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.

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.

Why Halloween is a Bit Rubbish

In days of yore, when candles ruled and yer toothless aunt Aggie sat breaking wind before a turf fire, this Halloween business would have had a bit of bite to it. Annoying urchins would have been scared crapless and spent their evening cowering pathetically in a corner.

Unfortunately the advent of electric light put the mockers on the whole affair. Uncle Kenneth wearing a Jack Nicholson mask and wielding a rubber axe just doesn't cut the mustard.

For the full on hairy Celt experience one really has to look to the annual Beltane festival held on Edinburghs Calton hill for inspiration. There really is nothing like seeing painted naked mamas with big bazoombas shaking their stuff and waving flaming torches about.

It warms the cockles of me old heart and gives me the urge to strap on a pair of stag antlers.

Beltane could only be improved if a proper Wicker Man were to be constructed and a popular Scottish politician strapped within and burned alive. Just imagine the cheers and whoops of delight.

Collettes Golfing Shoes

I would like to make it clear that I am not of the golfist persuasion and have no truck with those who are. I would, in all seriousness, prefer to prance about on the roof of Buckingham Palace wearing a gimp suit than trundle about in a paraplegics milkfloat.

My good friend Collette is not a golfist either, but she does have a pair of golfing shoes. She keeps them next to her muck encrusted wellingtons in her front porch. The other day I summoned up the courage to ask her what possible use she could have for them. She honoured me with a look of pity and withering contempt and said "I use them to aerate the soil on my lawns". I was somewhat nonplussed by this reply and said "don't the worms do that already?"."Yes", she said, "my activities merely augment their efforts".

Jesus wept.

You must excuse me, I'm feeling slightly gnomic.

What's the frequency Kenneth?

Some names are just rubbish.

Kenneth for example. Anyone who allows themselves to be called Kenneth in public probably has buck teeth, big hairy ears, and the most execrable dress sense this side of Elton John. Even the diminutive 'Ken' sucks. It evokes images of youth club leaders who like to fiddle with their bits in public. As for 'Kenny', that's just pure Country 'n' Western retard material.


Then there's Richard. Not such a bad name in itself. It wouldn't be so bad if people called Richard called themselves Richard. Unfortunately they don't: it has to be 'Rick', 'Dickie', 'Rickie', or 'Richie'. I feel inclined to assault them with my surfboard.

I'm not telling you my name. It's not as bad as Ebeneezer or Nebuchadnezzar, or quite as embarassing as Rupert, but it's still mildy discomfiting.

If only I'd been called Harrison. Things could have turned out so differently.

Kinderkill

When in Manhattan it is a habit of mine to visit the Algonquin hotel in order to commune with the spirit of the late Dorothy Parker. I fully concur with her pithily expressed comment that "I love children but I couldn't eat a whole one".

THE QUESTIONS:

WHY are YOU expected to shell out YOUR hard earned dosh so that children are educated to not read, write, do hard sums, or provide a basic account of the reasons for, outcome of, and consequences of the Pellopenesian wars?

WHY is YOUR progress along supermarket aisles impeded my wailing infants in pushchairs?

WHY can't YOU have a bevvy in peace without having to tolerate infant hollering in so called 'family areas' in public houses?

WHY are YOU annoyed by scrounging little gits tryng to extract beer money from YOU at Halloween?

WHY are YOU expected to subsidise the likes of SID in their vain and futile proceastic attempts to produce their very own troupe of Minime all singin' all Dancin' Osmond Family.

THE MANIFESTO:

* All sprogless citizens shall pay a flat rate of income tax of 10%.
* All 'Early Learning Centres' will be closed with immediate effect and turned into betting shops.
* Munchkins will not be permitted in public houses.
* SID will be forced to accede to 'the snip'.


Think the Pass of Thermopalae. Think dugong.

Vote Garfer.

That is all.

I Can Smell Dead People

Many's the happy hour I've spent browsing in charity shops. There's nothing like some purple polyester flares and a pair of cracked broques with pointy uppy toes to set my heart a flutter.

