April 30, 2008

Nick - look away now.

x

April 30, 2008

I loved this back in 1983, when I was a mere 12.

Would like to see him explaining the video to the Thought Police these days, though.

April 30, 2008

Bear with me on this - some of you may know parts of this already:

Fifteen years ago, I was on an overnight ferry from Harwich in East Anglia, heading for Esbjerg on the south west coast of Denmark.

I was a national newspaper reporter in those days, and the trip was one of those "an email arrives" jobs where we get to go somewhere for free, with the best seats, the best hotels, the best restaurants, and the best wines (and as it would turn out in this case, raw beef and vile-tasting schnappes - filthy bloody Danes )

Most of the other journalists on the trip were from regional or trade titles, so I inevitably got lumped together to sit with the only other guy from a national that may or may not rhyme slightly with Ungainly Depress.

Nicely dressed, well-spoken, handsome fellow he was, too. Oozing with confidence and charm. Stuck his fork into the mountain of pink salmon before us and deftly worked his way through it at a rate of knots, chattering away quite happy about his job as royal court correspondent for that title.

The wine was flowly freely - very freely - and so I only really half-noticed that his near-broadcast drawl had suddenly turned into East End barrow boy.

He went to bed, and eventually so did the rest of us.

In the morning, as we slowly gathered around the breakfast table, there was excited chatter about some crazy man who'd been heard in his cabin alternatively shouting "Hallelujah!" and bursting into tears. For, like, hours. But I hadn't heard a thing - possibly due to red wine-induced coma.

We disembarked at Esbjerg, only to find that our friend from the night before wasn't with us. He was refusing to leave the ferry unless the PR girls carried his luggage - which turned out to be a briefcase.

He had no extra clothes with him for our two night stay (three, if you include the ferry).

Exasperated, the PR fetched his case, and we all grumbled under our breaths about him as we boarded the train that would take us overland - and, indeed, over a lake on a train ferry, fact fans (although I'm reliably informed by my filthy Danish friend Mikkel that this is no longer used) - to Copenhagen.

After we sat and marvelled at the sheer comfort and efficiency of the Danish rail network - our first class seats could go up and down, swivel around, and, quite possibly, offer optional hand relief - my New Best Friend decided to place a bottle top on my table.

And then another, on someone else's table.

Then more on each of the tables.

Then he stood up and took his shirt and tie off and began placing the items of various people's tables.

Then he started marching up and down the carriage, half naked, burbling in strange tongues.

So the PR girl phoned the police.

Between Esbjerg and Copenhagen, we had to persuade him several times not to strip completely naked. In between ranting wildly. And occasionally crying. And nodding off to sleep for seconds at a time.

On arrival at Copenhagen, the uniformed officers gently escorted him off the train.

By now, he was fully dressed, with the stereotypical reporter's mackintosh, and the officers stood next to him as they waited for, quite literally, the men in white coats.

As they waited on the platform, the reporter pulled his coat up from his back and over his head, completely covering his face, and began leaping up and down on the spot.

The white coats arrived; they took him away; I rang his newspaper to tell them the news (but only after ringing all my own Fleet Street mates first, obviously).

He was taken to the Psykiatriske Afdeling - psychiatric ward - in this place:

http://www.23hq.com/Laisen/photo/127747/standard

Essentially, he was in the lockdown ward of the flagship hospital of Denmark - Rigshospitalet - right there in Copenhagen until we were flying home again, him in the care of his managing editor who had by then flown over to accompany him back (after first signing his release forms from the hospital).

"Do you think?" he asked, once we'd all boarded the plane that would take us back to London, "they'll let us into the cockpit?"

"Noooooooooooooooooooooo!" screamed the rest of us.

Anyhoo. I also suffered what could be considered a mental tempest several years later, so I know it can happen to anyone.

And in utterly, entirely unrelated news...

Imagine my surprise when I logged onto the MediGuardian website this morning and came across this:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/apr/30/newsoftheworld.pressandpublishing

Funny. Old. World.

