Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Mistletoe and Wine

Ho! Ho! Ho!

I am, of course, giving a festive Santa Claus style greeting rather than divulging the contents of Snoop Dogg's christmas present list.

It can barely have escaped your attention that we on the cusp, some say the brink, of the Christmas season. So, a big "Merrizzo to da Chrizzo"* to everyone looking in. Sorry if you were only looking for bukkake-related material but you could really give the old "face like a plasterer's radio" hi-jinks a rest at this time of the year, couldn't you?

Anyway, I can't sit here blathering on about christmas, can I? You are doubtless keen to hear of my latest doings, you shower of slavering prurient voyeurs that you are.

Well, firstly I have been having a shave, a haircut and donning some dapper, well-cut threads and cutting quite the roguish, man-about-town figure if you must know. It recently dawned on me that I had begun to look rather rough around the edges. Raggedy jeans, sagging t-shirts, a floppy, bedraggled mop of hair, that type of thing.

This type of get-up is all well and good when you're a young shaver, all chewing gum and bad attitude, but sits rather less well as the years go by. In short, I have recently realized that I am no longer a teenager. It reflects poorly on me that I am the small matter of twelve years late with this startling insight, but there you go. I never claimed to be perfect. I claimed to be great and/or skill.

So, it has been on with the shaving products, hair oils and natty neckwear and neatly-pressed trousers. The response has been little short of annoyingly patronising.

"You're looking smart today, Colonel. Got your eye on some young filly, have you?"
"After a new job, eh?"
"What are yee dressed as, you big puff?"

That type of thing. Still, you can't let the scorn of fools trouble you. I believe it was Adam Ant who wrote that "ridicule is nothing to be scared of" and they don't come any more level-headed and sagacious than Adam Ant out of Adam and the Ants, do they?

An example of this new-found Jason King-style high rolling was this recent weekend. After a pleasant afternoon watching Premiership soccer via an illegal satellite feed and drinking the local pub dry (not a great feat as the simpleton who owns the place has only a rudimentary grasp on the concept of stock ordering) it was off to the gaudy gin palaces of Morpeth, the place, lore has it, to go for "tidy boilers". Well, I wasn't in the market for heating equipment but I was in the mood for aled-up slavering on.

Imagine my surprise when business ensued and boots got knocked.

In fact, the new-look Colonel has cut quite a swathe through the massed ranks of the local females too. In the last two months alone, I have had "liaisons" with two, count 'em, two ladies. Yes, I am quite the Darren Day, eh, what?

However, we shall draw a veil over such goings-on. The upper echelons of ladies' men, which I'm sure nobody would dispute that I must now be classed in, do not shout their successes from the rooftops. They maintain a discreet silence regarding such matters, holding that it is poor form to be bandying the names of fair ladies all over the place.

Particularly if they have been making the two-backed beast with what must, in all fairness, be described as "hoonds".


To conclude, may you all have a splendid holiday celebration and a prosperous new year where you have better things to do with your spare time than reading the addle-pated ravings of a greasy-haired, lying old fool.

Cheery bye!

*"Merrizzo to da Chrizzo" meaning, as I'm sure you all know, Merry Christmas. It's a kind of urban twist on the old expression. The kind of thing I expect Nate Dogg or DMX might append to their Christmas cards to Dr Dre.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

e-mail of the species

Friends. Having access to the internet and e-mail I'm sure that, like me, you love nothing better than a bit of cut and paste, zany inbox fun.

You know it, I know it, the terrorists know it.

So what I say is "Get lost, terrorists. You won't win this battle, you'll have to kill every man jack (and woman jill) of us before you'll stop us chortling along to hilarious US-spelling-heavy, sub-Letterman lists of rib-tickling joke funnies".

Sentiments I am confident that no right-thinking individual would dispute.

Here are just a few of the latest comedy nuggets that "good laugh" types in offices have forwarded to me. Enjoy.

>Top Ten Things Guys Say About Chicks!
>1. Check out the hooters on that honey!
>2. I'd sure like to pork that hottie
>3. Totally rad nail job!
>4. I bet she really digs guys who are into sports
>5. I fear women
>6. My mom didn't show me enough affection
>7. I bet that bitch's panties would feel really good against my skin
>8. I wish I could watch her bathe
>9. Sometimes I hear voices telling me to stab myself in the eye
>10. Woah, dude! Fine bee-yatch at ten o'clock!
>Top Ten Things Chicks Say About Guys!
>1. Who needs a man when you have a vibro, eh girls? I said vibro, aren't I liberated and cool and shit?
>2. Men, what are they like, eh?
>3. I'd rather go shopping for shoes and drinking expensive coffee than be with a man, right girlfriend?
>4. Put it in me pooper!
>5. Look at that one over there! (Does little finger "small penis" motion)
>6. I only want a man for financial support while I bang all of his friends and every tradesman who comes to our house, which I'll be keeping after the divorce, eh sister?
>7. I like my men like my coffee, skinny frappucinno with a big muffin. Am I right, honey child?
>8. Check out the muscles on that guy, I bet he's a vain, self-obsessed, tantrum throwing 'roid freak. I'd do him
>9. All the best men are gay.
>10. Shit, I'm thirty and I want a baby. Time to hit the vodka and lose the standards
>Top Ten Answers To Women's Questions
>1. Shut up, bitch
>2. Fetch me a beer, woman!
>3. Your ass is fine.
>4. On balance, I feel these shitty list things degrade each sex equally
>5. Gee honey, only swallow it if you feel comfortable with it.
>6. Go Cowboys!
>7. Camus can do, but Sartre is smartre!
>8. I feel you overestimate the importance of the toilet seat within our domestic life
>9. Pump up the jam, pump it up! While your feet are stomping and the jam is pumping
>10. Of course it's alright if your mom comes to stay
>Top Ten Blonde Jokes
>1. Why did the blonde cross the road? Cos she's a stupid bitch
>2. What's the difference between a blonde and a brunette? Their hair colour!
>3. Why did the blonde take a bath? Because William Shatner
>4. What sort of car does a blonde drive? A Honda Stupidbitch
>5. Where do blondes go on vacation? Still No Idea
>6. What do you call a blonde in a university? Boom boom boom, let me hear you say "Way-o"
>7. What is a blonde's favorite film? Trois Couleurs: Bleu
>8. My blonde's got no nose. How does it smell? Like a stupid bitch
>9. How many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb? Sick Squid!
>10. What's blonde, has two legs and is a stupid bitch? A blonde!!!!!!11!!!
>Top Ten Guy Jokes
>1. What do you call a guy that stinks of beer, always farts in bed and can't last longer than two minutes at sex? My husband
>2. Why do guys love beer so much? Because it gives them an excuse to be oafish, misogynistic shits
>3. Why is guy like a dog? They both try to mount you when you're bending over after a shower
>4. Why do guys go for younger women and leave you at home, horny and depressed just because you've put on a few pounds? Anyone know?
>5. What's the difference between a guy and a rugby team? Sarah Greene
>6. What do you call a guy in a dress? And through it aaa-aall she offers me protection, a lot of love and affection
>7. Which is better: a guy or chocolate? Chocolate!!! Lol!
>8. Why are guys such bastards? Eh? Eh?
>9. What do you call a guy shopping with his girl on a saturday? A pussywhipped shell of a man
>10. What do you call a german guy who works in a barbershop? Mein Hair!!!!111!!!
>Top Ten Signs You've Been Online Too Long!
>1. You say "ell oh ell" when a real-life person says something funny
>2. You see a major tragedy on the news and think "I've gotta 'blog about this. People need to know what I think."
>3. You can spot a faked nude shot of Britney Spears at forty paces
>4. You've already been e-mailed this list half a dozen times
>5. Your tiny spunk-smeared member has shrivelled itself stuck to your Simpsons boxer shorts
>6. You have asked members of your family to address you as Portlandguy1976
>7. You watch Family Guy mainly in the hope of scoring a bitchin' signature to use on a messageboard
>8. You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know then to run.
>9. You never count your money when you're sitting at the table, there'll be time enough for counting when the dealing's done.
>10. You like shit like this, you think it's good. And you forward it to all your spoddy friends.
>Top Ten Dumb Things Dubyas Has Said
>1. Look at me, I'm George Bush and I'm a big stupid moron
>2. Let's bomb us some ragheads!
>3. We pray for our unfortunate citizens in New Orleans. We also pray that nothing like this ever happens in a white city.
>4. I did not have sexual relations with that woman. Oh, I forgot, yes I did, she's my wife
>5. I've got a monkey's face, me
>6. Screw you Kerry, you long-faced douchebag
>7. I like big butts and I cannot lie
>8. I'm George Bush. I eat babies.
>9. There have been several allegations during this campaign and we know who the alligators are.
>10. Heh heh, blondes are stupid.
>Top Ten Reasons Cats Are Better Than Guys
>1. Aw, aren't they adorable?
>2. Kitty is happy just to "snuggle up" on the sofa
>3. Cats don't pull a mean face when you play your Bon Jovi records
>4. A cat doesn't understand the concept of toothpaste. But if it did, it wouldn't squeeze the tube in the middle.
>5. Back once again with the renegade master, D for Damager, power to the people, y'all.
>6. Cats do their business in their litter tray, not on top of the glass coffee table with your slut of a sister underneath it.
>7. You can get a cat neutered for about $100 if he doesn't behave.
>8. My own sister, can you believe it?
>9. I don't actually like the cat, but it annoys the shit out of hubby. Tee hee!
>10. Yakubu Flymo Frond Tubesteak Hatchet Crunk Jazz Custard Earthling Mitosis Jamboree SKreeeeeeek!
>Top Ten Bumper Stickers
>1. No Fat Chicks!
>2. Don't come a knockin' if you see the van rockin' (I'm murdering a prostitute!!!)
>3. Jesus says "No Gun Control"
>4. Electroclash Sucks!
>5. My mom, my flag, mein herr!
>6. My other bumper sticker is more amusing
>7. Am I bovvered?
>8. A scrub is a guy that thinks he's fly. Also known as a buster
>9. Babyshambles on Board
>10. Divvunt Dunshus... wa Geordies, Man!
>All New Modern Day Ten Commandments
>1. Though shalt not diss The Rock
>2. Though shalt not nag thine husband when he is watching NASCAR racing
>3. Honor thine husband and fetch him a frickin' beer
>4. Thou shalt not jerk thyself off on a webcam and send pictures to a foreign maiden
>5. Always believe in your soul. You've got the power to know, you're indestructible
>6. Thou shalt not compel thine wife to holiday in the West Indies. She must be free to choose to visit of her own accord.
>7. Talk like fucking Yoda, thou must not, else as a spod will thou be known and shun ye will girls
>8. Respect the one true Lord, you will know him by the trail of Miss Worlds and voddy bottles
>9. Honour thy mother and father, you may need them to babysit
>10. No fat maidens!>