The whiff of the dear departed in my nostrils reminds me of the late (not much lamented) SID, and gets me rummaging in the racks of Super 8 cassettes to find some artefacts of his Country Music genius.

I'm not sure if the staff in charity shops are alive. They certainly don't look it. They clearly derive their dress sense from the racks of luridly coloured garments displayed in their shops. If it wasn't for the delicate scent of dry cleaning fluid emanating from their oxters the whole shebang would be overpowered with the smell of formaldahyde.

You can't even get a manky Harold Robbins paperback for a decent price.

No, I definitely can't be doing with charity shops.

Sids lovely Horse

I can't claim to be a huge fan of Cunnry and Wessern music. I put the source of my antipathy down to a deeply traumatic experience in my youth. Anyone who has been trapped in the back seat of their Uncle Norman's Ford Cortina while the dulcet tones of Philomena Begley (a name to conjure with) belts out from a pair of tinny Pye speakers will understand exactly what I suffered.

I don't know what it is with the Irish and Country music. Why anyone peering out at the drizzle and the morose donkey tethered to a tin shed from their bungalow window should develop a sudden desire to listen to some lachrymose wailings about drinking moonshine in the Osark Mountains and shagging their 12 year old second cousin senseless beats me.

I do make an exception for the late great Gram Parsons, and the really rather lovely Emmelou Harris, but apart from that the yehaers can stick their stetsons and rhinestone cowboy outfits where the sun don't shine.

Although he trys to keep it under his hat, I know that SID (the Bard of Bollix) is a big fan of all things country. He actually moonlights as Declan the Singing Moron, and holds a Hooley on the Costa Del Sol every year. He is particularly renowned for his internationally acclaimed rendition of the seminal 'My Lovely Horse' by the late Father Ted.

He tried to explain away that drunken plavaver with the Spaniards the other night as a 'meet and greet' session in preparation for a conference on autism. This was just a smokescreen to cover up his final preparations for this years Hooley in Fuengirola.

I've decided to put my trip to the Pishnish on hold and visit this cultural event instead. I am reassured to learn that there will be a 'specially prepared menu to suit the Irish palate'. I'm assuming this means that mounds of boiled potatoes will be stirred into the paella and that the calamari will be fried in lard.

I can't wait.

Thespian Masterclass

I can't be doing with David Duchovny.

The geezer doesn't act: he just plays himself being David. "'Oh look at my lovely puppy fat!" I bet that's what he says to himself when he preens before his dressing room mirror. His technique is almost up there with Clint Eastwood in the 'he's either smiling or he isn't' stakes.

Not satisfied with the afterglow of the intense sexual chemistry (not) he displayed with Gillian Anderson in the X Files, he's now smiling and not smiling in a new series 'Californication' in which he says 'fuck' a lot.

I hope the Red Hot Chilli Peppers sue the arrogant Yankee arse for nicking one of their song titles.

Roasted Jamie

Big tongued liver lipped tosser Jamie Oliver has recently been wowing the British populace with al fresco cookery displays from the ridiculously huge garden of his preposterously large faux Rod Stewart Essex country pile.Here is my version of a Jamie recipe.

1. Build a huge fucking ginormous wood burning oven next to the patio of your bijou semi detached house.

2. Procure two snipe, two quail, three wood pigeons, and a big bastard cumberland sausage.

3. Chuck the dead fowl and sausage into a big ceramic roasting tray along with some thyme,
rosemary, garlic, and a ‘good old slug’ of extra virgin olive oil procured from a Tuscan
maiden’s navel.

4. Roast the 'old boys' for 40 minutes in your big bastard wood burning oven.

5. Chop up the resultant dogs dinner and lick your blubber lips.

6. Jump about in a stupid woolly hat looking a right twat.


I’d give that Nigella one.


N.B Note to self. Do not attempt to compose stuff
in Word and
attempt to import it into
Blogger.
It doesn't

work