April 30, 2008

Facinorous, adj
Extremely wicked; depraved; infamous

Nipper almost fell off his perch when the unmistakable boom of Vincent Price-style cackling came ricocheting through the darkened halls of Chez Zeds.

With a startled squawk, he swooped down and off in search of its source.

"Oh, Christ," he said, on finding Zeds. "There's no prizes for guessing what you've been up to, is there?"

"No," beamed the many-consonanted one, only to then blush furiously as Thriller piped up in the background.

April 29, 2008

Yep, as from today, the pay feature on Friends Reunited is no more.

Had to happen eventually.

Victory for the tight-fisted!

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/apr/29/itv.digitalmedia

www.friendsreunited.co.uk

April 29, 2008

Gordon Brooon, in a desperate attempt to forget about opinion polls, mortgage crises, pensions crises, election bottling, "Britishness", rising debt, rising cost of living, fuel supply problems, backbench dissent, Lord Levy and the cat running away with the spoon, has come up with a bright new sparkly idea designed to tug gently on the flaccid and thus furious penis that is the Daily Mail's readership.

"Gordon Brown is to take personal responsibility for toughening the law on cannabis," screams its front page story today.

And how will this "responsibility" manifest itself, you may well ask?

"The Prime Minister will over-rule the Government's panel of experts (my italics, but take note) to announce next week that he wants it to return to Class B status."

And a nation silently mouths back as one: Oh. Does he.

The reason for this, says the Mail - the newspaper equivalent of the red-faced fat ginger-haired child of moderately wealthy, indulgent, but still largely distant parents - is because the move to reclassify cannabis as Class C under Tony Blair "coincided with an explosion in drug crime and several brutal cannabis-related murders".

Yes, of course it did.

Erm. But did anyone actually hear that explosion?

And "brutal cannabis-related murders"? Really?

How brutal?

"Man bored to death by stoner droning on about 'The Floyd, man'."?

Also, how advisable is it, really, to "over-rule the Government's panel of experts" - ie, people who know what they're actually talking about, as against those seeking political gain/refuge/rescue in an entirely unoriginal, unambitious and completely unworkable way - when the last time you did that, over pensions for instance, or over selling off the UK's family silver (well, gold) reserves at a rock bottom price, it came back to bite you on the arse in ways you really thought your foul Scottish wobbly-jowled short-sightedness would not "allow"?

And one final thought:

After next week, when you (theoretically) approach a dealer and ask if his dope is Class B or Class C, will he not just reply: "Who cares, man? It's just class."

Up the workers. Or whatever it is in Polish.

April 29, 2008

Avicide, noun
Killing of birds

"Remind me," said Nipper. "What did happen to all those baby ducks after you 'accidentally' killed their mother? Hmmm? Paddle off in a panic, did they? All different directions, hmmm? To certain death? Come on. Cat got your tongue? Cat? Tongue?"

April 28, 2008

Once upon a time, in a land of black and white, Liverpool - or more specifically, its bastard cousin across the river, Birkenhead - was, along with Glasgow and Newcastle (hence the often bizarre camaraderie between the cities - well, that and the fact that Thatcher's Tories tore the throats out of all three, too) were the home of all things shipbuilding.

That's gone now, of course, apart from a few straggling, yet remarkable survivors.

After all, who needs a manufacturing society, eh? Especially when, just for instance, you now live in a largely service industry society which is the very first thing to be hit - and hard - during a credit crunch, for example?

But I digress.

In Wirral, our now largely deserted docklands are the site of what Peel Holdings - the people who built the Trafford Centre, among many, many other things - plans to be a £4 billion, 30-year project of redevelopment.

This will mean shiny skyscrapers, fancy dockside flats, hotels and conference centres and all that.

Well, we'll see.

Yesterday, though, saw the end of an era locally. Two 360 tonne cranes - incredible, iconic, beautiful-in-the-eye-of-the-beholder landmarks that have graced our skyline for 44 years - had their legs blown off to bring them quite literally down to earth, and to eventually pave the way for the realisation of the blueprint described above.

I admit: I'm impressed by demolition men. The precision of use of such vast and dangerous power, so meticulous and mathematical, is beyond me.

