No more will the two dimensional plane of Venetian and Vertical blinds hold sway, 3D will be the way. The screen will be a combination of deck chair and lilo and you'll feel a part of the experience of the new movies. You will be able to taste the bubblegum chewed by Johnny Depp when he kisses you or pick up a few teeth when Sylvester Stallone in Rocky XVII punches you in the chops. All this and you won't need an Equity card.

Time machines will come next and in future we can go back to the past, we will all be Doctor Whose? Doctor Who's? Doctor Whom’s? Och, you know what I mean just remember, first do no harm. How wonderful to go back in time to any period in Mankind. So many exciting moments in history that you could witness first hand: A premiere of a Shakespeare play at the Globe Theatre, the Battle of the Little Big Horn (I’d be on Crazy Horse’s side, of course), the Coronation of my beloved Queen Elizabeth II, Waterloo...not the battle but the song as sang by ABBA at the Eurovision song contest. I must tell you I had a brilliant day yesterday so tomorrow I'd like to go back to the day before today.

As for ipods, they will soon be shrunk to the size of a bitten thumbnail. They will hold over 500,000 songs. Now imagine all those songs are only three minutes long that adds up to 25,000 hours of music to listen to or put another way, 2.85198882 years. A lot of fingers and toes were used in this calculation. It’s not far off three years and three years is nothing, it took me that time to upgrade my videos, remember? So let’s go play all the songs on my ninth generation ipod, we’ll do it alphabetically.

1. Genesis- And God created Blackpool

2010-03-07T17:01:00.001Z

It is a pleasant four and a half hour bus journey to Blackpool from Glasgow. The passengers find it hard to contain their excitement as for most of them they've been waiting all year for this moment. The jovial atmosphere on the bus is such that complete strangers share their sweets. Seated at the back of the bus I gesticulate to Lorries we are overtaking to "honk their horn for me". Honk, Honk. Cheers big man. After awhile my maw tells me to sit down that I'm 43 not 13.

From now on I will deal with the hotel part of the holiday and leave the amusement arcades and all that palaver for another article. Every Blackpool hotel room has a character all of its own. They are all dingy but there are degrees of dinginess and Glaswegians try to out boast one another over who had the number one dinger.

As it’s a hotel and not self catering there is no fridge in the room. This leaves the problem of how to chill the carry-out carried in cans of bitter that will be consumed after the bars closed. I use the following technique. I fill the bath with cold water and immerse the cans under the water. Hey Tesco, a makeshift fridge. A room with a shower means you have to use the sink instead giving you the opportunity to pretend to be a toff and say you have a mini-bar.

Unless you've booked an oot the road dive, most of the packages in the medium sized hotels will include cabaret entertainment. We're only here for the beer but it is nice to have a comedian/singer giving you some background noise. To ensure the best seats -that's the ones at the back next to the window- my wife and I throw our towels over the couches a few hours before the night's show; a little tip we picked up from the Germans.

As the night wears on the audience starts to get merry and laughs at the corny jokes. Then when the artiste begins to sing "Cotton eyed Joe" everybody's bouncing on the tables. I'm enjoying myself that much at the end of the performance I buy the dudes CD. Only on the bus back do I see what a fool I've been. Why did I buy this amateur recording? But all is not lost, I'm a great recyclist and I use the CD case to replace a broken one in my collection. As for the disc, it retains a connection with Blackpool. It will be a coaster.

One of the most dangerous aspects of your stay in the hotel is the smuggling operation you’ve got going. This is, of course, the mission to secretly bring chips into your room against house regulations. Skulking about the lobby, you try and avoid the night shift staff but the aroma of the chips is too strong. Oh no, the manager is coming, quick, up the shirt with the food.
AARRGGHH!
I forgot about the curry sauce.

A Nation of Shopkeepers Bags

2010-02-23T22:24:00.001Z

Previously plastic bags were compulsory when you shopped and drum roll...they were free. Now horror upon horror the customer is hit with a stealth tax at the checkout as a nominal fee is imposed in some shops to wean the shopper off their plastic habit. This is unfair, they shout as when we hire a trolley we get our pound back when we’ve finished with it. That is true but retailers citing the green issue are cashing in.

Like the little puppy at Christmas a plastic bag is for life. It takes 500 years (human years not dog years) for these bags to decay in a landfill. The plastic bag is not very resilient and when over-filled bursts quite easily. Hence we see double baggers in shops which add to the problem as most of the bags are thrown away after one use. Double baggers are loathed almost as much as the eleven item consumer in the ten or less queue.
So what’s to be done?

The paper bag option is also a fragile boom and bust container but has nowhere near the half-life of its plastic counterpart. All sorts of items would tear the pulped wood to ribbons: prickly pear, lobster claws, Satay sticks and other dangerous foods. And usually after being used they litter the streets. I think paper bags are a waste of a tree and could be used to make more copies of a good book like The History of Tractors.