OMG, they're funny 'cos they're true. Laters, peoples!!!!!!111!!!

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Big Pimpin'

Word up, homies, what da dillio? Da big dog is back and coming at you.

Here we are again then, eh? I trust that life is treating you none too shabbily and that your cheeks have the requisite rosiness to them and your coat is glossy and smooth.

There really is nothing finer than bunking off work early and sneaking off for afternoon cold drinks, is there?

Well, that's just what I did yesterday, flying out the door at two-thirty, jumping on a Greyhound to Newcastle's busy Haymarket area and lashing into the pints with a couple of my dreadful friends in the fashionable but competitively priced pub The Goose.

By jingo, beer certainly tastes better when you should, by rights, be slaving away at work. Reclining in a comfortable leather chair, surrounded by layabouts, ne'er-do-wells, students and shoppers, talking up a whole storm of nonsense while pint after pint of delicious, black stout slips down.

However, since we were all by nature empire builders and eager beavers at heart, we could not content ourselves with slouching around like the cast of an Ocean Finance advertisement. We had places to go, people to see, things to achieve.

So we went to The Percy, where they have a pool table. The old Olympian spirit, you see.

There was a chap and his girlfriend playing when we got there. He seemed pleased to see us. There is always something unsatisfactory about playing pool against a lady friend. The natural urge is to try and beat her brains out, but this has to be counterbalanced with the realisation that, if soundly beaten, she will decide it's a stupid game and that you are "really sad" the way you treat such games so seriously.

Our arrival was thus a welcome distraction.

As it turned out, the lady was quite a good player and won the odd game. In this way, a couple of hours were enjoyably passed, each of us enjoying an extended run of undefeated games at some point. A good time was had by all.

By this point you are probably cursing me to high heaven and wondering who is supposed to be interested in this shit about pool. We don't come here for dull pub chit-chat, give us some filth you old bore, I imagine you to be saying. Well, stick with it, gentle reader, it gets going in a bit.

Doubtless bedazzled by our masterful cuemanship, dazzling repartee and ragtime dance moves, a couple of ladies had gravitated towards the pool room. Reading from left to right, they comprised, an oldish one with short blonde hair and a bit of a red face and a young one with long, curly hair and a pale face. This natural resemblance was easily explained by the fact they were mother and daughter. A charming pair, neither of them in paid employment, they hailed from Heaton, an up-market suburb of Newcastle upon Tyne, noted for the refinement of its ladyfolk.

The mother, resplendent in dayglo tan and a cropped belly top which nicely showed off her burgeoning beer gut, was keen to try her hand at pool.

I beat her like a rented mule. I am skill, me.

The noble game of pool having failed to grip, the topic of conversation drifted to the numerous examples of body art that adorned her. She claimed to have thirteen, only three of which were visible at the time. With a little persuasion, she relented and showed us the one on her back, two one her shoulder and one at the top of her left breast. One of my companions, a bold fellow who tells it like it is, implored her "Howay then, pet, let's see the cat's face", clearly suspecting she was decorated around the groin area.

Possibly feeling that shy bairns get nowt, the lady undid her jeans and showed us a particularly fine tiger peeping above the waistband of her sporty white knickers (with red and white piping). How my friend knew it was a feline down there I do not know.

It was here we approached the business end of the conversation. Our inquiry as to whether there were any more was met with grimaces from the daughter, who regretted to have to inform us they would have to leave as they had no more money. We were cordially invited to buy them more drinks which, she felt, would awaken great gratitude from her mother, who clearly liked us and was growing more amorous by the minute.

Well, really! I was shocked by this type of behaviour. It seemed to me that this young lady was practically pimping her mother's minge for a couple of pints of cider. I said to her "You're practically pimping your mother's minge for a couple of pints of cider. I fear you have misjudged us, my young friend." I mean to say, no-one is fonder of fruity older ladies than myself, but when it comes to being hit on for drinks by a mother and daughter team of moochers, I draw the line.

Besides, her tits were nothing to write home about.

No business having resulted, our new friends melted away like snow in springtime. They were last seen slavering over a biker chap and making suggestive remarks about his helmet.

Slightly shaken by such sordid goings-on, we beat a hasty exit to the soothing, sophisticated atmosphere of the Three Bulls Heads for a thoughtful pint and some cultural conversation. The discussion drifted towards the excellence of the earlier work of US pint-sized pop-perve and inventor of text message speak Prince. In particular his 1991 hit "Gett Off" in which he promised a young lady whom he held in high regard that there would be "twenty-three positions in a one-night stand.

There was some skepticism regarding the figure of 23, our estimates toward a more cautious number. "She'll get two and like it, the dorty whoo-ah!" as one chap put it. Seeking to be fair to the purple-clad pop pixie, I did point out that it was unlikely that Prince sat around in low taverns swilling pints of lager before he swung into action, thus he was possibly capable of greater feats of gymnastics than the members of our little think tank. This was accepted, yet still the feeling lingered that he was showing off.

