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The Sunday Roast – An Event of Titanic Proportions.

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 6 Comments
April 22, 2012

Titanic, Titanic, Titanic!

Leonardo Dicaprio, Rose, sinking ship, floating on wood, plank and freezing water. There, I’ve done it – got all the tag-lines in to boost my search engine potential.

I was speaking of this the other week and about how using certain words, actually worked. However, I noticed some other traffic too. You see on this blog, I get a lovely load of stat-counts which tell me what tools are good, and what are not. When I talked of sex, I got loads more hits. I also noticed this week, my most viewed blog was not a current one, but a roast from a few weeks back: The Sunday Roast – Pasties, Petrol and a Queen Singing Parrot. I wondered why this was and after investigation, I saw all the searches were based on my piece about the Titanic; the skit I did about Rose floating on the wood and her selfishly, not shoving across to let poor old Leo get on board, thus condemning him to a icy death.

There, a blatant and shameless reprint, partly to remind you but really, to get everybody looking again and boost this week’s traffic. It was the same with the sex talk. God, it works. And while we’re on the subject … Titanic, Rose, naked.

What, you thought I was going to show full nudity? There may be children reading this.

Anyway, I also had this other nagging thought about the film, Titanic. Not only was dear old Rose spiteful for not letting her lover onto the raft, she also carried her evil ways on right up until her death. You see, the film comes about by the adventurer, Brock Lovett, trying to recover the diamond that Rose has been wearing all her life, but he thinks is still in the Titanic. In the end, the aging lady stands on the deck of Lovett’s craft and hurls the stone to the bottom of the ocean.

How poignant. Or as I was thinking. ‘You bloody selfish woman! You did it again.’ Not only did she doom poor Leo to reside on the bottom of the Atlantic, she now wastes that guy, Lovett’s time by having his crew spend thousands trying to find the diamond and when he is within touching distance, she chucks it overboard. What a cow! I mean, Brock’s even given her an all-expenses paid passage on his boat in order for her to tell him that long-winded story, and how does she repay him? She does that!

And speaking of Titanic – still …

There does seem to be a massive hoo-ha at the minute over the Titanic because of its 100-year anniversary. This was none more evident than the bizarre cruise taken by those on the MS Balmoral. Here, people booked five years in advance to party, buy t-shirts saying ‘I survived the wreck,’ and then spend many hours listening to tales of how 1500 people died in the freezing cold of the Atlantic Ocean.

Tacky … or what?

A case of sore heels.

My barmy local council are at it again. They have chosen not to have the election count in the town hall but at a college campus instead. They have also banned women from wearing high-heels in case it damages the floor.

Yes, I know, this is Walsall we’re talking about and most women here wear trainers and tracksuit leggings. However, there are a few that still have a little style and we now have the prospect of them standing on the podium waiting for results to be announced, all wearing their croc shoes.

An idea of what your average politician should be wearing this year.

It’s all bull. I know the real reason and it’s not to do with protecting the floor, either. These local government events can get a little feisty and it doesn’t look good for the results to be announced with the Conservative Party Candidate, standing smiling with a six-inch stiletto sticking out his ear.

Exhibit number one, Your Honour …

Headline of the week.

So … Sharon Explodes. Why, did her artificial implants spontaneously combust?

Apparently, Mrs Ozzy Osbourne is a bit miffed that pop mogul and promoter of all things banal, Simon Cowell, has a book out which apparently, drags Sharon into his seedy and debauched world. How dare he? I mean, talking gutter stuff and all things catty and full of sleaze? That’s Sharon’s job – surely?

Sharon Osbourne. Proof that you can have absolutely no talent and still earn millions from the entertainment business.

And speaking of Simon Cowell …

Do we really want to know all of your dirty little secrets? Funny timing though. Bring out a warts and all book when your TV show isn’t going too well while it’s up against new rival, The Voice. Mind you, that’s just what we need, another freakin’ talent show, thrusting more generic and insipid tripe into our ears. I remember when music had passion.

It’s Sunday, but at least Titanic has finished on TV.

No, I don’t mean the James Cameron version, not the one I’ve spent this entire blog talking about. The Cameron epic is the one that has had a few little gimmickry tricks superimposed and is now being flogged to gullible audiences in our cinemas as a new film. The Titanic I’m talking about is the ITV dramatisation that finished last week. I’ve been watching it with my daughter who sadly, seems to be becoming obsessed with the Titanic. She keeps looking it up on the internet, reading about it and searching for clips on YouTube – and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

Sorry … couldn’t resist.