Still, it seems like a sad day for me. And I'm sure it was for many grandfathers of this locale, too.

Anyhoo: Here's what happened in sequence:

Imagine the noise?

You probably need to have seen them in the raw to understand how huge these incredible pieces of engineering actually were.

To me, though, it's like watching the king of the jungle being sent to bed by his precocious nephew; majestic, stoic giraffes felled by bounty hunters; friendly, ancient dinosaurs asked to just move along now; a crude sweeping brush of history; a quick airbrush out of something I've always known.

'Tis true: I will miss them.

April 28, 2008

And a slightly more cunning one, who clearly just wants to avoid hyperbole-crazed American TV "reporters" and his equally mad owners.

* See also on YouTube, the infamous Fainting Goats.

(With thanks to Hektor)

April 28, 2008

Roblet, verb
To lead astray

"What next?" vexed Zeds, staring at the fixed penalty notice. "Joyriding?"

"Might do," said Nipper, sulkily.

April 27, 2008

Because all like to look.

And no...

...this isn't my favourite this week.

April 27, 2008

Who knows what the full facts are behind this yet. No doubt they'll emerge.

But there's always something equally comforting as it is grisly to think it happened "abroad".

But then you think: Rose and Fred.

And you watch the ongoing investigation on the Isle of Wight.

And you think: Ah.......

April 27, 2008

Take a look at the papers tomorrow and take a glance at the pictures of Mr Brooooon looking grey, ill, and grinning.

For those not particularly familiar with the intricacies and sheer venality of politics, it will provide an education.

Not 12 months in to the job he was never elected or chosen for - other than by himself - he is a wounded, busted flush; the guarded heavyweight who spent that long avoiding landing a killer punch himself, he's been laid out time and time again by haymakers largely created by himself.

Brooon is buggered:

Blair is clearly briefing against him, whatever his denials about the Levy book may say. The little turd Milibrand is briefing against him, too - but in the self same way a footclub chairman offers his club manager "full support".

And Ed "So What To A Tax Burden?" Balls - and my, has there been a man on earth yet that you haven't wanted to punch more? - promises never to turn on The Dour One. Which means he already has, and with a vengeance, too.

The rats aren't even gathering on the deck: They're helping along the sinking ship by setting fire to it. They've already dived into the water, and now sit floating on driftwood, looking up, expectantly, waiting for the self-styled captain, his stolen galleon sunk beneath the waterline, to disappear beneath it himself.

This is pure, vintage, back-stabbing Westminster at its finest.

He may not go this week - after the local elections on Thursday - but Broooon is fundamentally, fatally flawed.

He had two mythical strenghs, Gordon Broooon: Economic sense and an intellect so fierce and ahead of its rivals that to question it was to invite political death.

No more.

Within weeks he found £100 billion of taxpayers' money to save banks who'd got themselves into their own trouble, then insisted that making poor people poorer through his short-term budget sorcery was actually a good thing - only to reverse ferret when he realised that his cack-handed one-eyed bluster just doesn't cut it any more.

The game for Gordon Broooon is up.

And after a decade of sullen plotting for a job he's never had the nerve to properly attempt to go for himself, it is exactly, precisely, presciently, prudently, and judiciously - all his favourite words - what he deserves.

April 27, 2008

Alveolate, adj
Of or like a honeycomb

"Ah, Sundays," said Nipper. "A day of prayer, a day for reflection, a day for family." He sighed contentedly. "So what's for lunch?"

"Crunchies."

April 26, 2008

April 26, 2008

Of all the people in all the world - and let's face it, there's quite a few - why in the name of all things holy - and there's quite a few of those, too - would you invite me to the opening of your restaurant?

Picture the scene:

Zeds, Redleader, Rubychoo, and our work colleague Ritchie, are sharing a table.

Wine "ensues".

Pungent garlic tiger prawns arrive, on pasta.

More wine "ensues".

Steaks arrive. (Bloody great steaks, btw. And fantastic cheesy red pepper mash.)

(At this point, it sounds normal, doesn't it?)