Twenty-three, eh? Makes you wonder, doesn't it?

Twenty-three, sir?

Following on from the recent controversy surrounding the lyrics to a Prince song from fourteen years ago, I have decided to tackle what I have termed The Prince Twenty-Three Positions In A One-Night Stand Challenge.

As you no doubt recall, in the 1991 chart-topper "Gett Off", Prince promised a young lady that specific number of positions were she to rise to the challenge and come home with him.

Let us see if we can rustle up the same number of dishes in our notional carnal smorgasbord. A relative novice in this type of thing, the author is indebted to his dreadful mates for their invaluable contributions.

1. Missionary
The old favourite, the Queen Mother of sexual positions, if you will.
2. Doggy Style
She likes it because: The different angle of penetration enables the correct regions to be stimulated.
He likes it because: "You can get your shot off even if she's a hoond" (Not my words, a direct quote)
3. Anal
"Up the bum, no harm done" as the old saying has it. In the words of seventies pop combo Racey "Some girls will, some girls won't". Not everyone's cup of tea.
4. Cowgirl
Chap lies on his back, woman on top facing him. You do some work this time, missy!
5. Reverse Cowgirl
As above, but with the lady facing away. Seemingly a position custom designed for couples who don't get on too well and for porn film directors
6. Fellatio
The blowjob, the chewie, the gobble, the gam. The baffling holy grail of sexual relations seems to be the lady who will swallow. Perplexing, since I have always felt that if a lady is so good as to put my little wing-wang in her mouth and play with it until it goes off, then hats off to her, I certainly wouldn't be quibbling as to what she chooses to do with the resulting mess.
7. Cunnilingus
Many older men have traditionally refused to "eat at the Y", perhaps feeling that to "go downtown" was somehow unmasculine and suggested weakness. In these more liberated times, the considerate lover realises that by skilled, expert oral stimulation a woman can be brought to such a heightened state of readiness that she will be quite satisfied with the three-minute rattling that is all you can be bothered with before Match of the Day starts.
8. Sixty-Nine
Simultaneous fellatio and cunnilingus. Watch you don't get shit on your nose!
9. Sixty-Eight
You do me and I'll owe you one. Tiresome joke popular with alehouse lackwits.
10. The Crab
Cunnilingus while "tuning in Radio Luxembourg" on the lady's nipples.
11. Wheelbarrow
Man, standing up, enters woman from behind, holds her up by the thighs and tips grass cuttings on her back.
11. Standing Up
The only foolproof method of contraception, popular with North-East ladies in piss-stinking bus shelters.
12. Standing Up, from behind
Popular with bus shelter couples who are sharing a kebab.
13. Sausage Sandwich
Titwank or diddyride. Not for the flat-chested lady. Ideal for the busty menstruating woman who doesn't do anal or oral yet still wishes to please her man.
14. Spoons
Lying on their side, gent enters lady from behind. Then they fall asleep.
15. Eintracht Frankfurt
German football team. Lost 7-3 to Real Madrid in one of the greatest games ever.
16. Cuddling
Not-really-acceptable-to-him alternative to full sex at the behest of a "tired" or "got a migraine" wife.
17. Putting some manners on her
Full-blooded, enthusiastic lovemaking wherein hen-pecked husband gives it the full feller and shows the wife who is the boss. The effect usually only lasts until she gets her breath back.
18. The Coal Bucket
Petite wife gets in large coal bucket, the handle is brought up and she is wedged securely in place with her undercarriage hanging out the back. She can then be carried around by her husband and enjoyed at his leisure. Possibly apocryphal, this one.
19. Bagpiping
Gentleman somehow has sex with the lady's armpit region. The dorty friggin' porvorts. I think I'm going to vomit.
20. Mein Hair!
Full-on sexual shenanigans with a masochistic female who enjoys having her hair pulled while "on the job". Possibly while Rocco Siffredi is whacking her around the face with his huge member.
21. Unknown Pleasures
Critically-acclaimed debut album by legendary Mancunian miserablists Joy Division.
22. Interfemoral sex
Humping the space between the thighs of an uptight, American college girl in a car. In a slasher movie. Just before you both get killed.
23. Crying/Wanking/Pot Noodle
The best a man can get.

Twenty-three! Giddy up!!!!!!!!!11!!!!!!!! Cheg on Princes, you can't teach this old soldier a darn thing.

Friday, October 28, 2005


Ahoy there, shipmates. Get out your seats and let's get ill.

Or, not, as the case turns out to be. You see, the D-Day referred to above stands for "Discharged". Today, I left the care of the Intermediate Legs and was released back into society.

Amid some emotional scenes, I took my leave of the physio staff and the fine men and woman who make up the Intermediate Leg class at the local infirmary.

For the final time I strode out into that gym to gurn and sweat my way through the feared friday step session. In a final cathartic act, I mastered the fiendishly complex "triple V-step, take it to the corners, then high knee" manouevre while keeping time to the pumping sounds of a dance megamix of "I am what I am". Pretty hot stuff, I think you will agree.

With hour two came the ultimate circuit of exercises. All manner of running, stretching, balancing, bridging, squatting, lunging and flexing movements were undertaken under the watchful eye of Anna the physio. The watchful eye being the right one. The other, or left one, being of course the crip side.

I think it is fair to say that, while I will never attain the physical prowess of Wolfs from "Gladiator" or Brian Jacks from "Superstar", I have become a tolerable performer on the wobbleboards, often completing the full minute on one leg without overbalancing. For any ladies reading this, I apologise for getting you so excited with these tales of heroic physical achievement.

You may wish to get yourself a glass of water and attempt to calm yourself before continuing.

From the gym to the fitness room and the closing act of this most rigorous of training programmes. The "Specifics" class. A set of bending and stretching calisthenics designed to turn the spindliest, flabbiest of injured legs into an instrument of honed, taut, iron flesh that could have been forged in the devil's own smithy. You can wear ankle weights as well. I wore the purple one.

That's the second heaviest one. I am skill.

The class over, I retired to the exercise bikes for a gentle cool-down spin while well-wishers wished me well and several not unmanly tears were choked back.

Many long weeks ago I walked into that hospital a nobody. A putz, a schmuck, an eedjit, a jack ass, if you will. Today I walked out a somebody. Anyone who has served with the Intermediate Legs is part of a family, an elite, a bunch of fellows and comrades and that stays with you for life.

There is a bond forged when prancing like a tit to "We all sleep alone" by Cher. When you have seen your buddy fall off a wobbleboard with only ten seconds to go, it brings you closer together. And when you have crowded round the water cooler waiting for those fat fucks in "Legs for Beginners" to finish with the gym you have experienced the true brotherhood (and sisterhood) of the Intermediate Legs.

I'll bid you adieu now, I seem to have something in my eye.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Dog in the manger

We meet again, what?

I normally leave this thing alone for a week or so at a time, to let you suck on the bones of my deep-fried truth nuggets, as it were, but my failing memory has been jogged and recollections of tall tales from the weekend come flooding back.

You know as well as I that there is only so much time you can spend debating the merits of your local sports team before the conversation drifts towards matters of a sub-navel nature. For the less well-educated among you, I am of course, referring to "the sex" or "having it off".

One of our little group of thinkers said, a propos of nothing, "You know, I've only had anal sex about ten or a dozen times".

This was clearly meant to confound and astound us that The Great Lover had not, as we may have suspected, been kicking in more back doors than Regan and Carter.

Indeed, there was quite a hush in the conversation, broken only by my enquiry "What's the matter, did it hurt your little arse?"

He didn't like that.

Eager to make amends, I related this sorry tale from my own past.

"It was the late eighties, you couldn't swing a cat without tripping over drugged-up mancunians in bell-bottom trousers or ageing scousers becoming aroused when discussing adidas trainers they had worn.

They were great times, my friend, the second summer of love was in full flight and even an old fuddy-duddy such as I was capable of getting some.