Now this new version of the tragedy was shown over four weeks and apart from being tediously dull, had an irritating style of plot. Each of the first three episodes kept going back to before the voyage started. You see, the action (Coughs – Yeah, I know) is interwoven with bits of the story you have already seen in previous weeks. All three episodes before the final one, ended on a cliffhanger, meaning yes, we have to see the bloody thing go down over and over again. It was confusing. There was one good thing though. At no point did I see some useless girl on a raft taking up all the space while her young lover freezes his bollocks off in the icy waters before joining the great refrigeration department under the sea.

There. Had to get it in again, didn’t I?

Cheers.

Nick

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The Green Plastic Brain on the Bed

Filed under: Poetry — 7 Comments
April 18, 2012
Small, green,
rubber in texture,
lying in wait.
Tubes of potions
and other worrying liquids
fester away
in the corners of doom.
Disturbingly,
two sharpened stakes and a wooden hammer
rest concealed
within a brown holdall under the bed.
And then
the worst horror of all.
Congealed milk,
left for three days
beside a pink fluffy cat
and a scrapyard of toy cars.
Vacuum bag too small to repel these grimy hordes
advancing at speed.
I sit and sigh.
‘Don’t you just love having kids.’

 

© Antony N Britt

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The Sunday Roast – Sexual Blogging, Prison Breaks and a bit of Leonardo

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 10 Comments
April 15, 2012

Sexually addicted to blogging.

Last week, I tried an experiment to see if using sexual terms in my blog and tags increased the number of visitors to my site. Result? Twice as much actually, though I would like to argue they appreciated my wit, opinion and the bit about falling down the lavatory, far more than cheap crudity.

Still, it was on the subject of sex that I blogged my first ever post on Myspace all those years ago. Yes, I have to admit, I was once, a blogging virgin.

No!!! Not that kind of virgin. I was speaking about being a novice in terms of writing, back then. The original post, I can confess now, was only two lines long but you have to understand, it was my first time and it all came out before I knew it.

However, I tried again the next week and I caressed the keyboard a little more tenderly this time. I found taking a bit longer, achieved greater lasting and more satisfying results. Posts were still rare though. In fact, I was only making entries a couple of times a month as my blog-life wasn’t anything to shout about at that point. Still, as I became more experienced, my reputation grew, attracting interest from others. Suddenly, it was not I doing the chasing, people instead, wanted me. I was in demand. The joy I could give by the use of my fingers alone was amazing. This became so much so that I was soon blogging every night. I have to say, it gave me a buzz. Folk commended me on my technique and varying style and soon I branched out into all sorts of diverse ways. Be it words of love or even a bit of hardcore sadism, but I was always in control. Well, you know, I just like to be on top of things.

The trouble was, it all got out of control. I’d say to folk, ‘Sorry, I’m just going to stay and wash my hair tonight.’ However, as soon as I’d got the top off the Head and Shoulders, I’d be back online. I didn’t know how to say no.

I guess you could have called me promiscuous in blogging terms at the time. I was at it every day, sometimes two to three times a night. Occasionally, I was not quite in the mood so I had to look at other peoples blogs, you know, to see if it would arouse and stimulate me. It usually did and then I was well away; my hands having a mind of their own. After that, it was back to my own blog and pleasing the public once more. I’m like it now, always wanting to leave folk satisfied and there is no greater pleasure than being in the knowledge that you have delivered multiple entries and have the reader begging for more.

Still though, I do have a bit of a confession to make on the matter. You see during that time, I occasionally posted on other sites. Gasp! I played away. Was I really being unfaithful? Moreover, it gets worse. One site actually paid me for the pleasure of my services. Oh my God, does this mean I was working as a blogging prostitute? It only paid pennies too. Heavens, I was cheap into the bargain.

In the end, I sought counselling but in my defence, nothing I did was illegal and I wasn’t harming anyone. It was my own body, after all.

I’ve calmed over the years though but I am still always available. Whether it be a tender slow post, or just a little quickie, I am here, ready and willing as always.

And an audacious bid for freedom.

Jailbird, Ronaldo Silva, got out of prison in Penedo, Brazil by swapping clothes with his wife who was there for a visit. Having prepared, shaved his legs and applied lipstick, Silva strode past guards and was only captured when a policeman nearby, noticed the man walking funny.

So this is what fooled the prison guards? I have to say, there must be some fucking ugly women visiting Penedo Jail.

A cure for all ills?

So I see two bigoted organisations, the Core Issues Trust and Anglican Mainstream, have been banned from running an ad campaign that claims homosexuality can be cured. Correct me if I’m wrong, but since when has being gay, meant you are ill? Also, I’ve never herd of any gay people saying they wanted to change.

So once again, we have these religious fanatics, trying to impose their fairy tales onto the minds of rational thinking folk and to an extent, getting away with it.