Re-usable bags are a good idea, the only thing I see wrong with them is the advertising of a specific shop leading to a misleading comedy of errors. For example, you have a big reusable Tesco bag and house it with a sweater bought from Marks and Spencer’s. Problems could occur if on meeting a friend he is hungry and asks kindly if he could eat something from your groceries; he can’t eat a big woolly jumper.

A solution would be for shoppers to carry a bed sheet or beach towel to the shops. They could place all the goodies on the sheet then wrap it up, tie it and force a stick through the knot and walk about like an American cast-off railroad Hobo.

There's more to the office than stationery

2010-02-17T14:23:00.000Z

Every one is unique in the way they clutter their desk. When I am visiting business directors I tend not to listen to what they say and instead have a right good nosey eyeball at the tat in their headquarters and if I see something I like I will endeavour to have that item in my office.

Throughout the years I have sampled various executive toys. Charles Bronson in The Mechanic squeezed a ball of wax to strengthen his fingers. This stress busting toy was addictive and soon my fingers were like sausages. One drawback of massive fingers is sometimes you press the wrong letter on the computer keyboarf. It is a small price to pay when considered alongside the advantages of super strength. For example, I never have any trouble opening a can of beer, troublesome ring pulls or not and as for the stubborn sauce bottle, that's a piece of cake.

One thing I never had was the silly office "Putting practise" game. A manager in the room next to mine always burst into my office screaming “I got a hole in one.” It took great willpower on my part not to take a driver to him. In fact when I had the misfortune to enter his office I noticed golf balls everywhere: Behind the bin, under the printer and beside the broken picture frame glass of his family. Clearly, he was no Jack Nicklaus and it looked like he was playing crazy golf. Golf and all its variations are second only to rugby in the pantheon of stupid sports.

Today, scientifically and more specifically Newton is where it's at. The educational machine known as Newton’s Cradle is a soothing baby’s dummy of a toy. The multi-processes of energy configured in the device are poetry in motion. Observing the five balls in their universe one can imagine Punch and Judy as bookends. The guys in the middle are the ones I feel sorry for, absorbing all that punishment. The clickety-click rhythmic clockwork-like gentle noises of the Newtonian invention induces a hypnotic feeling. The Cradle is rocking and rocking.
ZZZZZ

Detector Detectives

2010-02-04T15:46:00.000Z

The golden days of tightly-plotted, watchable dramas and TV specials are over; they’ve been replaced by the dreary spectacle of reality TV. These shows feature implausible members of the public or D-rated celebs in a jungle, an enclosed house or a Space Station.

A different sort of reality TV programme is the real life documentary style show. This fly on the wall type of series has titles like, Cops on the Beat, Animal Hospital, Airline, Miami Ink and erm...one of my favourites, Ice Road Truckers. As bloggers worldwide blog about blogging and bloggers, the BBC in its infinite wisdom decided to do a show about itself. I was invited to watch the first episode being filmed. This was to be a candid portrait about the detectives who pursue TV licence dodgers and the show was to be called “Detector Vans are prowling about your neighbourhood and we’re on your trail so come out with your hands up.”

For insurance purposes I was garbed in the full SWAT outfit. I was introduced to the two top detectors in the business; a couple of likely lads with the names Bodie and Doyle. I sussed that we were on a shoestring budget when I saw their “van”; it was a 1950’s Police box. Who’s kidding who, I thought. On entering stationary vehicle I was surprised to find it was huge inside but empty, save for some doughnuts, Chips and a Cracker.
“Just how are we supposed to catch the non-payers in this?” I inquired.
“We listen.” Said Bodie or Doyle or Starsky or Hutch.

So we sat and listened, presumably for a TV. And we listened some more and listened some more again. This surveillance lark is not a lot of fun and there’s only so much listening your ears can take.
“What if we hear a TV and that person has a license?”
“SSSHHH!” Said Cagney or Lacey.
I shut up and listened and soon I heard an ice-cream van on Hill Street playing the chimes of “Eye Level” from Van der Valk. I’d give all my shares in Setanta for a Mr. Fifti 99 with raspberry sauce right now or a trip to Amsterdam.

Still listening I figure this is not going to be a ratings grabber. Three men in a box sitting doing nothing except listening. Then again it’d still be better than Eastenders. Then it occurred to me that it would be really hard cases of the Jack Ford ilk that don’t pay their license fee and if there’s a confrontation I might end up an unconscious objector. My country’s flag might be the Lion Rampant but I’m more the Lion out of the Wizard of Oz. The silence was soothing.
Suddenly a loud siren blared and Crockett or Tubbs said.
“Let’s get ready to RUMBLEEEE!” That’s definitely not one of Kojak’s.

I was caught between a Rockford and a hard place as I was swept along with the tide as the three of us were full of action running on the street, pushing pedestrians out of the way and showing them our Blue Peter badges until we arrived at an enormous set of high-rise flats that looked as tough as anything on The Wire. We surveyed the building, there was a lot of TV’s here. My now acute hearing could hear every one of them and they were all watching The Bill.
“Time to start breaking down doors and getting medieval.” Said........... (Fill in the character of your choice; I’ve fainted)

To be continued...

