On the Cheap

I like going on cheap holidays, preferably at someone else's expense. Just the thought of spending my hard earned to peer out at the ubiquitous rural drizzle (which I can do perfectly well at home) is enough to put me off packing my smalls in anticipation of a jaunt to parts distant.

Thankfully the accommodation and most of the food in the Lake District was provided by gullible and much too well off for their own good relatives. I may even have smarmed enough to ensure a favourable outcome when it comes to the reading of the wills in a few years time.

I was, on the whole, quids in on the deal. Unfortunately I went and blew it by buying an old Daimler (that's a Jaguar with bells on for you ignorant Yankees) from a classic car dealers forecourt. It had been owned from new by an old geezer who did 4000 miles a year, washed and polished it every week, and religiously serviced it annually.

It goes like a cheetah with a wasp up its rectum and has enough leather to make an elephants scrotum tremble with envy. I'm not deluding myself that it will aid my prospects with the laydeez though. Everyone knows that they prefer scruffy blokes who tootle about in ancient Lanci Fulvias and old Morris Minors that smell of blue cheese.

Sometimes there's just no accounting for taste.

I'm Orf

I have gone here.

God knows why. It's sure to rain incessantly and I'll probably get food poisoning, again.

Hey ho. It's a tough life.

Toodlepip.

Twanging the Light Fantastic

All males have embarrassing habits, some of which are best not mentioned in polite company. I could go into detail about SIDs frankly distasteful penchant for prancing around in a nuns habit to Kylie Minogue's 'I'm Spinning Around' in front of his full length bedroom wardrobe mirror, but I won't.

The one embarrassing habit that most men will have to admit to is playing air guitar. This habit begins innocently enough with a strummed tennis racket at the age of thirteen, but rapidly escalates into full scale imaginary fret picking, wha wha pedal pressing, pyrotechnic airtasticness, and the full gamut of gurning and grimacing.

Each male has their own favourite axeman to whom they pay homage in their private moments. The calibre of the individual male may, in fact, be determined by their choice of air guitar demigod. Pete Townshend, Jimmy Page, and Angus Young suggest individuals who are properly plugged in to the essence of rawkness. Those who air twiddle to the likes of Eric Clapton, Ry Cooder, and Stevie Ray Vaughan are best avoided.

Personally I think that all the inmates of Guantanamo Bay should be forced to play air guitar for at least one hour daily. They all have beards like Z Z Top, so it's about time they earned their spurs.

I'll have what she's having mate.

I imagine every culture must produce a food that just doesn't travel. It is unique to its home environment; usually because no one in the rest of the world would dream of putting it in their mouth.

The Chinese are definitely top banana when it comes to eating the inedible. Deep fried chicken feet sir? Perhaps a lightly boiled Yak penis (full of meaty goodness) served on a bed of stinky tofu? Lovely.

The British and Irish come a close second to their oriental chums. Admittedly such culinary delights as tripe 'n' onions are rarely on the menu these days, but the mushy pea still reigns supreme as the ultimate accompaniment to fish 'n' chips.

I just can't get enough of their putrid green radioactive goodness. Why we need to spend billions on a nuclear deterrent when we have these beauties available beats me. Strap me to a warhead and the Iranians will be begging for mercy.

From Alpha to Omega

I never did quite make it as a Alpha male. Lacking a jaw like Desperate Dan and the sociopath tendencies required to do the dirty in a ruthless and callous manner I always fell short in the being an utter bastard stakes.

I like to think that in my finer moments I may have managed a B minus, or possibly even a straight B for a fleeting instant. I fear, however, that my own estimations may have erred on the generous side. It is more than likely that the laydeez would have placed me somewhat lower down the alphabet; perhaps allowing me a C in their more generous and myopic moments.

Perhaps an alphabetic descent is inevitable as the decrepitude of ageing begins to exert its ineluctable grip. I'm not quite at the headlong plunge stage yet, but the signs are worrying.

I suppose I should try and look on the bright side. After all, Alpha males have nothing to aspire to. When I reach the nadir of my Omega the (as Yazz and the Plastic Population once almost sang) only way will be up.

I hope.