April 30, 2007

...because I really don't think she could take it, but...

Neigbours might disappear from BBC1!

The BBC has begun making plans to fill Neighbours' two daytime slots as fears grow that it will lose the rights to the Australian soap.
It is understood the BBC would schedule a mix of new acquisitions and original programming in the Neighbours slots if it loses the soap, which is broadcast at 1.40pm and 5.35pm each weekday.

Neighbours could also be used on ITV2, which is looking for a "teen-oriented soap".

Shouldn't Tony Blair be getting involved in this?

April 28, 2007

Scungilaginous, noun
Of the semifluid gelatinous consistency of the male genitalia

"No!" cried Nipper. "That's just, just, well, eurgh... weird!"

April 27, 2007

I had to.

I have allowed myself to be treated like a bitch for over two years.

In that time, I have never had a place I can call my own.

How can you, really, when you never - ever - know what's coming and how much?

I have lost friends and girlfriends through penury.

I've lost respect through lack of paying bills. I've lost out on seeing my family; I've lost seeing my goddaughter; I've lost any kind of possible anchor I could have had in my life.

I've lost, well, pretty much everything.

And now I've lost my best mate Daggers, too, who is understandably pissed off with me daring to embarrass him over the fact I haven't been paid, but who frankly doesn't mean as much to me as to where the next fucking meal is coming from.

Fact is, I know he's embarrassed too.

It's not his fault.

It's the wankers we work for.

Worked for.

Now, I'll be seeing you soon.

Probably on the salad cream shelf at Tesco, admittedly, but there you go.

Adieu x

April 27, 2007

Tuesday

Me: "I haven't been paid. Again. You owe me over a grand and a half."

Them: "It's going through tomorrow. Well, some of it. Like, well, a third. Be in your bank on Friday."

Thursday

*Checks bank account for the hell of it*

*Bloody hell, where's that come from? £300? Must have gone in earlier in the week! But where's the rest? And where's the remittance advice?"

Friday

*Goes to bank*

Me: "Oh. They haven't paid me."

Them: "We'll get back to you."

Magic!

Rent! Phone bill! Food! A pre-funeral wake for one of my best friends!

All fucked!

And we only made a million in profit last year!

Hurrah!

It is a very, very good thing that I don't own a fucking gun.

April 27, 2007

Annelidous, adj
Of or relating to worms

"Do me a favour, will you," said Nipper, "and stop bloody wriggling."

April 26, 2007

Genethliacon, noun
A birthday poem

There is a landlady from Hoylake,
Who slugs wine and Stella like milkshake,
So without a moment being missed,
She'll get mightily pissed,
Before weeing all over her sponge cake.

April 25, 2007

Partheniad, noun
A poem in honour of a virgin

"There was young buzzard called Nipper,
Who in restaurants was quite a good tipper,
But when it came to girls,
They were in different worlds,
And with them he never got a grip, er, of.

"Doesn't work, really, does it?" continued Zeds.

"No," said Nipper.

April 23, 2007

Ouch!

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk_news/story/0,,2064406,00.html?gusrc=rss&feed=11

April 24, 2007

Sciapodous, adj
Having very large feet

"It's not true, though, is it?" wondered Nipper.

"Why don't you just shut up," said Zeds, "and keep pumping."

April 23, 2007>

April 23, 2007

Dateline: A Bar, At The Beach, On An Island, The Gulf of Thailand, November 2003.

Barry is on the left. He's a Scouser who, after his marriage failed, went to live on an island off Denmark to pick cabbages. No, really.

I'm on the right. And no, that's not my scrotum.

To my right is Jacques, who almost got himself and therefore me killed.

And to his right is Keith, who died last last week.

That bar became my home - literally - for almost a year. And here's an interesting fact: I now have a subscriber to this blog who was someone I met there.

Small world, etc...

Barry, me and Mikkel. Pissed.

I have no idea. But drink may have been taken.

Ditto.

Classy bloke, eh?

More drink. I hope.

TLR. Now that really was interesting...

Odd, (yes), the world's greatest handyman.

Me and my normally cute friend, Roz, who I'm on the lash with later this week...

(And if you think the bleached blond beach bum hair is bad there, you really don't want to see it now.)

Top row: Keith, Pen, Someone From A Concentration Camp, Barry, Mike.
Bottom: Oii the bar owner, Miaow (seriously), and I have no idea.

Happy times.

But time moves on.

April 23, 2007

More here.

April 23, 2007

Abstemious, adj
Sparing, especially in matters of eating and drinking

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaa," guffawed Nipper. "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaa."