I agree with Mark Twain. I’m going to start a campaign. I’m offering to cure people of the religion blighting their lives.

Things to do …

I read an article the other day which described a ‘to-do’ list that had been unearthed in some documents belonging to Leonardo da Vinci. Now considering the report came during early April, I was naturally very sceptical. However, it was April 5 when it hit the news, so it must be true, unless they got the timing of the joke wrong.

I digress. I was more intrigued by the list and what Leonardo’s reminders of things to do, might actually be.

Leo’s things to do – Sunday.

1. As it’s Easter, paint a picture depicting The Last Supper. Remember to have Christ being shown as a greedy bastard who ate all the pies before his disciples even got started, then have his men point while saying, ‘I knew we should have got extra fries.’

2. Remember to get back to Pope Julius with that quote for the Sistine Chapel, in case that bastard Michelangelo, undercuts my price.

3. Get another model for that latest painting. The one I’m using, doesn’t quite cut it.

4. Design a helicopter. It’ll catch on in no time at all.

5. Oh yes. Do that trick of standing sideways by a mirror then raising your arm and leg, then incorporate it into a drawing about geometric proportions and see if anybody notices I’m taking the piss.

Well, did the earth move for you with that blog?

Thank you to all who’ve consented to share a bed with me in my blogging experience today. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me and we all came to the same conclusions at precisely the right moment. Hope it wasn’t an anticlimax and you’re feeling let down. If you are – sorry, I’m sure you understand. It can happen to anybody.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Easter Eggs and the art of falling down the Lavatory.

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 14 Comments
April 8, 2012

Happy Easter, everybody …

Now you may have begun to get the impression from previous posts, I’m not the most religious person around. However, I do respect beliefs and the reasons for celebrating this time of year. Easter – That’s the time we rejoice in the swapping of chocolate and force our kids to make silly crepe-paper hats. Right?

Somebody I know who is dear to me, is going to kill me for that picture but in my defence, it was me who spent all night gluing their fingers together, nearly twenty years ago today.

But back to the chocolate. I recall an incident from a couple of years ago when I bought a load of eggs at a local supermarket. The offer was that they were all half-priced. Great, I needed nine. It was only when I got to the checkout that the cashier said there was a maximum allowance of six per customer.

‘Where does it say that?’ I asked, dumfounded.

‘On the advertising board.’

They were right. On a 6×3 placard, hanging above me, it said, “This offer is limited to 6 per customer.” The thing was, these words of guidance were ten feet high in the air and in a smaller font than the one you’re currently reading.

Undeterred, I smiled at Mrs Unhelpful Jobsworth – Happy to Serve, and promptly separated my eggs into two piles of 5 and 4, dividing them with a next customer please, thingy.

Mrs Jobsworth looked at me, aghast. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m buying five.’ I then pointed behind. ‘And he’s having four.’

‘But … there’s nobody there.’

I looked at her – stern. ‘Don’t you ridicule my paranoia.’

And then she served me, unable to come back from that. I don’t know what troubled her more: the fact I’d challenged her concept of natural order or that I was wearing a t-shirt that spelled, “They don’t let me have sharp knives any more.”

Hah! Jobsworths. Mess with me and you’re messing with an expert.

What a load of rubbish.

Okay, I get it now. I know why my bins are not being emptied until late in the afternoon. The refuse collectors are all hiding and congregating in some kind of refuse collector bonding session.

And what’s more … My bin goes back outside my house and not, on its side in the middle of the road.

Pride comes before a fall.

Okay, I get it now, you girls; I see where you’re coming from. There really is nothing more surprising that lowering yourself onto the lavatory and finding some bastard has left the seat up, meaning you end up falling down the pan.

Optimising your potential.

I’m still getting to grips with this blog-site lark. It was fine on Myspace because everything was done for you but now, I apparently have to optimise my search engine potential. To do this, I need to use keywords and also have them as tags, so that they attract more visitors to my site. With this in mind … sex, masturbate, transsexuals, porn. How about that for starters? Be interesting to see if I get any more hits this week.

Nob of the week.

I reckon this has to be rugby ponce, Gavin Henson. Henson, had the incredibly stupid idea of flying on a plane, then while thousands of feet in the air, endangering everybody on board by having an ice-cube fight.

It’s not the first time he’s courted idiotic publicity and none more so than appearing on his own show, The Bachelor. In the programme, 25 women fought for the right to become Gavin’s girlfriend. Good to know relationships are made from solid foundations.

The Bachelor – The words, barrel, bottom and being scraped spring to mind

The winner, Carianne Barrow, told how they split after she realised Henson had no true feelings for her.

