The Thighs of Fatima Whitbread

Achieving a steady 10 miles an hour at the head of a mile long queue of irate motorists stuck behind a ladies cycling club thoughtfully riding in tandem, I couln't help but notice that the girth of the ladies thighs was greater than that prevalent in the general female population.

Don't get me wrong, I am as much an afficianado of the well honed and muscularly defined female thigh as the next man, it's just that I fear that female cyclists may have overdone things slightly. It's all a question of proportion you see. The thighs of Fatima Whitbread do not make a happy combination with the upper torso of a bulimic supermodel.

Perhaps female cyclists should revert to wearing big hooped skirts reaching to their ankles when indulging in cycling pursuits.

I've been having bad dreams involving Fatima pinning me to the bedhead. Believe me, I have no desire to be ravished by an Olympic javelin thrower whose nutcracker thighs would put the fear of God into Bill Clinton.

Lady cyclists, I beseech you. Please take up orienteering or Sudoko, don't subject our sensitive male gazes to such horrors.

Pimp my Quiff

Betty's Blogger voteathon on who was the most sexually alluring British trade unionist of the 1970's has had me on tenterhooks. I was gratified to see that Rodney 'The Outlaw' Bickerstaffe's magnificent rockabilly quiff and general bad boy demneanor has resulted in a strong showing for the bespectacled wunderkind. He's in with a strong chance, make no mistake.

Rodney's quiff has got me thinking about the lack of elderly Teddy Boys on the high street these days. They used to be commonplace. A middle aged bloke with a magnificent plumage, an Edwardian drape jacket, and a pair of crepe soled brothel creepers didn't raise so much as an eyebrow among the general populace.

The Teds achieved sartorial perfection in 1956 and weren't about to alter their appearance to satisfy the vagaries of fashion. They didn't take kindly to other yoof sub cultures attempting to usurp their position as the kings of cool. The Mods suffered much at their hands, and God help any poor solitary Punk (usually a sensitive only child type) caught in the open by a gang of Teds. They took no prisoners.

Should anybody be lucky enough to encounter an elderly Ted they should equate the experience with spotting a wooly mammoth lumbering through the undergrowth. Pat him on the back and tell him that "Jerry Lee Lewis is still the business me old mucker".

You'll have a friend for life.

Annoying Bastard

Some people have a talent but never make use of it. I imagine that those of us (unlikely in Bloggerdom) lucky enough to have the potential to be a gifted concert pianist or an internationally acclaimed artist would seize the opportunity. Those who do exploit their talent are to be applauded. Hats off to them I say.

Stephen Fry is multi talented. He dashes off a libretto before breakfast, completes a screenplay before lunch, writes a novel in the afternoon, and appears on stage in a critically lauded play during the evening. He has a brain the size of Venezuela. To crown it all he is also a profoundly decent and likeable human being.

What an annoying bastard.

Thankfully he has a wonky nose and suffers from manic depression. This is, I suppose, of some consolation to the rest of us pathetic inadequates.

Don't Knock My Mates

My favourite hotelier (sadly now retired) used to reply 'hot and wet' when asked what the soup de jour was. As pithy and accurate answers go this took some beating. He wasn't keen on complainers either. Whining ingrates were told that 'if you don't like it you can fuck off!'.

As an inwardly seething but outwardly calm and equable individual I lack the chutzpah to deal with arsehole guests in such a forthright manner. I'm not obsequious or fawning, but I do take the time to resolve any difficulties that my guests may have. I am, on the whole, a good count to tenner.

Last week I lost it. A bespectacled munchkin shoved a slightly chewed Greene and Black organic chocolate bar beneath my nose and cried 'how do you explain this?'. I replied, very reasonably, that something had obviously been repasting on her confection. 'Mice!', she yelled, 'this house is infested with vermin!'. I informed her that we don't have housemice in the countryside and that her choc had more than likely been nibbled by a pygmy vole. These have been known to sneak through open doors. 'Whether it was a mouse or a vole is frankly immaterial' she informed me.

