Brass Monkeys

I'm not keen on the cold. I'm even less keen on the cold when the wind chill is factored in, exposing my sensitive nose to potential frostbite.

Thankfully I have discovered a proper Irish pub on Park Avenue. It is not dominated by flatscreen televisions showing Premiership football, food is cheaply available but not compulsory, and they have a Dublin barman who talks shoite but has wonky spectacles and ensures that your glass in replenished before you have to ask.

The dining concourse at Grand Central Terminal also provides welcome respite from the intolerable cold. I am firmly convinced that should heaven exist it will closely resemble this august institution where all manners of comestible from every corner of the globe may be purchased for remarkably few shekels. For the outlay of rather more shekels it is also possible to repast on top notch seafood at the Oyster Bar.

Spiffing.

Ignited States of Neon

I have gone here.

Whilst here I will be spending some time here and here, although there is a reasonable probability that rather more of my time will be spent here, here , here, and here.

Ta ra.


n.b There are rumours that the Faces are to join the crumbly rockers reunion brigade. This is obviously an obscenity as Ronnie Lane is dead, and without his heart and soul they will be a pale facsimile of their former selves as well as a bloated parody.

Do us a favour lads, leave us with the memories.

Gimme Shelter

Before

..and after

It is very thoughtful of Keith Richards to express his grave concern regarding the drug addled antics of Amy Winehouse. Apparently he has warned her that should she continue in her decadent ways she will end up as wizened and haggard as him.

If I was Amy I wouldn't pay much attention as there are clear suggestions of pot, kettle, and black in Mr Richards pronouncement. Anyway, Amy is a bit of a munter at the best of times so I imagine that the prospect of aging disgracefully into decrepitude won't trouble her unduly.

If I was Amy I'd be more worried that I might end up falling out of coconut trees and tumbling from the ladder in my library. If Keith had kept using smack he would have spent most of his time comatose and not been tempted by dangerous exertions.

The Po Faced Liberals Gazzette

I have nothing against the Guardian per se. It is a quality newspaper with a distinguished history, and having its roots in non conformist Manchester liberalism has a much more attractive provenance than the likes of the Daily Torygraph.

Recently it has even been published in a user friendly form which combines the best of the tabloid and broadsheet formats. This makes it eminently practical for reading on public transport (not that I travel on public transport as this is reserved for students, dolescum, and crumblies).

My problem with the Guardian is its readership. The public sector, students, and ex hippy communist environmentalists adore the Guardian. They can be observed in Starbucks nodding sagely over their skinny lattes as they devour the latest polemic from George Monbiot. George is always right about everything at all times, and isn't slow to castigate anyone who fails to concur with his world view.

The Guardianista are just irritating. Personally I would like to mug a few, just to prove that a liberal is someone who hasn't been kneed in the groin and had their wallet stolen yet.


* Oh, happy Valentines (apart from Guardian readers). No, I didn't get any either.

Ahmed the Dead Terrorist

As I see it the only response likely to really get up the Islamonutters noses is derision. People with bigoted ideologies can cope with vitriol and contempt, but they can't cope when someone takes the piss out of them.

Laugh at Hamas, giggle at al Quaeda, chortle at Hezbollah. If an attitude and ideology is beyond comprehension don't try and engage with it, treat it as the bollocks it is and laugh it out of the room.

The Dangers of Exercise

I am frankly bemused by the excessive media attention paid to the supposed dangers inherent in binge drinking, smoking 40 Marlboro a day, and chomping down on super sized cheeseburgers on a regular basis. Not so very long ago we were digging lumps of coal out of the ground and eating weasels. Why the joys provided by a little affluence should be frowned upon to the extent where one may point at a porker and cry 'you should eat less you fat bastard!' beats me.

Then there are these new fangled gymnasiums, in which one is supposed to enjoy cycling (while going nowhere) next to a fat sweaty Nigel from accounts farting and wheezing his way towards the nirvana of a six pack. Then there are the fat mommas in skin tight Lycra jogging up and down like sea cows on amphetamines. It's all more than a sensitive soul can endure.

The word 'gymnasium' needs to be reclaimed by those of us of a slothful nature. Strolling along with Plato discussing the golden mean between opposing ills, especially when contemplating what type of fried fish would be served with ones olives at luncheon, had its attractions. Admittedly some athletic grunting did go on, but that was strictly the preserve of the meatheads who didn't know their alpha from their omega.

The fable about the tortoise and the hare has always appealed to me. That's right thinking that is, and should be carved in stone above all Health Clubs and gymnasiums.

I didn't get where I am today by needlessly stressing my ligaments and joints.

Thought for the Day

If God exists why are arses exactly the right height for kicking?