I had been "doing a bit" with an older lady for a couple of weeks when it happened.

After an evening spent drinking in low taverns and the Cooperage night spot, we were sharing a tender moment in her boudoir. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, affording an opportunity for the lady's springer spaniel to make an appearance.

Far from acting the jealous guardian of his mistress' domain, he was keen to join in the fun. To this end, he proceeded to give my exposed bottom a thorough licking. He couldn't have lapped more attentively had he been adminstering to his own ballbag.

You can imagine the horror and disgust I must have felt.

Well you imagine wrong, smarty-pants, it was fucking brilliant. The added stimulus perked me up good and proper and when proceedings concluded I went off like a bottle rocket.

My lady friend, while slightly bemused by the canine assistance, was rather pleased with the additional vim and vigour it brought to our cavortings. In fact, this added frisson prolonged the relationship long past its allotted shelf life.

If the truth be told she wasn't the most beautiful woman and I, young fool that I was, believed that every woman I looked at was mine for the taking. Yet the lure of unorthodox bedroom antics constantly drew me back.

That, and popping around to take the dog for a walk.

It all ended badly when she discovered I had started smearing the old tea-towel holder with Pedigree Chum.

I've forgotten her name now, but I'll forever cherish the memory of Scamp and his delightful rasping tongue and cold, wet nose."

I told them that story and they called me a lying old porvort.

Let me tell you this, my internet pals, that story is as true as my name is Colonel Knowledge.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

My sexy ass has got you in a new dimension

Don't try to deny it, my friend, you know it has.

Forgive me such base sloganeering, my virtual compadres, but this type of thing really draws in the punters from the search engines, believe you me. You would be shocked and appalled at some of the filth that people are looking for when they stumble on this fragrant little patch of cyberspace. Who knew that so many that so many website hits could be garnered from folk who take a keen interest in bukkake, eh?

That's bukkake. You know what bukkake is, don't you? (That's enough bukkake - Ed)

Anyhow, moving on to slightly less unpleasant topics, aren't there some dreadful hobbledy-hoys out there? Walking our streets, riding on public transport, fumbling with their purses at the head of irate supermarket queues, these human tics are everywhere.

Only today I was riding the omnibus when this dreadful fat Benny-the-Ball looking teenage girl got onboard, all surly and pouty. A mere two stops later she was up and dinging the bell, wanting to be off. Naturally I felt moved to comment.

"Hoy, pork-rinder!" I called out, "You just got on. You could have walked that distance in two minutes."

"I don't do walking" she replied with a haughty, withering glare before flouncing off to alight the vehicle. Bear in mind that this was not Paris Hilton or Naomi Campbell brattishly insisting on a limo to take her from a movie premiere to an after-party, this was a portly little beetle-browed scratter on board an Arriva bus in Ashington.

I ask you.

The elderly are no better either. Whether it be dogs-arse mouthed old biddies blethering away about late-arriving buses or befuddled old codgers constantly scowling, twitching and muttering away to themselves, no bus journey is possible without a rash of these superannuated pustules clogging up the aisles with their sour-faced grouching and enfeebled complaining.

Now, nobody could ever accuse me of being mean-spirited, niggardly or negative. I do not come on here spouting bile without some wise words of instruction to act as a kind of karmic counterbalance.

"A kind of karmic counterbalance", eh? A bit of spin on the ball with that one and we haven't even got to the honeyed words of wisdom yet.

Well, to be brutally frank, there is no advice to be had here. I am a gentle and refined soul. I go home of an evening, I eat some olives and stilton, sip a decent red and put away a cutlet or two while enjoying the music of Lawrence Welk. I get myself off to bed at a decent hour and curl up with the latest Proust. I live simply and do nobody any harm.

All I say is this. If you have neglected to wash and stink to high heaven, if you think an omnibus is a fitting place to have a loud, cackling conversation with one of your dreadful friends or if you think that the world needs to hear your stupefyingly ill-informed opinions on "the coloureds" then beware. Anyone engaging in this type of anti-social behaviour within my orbit risks a kick in the cunt.

I'll bid you good day.

Monday, October 10, 2005


"Marriage is an institution. But who wants to live in an institution, eh? Ho ho!"

Not my words, the words of Liverpudlian, gap-toothed, eighties TV unfunnyman Jimmy Tarbuck. Well, it might be all well and good for an ageing, golf-obsessed comedian to disparage the holy state of wedlock, but the other week one of my pals was scheduled to appear before the registrar and plight his troth.

And what a plight it was.

The day begun with a slightly overdressed crowd of wellwishers hanging around at a bus stop, waiting for the charabanc that would whisk us off to Ponteland for the social event of the season.

A little fashion tip if you are attending a wedding in the near future. Do not wear a black suit, black shirt, black tie combination unless you relish the prospect of enduring every would-be funny man in the tri-county area asking you in a ribald way if you have attended a funeral earlier in the day. Man alive, that doesn't take long to become tiresome, no sirree.

Yet, mark the sequel. As the day draws on, champagne is quaffed and the company sits down to a beef dinner, who looks foolish when they spill gravy on themselves? Is it the man in the sober black attire? Or is it Johnny Wiseacres in his light-coloured shirt and loud tie? I think you know the answer.

I won't bore you with the full details of the ceremony, the decor, the vows, what the bridesmaids wore, that type of caper. This, after all, is not OK magazine. I will confine myself to a couple of minor observations.

This was the second wedding I have attended in a matter of months where the disc jockey at the night time "do" did not officially ratify the union by playing out "Hi Ho Silver Lining" by Jeff Beck. It has always been my understanding that a marriage has no legal standing unless this particular seventies floor-filler has received an airing. Sort it out Jimmy Savilles.

The wedding evening fistfight is an ancient and glorious tradition. Surely a gathering of Irish relations, Northumbrians and Geordies, on the pop all day should throw up one or two outbreaks of fisticuffs, some say chin music, others say pagger. This new generation of binge-drinking, iPod toting, Playstation and polyphonic ringtone junkies are clearly nothing more than a bunch of lily-livered, pantywaist, cheese-paring sissies.

Finally, just because you have found a life partner and a helpmeet to spend eternity with, it doesn't mean everyone else has. Invite a bit of spare to your wedding. What is the earthly use of having a collection of tidy boilers in posh frocks, no doubt with the full kit on underneath, stockings, sussies, posh knickers, aal kinds, if they are all with their husbands or boyfriends? Eh? Eh?

Unworthy quibbling aside, a splendid, drunken time was had by all, and indeed, sundry. Lots of cold drinks, some dancefloor action (a mixture of Motown, Madchester, Studio 54 disco and Ceilidh jigging) and then ho for home in the charabancs.

Hats off to the happy couple, may their marriage be a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

If anybody wishes to point out that the quotation at the start of this entry is in fact from American humorist Henry Mencken, please don't. In my mind it will always be Tarby.

Saturday, September 24, 2005

Here Comes The Hotstepper

Hello there, how have you been, my moonfaced lickle cherubs?

Life here has been pretty tolerable lately, nothing much to complain about, you know? The local football team have hauled up their socks, extracted their fingers and generally started to act as though they are being paid for what they do rather than it being court imposed community work. True, they have only piled up one win thus far and while one swallow doesn't make a summer it can certainly make an evening. Just ask your mother.

Tish and pish, let us not be bogged down with lowbrow raillery and downbeat smutmongering, let us instead turn our attentions to the noble craft of the physiotherapist.

This fine body of men and women have, for the past couple of months, been giving of their all in order to complete the rehabilitation of the Knowledge right leg, of which you have heard so much this year.

Indeed, so successful have their efforts been that I have recently been promoted from my "Ankles 101" class at the local infirmary, where I would confound and astound all-comers with my proficiency in walking backwards, between cones and over wooden wedges and where I would regularly balance on my injured leg for upwards of a minute without falling over. These prodigous feat don't go unnoticed by the nibs and so it came to pass that I joined up with the "Intermediate Legs" class.