"I take it, then," interjected Zeds, "that you don't believe me?"

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaa. *Snort*."

April 21, 2007

Why is it de rigeur to listen to Bob Marley songs and nod along to them, soakin' up that Caribbean vibe, feelin' all Jamaica man, contemplating life as a Rasta, thinking about "da" dark rum, rememberin' your first spliff, tappin' your bare foot in the sand, when - in fact - you have no idea what the flying fuck he's going on (and on and on) about?

Take this rubbish (and - you know - please do):

Wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo.
Wo-wo-wo-wo, wo-wo-wo-wo.
Here I am walkin' down the street (Walkin', walkin', walkin', walkin',
walkin', walkin', walkin', walkin', walkin', walkin', walkin',
walkin')
And the children: everything is so sweet.
(Wo-wo-wo sweet! Wo-wo-wo sweet!)
I'm doin' my best and I'm doin' it slow,
But there is just one thing I would like you to know.

Ooh, when you wet, it's slippery, yeah. Uh!
When it damp, it crampin'!
If it's slidin', you'll tumble down,
Won't want you on the ground.

This song, Caution, goes on like this for some considerable time, repeating the somewhat obvious message that a wet floor can be slippery.

Or this unmitigated crap from a "song" called "Soul Almighty":

Hey happy people, this here is something new
I know you're gonna like it
So let me tell you what we're gonna do
Souls almighty [uh]
Don't you know we got the rhythm
Souls almighty [oh]
We are willing
Funky, Funky Chicken [ooh]
And the Mashed Potato
Do the Alligator
Let's do it together
Souls almighty
Do you dig me ya'll

WHAAAAAAAT?

What a load of shit!

I've been sat listening to some of this repetitive drivel for the last hour and in half of the songs that aren't about cryin' or stoppin' a train because he's leavin', the man could be singing about how to make jellyfish pie.

Give me UB40 anyday

And don't get me started on Sting. Don't!

April 21, 2007

John Barleycorn, noun
Alcoholic liquor personified

"Eh? I thought it was Jack Daniels," said Nipper.

"Just shut it, will you?" said Zeds.

April 20, 2007

I appear to have mislaid my How Leathered Am I? machine.

There is an extraordinary, inordinate amount of rum thundering through my arteries right now, yet not a bit of it appears to be touching the already battered sides of my weary blood vessels.

However, I have apparently become quite argumentative. And I suddenly feel like I want a fight.

So, in order to avoid this - in order to avoid getting beaten up, which will inevitably happen - I am going to have to drink at least four times as much and then shove my face into a pillow and half suffocate myself in order to go to sleep.

Yes, I know.

This is not good.

But these are exceptional circumstances.

And frankly - how the fuck else do you expect me to do this?

* In other news, K's with someone else. She just "forgot" to tell me. So today, then, is not a fucking good day.

April 20, 2007

So long, mate.

x

April 20, 2007

Eaton Fucking Road at a "press call" on Wirral this afternoon:

Feel free to deliver your shotguns to the usual address.

April 20, 2007

Mania-a-potu, noun
Madness resulting from too much gargle; insanity from intoxication

"Where's all the bloody TCP gone?" vexed Zeds.

"Pop goes the weasel," said Nipper, who was wearing matching shower cap and flippers.

April 19, 2007

Forget the BCUK Top 20 - which I'm against, incidentally, if only because it seems to serve no purpose other than massage the egos of people like me, which can't be a good thing, surely - what about the BCUK statistics page?

I just can't work it out.

I mean, what's a page view?

Today, on a less-than-average number of visitors, I'm at almost 2,000 page views. Which is more than usual, I hasten to add. But still. How does that work? I have X amount of visitors who are so enthralled by my work that they trawl back through my entire back catalogue?

Much as I wish it was true - well, obviously; this ego just needs a-feeding - I just can't see that.

My settings have 20 posts per "page" and I just don't believe that today's visitors have trawled back through as many as an average of 100 posts each.

So how does it work out?

Anyone know?

Anyone at BCUK able to tell me? Even by private message?

I'm just curious - and very crap at maths...

April 19, 2007

Events this week, in terms of blogability ratings, are taking an ever more bizarre turn.

I've just had two pints of black soup lunch with my mum.

We met up, because a pair of my glasses fell off my face when I had a bit of a mate's date recently.

That is - mid conversation, animated as always, trying to be interesting and charming and rakish and cool, my glasses disintegrated and shattered across the floor.

No, I have no idea why, either.