“Detector Vans are prowling about your neighbourhood and we’re on your trail so come out with your hands up” will be shown this summer. Watch this instead of the World Cup.

The Great British Takeaway

2010-01-30T13:30:00.000Z

The papers are full of tragic, miserable stories and proprietors must think we need our healthy diet of bad news. “Eeyore” tales sell copy, I was told by J. Jonah Jameson, the obnoxious micro managing publisher of the Daily Bugle. Yah boo and Pooh to that, we should be trumpeting the good things in life as that’s what Tiggers do best.

A bite sized snippet you might have missed in the broadsheets concerned the Swedish company SSP who have sold the Harry Ramsden chain of fish and chip shops to the Midlands based Boparan Ventures Limited (BVL). "Harry Ramsden’s is a great British institution and we want to put it back on the map by focusing on the fundamental basics of superb service, exceptional value and, most importantly, the very best tasting fish and chips you can buy", said Mr. Boparan. Amen to that.

Apart from The Queen and the revered, majestic Royal family, the only thing that entices tourists to our shores is our cuisine. We have a plethora of fancy Dan restaurants but the humble “Chippy” continues to punch many fries above its weight. As fast foods go nothing smells or tastes as gut rumbling as a bag of heavily salted chips and vinegary cod. Fat’s the way we like it. In olden days it was served in newsprint and you could read through the oily fat stains the dire doom-laden newscast while you juggled a hot chip on your tongue.

Fish ‘n chip shops once held a monopoly on fast food in Britain before the invasion of a raft of new multicultural eateries. Kebabs, curries, pizza, chicken nuggets, big Macs and whoppers all had a shot at the title but tradition holds firm, especially in the older generation, and grease is the word. Grecian 2000 as well, for that matter, digressing.

Not everyone likes a fish supper and other extravagant fare was available on the carte du jour. In a certain part of the country the deep fried Mars Bar was very popular and my apologies for drooling. Fritters (was that the name of the now defunct Stephen Fry Twitter page?) always do a good trade and haggis truly is the Great chieftain o’ the pudding- race. Here’s a typical menu from these outlets. Scrumptious.

This is your Life

2010-01-21T14:31:00.001Z

Whilst attending a meeting of personnel directors in Bali last week the contentious issue of CV’s cropped up. The CV is of course, in many cases, the first impression employers have of potential staff and a well written clearly laid out CV can help to secure employment. There should be no spelling or syntax mistakes and recruiters are looking for the truth about your qualifications and experience.

Hopeful job seekers have been known to embellish their life story with wondrous tales or irrelevant information. The meeting descended into anecdotal stories of some of the greatest whoppers presented on paper. Although I didn’t see any chocolate offerings around, I was busy enjoying myself at the free buffet – dontcha think a junket just doesn’t sound the appropriate word for these gatherings- and quaffing on the expensive wines while the stories recounted were inducing much laughter.

The following is a selection of real CV quotes. Needless to say none of these people made the interview stage.

Here are my qualifications for you to overlook

I have been the Prime Minister of four different countries

Received a plague for Salesperson of the Year

I have an excellent track record, although I am not a horse

Personal interests: donating blood. Fourteen gallons so far

I am bilingual – fluent in English, Spanish and French

References: None. I've left a path of destruction behind me

The hiring managers were all rolling about the floor laughing and I joined in. Soon we were guffawing for all we were worth with tears streaming down our faces, falling off of chairs, slapping one another on the back and the odd “get out of here” said. Then another recruiter told of another CV he’d received.

“This man said on his CV. “I travel extensively: I goes to Spain for a fortnight every year. I am the world Kit-Kat eating champion and so good at sums I can count better than Dracula.” Well I tell you the howls of laughter spread right through the building until everybody in Bali, did I say Bali? I meant to say Blackpool, everybody in Blackpool was laughing. Except me. I wrote a lot of CV’s in my early days.

A Head for Heights

2010-01-12T22:08:00.001Z

The magnificent Burj Khalifa Skyscraper is a colossal 2716 feet in height (or 828 metres for the metric minded) and has recently become the World’s largest building. Situated in downtown Dubai it is a monument to man’s quest to be the best and the Dubaians can boast their dad is bigger than your dad.

(Big Burj and little Eiffel)

Progress does hurtle on remorselessly and old fashioned ideals are swept away by today’s technological Marvels. New benchmarks and new landmarks are created at an alarming rate in our present now, new, now, new, new, now society. As redundant as your Betamax the good old days are nothing but a memory.

A thing that was missing in ancient times was the Health and Safety Executive (HSE). This is an organisation that tangles businesses in red tape, sticky toffee pastry and Velcro (?).When expecting a visit from the HSE, every employer will clean and polish their factories as if HM the Queen was on her way. Not for nothing do HSE employers think the world smells of disinfectant. We didn’t have these meddling, nosey parker, pesky kids (copyright Scooby-Doo) when I worked on the building sites. Good job too, as in those prehistoric times we cut more corners than Michael Schumacher.

