Tag Archive: Andrew Mitchell

Happy Birthday, Doctor Who.

Dec 1 - Doctor Who 50th. The Day of the Doctor.

I’m actually four weeks older than the time lord. However, that doesn’t make me 1200 years old. I mean I was born a month before the programme began in 1963.

These days, I’m jealous. You get all sorts of lovely toys to play with. Look …

Dec 1 - Doctor Who Figures

During my childhood, I had no such luxury. Do you know what I had to use my imagination on? The free cardboard figures you got off the back of a Wheetabix packet.

Dec 1 - Doctor Who Wheetabix

Yes, those. And I collected the lot. Wish I still had them.

And the same feeling of being short-changed is applicable to DVDs. I didn’t have a VHS video recorder until I was 20 so as a kid, the only way I could relive the adventures was by reading the classic Target novelizations (Yes … I do still have those).

Dec 1 - Doctor Who Target Novels

Ahh, the memory of my childhood, trying to picture how the Tardis materialising looked on TV simply from Terrance Dick’s description of a blue box appearing to the sound of wheezing and groaning. He actually coined that phrase which has stuck down the years. These days, the only wheezing and groaning I come across is the old couple up the road having sex with the windows open.

And talking of Doctor Who merchandise …

You can’t half get ripped off. There are now limited edition replicas of props from the series you can buy. The latest is a cube from the Series 7 episode, The Power of Three. It retails at about £40.

Dec 1 - Doctor Who The Power of Three Cube

Come on, it’s a frigging lump of plastic. The words rip and off come to mind, as does the the term, sucker … and I don’t mean the things which the Daleks use as an arm, either.

Dec 1 - Doctor Who Dalek

You wouldn’t catch me wasting money on something like that. Well, apart from my genuine Tardis key, that is.

Dec 1 - Tardis Key

Okay, so if I had the money, I’d get a cube.

Not mush-room left on the plate today.

A couple of times recently I have moaned about mushrooms, or the lack of them, especially when requesting extra.

Dec 1 - Mushrooms at St Paul's The Crossing

Ahhh … The St Paul’s Crossing Restaurant, the only place in Walsall who know the true meaning of the words, more mushrooms.

The morbid sights you see about town …

Dec 1 - Head

Fascinating. Decapitated heads in a shop window. Enough to give you nightmares.

What a load of plebs.

Sept 22 Andrew Mitchell

The case of MP Andrew Mitchell (or pleb-gate) has been in the news again this week. Mitchell is the politician who was accused of having a run-in with police officers guarding Downing Street when he tried to cycle through a security entrance. He quite rightly, lost his job for his disrespect but has always maintained he never used the word, pleb.

There is no evidence either way what was spoken by Mitchell, or the plebs, but the MP does admit to arguing and swearing at them. Following investigations into whether officers lied about this, there have been calls for Mitchell to be reinstated in his job.

Now then, he denies calling them plebs, but he did swear at them. Hmmm … I call swearing at a police officer who is trying to guard your life, ten times worse an offence than referring to them as plebs. The enquiry team presiding over this seem to have conveniently forgotten that.

Poor old Andrew Mitchell, you have to feel sorry for him. I mean, he’s not done that much wrong in his career … apart from insulting hard working policemen … and lobbying to lift trade embargoes on foreign companies who gave donations to his parliamentary office … and investing funds into firms involved in tax avoidance. Yes, just the sort of person we want running this country, or rather one we should send on a holiday abroad and politely ask if they’d leave their passport at the door.

And here’s a man who should be called more than a pleb …

Dec 1 - Assem Allam

Hull City owner, Assem Allam is the latest in a long line of tosspot millionaires coming into the game and trying to rewrite history. He wants to change the name, Hull City to Hull Tigers. Now fans have complained to which the knobhead has responded by telling them to die. Hate to say this, Assem, these fans were there many years before you were, and they’ll be there long time after you have departed.

It’s like Cardiff City with a pillock of equal proportions in Vincent Tan. Using the football club as his personal plaything, the Malaysian businessman raised anger by changing the long traditional blue kit to his favourite colour. So, we now have a team nicknamed, The Bluebirds, playing in red.

Note to this and any other investor who believe in their own God Complex mentality. If you want to treat football clubs like toys, go and play with this.

Dec 1 - Undertones My Perfect Cousin Subbuteo

Right, enough ranting …

I start two weeks of very long shifts tomorrow so probably won’t be a Sunday Roast next week. I’m going to watch Doctor Who … and maybe play with my sonic screwdriver.

February 24 - Toy Sonic Screwdriver © Antony N Britt



Pitching an idea.

Last Saturday, myself and fellow troublemaker, Rich, took the 0830 train to London in order to have a 30-second pitch to an agent, plus useful feedback then question and answer sessions. This was at Foyles Bookshop and the agents were from Curtis Brown – just about as big as you can get in the UK.

Okay, I didn’t get my novel taken on but I did see a book I have a piece in, smack bang in the window of Foyles.

Me, and you can just about make out Alarmist Magazine above the sign by my hand which says, magazines. It’s the dark cover with The Holy Book, on the cover. I will add, Alarmist isn’t a religious publication, just in case you think I’ve turned towards the light. Nooooo! Happy being a church-fearing atheist, me.

