Guts.*

I have been ruminating a lot recently on my future. My search for another job isn't going too well and fortune is running at its lowest ebb. Perhaps it's down to my identity; maybe my name is unlucky. I have therefore decided to petition to have my name changed well in time for my rapidly approaching half-century. From the 30th December 2009, the 49th anniversary of my appearance on this planet, and onwards, I wish to be known as:

Wendell J. Arserope.

That should do it.

*No need to be alarmed, it's biblical. Ish. John Wycliffe, the 14th Century theologian and contemporary of Chaucer, believed, counter to the wishes of the established church who, realising that doing so would strip away much of the mystery and therefore any moneymaking opportunities (nowadays we call them bankers), that the Lord's word should be spread freely amongst the population at large in a language they could understand, instead of Latin and the increasingly derided and despised French. So in 1385 he translated the Bible into the lingua franca, English. The only problem being that English didn't really exist in any common recognisable form, it being in an early evolutionary phase and like anyone else writing at the time, he introduced a few words or phrases, either from the contemporary oral record or his imagination . Like the self-explanatory "ballocks". "Arseropes" is actually the extremely descriptive and rather likeable word for intestines. Don't say you never learn anything here.

They grow up so fast, don't they.

Italia 90, England v Belgium. Ex Crewe Alex player David Platt volleys home a brilliantly taken Paul Gascoigne free kick to score one of the greatest ever England goals.





The ex and I were on holiday at the time, here (in a house behind the tree on the left. Thanks to Confucious Trevaskis for the photo):

England won. Alcohol had been taken and there was a degree of over-casual, caution to the wind celebration. 18 years ago today, out popped a beautiful little baby, Katie. Today she's an even more beautiful independently-minded young woman who now calls herself Kat. But she will always be my little Kiki, who I used to annoy by linking my fingers through hers when we held hands. I am inordinately and chest-beatingly proud. Who wouldn't be? Happy Birthday darling XXX

PS. Thank you so much to someone. You know who you are.

Reaping and sowing

In his latest post the Duck referred to his shameful encounter with a fully clothed K.Winslet in a newsagent's. This reminded me of an event several years ago in a newsagent's shop also involving a copious amount of similar material.

Back in 2002, before I moved to the millionaire's playground that is Crewe, I lived for a few months in a flat in Crayford, a settlement on the boundary between London and Kent. Sharon was visiting me that week and we'd nipped round the corner to the shop for some fags. We were aware of one other customer in the shop at the time, dressed in leathers and a full-faced helmet. It was a very hot day, he must have been baking. We made our purchase and turned to leave, at the precise moment that biker boy replaced the magazine he'd been perusing and dislodged the entire shelf-load, which slid inelegantly and noisily onto the floor around his feet. Funny at the best of times except that the reason for his attire became clear when we realised that the shelf he'd upset was the top one. We done several LOLs as the final few volumes of mank slid to the floor. The lad looked up, one of Dirty Dick's finest publications in his now no doubt even sweatier hand and rooted to the spot, his dreams of a rapid and anonymous escape back to his bedroom for an evening of quiet contemplation quite literally in tatters. I think he may even have been crying. Just to compound his agony, instead of walking the other side of the central display, we deliberately and ungallantly picked our way between the shiny pages, sniggering loudly in a shameless display of shadenfreude. We were very bad and it was funny.

In the spirit of peace and love

I am, as everyone knows, largely a tolerant person. Maybe I'm just largely a person or perhaps I'm just large. Actually, I am definitely large, there is no disputing that. I'm tolerant sometimes. OK, I'm a fat, slightly intolerant person who points a lot and shouts at inanimate objects. But I take pills for that and it's getting better.

Some things aren't getting better though; the great British public for one. And it's stretching my tolerance to breaking. Certain mouth breathers, knuckle-draggers and those who can't read without using their fingers and moving their lips in the ward of St Mary's in Swanley, in my home county of Kent, have decided to completely lose the plot. They have done this.