Yeah, look impressed. It doesn't get much better than that, eh? The only people above that class is normal people who haven't been in hospital with a bad leg. Impressive stuff, I think you'll agree.

It was with not a little apprehension I turned up at class on monday morning. Would I be able to do the exercises? Would the bigger boys take my locker money off me? Would I do a wee in my shorts? I know, it's tense isn't it?

Well, rest your sphincters, folks. The answers are "sort of", "no" and "definitely not and anyone who says I did is a big fat liar!".

The class starts off with an aerobic warm up for fifty minutes. Now, there may be more awkward things in this world than doing all manner of sidesteps, leg raises, curls and assorted frou-frou dance moves to the sounds of Kylie Minogue, Billy Joel and Cher with a bunch of strange men, but if there are I wouldn't like to encounter them. Not that my classmates were strange per se, just that I hadn't met any of them before.

At least, I half chuckled to myself, there weren't any ladies present to witness my shameful, sweat-drenched antics. That would be rather embarassing, eh? Alas, I had half chuckled too soon, as in wandered a late-comer, a beautiful little foreign girl who I later found out was called Anna (or Ana) and who is from Poland.

That just about put the tin hat on it.

The aerobics over, we proceeded to the circuit training, which involved balancing on various wobbleboards (not the Rolf Harris type, think a round disc with half a football stuck to the bottom, that type of deal), doing shuttle runs, standing one-legged on a miniature trampoline kicking at imaginary football and numerous other undignified callisthenics. You're probably ahead of me here, but yes, I was paired with the lovely Anna (or Ana). Despite my best efforts on the beams, the wobbleboards, the bench and the mat, I did sometimes catch her looking at me with the bemused wonderment of a small child gazing on it's first baboon in the zoo.

All things must come to an end. From the gym we proceed to the fitness room for some mat-based floor exercises the physio refers to as "specifics". I prefer to refer to them as "torture".

I will not bore you with tales of "sets of ten", "finding thirty, sixty, ninety" or "pulsating it on ten", you'd only find them distressing. "Keep it light" has always been my mantra, there are enough tales of suffering in this world without harping on about the sadistic cruelties imposed by certain physiotherapists I could name. Suffice to say, I was eventually invited to "stretch it out", gather up what was left of my dishevelled corpse and head for the showers, a broken man.

Remarkably enough, I came back for more on wednesday and friday. I even managed the infamous friday morning step class that has ruined many a better man than me.

So, in summary, cheg on Billy Blanks. You can stick your Tae-Bo oompus-bumpus where the sun doesn't shine, I'm rolling with the Intermediate Leg crew.

One! Two! Three! Four! Let's step!

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Home of the brash, outrageous and free

That London, big isn't it?

My previous dribblings regarding London High Street and all that were simply so much jibber-jabber. In reality everything is miles apart and you have to go on the smelly, disorienting underground tube system or pay a taxi driver ten english pounds to take you to where you want to go, even if it is just round the corner.

What a disappointment our cabbies were, too. I had anticipated some high quality pig-ignorant shitwitted opinions that I could relate to you, but no. They just talk incessantly but quietly into their mobile phones and barely interact with the customer at all except to take their extravagant fares. It seems that Viz's "Cockney Wanker" strip has lied to us. I feel cheated.

A few words to any prospective groom or best man. A stag do is a fine old tradition, a heady mixture of male-bonding, putting aside childish things before settling down to life as a husband and provider, and a final blowout to remember as one slips into a contented groove of matching knitwear, nights in with a pizza and a DVD and dinner parties. With this in mind you need to go somewhere with lots of titty bars, strip clubs, sex shows, knocking shops and opium dens. Them's the rules, bub.

What you do not do is go to Old Compton Street.

A word to the wise here from an old soldier: It's a place for the gays. Now I'm all in favour of this type of thing. They seem to have things sorted out very well, you drop in, get a beer, get some cock, bish bosh, everyone's happy. All I'm saying is that there are better places for a couple of dozen lairy, booze-using geordies to go in search of a high old time in the big city. A special mention to the young Irish cousin of the groom, who, several scoops to the good, was showing off his muscles to a group of assorted pooves in the Admiral Duncan pub. That's the bright pink Admiral Duncan pub, filled to the rafters with gay fellows.

The incredulous "Wha'? Is this a gay pub then?" when the news was broken to him was a joy to behold.

Anyway, the stag was happy enough with his night. The next morning, struggling to get outside his gargantuan sunday breakfast and still warm from the embrace of the booze fairy, he told us how much he was looking forward to "a pretend saturday, some cans and a game of cards on the train and stopping out until last orders on a sunday".

Simple pleasures, my friends. That's what it's aal aboot.

Friday, September 09, 2005

It's a right old cockney knees-up!

Hello there.

Welcome aboard the all-new, revamped and updated weblog thing. Pretty swanky, what? It seems somehow indecent to be sullying this smart webspace with my lowbrow medium-jinks and tiresome stories of drunken behaviour.

That's what's going to happen though. In fairness, having looked around at what the rest of the "blogging community", as they rather pompously refer to themselves, are up to, I feel this old vessel isn't so bad.

I think we can all take it as read that "The Simpsons" is an excellent television programme. It is scarcely bringing anything to the party to labour this point at great length, illustrating one's views with great lists of quotes from the show. We get the picture.

Similarly, most people will have concluded that George W. Bush is not the brightest chap on the planet. There is really no need to doctor a photograph of him to resemble a chimpanzee to drive home this rather obvious point. The world has one Rory Bremners already and I feel that is the absolute maximum we need. Many observers would set a lower figure, but then it has often been said of me that I am tolerant to a fault.

Anyhow, enough with this petty sniping, some say infighting. At least the blogging craze keeps these oddballs out of the public houses, which can only be a good thing. Let us move on.

This weekend I will be travelling to our nation's capital for the stag party of one of my closest and oldest friends. As you know, the Colonel is quite the globetrotter. I've been to Nice and the isles of Greece. Furthermore on occasion I've moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and quite the splash I made too. Yet despite all of this, I haven't spent a great deal of time in London over the years. The Smoke, as very few people call it, remains a closed book to me, but I am greatly looking forward to visiting the old place this weekend.

The nightlife in London city centre is apparently top notch. London High Street, I'm told, has more than fifty pubs, imagine that. There are posh bars, rough taverns, pubs where ladies take off their underwear and even a couple of inns where the gays can go. What a place, eh? Something for everyone, I'd have said. If one wants to continue drinking after eleven o'clock, I hear there over four nightclubs open at the weekend. Cheg on Amsterdam and New York New York, you am twarts.

Still, when visiting the big city it pays to be watchful. The bouncers at London's nightspots are all huge fellows, who carry brass knuckledusters and are skilled in the art of kung fu. Any messing on their premises and you'll get a swift roundhouse kick upside the head. Also, the drinking water in London is not to be trusted, having been filtered through at least eighteen sets of kidneys before returning to the water supply. For this reason it is best to give the draught beer a wide berth too. Mind you, the price of drinks is so reasonable I will probably just drink champagne while I'm down there. It can't be any more than a tenner a bottle, I reckon.

Anyhow, there will be thirty of us travelling down on saturday, so keep an eye out for a large group of northerners wandering around King's Cross, looking for a CIU affiliated social club, shouting on about Newcastle United and asking the crack whores if they "do a turn".

Gertcha , you caants!

(I have learnt a little of the lingo already, impressive, no?)

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Alcoholiday - Postscript

As the after-effects of an almighty toot begin to fade, there is the temptation to question one's behaviour while under the influence. One becomes conscious of having made something of an ass of oneself. Embarassment and shame come a-calling.

Then something quite unusual happens.

A telephone call out of the blue. From two girls I had engaged in conversation while riding the omnibus to Blyth, one a local, the other hailing from London. It is clear that whatever state I had been in at the time of our meeting, it is a mere bagatelle compared to the "wired to the moon" degree of intoxication and inebriation my erstwhile companions are currently enjoying.