Still, it made my day and how many others pitching could boast being in the window of Foyles. The only way I’d have thought it possible for me was if I took part in a ram-raid which went wrong.

An idiot abroad. Well, in London, anyway.

After we left Foyles, neither of us really knew where we were going but we still had four hours to kill before the panel event later in the day. We were also hungry so we set off to find food, promptly getting lost before coming across this …

Ha! Knew where were, then. So, navigating the streets of London from memory of a Monopoly Board, we took a chance, turned into Leicester Square with me narrowly avoiding jail after an unwise attempt at chatting up a woman young enough to be my daughter.

Okay, there does come a time in life when you realise you’re too old and not going to shag Buffy the Vampire Slayer. For me, this was it. And it was pointed out that having a cute lass on the door, does not constitute a good reason to go inside and eat there.

So we opted for Pizza Hut instead and contrary to my normal eating-out disasters, this particular Hut, hadn’t, as is normally the case with me, run out of Pizza. Believe me – it happens.

So I survived London, and even managed to find my way back to Euston Station, despite it not being on a Monopoly board.

Do the maths, Sir.

These days, I accept the only virgin I’m ever going to get inside, is the express train home from London. Not so, maths teacher, Jeremy Forrest. He failed to learn the ultimate lesson. After being on the run for a week with his 15-year-old lover, 30-year old Forrest is rightly, in custody. Idiot. One career up the spout. Just hope that’s the only thing that is. It’s ironic really. One week, he’s taking the register, next week, he’s on one.

The multi-tasking daughter of the King.

Lisa Marie Presley has been a busy girl.

She was in the papers on Wednesday with the article about her farming exploits. Then, yesterday, she’s in them again but now, apparently, she’s helping out at the local chip shop. I won’t make the Kirsty MacColl song reference. Even I wouldn’t be cruel to stoop that way on down. However, what now? Is she going to be working on the reception of a Heartbreak Hotel next, or will she be a postal worker, returning letters to sender?

Well, there’s a surprise.

Crackhead, Blake Fielder-Civil has finally admitted he was responsible for Amy Winehouse getting into drugs.

No way! Next you’ll be telling me Quentin Crisp was a homosexual.

Plagiarise that … really?

Waiting in a dental reception, I picked up a copy of scummy paper, The Sun. Yes, it was a bit like pulling teeth but I was amused by the leading article, namely the exclusive on pop artist, Tulisa’s, autobiography.

Honest? If she was honest, she’d say which ghost writer really penned the book. Also, how anybody at the age of 24 can have done stuff to warrant a biography, is beyond me. Still, people will buy and read it. I wonder if Tulisa has, yet?

However, the most amusing thing in the Sun’s article was the warning about copyright and that their lawyers are watching, in case anybody wants to plagiarise.

Come on, who’d want to admit to that … apart from Tulisa?

Crash the party.

Apparently, 4,000 people gatecrashed a party in Haren – Holland after some silly girl posted it on Facebook.

Amazing. 4000 people without a social life.

And for his next trick.

Last week, I told about nobhead minister, Andrew Mitchell. He’s the pillock who thinks he runs the government and all under him are plebs. Poor old Andrew, he says he’s being judged unfairly. As well as calling the police, plebs, he has just demanded a £60k Jaguar as a perk of his job while the plebs have to use the bus. He also, apparently, had a mug specially printed with his former job of Secretary of State, written on. Nothing pretentious there, then? How about next week, going the whole hog and having a tattoo? Maybe the word Tosser, written on his forehead would be a good idea.

I have to shout support for the police officers who picketed his constituency office the other day. Brilliant.

Yes, the police. They’re some of the guys who keep the country running, not cretins like Andrew Mitchell.

Night Writing.

I’m writing much of this, full of heavy cold in the hope my nose has stopped running by the time I go to an all-night writing session, Saturday evening. I’m not off to London like last week but am taking part in Birmingham Book Festival’s, Night at the Locksmith’s House. I only hope the locksmith knows there are load of writers descending on him. Still, if my cold gets too bad, I can always rest up here.

Actually, the house is a museum. It is hoped, spending the night there, pen and pad in hand, I can come up with some inspiration for future stories.

Taking the pee.

Back to my trip to London and it was there, I had the usual problem of queueing up for a toilet cubicle. I always feel silly. There’s loads of empty urinals but I have to wait for an enclosed cubicle to empty, just so I can pee. You see, I always seem to wear jeans with about a dozen buttons to undo. Have a zip? Not me. It takes about five minutes struggle to get the buttons undone, then another ten to do them up again. It’s far easier just to pull your trousers down to the ankles. Therefore, I have to use a cubicle. You see, if I dropped my trousers in a public convenience, people would be thinking I was touting for sex. Then I really would be sent to jail on the Monopoly board.



Avast ye Swabs!

Apparently, last Wednesday was Act Like a Pirate Day.