Years ago when I worked in construction I was helping to build the Red Road Flats in Springburn, Glasgow. These are the largest high rise flats in Europe, although they are being demolished soon. A lot of dodgy practices were practiced during the creation of the towering behemoths.

Here is an old photograph of me and my apprentice. I’m the guy on the left. Isn’t my friend a big girl’s blouse? He’s wearing a safety helmet.

Scent of a celebrity

2010-01-06T14:58:00.000Z

As the consummate professional that I am, when I was going to write an article about Boots the Chemist I rang Andy Hornby the Chief executive to let him know. Even more professionally Mr. Hornby invited me to an after hours tour of the flagship four floor Boots shop in Oxford Street, London. After a game of soccer and a take away I hurried to my appointment.

Greeted by two of the most beautiful sales girls I’ve ever seen, the ladies, Andy and I made a circuitous journey round the store. Immediately I headed for the perfumery department and tried all the testers. Firstly I drowned myself with some expensive cologne. The trinity dream team of Paco Rabanne, Calvin Klein and Hugo Boss emitted a sweet cocktail of women magnet enticing aromas.
But I knew they weren’t the real deal...and then I saw them; Brut 33 and the classic, Old Spice. Now we’re talking, so I splashed the mark of a man all over. I smelled like a million dollars with this refreshing masculine double fragrance.

It seemed like I had been given carte blanche to do what I want in the shop. So I brushed my teeth, shaved with an electric razor, cleaned my ears, put on some anti-wrinkle cream (you never know when you might get your first one) and made myself undesirable to the ladies. I took my socks and shoes off and stuck a plaster on my sore toe; I had stubbed it at five-a-side football earlier and it was not a pretty sight.

Soon I was having a ball and trying on sunglasses and snow boots, taking digital photos of the displeased Mr. Hornby and the less than happy looking women. Come on Andy, let yourself go I cajoled. Entering the, dare I say it, untidy stockroom I jumped on the spokes of the fork lift and encouraged Andy to drive me round the shop. He quickly got in the swing of things and what a scream we had. We bumped and crashed and laughed and completely annihilated the place. Alas, it was time for me to go. I thanked Andy for a great time and said I will give his company a huge write up.

Unbeknown to us word had spread that a famous star was shopping in Boots after the doors had been closed to the public. A huge crowd had swelled outside of expectant autograph hunters and paparazzi. As I left the building I exited by the main door to trumpets of applause and clicking cameras flashing furiously. In the mayhem I caught some of the snippets of conversation of the tumultuous throng.
“He’s not David Beckham.”
“I thought you said it was Johnny Depp.”
“Barack Obama, my foot.”

The mood of the crowd had changed because of their disappointment and they were starting to turn on me. However as soon as anyone got too near they were instantly repulsed. I knew why. When Andy wasn’t looking I sprayed on some Harmony hair spray. It seems it is too pungent for some. Or was it the Old Spice? Or was it that dodgy chicken madras that was turning in my stomach and sending smoke signals down my alimentary canal?

The ad's have it, the ad's have it

2009-12-27T16:46:00.000Z

Recently I have been bombarded with advertisers wanting to promote their products on this page. Blogger has a facility in its software to enable Adsense. This monetary function has captured the hearts of many bloggers and their page is cluttered up with branded wares.

So far I have rejected out of hand this easy way to make money because I have got scruples (sounds like something contagious, doesn’t it?) and abhor product placement in TV shows, films etc. One more thing that is off-putting is I would have no control over these adverts. Heaven knows what could appear. If on the other hand I had a say on what is being endorsed I might be persuaded to sponsor an ad or two but Blogspot rejected my idea. Apparently Rangers and Queen are not high on their list of hits and I don’t suppose many would click on a Nacho Novo link.

Another problem with adverts is that they would be more interesting than the blog itself. I mean let’s face it, if a photo of George Clooney with a Savile Row suit was at the side of this page you wouldn’t be reading this babble. But like the good old BBC I have declined the overtures of the commercial market.

Some TV adverts are brilliantly made and are a kind of art. I always liked the Milk Tray adventure. A James Bond type guy would run a gauntlet of dangerous missions to deliver the chocolate to a beautiful woman while the tagline read all because the Lady loves Milk Tray. When I was young I imagined I was the guy and believe it or not I grew up to be that man; my dreams came true.
Let me explain.
This was a poem I published originally on My Telegraph. A tale of my wife’s gnawing hunger for chocolate. I don’t like repeating (unlike the good old BBC) but this might be new to some. Milk Tray Man, eat your heart out.