Jaw drops – NO!

With that sort of effect on women, it’s no wonder he has to resort to playing with ice cubes. He should have stuck with former wife, Charlotte Church. He and the Voice of an Angel, divorced a few years back and Henson’s life has gone to pot ever since. Perhaps next, he’ll turn to religion. Well, he did spend most of his married life inside a Church.

Footballers behaving badly.

Manchester City striker (and perennial nob-head), Mario Balotelli, is being quizzed by police after allegedly soaking some teenage girls at a nightclub. What a crime. Does he not realise there’s a hosepipe ban?

Quick Question.

Will somebody please tell me the point of Russell Brand?

Not such a technophobe, now!

I’ve had my Android phone for nearly a year and only just worked out how to alter the size of the font on my texts.

Yay! I’m a happy android and I can ditch those glasses I bought now.

The cold callers are giving up on me.

You may remember my tale of the cold caller who I kept on the phone for half an hour, ending when I put him on standby, listening to Queen. Well, word must have got around if the call I took the other day is anything to go by.

Ring.

I pick up, say hello, hear somebody ask if they’re speaking to Mr Britt – Blah-de-blah-de-blah! Let’s progress.

‘I am ringing about the wrong selling of a PPI,’ the foreign-sounding caller said in an almost unrecognisable accent.

‘Okay,’ I replied, preparing to string him along.

However, the cold caller took me by surprise. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ he said. ‘A nice day to you.’ And then he hung up.

??? I didn’t even get a chance to say I wasn’t interested.

Word really has got out. Either that, or they can sense the word piss-taker, just by the tone of my voice.

And the conversation of the week.

I overheard this one when I was eating out, having breakfast the other day.

Girl smiles across the table to boy. ‘Would you still love me if I was fat?’

Boy smiles. ‘Of course I would.’ Face drops, horror spreads across his cheeks. ‘You’re not going to get fat, are you?’

Classic.

Happy Easter Sunday Roast to you all.

Hope you’re all having a good day. I’m off to discover the true meaning of Easter and tuck into a chocolate egg. Mine’s a Crunchie.

Cheers.

Nick

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Middlefield

Filed under: Poetry — 8 Comments
April 2, 2012
Summer of ’85.
Middlefield.
A home meant for people in poor mental health.
I called it an institution,
somewhere to put the unwanted.
Hide the embarrassment.
“There is no place in polite company
for people such as these,”
so spoke the message of the day.

Disabled,
epileptic,
autistic,
downs.
Spelled dead to society
along with unmarried mothers,
labelled insane,
then shut away,
their children
torn from the breast.
Unruly youngsters,
uncontrollable,
removed from circulation.

I remember one such a man,
Albert, we’ll call him,
because after all this time
I’m not even sure of his name.
Incarcerated at twelve,
unfathomable,
too difficult to handle.
Then, seventy five,
a gentle old soul.
He spoke about cricket
and the big wartime bands.
Always a cheery smile,
a precursor to the request.
Could I check if there was a letter?
One from his mum and dad.
“It’s been such a long time,” he sighed.
There was never any mail.

An uncaring world, back then;
maybe it is now.
I’m ashamed I do not remember his name
and I always wonder
if his family ever did.

 

© Antony N Britt

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The Sunday Roast – Pasties, Petrol and a Queen Singing Parrot

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 12 Comments
April 1, 2012

April Fool … anybody?

So it’s April 1, and you’re expecting me to make a fool of people. Well, as I do that most weeks, who am I to disappoint when we have a whole day dedicated to life’s idiots.

First up, we have a follow-on from last week when I spoke of the soft targets being hit as a result of the chancellor’s budget. What I failed to mention was the hike in VAT levied on hot food sold by retail outlets. Now dubbed, “Pastygate,” we have millions of lycra-legged and baseball cap wearing lasses and lads, all outraged because they now have to fork out extra for their daily fix at Greggs.

The government are trying to play it down, of course by not mentioning hot food. Still, they don’t seem to be doing a good job if recent sightings are anything to go by.

The thing is, I can’t actually see why pasties and the rest were exempt in the first place. I know why the government have done it. One, obviously it will bring them more revenue but secretly (and this is where the craftiness comes in), all those who have to maybe eat a banana instead of a pizza slice or sausage roll, will soon be losing weight. You see, Mr Chavvy from Chavtown, will begin to worry that his grey and orange jogging bottoms don’t fit him any more and he’ll have to buy new ones. Even further, Mrs Loudmouth in Leggings, will also be astonished to find that Primark, actually sell lycra garments in sizes under 20.