Well shiver me timbers, I never knew that until I read it in the newspapers later on. I wondered why there were men with eye-patches, all wearing striped shirts, bandannas and drinking rum in the Spicy Chicken Takeaway. I was charged ten doubloons as well, just for a kebab. Sheer piracy in their pricing, methinks.

But I feel as if I’ve missed out now. Pirate Day? I should have taken part. I mean, piracy … what can I do? I know, I’ll go and illegally download and distribute a load of Ben Dover porn films. Titillating.

Q: Why are pirates so funny?

A: Because they just arrrrrrrrrr!

Out and about in the news recently …

I see Peaches Geldof was in the spotlight the other week when her baby buggy overturned, tipping four-month-old Astala (Yeah … I know) onto the pavement. Can’t post a picture of Peaches as it’s no doubt copyrighted. Instead, I’ll just have to improvise.

Anyway, google image search “peaches geldof baby pram” and see what I’m talking about. The horror. I mean, if she’d been more careless, she’d have dropped her mobile phone too. You know, the bloody device glued to her ear that she seemed more concerned hanging onto rather than her poor child.


Quitting … Really?

Celebrity, Peter Andre wants to concentrate on a career of being a TV presenter from now on. He says he’s even ready to give up singing to do so.

Amazing news … Peter Andre is a singer?

Bad taste gone Gaga.

Yes, Lady Gaga is in the news again. She’s been smoking dope on stage in Amsterdam. Way to go. What a plonker but the burning issue of bad taste is … What the hell was she thinking, choosing to wear this?

Had the lights gone in the dressing room? Now that’s what I call being a dope.


I read on Tuesday, that car repair bills have soared and some garages charge over £80 an hour. Now in the past, I’ve generally found places who don’t fleece you. It’s more often than not, the manufacturer doing the piracy.


Sorry, still in pirate mode. But anyway, I recall my Renault Espace from a few years back. It was a lovely car until the warranty ran out, then everything conceivable fell apart. It wasn’t the garage which was the problem, the parts were extortionate. All seemed to have to come from France via snail-mail and you were charged about £200 for a wheel-nut.

The good old pirate ship – Espace.

Wiper blades. I remember the days when I could replace my own blades by buying a cheap set from Halfords and doing the job myself. Not Renault. The ones for the Espace, even in 2006, cost over £50 each and needed to be fitted by a mechanic. It was the same when the clutch went. In my old Montego, I just had a new clutch cable fitted. Twenty minute job and about a tenner. Espace? I was told the hydraulics had gone.

Now then … Clutch-cable – Hydraulics. Which of those two do you think sounds the more expensive? Over bloody £200 if I recall with all the labour.

I’m just glad I got shot of the thing. Mind you, I made it good and even stuck a new engine in before I could sell it as the original only lasted 50,000 miles.

Rubbish vehicle in the end. Couldn’t trust it for fear something else would blow. I’m just glad I managed to sell it to that vicar.

Jesus and ‘Her Indoors.’

Apparently, Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene. Scholars have come up with this gem, now. Still, it’s about as credible as the other bullshit in the Bible so why not this?

Catholic priests are going to be a bit peeved though. The theory of Jesus abstaining from women is the reason for celibacy in their church. Still, doesn’t stop them having scores of love children already and if they were allowed to have relations, perhaps they wouldn’t spend so much time abusing kids.


That’s the only word to describe the new Tory chief for discipline.

Andrew Mitchell, MP for Sutton Coldfield (great, the knob lives near me) shouted abuse at the police standing guard in Downing Street. He moaned about being told not to ride his bike out of the main security gate. He screamed at the cops to learn their fucking place.

Now what place would that be, Andrew? Would it be the place of being in charge of security and protecting your sorry ass when people want to take a pop at you for making a mess of the country?

What can you say?

Dale Creegan. I’d post a picture of him but an image of dog shit is one I’d find offensive on my site. This piece of scum, blasted two unarmed women cops who were routinely doing their duty. Creegan wants to be famous, or infamous. The thing with dog shit though, you soon forget it once it’s been on your shoe, and that’s where Creegan belongs.

Also, shame on the shits who didn’t report the fact he was flaunting himself about the neighbourhood, days before committing murder. Hope you can live with yourselves.

What a society.

Bit of a boob.

Farmer, Alan Graham, blew his top after allowing pop star, Rhianna to use his field to shoot a video. You remember her? I featured her a week or so back. Here she is, under her umbrella.

Anyway, Bible-basher (Oh dear, now that explains it) Alan Graham, didn’t like it when the pop-star got her breasts out during the shoot.

Christ. Get a life, Alan. They’re nothing to be ashamed of. How do you think your mother fed you as a child?


Former soccer goalkeeper, Richard Kingson’s loss of form has been blamed on witchcraft.

There he is in 2006, on his arse as Ronaldo beats him to score. Hmmm. Maybe the witchcraft theory is true? Or could it be he’s just a rubbish keeper?

Back on the subject of poo again.

Fake cigarettes containing human poo have been discovered by customs recently. Don’t know what the fuss is about. No different from the other crap they stick in cigarettes.

So we still be playing at being pirates, then?

I’m going to join in the pirate fun, if not a few days late. I’m off to seize a boat and torture a couple of helpless pensioners.



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