AND...SHE...WANTED...CHOCOLATE

So I'm leaping down the stairs
Four at a time
Pushing neighbours out of the way
Only one thing on my mind
Out on the road I run
Linford without the lunchbox
Grunting like a Sharapova forehand
As I hare it down the block
Turn the corner, the local shop is closed
In my tracks I froze
Gotta get a bus!

The bus is full and I don't get a seat
I'm out of breath and have sore feet
My spirit is diminished
Will this mission be accomplished?
I get off at the high street stop
Run again to the candy shop

At the shop there's a huge queue
This ordeal is hurting me thru and thru
Then I forget what she wanted
My mind's a blank; I'm haunted
Was it Snickers or Milky Way?
Was it Galaxy or Milk Tray?
Was it Black Magic or Bounty?
I can't think for the life of me
Was it a Mars Bar or a Star Bar?
Was it Rolo or Aero?
Crunchie or Munchies?
Toblerone, Kit Kat or Yorkie?
How can I get out of this quandary?
If I take her back a Toffee Crisp
She will give me a Glasgow kiss

I've got it! This will make her day
You can't go wrong with Ferrero Rocher

As a wise man once said “Chocolate is chocolate is chocolate” and all’s well that ends well. I was thinking of ending with a George Clooney photo but here’s something far more fulfilling.

Break out the bubbly and choccies if that's your poison. As for me, I will be having a few drams to go with my beers. Happy New Year to everyone when it comes. I hope in 2010 all your dreams come true.

Another Rhapsodic Christmas

2009-12-09T23:41:00.000Z

The reality pop star TV programme, X-Factor, is favourite with the bookmakers to land its fifth UK Christmas number one in a row, even though the winner of the competition itself has yet to be decided. Record Companies, in common with other retailers, make a healthy profit at this time of year and the seasonal chart topper attracts significant media coverage.

Poor Cliff Richard, although he’s probably a millionaire, has only a few weeks to reach the top spot and keep his record of having a number one record in the 1950’s, 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and maybe noughties. It doesn’t look likely but the bachelor boy can be consoled of the fact of having three Christmas crackers at the apex.

The dearth of novelty and actual Christmas related songs dwindles year by year. The halcyon days of Mud and Slade slugging it out in a Santa Wars are long gone. Oh for a genuine Christmas carol to knock the smug Simon Cowell infested wannabee pop idols off the top of the tree would give me Christmas cheer.

And now we come to the greatest song ever written: Bohemian Rhapsody. Twice this magnum opus has been a festive best seller although it has no Christmas theme what it does have is the best male vocal performance ever, the best guitar riff ever, an a cappella opening and mock opera for the masses; truly Mozart was never as good as this.

The composer of this piece of genius, Freddie Mercury, a man with a great sense of humour, would love the tribute taking YouTube by storm. The lovable Muppets have made a parody of the song and world famous video. This deserves the number one top spot. Queen meets Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem band. Brilliant!

A phantom spammer e-mail is doing the rounds telling the recipients to buy ten copies of the song and pass the message on to fifteen friends or else. This flagrant attempt to get the Muppets (and Queen) the Christmas number one is a shady business practise too far for some.
Ahem, the E-mail originated in Glasgow. I’m saying nothing else.

It's not personal, it's business

2009-11-29T02:42:00.001Z

The title of this blog is Al Pacino’s famous Godfather quote before he gunned down a New York Police Captain. I am in a quandary of the same sort however I won’t be shooting any policeman that’s for sure. My problem is all about misunderstandings.

The header at the top of this page shows a photograph of my hard working secretary climbing the mountain of paperwork. She’s a bit of a dare devil and I always worry that she might fall. She doesn’t believe in harnesses or ladders. However, to any casual reader who stumbles across these economic articles they might think that she is me. I could be mistaken for a woman.

Having never worn a kilt in my life- it’s only the haddies from the highlands and east coast who don this- and not having a preference to wear make-up or high heels, to clear up any confusion I am thinking of dropping her from the page. This is a very hard business decision and could be referred to the Financial Services Authority. I’m also having nightmares of what work would be like without her.

There is a more serious misunderstanding.

My wife has visited the office a few times and she has told me to get rid of my secretary. I try to explain to her that good secretaries are hard to come by and there is nothing funny going on between us. Disastrously, my wife called one day when I was “lending a hand” to help my secretary up the mountain.

As you can imagine marital relations were strained for awhile. Poor JW was cooking his own meals and banished to the spare room. My Pacino impersonation and “It’s not personal, it’s strictly business” cut no ice with the frosty missus. Running out of ideas as a last resort I had to tell the truth. She’s only a random cut and paste photograph on a blog page and I don’t know her name or favourite colour or anything.

Relenting slightly, MrsW concurred that the secretary is good at her job and the company is rather busy at the moment. Phew! My next problem is telling my wife we’re so busy I might be employing another secretary. This lady’s CV was very impressive.