Then the litany of complaints began. Apparently the shower pressure was intermittent, the DVD player didn't work, there wasn't enough storage space, and she couldn't get a decent mobile phone signal. I said 'do you want me to resolve these issues or do you want to leave, now?'.

Her husband piped up 'that really isn't the attitude!' I am ashamed to say that I told him to 'put some Baby Bio on your bonce you bald bastard', walked out and slammed the door.

Voles can be dealt with by setting a mouse trap; water pressure can vary; there was ample storage space; the DVD player was working; it is usually dificult to get a strong mobile phone signal when you are surrounded by mountains.

Twunts, the pair of them.

Junkie

If we hadn't imported American fast food we wouldn't all be lard arses. I imagine there would also be less in the way of unwanted teenage pregnancies and big 0 carat hoopy earrings if we could only wean ourselves off this foul habit.

I don't know what it is about fast food that makes it so addictive. I know that Kentucky Fried Chicken is 90% salt and grease, but there's something about the prospect of some fat dribbling down my chin that makes it addictive. How can something that manages to be be simultaneoulsy dry and oily be so tasty?

Maccy D's specialise in food that tastes of absolutely nothing. We all know that the only edible thing on their menu is a sausage and egg macmuffin, but we still queue round the block for a big mac and fries.

Unfortunately we don't have Taco Bell over here. This is an intolerable state of affairs when one develops a sudden urge to consume a beef and bean burrito at 11.00 pm. Something will have to be done. I've decided to become the first British Taco Bell franchisee.

I could be quids in.

Dead and Alive

My first inkling that I would not win a Nobel prize for my outstanding work as a particle physicist occurred as I gazed in stupefaction at my first quadratic equation.

Mathematics is just plain nasty: you either get it or you don't. It's like poetry in this respect, except more useful. Because of my lack of mathematical aptitude I have always (probably quite rightly) regarded myself as a bit of a bonehead. I can grasp the concepts ok, but the equations make my head swim.

I watched a documentary on the atom last night. Quantum mechanics, the problem of measurement, Schrodinger's cat: I thought my head was going to explode. It was all very, very confusing. Thankfully most of the scientists seemed equally confused, what with their multiverses and all.

Apparently I exist in an infinite number of universes, in one of which my nose is one millimetre longer than in this one. Apparently I am, and am not.

Hamlet, eat yer heart out mate.

French Exhange

Anyone who was remotely middle class used to get sent on a French exchange trip during the school summer holidays. The Frenchies used to arrive over here to indulge in a full fortnights sneering at the barbaric nature of our 'so called' civilization. You can't blame them really; at that point in time we were known, not unfairly, as the 'sick man of Europe'.

I arrived in St Malo one summer to be greeted by a French family. They were, naturally, effortlessly elegant, ate delicious food, and didn't drink to get drunk. By the end of the first day I had developed a full blown inferiority complex.

The next day Jacques was good enough to haughtily inform me that 'Smerk on the Waater by Deep Pourple' was his favourite rock track of all time. My gloom lifted.

Whatever merits they may possess, the French have never had a clue about rock music. Any nation that thinks Johnny Halliday can hold a candle to Keef Richards is, and always shall be, terminally uncool.

Pootering About

I'm not sure if the grass was green, the sky a deep azure blue, and the privet hedge neatly trimmed. What I am sure of is that it was a beachball. It bounced once, twice, thrice, and (rather pathetically) a fourth time.

Admittedly I was in a pre linguistic state at the time, but when it lay before my infant gaze I distinctly remember thinking 'hmmm, that is definitely stripey, but I'm not that impressed'.

Given that this is my first memory I should, by rights, be a Venice Beach hunk playing naked volleyball with a bevy of white teethed, huge breasted, Californian babes.

The thing is, I'm not. I'm not sure that this is an acceptable state of state of affairs.

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