"I want ya cock!" "Ya fucken fit as fuck!" and "Give us a shag!" are just some of the imprecations being bellowed at me down the wire. Were the situations reversed, this would probably constitute an obscene phone call. Instead, I find it all rather jolly. It seems only right and proper that those who live by juiced-up pestering see it from the other side. What's good for the gander and all that rot, eh?

Also, for all their crazy talk of chillums and ecstasy, the fact remains that I have had ladies ringing me up informing me of the fact that I am "fit as fuck". Giddy up, what?

Until later mes amis, keep it orthodox.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005


What ho, folks, look who's back in the motherlovin' house with a fat stick for your motherlovin' mouth. I trust you are all jogging along nicely. Anyhow, small talk and pleasantries aside, let's get down to it.

This journal (or 'blog) is a kind of quest for truth, if you will. A sort of voyage into new and unknown experiences, sensations and insights. Ever-changing, constantly reaching out for fresh, inspiring challenges. That type of thing.

That said, I am going to blether on about getting drunk in Whitley Bay again. Plus ca change...

A bank holiday weekend is a fine thing indeed. Combine this with a sunday soccer game featuring local underachievers Newcastle United and a nerve-shredding cricket test match for the Ashes and you have a recipe for extreme drunken radgeyosity.

Sunday included disco dancing to The Rubettes, shouting on and far too many cold drinks, but this was a mere preamble to the Monday madness. A group of eight men strong and true set out from a pub called The Monkey. We made Whitley Bay by half one in the afternoon. The streets were packed with thirsty revellers, hard-drinking nonsense-spouting geordie blokes and beautiful painted hussies overflowing from their skimpy clothing, all intent on getting as drunk as ninety-nine pirates and rutting in bus shelters.

Truly, that is what it's aal aboot.

The day wore on, lagers and vodka redbulls were downed, the volume was turned up, the party began to swing and a rather unusual transformation took place. Normally, I cut a rather severe figure. A reserved, restrained, refined man about town you would say, if you bumped into me. However, mellowed and emboldened by a bellyful of booze I became a sort of cross between a holiday rep and a North American Senator working the crowd at an election rally. No female was immune from my shop-soiled, greasy attentions. No hand went unshaken, no ear went unbent by my inane small-talk, no bevy of beauties was neglected in my course of cracking on to every available girl in town.

All in vain of course, but the chase is the thing not the kill, much like foxhunting, I believe.

After a while I noticed I had become isolated from my friends. An easy thing to happen of course, wires get crossed, plans "gan agley" and people do get lost. I am quite sure that at no point did anyone suggest that "we dump the Colonel, he's scaring the lasses away with his drunken boobie-babble".

Oh no.

Now drinking heavily and talking drivel to ladies is clearly A Good Thing but it isn't all gravy, if you catch my drift? No, then I will continue snowing. If I could have my time over again I would possibly take back some of the things I said and did. In particular, the exchange I had with a girl who has just started at my workplace leaves a lot to be desired.

Self: Are you single, by any chance?
Girl: (Raising hand to show diamond ring) No, I'm engaged.
S: He's a lucky man. You're a very beautiful woman.
S: It's the tits, principally.

I know, the shame of it. Still, you live and learn, eh?

While you're here, I'd just like to say a few moments regarding the excellence of the American rapper Snoop Dogg (nee Doggy Dogg). He really is a tremendous fellow, isn't he? With his bitches and hoes and his chronic and shiznits and what-have-yous. His debut album "Doggy Style" is a pip and a dandy. Whether it be his repositioning of Gin and Orange as a hip and dudey drink for the man about the ghetto rather than something your nan would sip on after bingo or his fictional W-Ballz radio station there is always something new with every listen. Top swearing, cartoon misogyny and lowbrow swearing, boasting and exaggerated stories of sexual shenanigans, there's something for everyone.

In fairness to the lad, his subsequent releases never really hit the heights of Doggy Style, but his latest release seems to be a welcome return to form. The subtle, slightly risque humour of "Let's get blown", the fact that the collaboration with irritating pop chimp Justin Timberlake features a bloke called Uncle Charlie, these are all fantastic but the album's crowning glory is "Drop it like it's hot". Over a curious backbeat of glottal mouth noises and drums the Doggmeister puts down some of his best lyrics in years.

Early on he informs us that "I keep a blue flag hanging out my backsideBut only on the left side, yeah that's the Crip side" which is a thing I never knew. Who'd have thought that those tough American street gangs had an official buttock side for hanging flags out of?

The Snoopster goes on to tell us "I got a living room full of fine dime brizzles". Now I have not the faintest inkling what a dime brizzle is but I wish I had a living room full of them. I merely have a living room full of unironed shirts. However, it isn't all rosy for the Snoopatollah. Yes, he is all dime brizzled up, but he is "Waiting on the Pizzle, the Dizzle and the Shizzle". I ask you. Isn't that always the way. The Pizzle and the Dizzle turn up, all fine and good, no problem there but wait up, where's the Shizzle? Turns out there's been a delay and the Shizzle won't be there till later. Bloody typical. There's always a fly in the ointment, even if your name is S-N double-O P.

Having thought about it I reckon a dime brizzle is a sort of dorty lass, probably with big knockers. Snoop, you're a lucky cove.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Punk that rock, daddio!

Hello there me hearties, how may it be hanging?

Long time no write, I know, but with my new-found mobility I have had a busy whirling socialite lifestyle to get back into. Those catalogue lingerie models and Hollyoaks starlets don't just bang themselves you know?

I joke of course. I have merely been booze using in various grimy alehouses, shouting my shitwitted opinions about football and pop music into the ale-raddled countenances of my dreadful friends. And who wouldn't, eh? Isn't that what it all aboot after all?

If a man can't spend his free time mopping up the sauce with the dregs of society in a veritable charnel-house with a beer garden then the terrorists have already won and we might as well pack up the whole shooting match and go home.

I digress. I have gathered you all here to tell you about the rock and roll entertainment I went to last night. The Archer public house in Newcastle was the venue and Gold Blade were the band. If you aren't familiar with "the 'blade" as nobody calls them, they are a punk and soul, last-gang-in-town hi-octane beat combo led by indie rock veteran Jon Robb, of Membranes infame. The nearest they came to fame was the storming "Strictly Hardcore".

You can download it from here if you want: (Also "Psycho" which kicks rock ass too)

I must be honest with you here, I may have been slightly tipsy by the time the band arrived on stage. In fact I was drunk as ninety-nine pirates. The chap I was out with, an excellent fellow called Mark, has a seemingly endless capacity to put away the ale, while I am a somewhat more delicate creature. After attempting to keep pace with his prodigous intake my behaviour became slightly erratic.

After some ultimately unsuccessful advances to a lovely blonde punk lady, I made rather an exhibition of myself in the sparsely-populated moshpit. A word to the wise, pogoing with a dodgy leg is perhaps not the most sensible thing to do. Next up was some "spirit of '68" style black power saluting. In fact, so far from the seat of my reason was I at this point that I may have been shouting "Soul Power!" in a James Brown style between songs.

I know, the shame.

One of the songs saw the band take it down to an urgent drum and bass backbeat while the topless frontman proffered the microphone stand to members of the crowd to share their thoughts with the group. As "FUUUUCK!" and "Come on!" had already been taken, I chipped in with my latest tiresome catchphrase "I like it. I think it's good" which got me some admiring glances, believe you me.

Like a true punk rocker I then made my excuses and left early because I had to catch the last bus. Yeah, there's a punk rock soul brother revolution coming down and it's coming real fast. If you listen carefully you may just hear Mr Tony Blairs and his cronies quaking in their forty pound shoes.

The kids know, Mr Blairs, they always know. So do the ageing punks dressed as Teddy boys going tenpin bowling. They all know.