Cereal Wars

2009-11-25T15:38:00.000Z

Breakfast is the first meal of the day and the most important. Some like it hot but the “coldy” breakfast foods have raised the temperature in their struggle to win the Battle of the Cereals. Billy Joel referenced the Cola Wars- a subject dear to my heart- in his historical epic We Didn’t Start the Fire; this will need to be changed in re-issues to reflect the current cornflake, I mean conflict.

Aggressive advertising to entice floating oatmeal eaters began when the leading producer of convenience foods, Kellogg’s, signed American rapper 50 Cent to sing/rap a new song about their products . Eat my Cereal looks destined for the top spot in the charts and there's a good chance it will be sung at next year's Superbowl.

(The big fella after scoffing his Frosties)

Half the song by half a Buck is bleeped out on account of the word count of *bleep*. (Eminem, eat your heart out). What are interesting about the lyrics are the diverse words that rhyme with cereal and fit into the song. Menial, magisterial, bacterial, imperial, genial, custodial, serial (bet that one took him awhile) gubernatorial and my favourite, Presbyterial. Well done, Ten-Bob. Weetabix, not to be outdone, have asked Dollar (80’s pop group) to appear on their adverts singing their classic tune- Weetabix gotta hold on me.

Naturally the milk industry is staying neutral and gave out a Mooted response. A slightly acidic comment, off the record, by an insider said “Who eats cereal dry? Answer-no one. Milk and cereal go together like pepper ‘n salt, fork ‘n knife, tongs ‘n hammer, Dec ‘n Ant.” Bemused I vowed that one morning I will eat my porridge dry ‘n cold.

The supermarket shelves are awash with a massive and diverse cornucopia of cereals. With so many options little wonder there’s a lot of snapping, crackling and popping or tonging 'n hammering in this market. Cereals have come a long way since their humble beginnings with the vegetarian movement of late nineteenth century. In this aisle of plenty I could not make my mind up what cereal to buy. So the butcher’s and the morning fry-up was the winner.

Big Ben's little brothers

2009-11-16T13:37:00.001Z

The luxury watch maker appropriately named Swatch Group, famous for the brands Omega and Breguet, reported that demand is picking up as high earners start to spoil themselves again. The high rollers love nothing more than a fancy timepiece on their wrist and a Swatch will do nicely. As a neutral commentator on this issue I have to swatch what I’m saying but I do wear a Rolex myself.

The simple and effective naming of Swatch leaves you in no doubt of what they make. Other companies should follow suit, what price- Schairs, Spaddling Pools, Skinsurance, Scairlines, Telastic bands, Avandals and Esajollygoodfellow making it on to the footsie 100 index.

Dipping low in the lap of luxury the Omega watch is a smart piece of technology. It is waterproof, dust proof, scratch resistant and almost foolproof. No one has dared drop one yet to test the resilience of its mettle. One more thing in the watches favour, apparently it can also tell the time but then so does a three bob ticker bought from a Spiv at the market, well for a week anyway.

In this digital age it remains a mystery how the “before its time” digital watch never took over the world. A useful invention for people who didn’t understand the Roman numerals on their dial or the intricacies of hour and minute hands, the digital version had in some versions red neon numbers. A special button also illuminated the watch in the dark. And the stopwatch, wow, this was ground breaking stuff. I used to time my 100 metres sprints in those days. However, the only record breaking done was when I sat on a Duran Duran 45.

Everything is to do with time, nowadays, time waits for nobody. Time for breakfast, time for meetings, time for lunch, time for guitar lessons, time for supper, time for the pub, time for big Archie to shout “No more orders finish up NOW!” It was the worst of times; it was the worst of times.

All that glisters is not Gold

2009-11-07T14:53:00.000Z

The news that India’s central bank bought 200 tonnes of Gold has sent the price of the precious metal soaring to record prices. India’s decision to exchange $6.7bn for Gold has sent the message that Asian countries have had enough of the US currency.

I tried to obtain an interview with the country’s Finance minister but his burly bodyguard Oddjob threw me a wicked stare. Warily I watched him tinker with his metallic razor sharp bowler hat and decided that all the Gold in the world wouldn’t entice me to raise a finger against this chap. I was shaken and stirred, I tell you.

Why has Gold always been the number one gemstone? Platinum is rarer and more expensive but Gold has an affection all of its own. She has a heart of Gold, not a heart of potassium. Silence is golden, not silence is zinc. And as for the myth about finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, sodium to that. I journeyed to rainbow’s end one day and bungled upon a zippy rugby ball and a pink hippo called George.

If you buy Gold why does it have to be coloured Gold? If I bought a pair of football boots I could get them in a kaleidoscope of shades. I can dye my golden hair into Angus Ancient tartan if I so wanted. A lick of paint on my golden Labrador and he’d be...down boy, I’m only kidding. My bone of contention is why can’t I buy Gold in, for talking’s sake, blue? I love blue.

(Angus ancient Tartan)

The ascent of Gold shows no sign of abating. Shiny, lustrous and superficial the big bullion has decimated his poor cousins Silver, Bronze and Nickel. The recent upsurge in Gold stocks could also be attributed to my karaoke renditions of Spandau Ballet’s Gold. After a few McEwan’s Export’s my golden tongue wraps itself around the AUsome lyrics.