Wow! I’m amazed. With all these new clothes available smaller sizes, once we have been weaned off a diet of pastry, there will be people queuing up for new stuff. What a boost for a countries economy. I mean, all those sweat shops with children working for 5p a day in third world continents will never have had it so good in terms of turnover.

Still, they produce them – we’ll keep on buying them, just like those God-awful pasties.

Cynical – me?

Mama Mia …

I enjoyed reading about the missing parrot who sings Bohemian Rhapsody. His owner, however, is distraught and wants the bird back after thieves took it.

Hmm, maybe it should have been taught to sing the songs of the Pet Shop Boys instead. If it had, you can guarantee it would have been returned in a day.

Now showing at your local cinema …

Across the land, our multi-screen complexes are showing the latest Hollywood blockbuster – Titanic.

Eh … hang on, didn’t Titanic come out about fifteen years ago?

Yes, Titanic is the latest in a long line of reissues where people are being fleeced in order to watch the same movie again, but this time in 3-D.

For ages, cinemas and audiences feeling ripped off, have gone hand-in-hand. You see, not only have we always paid to get in to see the film, once inside the cinema, we pay more than our original entry fee for bloomin’ popcorn and fizzy drinks. Why? It’s a strange one. We eat popcorn while watching a movie and at no other point in our lives.

Anyway, I digress, so back to Titanic … in 3-D. I have seen Titanic, though never in one go. I always come in at some point when it’s shown but with it being so long, I’ve never had the stamina for the whole motion picture. I actually think the voyage of the real Titanic took less time than watching the silly film. Still, I want to know one thing, and this has puzzled me for years. If it is now in 3-D, with a much better scope of vision, will Kate Winslet finally see that the plank she’s lying on in the freezing water while Leonardo Dicaprio is hanging onto the side … IS BLOODY WELL BIG ENOUGH FOR BOTH OF THEM?

Arrrgghh! Is she stupid? That’s a huge board she’s on. Shift over you idiot and let him snuggle up beside you.

It’s not just that either. Just before the ship sinks, she’s on the lifeboat, heading to safety and then climbs back onto the Titanic to be with Leo. Arrrgghh! “Rose, why did you do that, why?” All that, “You jump, I jump,” nonsense; if she’d stayed on the lifeboat, he’d have jumped on his own and had that piece of wood all to himself.

Stupid mare. She killed Leo.

Quick note to Trevor Mulligan.

Stop sending me bloomin’ emails about sports dates. I have never heard of you, I am NOT in your basketball team or any other kind of team.

The only balls I play with these days, are my own.

And talking of dates …

I used to get loads of spam emails offering me dates with young hotties. Now, they seem to have been replaced by ones suggesting dating the more mature lady. What are they saying, that I’m past it?

I’m quite happy, thank you, with Angiebabe. She’s seven years younger than me and you know what they say? You’re as young as the person you feel.

April Fuel’s Day.

As I have said, there are many contenders today for nob of the week but none more than Tory MP, Francis Maude. This pillock told the nation that they should buy jerry cans and stockpile fuel in case of a potential tanker drivers strike.

Way to go, Maude. Tell all the idiots in the world to buy cans, fill them with flammable substances, then accept the fact that many will go home and store them next to the gas fire.

I got caught up in the panic buying frenzy the other day too. I was in Warwick, then had to drive 30 or so miles and by the time I was home, I needed to fill up. All this talk of queues, I saw none of them until I reached my regular station and had to wait half an hour as every panic buying fool had chosen that one to go to. I had to fill up a full tank; some of them were only at the pumps for thirty seconds. Annoying, or what?

Calm down, Britt.

I’m going to hope nobody tries to prank me now. I shall settle down, enjoy my Sunday and if I’m feeling peckish … apply to get a mortgage so I can afford the exorbitant price of a Greggs Pasty now the government have levied the VAT on them.

Cheers.

Nick

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Sherlock Holmes – Alone and on Stage in Bloxwich (Saturday 24 March 2012)

Filed under: Reviews — Leave a comment
March 29, 2012

My only previous experience of a one person show was not a good one. However, when I heard of ‘Holmes Alone’ at the Bookmark Bloxwich Theatre, I thought I’d give solo performers a second chance. You see, a Sherlock Holmes production from the enticingly named ‘Don’t go into the Cellar,’ theatre company? With my love of the dark, I simply couldn’t resist.

Set around the brink of the Great War and with Holmes seemingly enjoying life on the South Coast, ‘Holmes Alone’ sees our sleuth come out of retirement when best friend, Dr Watson is kidnapped. With Watson held to ransom, Holmes must deliver the famed Mazarin Stone to those evil foreign powers, intent on wreaking unspeakable destruction on us all.