I like it. And yes, I think it's good.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Walk like a man

You will be relieved to know that I am back on two legs again. Hooray for me and all that balderdash.

I won't go on at any length about the gigantic piece of metal they took out of my ankle, you wouldn't thank me for it. The aim here is to spread a little bit of joy and gladness, this isn't an episode of "Casualty" or its vogueish US counterpart "ER".

No, today I wish to discuss the awful dreariness of daytime television. Yes, I realise this isn't a particularly original insight and that this subject has been thoroughly done to death by third-rate stand-up comedians and undergraduate dullards throughout the land, but it's like that and that's the way it is.

There are so many varieties of bad television to suck the marrow from one's bones and sap the will to live. After the morning news shows, aimed at decent folk with jobs to go to, the various channels spit on their hands and get down to the task of thoroughly depressing the housebound, the unemployed and the mentally-enfeebled who spend their days in front of the telly.

The BBC seem to screen nothing but cheap and drearful programmes featuring awful couples in matching knitwear who are keen to have their house tarted up or their old tat flogged off. This can only be done with the help of a fat-arsed female presenter in a business suit or a geezerish chap in overalls. It is poor fare.

The commercial channels give a platform for the dregs of society to air their petty problems in front of the nation. Whether it is the rutting arrangements of some vile scratters and boy-racers or the self-esteem issues of the morbidly obese, no expense is spared in bringing these lowlifes to our screens. If all else fails, the producers can always bring out some freakish transvestite/transexual/weirdo to talk about how their lives have been enriched by swanning around Rotherham dressed as Bet Lynch.

So much for the terrestrial channels, what has the digital age to offer the stay-at-home no-goodnik? In short, a big load of shite. Admittedly, my experience is only of Freeview, the council Sky TV service. On Freeview we have two low quality pop music channels. One of these seems to be constantly screening Jennifer Lopez videos with text messages on-screen informing us of the "love match" potential of Sharon and Darren or Kaz and Baz. The second appears to consist of "documentaries" where lisping sissies bitch about Christina Aguilera's haircut or heavy-set gangsta rappers show us their bedroom furniture.

We have discussed the shopping channels before and the merits of the fair ladies at are still unrivalled. However, it can't be denied that these channels do not always purvey the most blue-chip products that are out there. At the time of writing the various channels are knocking out the following objet d'art: Garish purple topaz earrings, dayglo orange self-tanning kits, diamond-style earrings and some stone-effect decorative lions that beggar belief. Clearly the market for earrings among the slack-jawed layabout massive is a substantial one, which makes sense when you consider the dreadful oafish women you see on the streets with about half a dozen pairs of gaudy ear jewellery hanging from every available part of their lugs.

Other than that, there are documentary channels which seem to focus rather a lot on World War II, news channels that chiefly show press conferences and footage of actors walking along red carpets and the king of digital channels, Granada Men and Motors. This channel is a wonderful thing. They have analysed the male psyche and concluded that men are only interested in motorcycling accidents, old episodes of The Professionals and a show with Joanne Guest introducing footage of drunken girls in nightclubs exposing their breasts.

I fear they may be entirely correct.

Monday, May 30, 2005

Chop Chop

There really is nothing to beat Mother Nature's own pork chop, is there?

Your pork chop is a dish best enjoyed alone, I always feel. It is only when alone that one can truly do justice to this meaty treat, requiring as it does to be picked up and picked at with expert, probing teeth and fingers. You need to suck on its bones and angle it to get at the sweetest, juiciest meat that resists the attentions of the knife and fork.

There is a certain primal thrill to this, a harking back to simpler caveman times that gives the feeling that had one been born in an earlier age one would have been a devil of a fellow with a bow and arrow or a club when it came to the hunting and gathering lifestyle.

Of course our caveman ancestors didn't eat their brontosaurus flesh with a piquant tomato and pesto sauce with mushrooms, olives and peppers in it, but I'm sure you see my point.

I know there are vegetarian folk out there who would not share my enthusiasm for this king among foodstuffs, but frankly these people are fools and ninnies. Life is a bothersome enough business, with a hundred and one sorrows and catastrophes happening around us each day. And what are these addle-pated nincompoops spending their precious lives worrying about? "Aw, the poor piggies and moo cows are going to die. Tubbyboohoo for the lovely ickle animals."

To quote American rapper Ice Cube, "Fuck 'em". They're only animals after all, and they're tasty.

Perhaps the time is not right for my candid views on the joys of eating baby flesh just yet, though. Although they are delicious, there are a great number of politically-correct, looney-leftie types who insist that they are technically human beings and there is somehow something wrong in feasting on their tender, succulent meat.

The weirdy-beardy, mung bean-chomping, sandal-wearing, long hair-having freaks.

Keep yourself nice. Adieu.

Monday, May 23, 2005

More on the Leg Theme, I'm Afraid

What novelty there is in having a broken leg has well and truly worn off. If any of you young people were to ask me for advice, I would warn you against any sort of legbone fracturing antics. Yes, you get to swank around on crutches with a plaster cast on. Admittedly you get a couple of months away from work, but it isn’t all gravy.

In fact, if I may slip into the vernacular for a moment, it is rather a fuck on.

For a start there is the hopping. Under normal circumstances I enjoy a hop as much as the next man and, presumably, so do you. As an occasional treat one cannot whack a bit of one-legged action. However, when it is one’s only mode of transport the glamour starts to fade. A life lived on one leg is no life at all. Dash it, I’m a man not a cunting flamingo. This hopping business simply won’t do.

Also, the necessity of staying in can become wearisome. At first glance, the prospect of endless long lie-ins, lazing around watching tv, reading books and listening to music seems pleasing. Three weeks later, cabin fever sets in. The four walls of one’s abode become oppressive, the urge for the open spaces is paramount. The plight of a songbird in a gilded cage seems to fit the circumstances rather neatly. Quite a nifty and original observation that, eh? Don't you go pinching it.

Thankfully, the caprices of the British summertime are such that the confined convalescent is mainly just missing the chance to get soaked in sudden rain showers.

Furthermore, a summer of test match cricket begins this week and the Colonel will be there for every session, cushions plumped and tall, cold drink in hand. So, cheg on office monkeys, you am the twarts.

Finally, a word of advice if you are visiting a person who is sick. You represent the whole world outside of that person’s house and all that is going on out there. Try to entertain them with stories that will astound and amaze, bring them up to date on local affairs and common acquaintances. Discuss events of national and international importance, possibly giving your opinion that things will get worse before they get any better. As a last resort, you can always discuss the weather and how it is not merely the heat that gets you, rather it is the humidity.

Do any of these, but do not, I repeat do not, harp on about the person’s injury, mixing in numerous horror stories of persons who have suffered complications with similar conditions and concluding with your jaundiced opinions on the medical staff of the local hospital.

Quite frankly, we don’t need to hear that type of thing. Go tell it to the marines or put it where the sun refuses to shine. A pox be on all you naysayers and bringers of woe, begone thou foolish knaves.

Thanks for the bread and milk though.

Increase the peace, I’m outta here.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

When the leg he breaks

What ho, folks.

Sorry for neglecting you all, had a spot of medical bother. I went and broke my leg while playing Association Football. That's the story anyway, you know the score, official secrets and all that rot. Anyway, suffice to say I spent a week in hospital and so far a week and a half at home with a plaster cast on.

This installment will consist of some of my half-baked musings as I lay a-tossing and a-turning in my weary infirmary billet. Without aggrandizing myself in any way, I would have to say that the nearest comparison would be Fyodor Dostoevsky.

In 1849 our man Fyodor was exiled to Siberia where he endured four years of hard labour. His memories of these times are collected in his celebrated "House of the Dead". I've read this book and he doesn't mention piss once. Clearly I am better than him. Anyhow, without further ado, let's grip it and rip it.