Gold
Always believe in your soul
you’ve got the power to know
you’re indestructible

The deck of cards comes falling down

2009-10-28T15:32:00.000Z

The proposed scheme of introducing identity cards in the UK has taken a step closer. This national identity scheme, which calls for an easy to use and extremely secure system of personal identification for UK residents only, needs some fine tuning (hummmm) before it becomes law. You won’t need any more cards.

All identity cards have biometric information to prevent them being used in a fraudulent manner. Biometric information simply means fingerprints, retina scans and a freckle count. Foreign nationals have already been issued with cards and various parts of the country, on a staggered scale, will be able to apply for them. 2012 will see the full population identity carded. Britain will be a nation of cards.

All forms of personal information will be stored on a unique chip and this will be useful. At the moment the average person has fifty different cards. Wallets, nay suitcases are too small to hold all these important data cards and the businessman needs a wheeled cart to carry all these cards. This explains the preponderance of men in suits dashing about the City with supermarket trolleys. The rolling trolley in the photograph is about to be snatched by the aching arms of this management consultant. Don’t let the nonchalance fool you, he spies an opportunity.

The one card does all would save a lot of space. Recyclable card bins would have to be erected in every town for the redundant old cards. (If any entrepreneur ever does this, I’ll see them in court). Debit cards, credit cards, bank cards, store loyalty cards, library cards, ~~birthday cards~~, bus pass cards and personalised business cards would all be plastic dinosaurs. Football fans with season “tickets” or swipe cards which they use today can throw them away; the vast majority normally does halfway through the season any way.

Don’t anybody start worrying about what to do if you lose your card. A trip to the master computer and a few biometric details –nose hair analysis, maybe- and you’ll be on your merry way again. However, it takes extreme stupidity to lose a card; I mean c’mon, it’s not as if it’s a remote control or a favourite shirt or the board game Deal or no Deal.

Now that that takes care of the card conundrum it’s time to pester your MP with a one key does all scheme. Where did all these keys come from? When you include the key rings, it’s like walking about with a ball and chain. And you’re jingling like Santa Claus. Ho ho ho.

The safest way to travel

2009-10-21T23:04:00.000+01:00

The Japanese joint venture company Hero Honda has seen a massive boost in sales mainly down to the premium Motorcycles it produces such as Splendour and Karizma. At their main headquarters in Delhi, India I was invited to a tour of their premises with their new Sales Executive Hairyukky Needsawashy.

Mr Needsawashy showed me the finished models of the brand new motor cycle called the Hero Honda Hunk. Hiding my smile I asked the high flyer how they choose names for their bikes. A lot of thought goes into it he said and they have to make sure that the name doesn’t translate rudely into another language and all languages are checked beforehand. The Hunk was named after Bruce Banner’s green monster alter-ego from Marvel Comics. Japanese technology has combusted with this typo.

Walking onto the forecourt I was cajoled into taking a spin with the Hunk. The test track was not what I expected. It consisted of two ramps and fifteen double decker buses. Nearby employees were goading me on and asking where’s the British courage? Now I’d watched Ghost Rider recently and if Nicholas Cage can do it...Get me my leathers and my helmet I barked.

Revving the two-stroke engine to full throttle I unleashed the Derby winning horse power beneath me and hurtled up the ramp. Soon I was airborne and absurdly, thinking about Alton Towers. I looked down at Needsawashy, he resembled a Formicidae. There really is nothing to do when you’re in this situation. For instance, you can’t read a newspaper and adrenaline bored I stifled a yawn.

Hitting the opposite ramp I hit the brakes and made doughnut rings with my tyres and then just to be original I made some Hexagons. The Hero Honda employees mobbed me and smothered me with kisses. Kissing in public is not a Japanese or Indian custom but I suppose I was on a Hunk.

Needsawashy was thrilled and informed me that Evel Knievel’s record was fourteen buses. He was fulsome in his admiration and asked me all manners of questions relating to the Dream Machine. Did it need any modifications? Is the seat comfy? Are the handlebars good to grip? Is the Motor cycle up to scratch? I said listen Hairyukky it’s fine but where can I put all my groceries after I’ve visited the supermarket? He pondered and walked slowly back to his drawing board.

Standing on the shoulders of Digger Barnes

2009-10-15T16:39:00.000+01:00

At one time or another all human beings have copied or followed in somebody’s footsteps. This occurred to me while watching Discovery Channel’s Oil Prospectors programme. The series records how individual oilmen strive to find the Black Gold. Perilous and financially ruinous are two things that can happen in this dangerous and more often than not fruitless venture. However, if they hit a “gusher” they are onto untold riches. Oil is a very precious commodity as no one needs reminding.