Discuss.

Spot the Tosser

Hi, my name is Henry Conway and I am a complete and utter tosser. Educated at Harrow and Cambridge, I am a prize tit who fully deserves to be taken out and subjected to a severe kick in the gonads.

My father, despite being a working class oik himself, managed to send my brother and myself to a top public school. Despite earning a pittance as a Conservative MP he managed to set aside enough money (helped by the £40,000 of taxpayers money he paid mamma to do fuck all as his 'personal assistant') to pay the exorbitant fees.

Since leaving school I have specialised in behaving like a total dick, hosting parties at top London nightclubs and generally jollying with my posh Oxbridge mates.
The £20,000 per year taxpayers money my father has paid me for doing fuck all as his personal assistant has helped immeasurably.

When I grow up I don't want to do any work. Instead I plan to become a Conservative MP for a safe constituency. This should keep me in white loafers and ensure that I can afford to have my blonde locks blow dried twice weekly.

It's a wonderful life.

Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy

I'm sure most people would agree that ghastly 1980's pop svengalis Stock, Aitken and Waterman were emissaries of Satan. Just thinking about Rick Astley dancing in a gormless fashion while belting out asinine lyrics is enough to prevent any erroneous pangs of nostalgia.

I do make an exception were Mel & Kim are concerned. 'Respectable' is a great pop song, even if it is as annoying as it is catchy.



Actually, if I'm being truthful, the best thing about it is watching Mels (now sadly deceased like MJ) bazoombas bouncing up and down like a pair of exuberant puppies. Jiggy jiggy ah.

Spiffing.

Alas poor MJ, we knew her well

MJ, aficianado of all that is pervy and salcious, has finally shuffled off this mortal coil. Her legion of bereft admirers are left with little more than fond memories of her seminal tour of Nebraskan whore houses.

At this sad juncture I think it only right that we set aside a little time for quiet reflection. Each of us bitches will, I am sure, choose to remember her in our own way. The tear wistfully wiped from our cheek will stand testament to this genius who once moved among us; an ethereal presence with a penchant for Victorian sado masochism.

I, for one, will be wearing a black armband on my todger for at least a month in honour of the dearly departed Canuck seal clubber.

Farewell then MJ. Those whom the gnomes love die young.

Who ate all the pies?

This is a pie



..as is this



..and this



..and this.



This is not a pie.



This is obviously a pizza, Italian cheese on toast which under no circumstances merits description as a pie. Why do the Americans refer to pizza (as in "that's a darn fine slice of pie") as pie when it obviously isn't?

This may seem like a trifling matter to some, but I feel strongly that standards in the English language should be defended vigorously. This misuse of the word pie may not be a cassus belli, but at the very least should result in the expulsion of the American Ambassador to the Court of St James.

Given that we are now officially richer than the Yanks for the first time in a hundred years I think it's about time they showed some respect for our linguistic sensitivities.

Hey Nonny Nororvirus

I have been having a rather pukey New Year.

The delights of the norovirus ensured that I enjoyed several days of projectile vomiting that would have made Linda Blair in the Exorcist green with envy (if she hadn't been green already). Even hot whisky, my surefire cure for all ailments, proved to be of no avail.

Viruses are evil bastards and conclusive proof of the non existence of God.

I didn't go to the doctor. I haven't been to the doctor for twenty years and I wasn't going to break my habit at the behest of a filthy little beneficiary of evolutionary mutation. Anyway, there wouldn't have been any point visiting the quack. She'd just have given me a sad look and informed me that I have terminal bone cancer.

I just love the health system in Britain. Wooden hip replacements, MRSA, and bone cancer diagnoses. That's all it's good for.

Merry Chrimbo from Bonny Jockland

This teacake emporium is closed until further notice.

Overindulgences of a various nature and much repairing to the public house will prevent postings.

Until my return I wish all and sundry a happy Christmas. May the domes of your teacakes prosper.

The Sad Decline of the Y

I occurred to me today that despite my metrosexual carapace I am, to all intents and purposes, a hunter gatherer. My life consists of an inextricably linked nexus of getting and spending. Unfortunately the latter is somewhat compromised by the powers that be insisting that I cough up a portion of my hard earned to ensure that munchkins are not taught to read, write, or do hard sums.

Scientists have concluded that I am a species on the verge of extinction. Apparently my Y chromosome is so badly frayed at the edges that my kind will be extinct in 120,000 years time.

This news should depress me, but I try to look on the bright side. The likes of MJ putting the gnome in genome give me hope for the future. Given that we've managed plenty of killings and wars in the last 10,000 years the next 120,000 are sure to be eventful.