This tasty beverage appears to have lost any health-restoring properties it may have had when I was a stripling. This is probably not unconnected with the shedding of the sticky orange sellophane wrapping it once sported. A kind of fizzy pop Samson’s locks type of deal.

The eager beavers who have taken over the Lucozade empire since Old Man Ernie Lucoz passed away have re-positioned the Lucozade brand. No longer the sole province of pyjama-clad youngsters tucked up in bed with a Beano and a bowl of soup, these days Lucozade is marketed mainly towards tracksuit clad sports poseurs. There also seems to have been an attempt on the Irn Bru niche market of the hungover weekend party animal. However, this has proved less successful with the true alkies, tiprats and radgies showing an admirable brand loyalty to the Caledonian girder-derived restorer.


Passing water while hunched over a plastic bottle in bed is a rum old do. Attempting same feat while a thin curtain separates you from a ward full of wheezing oldsters and busy nurses going about their business is even less of a walk in the park. On one occasion I was there fully seven minutes before any business resulted.

I imagine this is what “erectile dysfunction” (being a big puff who can’t get it up when you’ve got a lass there, choking for it) must be like. Although at least in that instance you would have some tits to look at.

However, when urinating in bottles, there is always the danger that once you have started to “speak”, you may have too much to say. The consequences of such an incident would doubtless have a deleterious effect on one’s prestige among the nursing staff. Nobody could feel truly at ease knowing that others refer to them as “Old Pissybed”. Thankfully this situation did not arise. The Colonel has the bladder muscles of a young Sly Stallone. Yes, look impressed.

In fact, on the final evening of my confinement, I judged this matter to a nicety, leaving just an inch below the stopper of the bottle, just enough to let the liquid “breathe”. The nurse who came to take it away was mightily impressed with my efforts, making comments to this effect and showing off the bottle to her partner on the ward as if it were some notable sports trophy.

“Hey, I’m dead proud, me” I piped up, to beaming smiles all round. Good times, my friends, good times.


It can scarcely have escaped your notice that we have recently witnessed the World Snooker Championships. Won, you will recall, by that fat lad. A great sporting occasion, you will agree.

We all know it, we all love it. An ideal way of passing the idle hours when confined to bed, I think you'd agree.

There are however, a couple of flies in the ointment.

Firstly, advertisements just look wrong when worn on waistcoats and dickie bowties. Yes, your garish nylon football shirts, yes your Formula 1 motor cars, by all means plaster them with hoardings for lager beers and online casinos, but formal evening wear? I rather fancy not. Sort it out David Vines.

Finally, a special word for the good people who make up the audiences at the snooker. My word, what a motley collection of Ocean Finance poster girls, porridge-countenanced youths in bulging replica football tops and glakey, four-eyed “George at Asda” types who appear as though they can only achieve arousal when watching “A Question of Sport”.

Still, they’re a very “knowledgeable” crowd, by all accounts. And at least they aren’t motor sports enthusiasts.

See you next time, douchebags.

Friday, April 08, 2005

Just a quick one

I went out the other night to try the craze that is sweeping the nation like a crazed chimney sweep. I refer, not to dogging, but rather to Binge Drinking. I went to my local tavern and asked the landlord for a pint of binge, but he said he didn't have any.

The Colonel is quite the joker, eh? I deliberately mistook the word Binge for a type of drink for comic effect, with hilarious consequences. Dashed amusing stuff.

I hear that the local knocking shop that opened above a pizza shop in town has been forced to close. A poor show, I think. Some enterprising fellow shows a bit of entrepreneurial zeal and combines good 'n' tasty hot food with the opportunity to be fellated or manipulated to issue at reasonable prices and what do the Feds do? They shut him down. Shame on you, the Powers-that-be, this was joined up thinking for a modern age, a one-stop shop for the hungry man of affairs with ants in his pants.

Not that I ever went there, of course. I'm not that keen on pizza.

In other seedy, plague-spot, hellhole closure news, local nightclub The Palace aka Lucy's aka The Domino aka The Ranch, has gone under the wrecker's ball. This once proud lager palace was a place where the local youth would flock to be treated like vermin, but vermin that buy overpriced drinks, and dance to the latest chart-topping sounds. And to attempt to cop off with a motley collection of scratters, milfs, radgeys, jailbait, porkers and hollow-eyed easy lays.

This place was quite the happy hunting ground when, as a beardless youth, I still had the ability to cast a modest spell in a dim light. If all of the ladies from there that I emptied the bins into were laid end-to-end from the front door of the Domino, they would possibly reach as far as Hot Millyuns. If you included the ones who drew the line at tops and fingers, the line would possibly stretch as far as The Clayton.*

The passing of the ranch is a sad loss to the Northumberland social scene and another reminder that we're none of us as young as we used to be, to descend for a moment into the cliche-ridden boobie-babble of the female pensioner.

Anyway, must be off. I hear that a new all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant that features German pissing lesbian dancers has just opened in town.

Driver, take me to The Golden Shower, please. And pronto, Tonto!


*For the benefit of non-locals, Hot Millyuns is a takeaway directly over the road from the Palace. No hookers here. The Clayton pub is a tiny bit further away.

Monday, March 28, 2005

Hasta la Easter, Baby

Hello again, my huckleberry friends. I trust you all had an enjoyable break and managed to eat your own body weight in chocolate.

A rather uneventful easter this year, so perhaps not the most thrilling update ever this time.

Thursday, I popped into the office at work for the much anticipated Egg Decorating Contest. My entry, a dyed-yellow egg with long hair and thick glasses drawn on in marker pen, wittily entitled Yolko Ono, came last. In fairness, it was shit. A rather impressionistic version of Mother Nature's bumble bee scooped the title. However, all entrants were rewarded with chocolate mini eggs, so it's not all bad.

Thursday night meant cold drinks in sunny Blyth. A strange night was had by all. One bar, The Beach, had barmaids in bikini tops but no customers. The next pub had a "ladies night" in the back room. Apparently a lady likes nothing better than to see four male strippers and a drag act comedian when on a night out. The ladies of Blyth were knocking back the blissful hippocrene like there was no tomorrow, or at least no work tomorrow. A gaggle of older women seemed to be living for pleasure alone, cheerfully informing us that "big willies aren't that important, as long as you can use your tongue well". Which is good to know. Suitably reassured, we made our excuses and left.

Good Friday, stayed in and attempted to become one with the cosmos, grow a honey coloured beard and play some fairly wistful harmonica.

Saturday, and a trip to Newcastle's bustling city centre. The Goose public house contained some of the strangest, most grotesque looking males and females ever gathered together in one place. Cheap ale, though. The night wound up at Grey's nightclub, or Jurassic Park as some locals call it. As we entered the fray a Boney M megamix was booming out from the wheels of steel and hard-faced harridans were giving it laldy out on the floor. Most of the blokes looked like they would probably list headbutting as one of their hobbies. The ladies sported bingo wings, big tattoos and more jewellery than Mr T and Jimmy Saville put together. No place for a man of culture and refinement such as myself. So, a taxi ride home to the strains of The Stranglers it was.

If you have tuned in purely for a vicarious thrill at my boot-knocking, bin-emptying lifestyle you are in for a disappointment. I am living a chaste existence these days, preferring instead to commune with the earth spirits and attain inner peace. Anybody bandying the words "couldn't", "score" and "knocking shop" about would be severely missing the point.

Easter Sunday began rather late. In addition to the clocks going forward, I had a king-sized hangover which didn't subside till about five o'clock. So naturally six o'clock saw me making my way to the local for a pick-me-up. It turned out it was one of the regulars' birthday and the entire place had been mopping it up good style all day. The place resembled one of the bawdy taverns you used to get in Hammer horror films. There was pogoing, headbanging, communal singing, jiving, climbing on the furniture, kicking of one's height, cha cha sliding, electric boogaloo, all manner of mayhem going on. It was fucking great. I drank till it bubbled out my eyes, kicked with the fray and had a rare old time.

Here's to Easter, your my best fuggin' mate, you are.