As an expert on geography and one who can remember most of the capital cities of the world I felt I had a chance in this high stakes game and elected to become an oil baron. Apparently to be any good at Hydrocarbon exploration it is geology one must be well versed in but give or take a few letters I considered myself a master because I knew about topographical stuff.

The prospectors lugged about the country lots of heavy machinery and hi-tech geophysics computer technology. Travellin’ light was always my mode of baggage so I went rigging armed only with a spade and a bucket. But twas not the seaside I headed for it was the Campsie Mountains.

Exhausted and braving all sorts of elements I had made it a good way up the south face. This is tough work right enough so I stopped for sandwiches and water, I think I might even have dozed off. Coming to I set to on the path to my hopefully lucrative enterprise. The ground was as tough as a gear change from second to fourth but I could see cracks in the rocks appearing. I dug and dug and dug; I did more dugs than Battersea.

Then a fountain of dark brown liquid exploded from the earth. My first thought was I’ve hit a sewage pipe and covered in dark brown mucous I feared the worst; I might need to take a bath when I got home. However the substance didn’t taste like filth and I started whooping like a Red Indian as I imagined I was going to be rich beyond my wildest dreams.

Drinking lots of the brown Gold it dawned on me this can’t be oil. Oil is not for human consumption and like they say on the telly, don’t try this at home. Somehow I had tapped into a small Coca-Cola well and the porous soda was sinking back into the ground as the spray subsided. Utilising my bucket I managed to salvage a few litres. My Hydrocarbon experience might not have resulted the way it was planned but I drank plenty of carbonated fizz.

It's good for you but it hurts

2009-10-07T21:38:00.000+01:00

The Conservative party conference in Manchester this week revealed some of the measures they will implement to help the limping economy. The retirement age for men will go up to sixty-six. Talk about beating a man with a walking stick. This extra year will save £13 billion pound of pension payments. To add insult to injury, the year proposed, 2016, is a leap year. So that’s one more day I need to work.

Swinging cuts in the public sector and savage pay reductions for bureaucrats will also alleviate the strain and drain on public debt. A lot of unripe quangos will be quashed. Quangos do sound like a kind of orange, don’t they? The Tories aim to peel the red tape from this poisonous fruit and suck out all the badness. Indeed, the whole country is in dire need of medicine and the cure will be painful.

This links us nicely to quack medicine. Having a history of back problems the slogan for the new product by the Bed Of Nails PLC caught my eye like the arrow that speared King Harold Godwinson at Hastings. “Acupuncture while you sleep and the kids won’t ever jump on this bed.”

Unfortunately I didn’t read the small print and the bed came flat pack. I had to hammer one thousand and one nails into the wooden mattress. A good few sore thumbs- now bandaged up- later and I was that tired I could have slept on a bed of coals. I lay down on the bed of nails and believe it or not, it was comfortable. During the night I got an itch but one short rub on a nail and it was gone.

The nailed bed is so comfy it has lowered my snoring to the noise of a pin drop. Other fringe benefits include an increased immune system and high pain threshold. In these harsh economic times, if nothing else, it’s good to be healthy. The only drawback I have noticed since slumbering on the bed of nails is that when I drink the liquid sieves out my back like a fountain.

From the Sphinx to Omar Sharif

2009-09-30T22:30:00.000+01:00

The basic business concept of a pyramid scheme defies all laws of building engineering and is totally at odds with the Egyptian model pyramidical structure. All the Pharaoh’s men constructed the masonry edifice from the ground and worked vertically (or diagonally, if one is being pedantic). This is sound practise as the effects of gravity would have caused the apex to fall if it were made first.

Contrast this with the geometric pyramid schemes utilised by, it’s got to be said, swindlers. They are at the head of the network with bigger degrees of multiples below them. New investors are constantly needed with the promise of high returns.

There are winners in this shady enterprise but eventually patrons and thus money supply runs out. Avoid pyramids like the plague; they are the eleventh plague of Egypt.

While watching an old episode of Coronation Street, the characters of Martin and Gail Platt put me in the mood for roulette. I wanted to test the old martingale system, a kind of precursor to pyramid schemes, which sometimes needs copious amounts of money but I was flush so what the heck.

The martingale or doubling-up method invites the strategy of doubling your bet after every loss until you win. A sure fire thing so off I went to the tables, a latter day Dostoeyevsky.

Red had come out four times in a row so I staked £1 on black. Red. £2 on black. Red. £4 on black. Red. £8 on black. Red. £16 on black. Red. £32 on black. Red. £64 on black. Red. £128 on black. Red. £256 on black. Red.

By this time I had calculated red had turned up thirteen times and I had staked £511.
£512 on black. Red. £1024 on black. Red. £2028 on black. Black, black at last, ya beauty.

I was handed over £4056, £2028 of which was my stake. Including previous losses all in all I had bet £4055 and was therefore £1 in the red or should that be black. Proof indeed that at the wheel, fortunes can be won and lost. Lady luck had smiled on me, showering me with Cleopatran riches.