But the old dear was insisting on accompanying me to buy a new pair.

Anyhoo. When I went to the bar to order *cough* our second course, my eyes locked on with precision to the eyes of a blonde, mousey-looking girl who, it turned out, had been sat right behind us.

The reason our eyes locked on is because we know each other, from the past.

We both realise this at the same time, and we both raise a smile of recognition and begin to mouth the word "hi".

But then we both stop, because we both can't remember each other's names.

And, in the same split second, we both lower our eyes away from one another because we both, horribly suddenly, also remember the reason we don't really want to say hello.

But as I carry on to the bar to get the drinks for my mother and I, and the girl resumes her conversation with work colleagues, I am quite certain we were both remembering a certain night sixteen sordid years ago when The Devil Himself played puppeteer in my then house.

The only saving grace was that my brother wasn't there, too.

Because then there would have been three embarrassed people, instead of just the two.

April 19, 2007

Gnomon, noun
The raised arm of a sundial that indicates the time of day by its shadow

"For the last time, no," said Nipper, "the pubs aren't open yet."

April 18, 2007

..from a mate, too.

"Did you send me a picture of your cock just now?"

The answer, chums, and I know you'll be disappointed, is "no".

But you know the worst thing?

I actually checked my sent messages...

April 18, 2007

From the world of You Couldn't Make It Up, our lead story today is about binmen - yes, not refuse collectors or garbage dispensing teams or unwanted household item disposal units or waste management solutions, but "binmen" - that is, those employed to empty bins - who refused to empty a pensioner's bin because it had the wrong kind of potato in it.

Here's how our local council - having clearly brushed up on their newspeak - responded:

Wirral is governed by strict regulations set in place by DEFRA about the type of waste accepted at a Windrow Composting facility.

Windrow composting sites, which Wirral uses for the garden recycling only, are open-air facilities.

Food waste is not permitted in the garden-only brown bins as there is a risk that this waste could have come into contact with animal bi-products like butter, meat, milk etc, as it is likely to have been handled in the kitchen.

Tests carried out by the State Veterinary Department on windrow sites several years ago confirmed a high percentage of animal derivative food in the compost; this led to the ban of most food types.

Clearly the seed potato was not a risk to the composting process. However, our collection crews would not have known whether the potato had been in the kitchen or not.

We therefore have no choice but to reject any bins that contain food waste.

Instructional information was issued with the bin on delivery, making it clear what can and can not be composted in the brown bin.

If you want to read the story, go here:

April 18, 2007

It's for my friend's four-year-old son, admittedly, but I'm thinking: If I breathe in a bit...

April 18, 2007

Dewlap, noun
A loose fold of skin hanging under the neck of an animal such as cow, rooster, lizard, etc. On birds, the appendage is also known as a wattle

"So that's what they're called," said Nipper, as they leaned on the fence looking at the cockerels.

"Apparently so," said Zeds. "But what's it for?"

April 17, 2007

Because something must have.

Twenty-three-years-old, then this.

Forget the politics, the guns, even the horror of the outcome: What on this earth could possibly make someone do something like this?

Because the really scary thing is this:

Something, or someone, did.

April 17, 2007

Lately, I've been knackered.

Knackered through double-ended candle-burning; knackered through money worries; knackered through affairs of the heart that don't bastardingly work out.

So, I've taken a couple of days off.

Yesterday, however, I spent all afternoon in my mate's shop blogging because Mrs Landlady was shitfaced and on the prowl for hugs and repetitive chats about how bad her life is and God knows what else.

Today, because I'm too skint to do anything else, I just wanted to buy a paper, plonk a chair down in the garden and nod off in the sun for a bit.

But Mrs Landlady is riproaringly shitfaced today, only with an added, extra frisson thrown in.

I got out of the shower before, got dressed, and put my shoes and socks on.

Ran upstairs to my room, sprayed on nice smell things in the child-wrecked room I finally got round to tidying last night, then strolled down the stairs to make some Earl Grey tea.

On the middle landing, I had to negotiate through piles of dirty washing scattered across the floor.

After I'd waded through it, I began down the split level stairs.

Something didn't feel right with my right foot.

I looked down, and there was a pair of knickers attached to the sole of my right shoe.

I say "attached". What I really mean is "stuck".

Using my left shoe as leverage, I removed the knickers from my foot.

They were an adult's pair of knickers.

And they were stuck to my shoe by the excrement smeared inside them.

So am I not sitting on a chair in the sun.

I am back in the shop on the blog.

And for lunch, I am not having Marmite.