But as Rubes or Reds will no doubt gleefully point out at some stage today, all did not end quite like that.

In summary:

1) I spilled wine all over myself.

2) I spilled water all over my meal.

3) I accidentally set fire to a questionnaire and a serviette - just as the co-owner who already didn't like me very much was sat there doing the polite post-meal chat thing.

4) I apparently started an argument with same unliking-me-even-more-than-before-and-that-was-quite-a-lot-already-co-owner person

No, really.

Somehow, I don't think I'll be asked back.

*Cough*

Pictures:

Me, covered in wine

Rubychoo:

And again:

A burnt questionnaire (and yes, it stank the place out):

April 26, 2008

Brilliant.

Courtesy of Faddy.

April 26, 2008

Onolatry, noun
Worship of asses or donkeys

"Bollocks," said Zeds. "I must get a haircut today."

Nipper sniggered. "You'll look like a bitch ass," he said.

April 25, 2008

Aciniform, adj
Shaped like a berry

"You look a little blue," said Zeds.

"I've just got a sore throat," rasped Nipper.

"Would it cheer you up if you got goosed?"

"No wonder I have no respect for my elders."

Etc etc.

April 24, 2008

Nik Naks Nice 'N' Spicy are neither nice, nor spicy.

Let that be a lesson to you.

April 24, 2008

Kerry Katona walks in to a pet shop and says:" Do you sell large white bears?"

Before the shopkeeper can answer a man rushes in and says: "Don't serve her, she's escaped
from the Priory."

"What's wrong?" says the pet shop owner.

"She has 'buy polar" disorder".

April 24, 2008

Cynophobia, noun
Fear of dogs

"Your mum?" said Nipper.

"Yes," said Zeds.

"Really? Your. Mum?"

"Yes," said Zeds. "But it's only for the weekend."

"But shit everywhere!"

"That," said Zeds, "will not be very different."

April 24, 2008

April 23, 2008

Headbutt, verb
Butt with the head

"I know I shouldn't Riise to it," said Zeds. "But he really should be beaten like a ginger stepchild."

"Probably was," said Nipper.

April 22, 2008

THANKS, Jenny. And in other, late, breaking news, we bring you the latest installment in Our World Has Gone Mad series.

Bus driver Gareth Corkhill has been fined £210, given a criminal record, and forced to pay a further £15 surcharge to "victim support" (in a case where there was no "victim") for which heinous crime?

Beeping his horn after midnight?

No. Worse.

Exposing himself?

Worse.

Poisoning a reservoir?

Worse.

Eating a royal child?

Worse worse worse.

Yes that's right, folks. Master criminal Gareth was finally brought to book for having his wheelie bin - emptied, of course, just once a fortnight in these enlightened days of recycling hysteria - so full the lid was about four inches ajar.

The ridiculous fine, which amounts to a week's wages, came after he declined to pay an on-the-spot fine imposed by the local council's bin police - who visited him wearing stab-proof vests.

Compare that with the typical on-the-spot fine of £80 given to shoplifters - even repeat offenders.

He now has a criminal record - convicted in his absence of "over-filling the receptacle used to dispose of waste" - which he will have to disclose if he applies for a job, credit or a mortgage over the next five years.

He will also have to reveal his crime if he applies for a job in the NHS, working with children, in a bank, or as a security guard.

The council, for their part, deny his bin was only four inches ajar, insisting it was "more like seven inches".

I bet that spokesman's a right fucking riot at a party, eh?

The council where I live, while bleating that it will never fine someone for accidentally "contaminating" a bin, only those deemed "persistent offenders" - for the love of sweet baby Jesus - conveniently skips over the bit of information that in the 12 months up to April last year, nearly 44,000 people were fined nationwide because they failed to close bin lids, put their rubbish out on the wrong day, or left extra black bags alongside their bins.

Save the world if you want to. Fuck a penguin if that's your bag.

But wake up and smell the ethnically sound coffee:

The recycling lunatics are taking over the world.

And they really, really need to be stopped.

And now the weather. Excellent - it's really sunny.......