Don’t go into the Cellar, produce original Victorian ghost, horror and in this case, mystery drama with actor, Jonathan Goodwin, excellent in all the roles he undertook last Saturday night.

It must take great versatility to perform so many different parts in the space of one hour and Goodwin more than achieved this. In fact, whether it be the eccentric Mr Armstrong, Count Negretto Sylvius or the great detective himself, our solitary thespian replaced each character with the next, morphing seamlessly from one to another with the audience barely noticing we were watching the same man on stage.

Monsters, mutant jellyfish and magnificent sword fights fights on an airship were to be seen. Not visually perhaps, but easily implanted into the mind by the talented Goodwin.

The hour flew by as swiftly as the airship I knew Holmes to be on. Curious, I wondered what could be in store when after a short interval, we were treated to a question and answer session following the main performance. Goodwin’s knowledge of the works of Conan Doyle deserves admiration too as he recollected events from stories in response to any question fired at him.

I think I’d go as far to say that on Saturday last, I wasn’t just watching a drama being performed on stage, I actually came out thinking I’d been in an audience with Sherlock Holmes, himself.

Don’t go into the Cellar, return to the very pleasant, Bookmark Bloxwich Theatre in October with ‘Jekyll the Ripper.’ I recommend you take a look. I certainly will.

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The Sunday Roast – Witchcraft, Weird Fetishes, and the End of the World

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 8 Comments
March 25, 2012

There be devilment in my vehicle.

I’ve spent this week getting to know the controls and functions of my new car. On collecting it from the showroom, the sales-person explained much but also upset me when she mentioned, ‘Oh, and you do realise you have bluetooth?’

I looked at her, puzzled. ‘No I don’t,’ I said, ‘I’ll have you know, I floss every day.’

She laughed. ‘No, your car comes with bluetooth technology. It’s like a wireless service that you can route devices through and incorporate them into the systems in your car.’

And she’s only blooming well right. I had a play this week and not only can a press of a button bring up my phone contacts onto the car dashboard, if I switch functions, it will pick up what’s on my MP3 player and start playing my favourite music too.

Now don’t ask me how the hell it works. I’m erring on the side of witchcraft at the minute though bearing in mind the accusations on that front aimed at Gothic Girl from the chip shop, I’d welcome a technological explanation any day.

In it together … Are we?

This week, George Osborne delivered his financial budget to the people who voted this lot of “in it for themselves,” service wreckers, into power. Not content with pushing for health reforms that nobody wants, the government have now clobbered just about every soft target they could with this budget.

Pensioners, middle class families – all shafted, but the government’s millionaire chums? They have their 50p rate of tax, cut. Osborne said the previous tax gained from this, never made much difference. Well, not much is better than nothing and he does seem to be helping the ‘well-off’ again. Now, let’s think back to George’s speech of a year or so ago. “All in it together?” Really?

Over in compost corner …

Angiebabe has some seeds and pots so she can grow these little plants. To complete the assignment, I went and got her a bag of compost. However, on purchasing it I did a double-take. You see, I was rather confused by the label.

There we go. Multi-purpose compost, with added, John Innes.

Okay, who is John Innes and what has he done to deserve being made into compost? I remember as a kid, there was a Tom Baker, Doctor Who story where the villain put his enemies into the waste to get rid of them. It also helped his plants grow.

Is this the way ahead, putting unwanted elements into garden produce? It could save the government millions each year if it was. Just think: Murderers, rapists, thieves, bankers, even guests on the Jeremy Kyle show – all of them could be disposed of this way. We would be rid of them and not only that, our radishes might have a bumper crop this year.

Like mother, like daughter.

Awful mother and daughter duo, Kim Ohoro and Katie Scott, were both given anti social behaviour orders recently for terrorising their neighbourhood. It’s nice when family traditions continue.

There they are, sharing the same delightful unwashed looks, matching greasy hair and miserable expressions with added facial studs, or is it just acne?

Bad medicine.

Had to take a little trip to the doctor the other day and came out feeling worse than when I went in. Not the usual reason – catching everybody else’s germs. I left in serious trauma after an hour in the waiting room being forced and having to listen to Heart Radio.

It’s not size that matters.

40-year-old carer, Reighner Deleighnie was in the news this week after opening up about her relationship with a 3ft statue of Adonis. Reighner has given up on real men and craves the marble touch of the statue she has renamed, Hans.

There could be something to be said for it. You see, Hans is never going to argue or answer her back. One major pitfall though; Hans isn’t the most well endowed and she can cover his manhood with her little finger. She’ll have to watch and be careful with the duster too. I’d hate for her to get careless, knock him crashing to the floor and have the relationship end in pieces.

Flying the flag.