A brief history lesson (long-term readers can go away and make a cup of tea here, I am fully aware that this is repetition): the BNP are extreme right-wing racists. They rose from the ashes of the National Front, a fractured alliance of thugs, sexual deviants and racists common in the mid to late 70s and early 80s. They preach a form of patriotism that is nothing to do with cream-teas, cricket, a sense of tolerance and fair play and warm beer, but about beating up black people and anyone else vaguely foreign. That is it, nothing else. They won't help you get a council house or repair the pavements. You vote for or ally yourself with these mentalists in any way, shape or form and you are a racist moron, pure and simple. You are voting for violence, intolerance and above all hatred. You are very probably a child-molester too or at the very least, enjoy stuffing winter vegetables up your own fundament and posting the photogrpahic evidence on the internet. Attend any one of their functions and you won't see hordes of little old ladies with blue rinses knitting, selling jam and singing Jerusalem; instead there will be a lot of overweight tattood bald men with the collective IQ of a dead vole, wearing combat fatigues and donkey jackets, shouting about keeping Britain for the British, send them back blah blah blah and singing songs by punk bands with "Storm" in their names or chanting "No surrender to the IRA". These are the party faithful, the acolytes, your leaders. The irony, quite obviously lost on these sub-humans, is that they are in short trying to preserve the kind of society that once banded together to fight for freedom against an aggressor whose philosphy was predicated on extremely similar views. An aggressor led by a man who ate his own poo.

The Independent this morning ran stories regarding this and the potential electability of the nazis in the forthcoming European elections. One of the regions they have a good chance of getting a seat for is the North-West. Oh goody. This is where I live and this means they will be canvassing, probably in force as this area still has a very large number of Polish ex-pats living in it so the nazis will probably think it's a re-enactment. Whoopi-do. I must get myself a squirty bottle, fill it with wee and keep it behind the door. It's the only language they understand.

By the way, the BNP leader is called Nick Griffin and he likes little boys. I'm sure he does. Well he looks like he does so he must.

Foggy

This exchange happened earlier today.*

"Good morning, sir."
"Morning. I'm in a hurry and I've just been to the dentist and the right side of my head is dragging along the pavement three yards behind me. Get on with it."
"Have you had an accident within the last two years that resulted in an injury?"
[Thinks] "Yes. Yes I have actually."
"Did you know that you may be able to claim compensation for any injury or time you had to spend away from work resulting from the accident?"
"Yes, I've heard it's possible but I'd never given it much thought to be honest. Until now. Carry on."
"Well, we at Ambulance Chasers & Compo (North West) can help you claim any financial compensation you may be due on a strictly no-win, no fee basis."
"Terrific. Tell me more! I'm all ears."
"What was the nature of your accident and injury?"
"I broke my right hand in three places. Couldn't write or type. Dreadful."
"And how did you do that?"
"A head belonging to someone from Ambulance Chasers & Compo (North West) fell on it at some considerable speed. I just couldn't get out of the way quick enough."

Coming soon: How to avoid NSPCC Tabarded Snatch Squads.

(Blog whore bit: this will no doubt generate google ads featuring insurance companies offering compo. I've got car tax looming, be nice. They are fools and as such are easily parted from their money).


*In hindsight it did. At the time and under the influence of a hefty dose of novocaine, I told him to "go away".

Animal

For some obscure reason, one of my search results pointed at this. However, I am absolutely delighted as I can see no earthly reason why the magnificent John Otway should ever be denied airtime and I swear blind it's not the first time I've posted one of his videos. Sometimes the word "genius" is a little over-used but ever since I bought "Really Free" in Yeovil in 1977 I've come to think he is on a par with Viv Stanshall, who was certainly deserving of the accolade. He plays Crewe fairly regularly but I'm always elsewhere. I must repair this gaping wound in my musical corpus before he permanently injures himself. If you don't laugh at this, please get help.