Weapon of Mass Destruction

My wholly justified hatred of ghastly Oirish crooner Daniel O'Donnell has caused me to overlook another utterly loathsome example of the type of lachrymose musical whining that calls for nothing less than hanging drawing and quartering to be reintroduced to the Statute Book.

Those of you who haven't heard of Chris de Burgh should be grateful. He is repulsive in the way that only the truly vacuous can be; an asinine insult to the gods of art and lyricism.

Apparently he is to be permitted to serenade the Iranians, presumably because the chances of any knickers being thrown in his direction are minimal. The mullahs must be rubbing their hands at the prospect of grooving on down to 'The lady in Red'.

With any luck the CIA will have surreptitiously strapped a mini thermonuclear device up his jumper; thus ridding the world of badly dressed religious nutters and a talentless Oirish tosspot simultaneously.

That outcome would, I am sure, have us all dancing in the aisles.

Full credit to the forty faces you created

Everyhing seems to have gone all 1970's recently. What with spacehoppers and Led Zeppelin reunions I fear that it's only a matter of time until men start growing gigantic sideburns and women begin burning their bras.

The current Zeppelin fixation worries me. When I was at School only the nerds listened to them: everyone else concurred with Paul Simenon of the Clash that "just looking at one of their album covers makes me want to throw up". A bit harsh maybe, but the hairy ones had split up a few years earlier and everyone with a bit of nous was listening to the Smiths. Nigel and Raymond with their unfashionably long hair and zoso t shirts may not have been social pariahs, but they certainly didn't get invited to the best parties.

These old geezers reunions don't really don't do much for me. A bald, half deaf, arthritic Pete Townshend attempting to windmill, or Jimmy Page gurning from beneath a mop of white hair, smacks of parody.

As for Led Zeppelin. Were they the greatest rock band of all time? Probably. For me that's not really the point. They weren't likeable, and although they had millions of fans, they certainly weren't loved.

There's enough of the punk in my DNA for me to wish that someone had fired a heat seeking missile at their privately chartered Boeing 747.

"I'm a golden god!". Of course you are Robert, you're from Brirmingham. Now kindly fuck off.

Handbagged

All this talk of credit crunches and incipient financial meltdown is starting to get me down. Even the Big Issue sellers are starting to look worried, which is conclusive proof of imminent blood on the high street.

We can, of course, blame the Americans for their sheer financial genius in approving mortgages to subnormal IQ numpties with no job, income, or assets. Clearly these people have been sold products which they didn't understand, although an inability to comprehend what happens when you don't pay your interest suggests that they couldn't even understand simple arithmetic.

The way things are going we're all clearly in serious danger of having to survive on windfalls and tinned sardines. I'm already thinking of pawning my Daimler to tide me over the worst of it.

The way I see it the only hope is for women to keep their chins up and maintain their lavish spending on handbags and shoes. Expenditure on these items is the bedrock of western capitalism and the key to consumer confidence.

Get your credit cards out girls; splash out on those Jimmy Choos; indulge yourself with a diamante encrusted Hermes handbag. You represent our last and only hope.

American Teeth

I don't know when British Television news ceased to be a fount of world class journalism and decided that flashing white gnashers was what the public really wanted.


Kate Silverton likes to flash her pearl likes at the camera as she announces the latest genocide in Darfur.


Natasha Kaplinsky enjoys airing her molars coquettishly as she lists the latest serial killer victims.


Christine Bleakley's* permagrin suggests that she suffers from Tourettes syndrome.

As far as I'm concerned the BBC might as well employ Ken Dodd to present the news. He's been about a bit, knows the ropes, and can emphasise points of interest with one of his tickling sticks.


It's about time some seriousness was reintroduced to this news presentation business.

*Christine isn't a newsreader, but I thought I'd include her as I fancy the pants off her.

Trumped

I am suffering from a serious inferiority complex.

Anyone who doesn't have an 'Organization', or a 'Signature' collection of designer clothing and accessories really has to count themselves among life's most pitiful inadequates.

I've tried grrrrring at myself in the mirror each morning, but no amount of self motivational "go get 'em son" imprecations have proved successful in garnering the billions that are rightfully mine. My clothes are made in Indonesia and my Daimler is an antique grandfather clock. This is a grossly unacceptable state of affairs.

What I need is my own golf course complete with condominium development and an international class hotel with monogrammed bath robes and individually wrapped wafer thin chocolates.

Trumpie wants to build his in Aberdeenshire but is having trouble persuading the inbred local yokels that this is a good idea. What he doesn't realise is that I have pipped him to the post with my own golfing proposal.



Look on my works ye mighty and despair. Megalomania beckons.

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.