Nice looking kit designed by Stella McCartney for the Olympics, but did Stella have to turn up to the photo shoot, still wearing her pajamas?

It’s the end of the world as we know it.

Make the most of your android phones, the fancy game consoles and high performance cars. Come December 21 this year, they will be as useless as Nick Clegg in a loyalty contest. You see, December 21 is the date the world is supposed to end. The main reason for this belief is that it is also the date that the Mayan calender finishes.

Created thousands of years ago, it apparently does stop on this date. So we are doomed, or could it be the Mayans simply ran out of paper?

Have a nice week.

I’m going to make use of my bluetooth apparatus in my car, before the world explodes.

Cheers.

Nick

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The Sunday Roast – Breakfast with a Health Warning

Filed under: Sunday Roast — 4 Comments
March 18, 2012

A good place to tout for business.

If you’ve been a follower of my blogs and twitter feeds before, you may have noticed my liking for having a go at the local (Walsall) council and also in the past, Sandwell, where I used to work. It’s not all negative, I’ll have you know. I’m quite open to dish out praise; just let them do something worthy of it.

Anyway, I bring this up because I had a war of words with a council department on Twitter this week over the regeneration of Walsall Town Centre, which is in fact, dead on its feet. As a result of this argument, I browsed through Walsall Town Centre department’s Twit pic’s (I know … apt or what?) and saw one they are using to promote the town.

So. You decide. What exactly are they trying to attract – prostitution? I think the idea is to display their layout for planned improvement. However, all it seems to be is showing people where there’s a damn good place to pick up hookers.

Those who really matter?

I followed a link this week and found myself, unfortunately, directed to the website of The Tatler magazine and in particular, its famous list.

Apart from the obvious question – namely, ‘Why am I not on there?’ I have to take issue with its subheading: “The People who really matter.”

Really??? I suppose I can’t speak for everybody, but this lot certainly don’t matter to me.

Out of the top 50, I’ve only heard of 18 and six of them are members of the Royal family. It says a lot that the most important person this week is a horse – the one that won the Gold Cup.

There he is and surprisingly, we haven’t had a horse at number one since Camilla. Still, nothing like the UK for placing importance where it’s due. Poor old Prime Minister, David Cameron, comes in at a lowly number 36, underneath his own wife (… I’m not saying it). He is also beaten by Jilly Cooper, Tinie Tempah and comedienne, Sue Perkins.

Sue Perkins??? Tatler describes her as very funny and often seen on ‘Just a minute.’ Just a minute? I think the only thing I’ve ever seen her on are celebrity versions of reality TV shows, therefore making her yet another of those folk who are only celebrities because they get their faces onto such celebrity shows.

The 32 I’ve never heard of include adventurers, fashion groupies, billionaires and their wives, Prince William’s private secretary and a Vogue blogger.

Blogger? There’s hope for me yet then.

A surprise inclusion at 5, is Arthur Wellesley. Name seem familiar? Yes, he shares the same moniker as his ancestor, the Duke of Wellington who thrashed Napoleon at Waterloo. Can’t see what this one’s done to eclipse the more famous Arthur, but Tatler says the current is married to a make-up artist. Standards dropping, I see.

I save the best till last. Standing at a very respectable 15 is Bella Somerset, daughter of Bunty and Tracey Worcester (Come on … you must know them). Bella is described as beautiful, studying at Newcastle University and famous for using obscene language on Facebook, calling everybody a slut. Now if calling people sluts on Facebook is worthy of being on the list, you’re going to have to include everybody in tracksuit and baseball cap who watch Jeremy Kyle.

I did a Google search to find a picture of Bella, but the only one I could see was the one printed in The Tatler. So … important indeed. Oh well, it’s good to know The Tatler have their fingers on the pulse, keeping us informed of the goings on in the lives of really important matters. Are we sure the magazine is not simply The Sun under another name?

Still aggrieved I’m not in it though. Mind you, it does only go up to 500.

There. Happy now.

It’s a hard life at times.

Poor old pop queen, Madonna has been giving interviews recently about the stresses and hardships of being a working parent. I know, it’s bloomin’ difficult. I bet she has such a choice deciding which of the paid staff is going to feed the kids each day.

Nob of the week.

Apprentice supremo, Alan Sugar – the man who proves having millions doesn’t make one happy, carefree and life and soul of the party, was at it again this week with his pompous twaddle.

Apparently, us parents are to blame for the benefit culture. Funny, I thought it was because there weren’t any jobs. He says kids should go to work at 13 and that if they want a PS3, parents should tell them to go to the supermarket, get a job and stack shelves until they have enough money to buy one.

Not a bad idea, Alan – making the kids earn their money. However, you forget one thing. It’s difficult enough to get a job in a supermarket at 30-years of age, let alone 13.