The Devine Wardrobe of Crewe

I am suffering from a headcold. It's extremely nasty and has kept me awake these last two nights as what's left of my brain attempts to break out of my left nostril. It appears to be achieving this with some degree of success.

Live-in pneumatic heiresses being somewhat thin on the ground in this part of Crewe I have been forced to administer my own medication. As I lay back on my bed and allowed Mr Beecham's powerful preparation to take hold, I took to staring at the 1930s bow-fronted wardrobe I inherited when I took over this property last April. It's a fine piece of furniture of which I have become somewhat fond. The cabinet maker presumably excelled at his craft and maintained the symmetry in the veneer exceedingly well and it's a joy to behold. And then I saw it, staring at me. I'd never seen it before; maybe it was the combination of Asda organic free-trade drinking chocolate and paracetomol playing havoc with my senses but it was starting to unnerve me. So I braved the cold and took a picture.

What do you think? What's more, can I make any money out of this?

Kiss their boots

I have just read this.

It's not a new or novel idea for a restaurant to let you pay what you think a meal is worth, I think you'll find it's actually enshrined somewhere in the law of the realm. There is nothing to stop you eating in one of Gordon's Dorchester posh troughs and bunging the maître d' a fiver if that's what you think the meal is worth. If it's crap and the service is awful you can be assured the full magnificence of the law and the magnanimity of justice will be right behind you as you argue the toss. Good luck.

Right on.

Thanks very much to Rol for unearthing this. It's one that's passed me by as I don't think it received much airplay on the BBC. If you are of a sensitive disposition, don't much care for swears or are reading this in the library or Christian internet cafe with the sound turned up, I would perhaps exercise a modicum of caution. However, I think young Jarvis has it bang on.

A Proper Protest Song

No marrow what

Today is a momentous day. I have just had a look at my stats and noticed that for the first time in well over a year, not a single one of the latest 20 visitors to these pages has been directed here after querying the regrettable image of an elderly man posing with a large vegetable squash. I refuse to re-post the picture, just do an image search for "zucchini" and you'll see the one. I am though the world's number two reference point for "hollandaise sauce aldi" which is quite heartening.

I will have to vacate this library seat very soon. The gentleman two seats away with psoriasis is starting to annoy me with his incessant scratching. Away!

Jerky

I was listening to Jeremy Vine's stand-in, Matthew Bannister, on the wireless earlier discussing the latest storm in a teacup mega-furore string-em up knee-jerk debate being created by the BBC regarding cuddly toys and Carole "Daughter of Satan, Sister of Twat" Thatcher. Mr Bannister read out an email regarding the programme:

"Please can you refrain from repeatedly using that offensive word. In future, just call her 'Carole'."

I did a LOL.

My view - instead of reporting this nonsense, can you at least tell me the bloody test score? Not a single mention of this important national business yesterday on Radio 2, the nation's favourite.

Don't ask me.

I have been having some curious dreams of late, some of them far too unusual to relate with any kind of accuracy, however one or two have stuck in the memory. For instance, last night I appeared to witness a kind of trial in a foreign country, held in the open air in the town's cobbled main square. I know not what or whom was being tried but it was being held before the town clerk, a prodigiously red bearded gentleman of indeterminate age, who was carried out seated behind a desk covered in a white table-cloth. Stood behind him, were several black suited bespectacled attendants. There was some kind of mumbled preamble in a language I could not fathom during which the bearded gentleman suddenly raised his hand and said "Smokk" (while writing this it has suddenly occurred to me that I was listening to 5Live yesterday interviewing "Big Phil" Scolari and Rafa Benitez. Their stilted delivery was maybe the stimulus for this). He then proceeded to light the curious pen-shaped affair he was holding and draw on it while muttering approving noises, as were the attendant sycophants behind him. He then fell asleep. End of trial. I turned away to see the writ laying on the ground.

Later, I went out into my garden to find not one but three unicyles laying on the path. I picked up one and it was about 6 feet in height. It folded out into a large scooter.

Your honour, I swear I've not touched a drop.