Don’t take it out on today’s kids, Alan, just because your mum and dad never bought you a Johnny Seven One Man Army Gun.

And in this week’s fish and chip paper …

Ha! Thought I was going to have a go at Gothic Girl at the chip shop again, didn’t you? No, I have left Tuesday/Wednesday Adams alone this week, so she’s happy.

Instead, I had a Full English Breakfast the other day. Not even the thought of a visit to the chip shop – what could be nicer?

I did get a bit of stick off Angiebabe over the amount of breakfast items on my plate though. However, when I counted, I had nine pieces to her eight, so we were really close. Not only that, the self-styled ketchup queen had so many sachets of sauce to put on hers, they almost counted as an item themselves.

Still, we settled down to a lovely, relaxing, delicious breakfast. Unfortunately, we chose to sit at a table next to two women who I never want to nibble a mushroom near again. Talk about being force-fed a horrible conversation.

First of all, as I tucked into my bacon, was the tale of the poor cat. Tiddles, it seems, had to be castrated and there was blood all over the floor when it didn’t heal properly. This made Angiebabe really appreciate her sausage, complete with one whole sachet of ketchup. Next we had the tale of getting yellowy pus out of the dog’s ear. I don’t think I’ll have a fried egg again for years now. Finally, the conversation turned to dead skin and foot infections.

Bluurrrggghhh! Perhaps that coffee bar should come with a warning.

So, after a … different sort breakfast of beans on toes, do you reckon I should play safe and give Gothic Girl another chance? At least she only poisoned me.

Have a nice day.

Hope you all have a lovely Sunday, particularly any place where it’s Mother’s Day. I’m off to take a present to mine just now, then I’m off to plan more subversion against my local council.

Cheers.

 

Nick

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The Stranglers – Giants @ the O2 Academy – Birmingham (Saturday 10 March 2012)

Filed under: Reviews — 1 Comment
March 13, 2012

When Blur were honoured as lifetime achievers for their twenty-one years in pop at the recent Brit Awards, I had to suppress ironic amusement. I blogged at the time, asking how seven studio albums constituted greatness with notably, no releases since 2003.

In contrast, the Stranglers are now on their third studio outing since that date with latest offering, Giants, number seventeen in a long list of classic albums.

Nearing 40 years in the industry, the Stranglers have toured, played live in every one of those years to my knowledge. I saw my twelfth concert by the band at the O2 Academy in Birmingham on Saturday and like the previous eleven, no two Stranglers concerts are the same.

It would be easy, simply to roll out the standard, well-known hits but the Stranglers have never been ones for taking that route. Grip, Five Minutes and Always the Sun – all absent and did I miss them? Not one bit. Instead I got four new tracks off Giants and my first ever live experience of Sometimes, Rise of the Robots and Shut up.

From the moment the lights dim and you hear the opening chords of Waltz in Black, the hairs on the back of the neck stand on end because you know the the band are coming on. Two minutes later, the place erupts in a blazing inferno as the guys launch into Burning Up Time. The previously mentioned, Sometimes is next, followed by hit after hit; songs maybe not fashionable with the mainstream music press but to a Stranglers fan, each would top their charts.

Highlights for me were belting renditions of Relentless and The Raven, the latter of which was accompanied by a stuffed replica thrown onto the stage. The bird was promptly removed by a stagehand though not before the poor creature lost half its limbs when it fell apart. Also, strangely flung on, were what appeared to be items of underwear and a female roadie who went to retrieve a pair, took one look, grimaced and kicked them back in the audience. Obviously worn. Strange folk, these Stranglers fans at times.

The band are all in fine form, displaying that they still enjoy what they do. Jean Jacques Burnel and Baz Warne share the vocals equally and I forget the time when there was ever any other line up. Always a magic moment, No More Heroes rings out and I worry that the day will come when my heroes will become no more. Dave Greenfield, whose keyboards have hypnotised me for thirty five years is in his sixties as is Burnel. The fantastic Jet Black is seventy three, for crying out loud and as I type this, I read with horror that he has been rushed to hospital and had to miss the Oxford gig last night. Get well soon fella, you are, as always, awesome.

So what constitutes a lifetime’s achievement in music? If the Brit Awards are anything to go by, little over 100 tracks on seven albums during a twelve-year period. The Stranglers, never had, or likely will, receive the credit they deserve though with seventeen studio albums and a similar amount of live ones to listen to, I could play them non-stop for days. They may never be acknowledged in a way that their lifetimes achievements are recognised by the masses, but they have given more joy to last this particular fan – a lifetime. And that’s some achievement.

Nick

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