Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Blackpool Rocks!

Some lasses, lezzing up.

Oy oy, saveloy! How the hairy palmed hell are you all? I trust you fine firm-buttocked people had an enjoyable Bank Holiday weekend. I know I did, I've got the pictures to prove it.

Of course you're probably way ahead of me here, having read the post title and formed your conclusions in that clear-minded way you have. For the elimination of all doubt, let me confirm that I have been kicking my height in the hotspots and fleshpots of Blackpool, the Vegas of the North. And I'm here to tell you this: Blackpool is skill.

When you walk into a pub at half past three on a Saturday afternoon you expect a half-empty taproom with a few bar-proppers and pill-poppers gawping at Sky Sports News through a haze of roll-up smoke and onion breath.

Not so in da 'pool, you get a legion of cowgirls, bunnygirls, old girls and chaps in drag all boozing with two hands, groping each others arses and watching a limbo dancing competition. Within fifteen minutes of entering the first alehouse of the day, we had observed two lasses getting the girls out in the hope of winning an oversized bottle of non-vintage asti.

The prize was scooped by a chunky lass from Sunderland who was clearly living for pleasure alone. Having claimed her prize she helped strip some young chap who had been helping out with the limbo. Excellent behaviour we all agreed.

After several more equally fine bars followed by some burgers and chips, it was back to the guest house for a scrub and a clean shirt. We need not linger too long on the squalor of our hotel, life is an unpleasant enough business without dredging up images of clammy, flea-bitten bedrooms and piss-stinking lounges. Let us move on to more edifying matters.

It seems that your modern girl, when she gets her head into a pink stetson, forgets all her inhibitions.

Not for nothing, but it isn't every day that one gets goosed by a scouse lady wearing a ten-gallon hat emblazoned with "I'm gagging for it". More's the pity. Unleashed in such a bacchanalian atmosphere your geordie boys and yorkshire coves aren't backwards in coming forward either.

Anyone who has spent any time watching Granada Men and Motors will be aware of the sensational effects that pointing a camera at intoxicated female revellers can produce. This phenomena holds almost as true when one is wielding nothing more impressive than a camera phone. Check out the impressive result above, your Colonel is quite the David Baileys, eh?

Giddy up, I feel you will agree.

Another snippet of information the traveller may wish to store in the old memory banks is that there are several lapdancing bars on the seafront which offer free entry. Now, I'm sure that you disapprove of the whole lap dancing thing and so do I. These places are clearly frequented by only the lowest of the low; sad inadequate men who can't even get a woman in the bawdiest of low taverns that are, to coin a charming northern phrase, "waal to waal blart".

Also, the girls aren't allowed, by law, to get their fannies out in Blackpool establishments.


Anyhow, heading away from the gutter, the second day of our stay saw more drinking, more fry-ups, more chips and burgers in takeaways.

All of which high living has an inevitable effect on the digestive tract of the adult male. Wisely realizing that no real skirt chasing is going to be successful with a set of guts that is emitting toxic fumes, it was down to some heads-down, no-nonsense drinking, followed up with an extra portion of shouting on, breakdancing in kebab shops, communal singing and general oafery.

Now I may be wrong about this, but I believe that if that isn't what it's aal aboot, then the terrorists have already won.

I'll bid you good day.

Friday, August 25, 2006

Ins and Outs: September '06

Summer's last golden embers are flickering and sputtering out. Fear not the changing, ever changing seasons, reminding us of the inevitable passing of time. Instead, embrace the russet tones of Autumn, some say Fall, by turning on, tuning up and copping off with the "must-haves" and the "rather-you-than-mes" that will characterise the coming month.

I think that what the artist is trying to say is that, in a very real sense, Ins and Outs am here!!!!!11!!!!PLENTYONIONS!!!ONE!!!!!


Half-heartedly pondering whether to get an Airedale terrier
Placing a hat at a jaunty angle atop one's television set.
Believing oneself to be "on a promise"
After one of your dreadful mates has recounted some long-winded and distressing tale of his wife leaving him, getting the sack, declaring bankruptcy and so forth, as soon as he shuts his yap responding winsomely, "I suppose I'm best described as just the girl next door".
Givin' it laldy
A Harry Ramp snoozing in the sunshine on a bench in a busy shopping thoroughfare
Getting all lairy while strung out on bennies
Having an air of the "Gloomy Gus" about you
Hockling off bridges
Making intelligent runs
Chicken and mushroom pies
Stretching out one's fingers and repeatedly slapping one's thighs three times before rising from a sitting position.
The Counting Count
Running the rule over the moth-eaten, Woodbine-toking denizens of a downmarket pub and proclaiming "My name is Buck and I'm here to fuck!"
Fiddler crabs
Exclaiming "I ain't got taaam for this bull Shit!" in the style of a pimp who is having ho problems.
Jason Giambi. Drug-free and swinging a mean bat.
Fleabitten seaside B&Bs
Having it on good authority.
Glaring suspiciously at the food on the end of your fork


Joggers who run in a stupid, unco-ordinated fashion. You've taken the time and trouble to buy vest, shorts and expensive running shoes, stop running like a div kid.
Scrawny goth lasses.
The Pentatonic Scale
Batteries with a particularly short life
Copping an att.
Holding the ball up well.
Smoked fish.
Glamma Kid
Harrumphing tommyrot on the news about obesity. Fat blokes are jolly and fat lasses have big tits. Problem?Paying celebrity prices
Folk who bring their dog on the bus
Quoting lines from Baudelaire to strippers
Liking the band The Red Hot Chili Peppers and, even worse, referring to them as "the Chilis"
Appending an unnecessary "yeah?" to every bastarn sentence.
Tonguing your partner's rusty scone cutter. Ugh.
Wondering what went on in Gomorrah to get God all shirty.
Being vehement.
Inzy's grey beard.
Scratters driving around in little cars with tinted windscreens.
Regrettable drunken incidents

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Cud: it be magic

Tally ho, pop-pickers, how's it growing?

Another unforgiving week filled with seven days worth of distance run, which isn't that far these days, has passed. This week I won't be telling you tall tales of drinking bars dry, banging cocktail waitresses two at a time and getting into knife fights with mexican guys. The reasons for this are twofold. Firstly, none of those things have happened.

Secondly, and more importantly, the rock establishment has been shaken, I say shaken, to it's very core by the return of the Yorkshire indie-rock behemoth that is Cud. And your correspondent was there on the scene to behold them in all their glory.

For the cloth-eared and ignorant out there who are scratching their slack jaws and thinking "Who are The Cuds? I never heard of them", then find out what you've been missing here , here and here.

Led by well-fed, floppy haired ginger nut Carl Puttnams, the Leeds four-piece were a clunking, rocking, caterwauling sex-pop indie-funk cult back in the late eighties/early nineties. Their charismatic frontman, a sort of Morrissey you could have a pint with or a Jarvis Cocker who liked his food, was a sweating, shaking bellowing hunk of a man, an unlikely sexgod in a constituency of baggy tight wearing, over mascara-ed provincial polytechnic students.

The ladies loved him too!

A little bit of comedy for you, there. Filling the void left by Ronnie Barkers, what?

It must be nigh on twelve years since the band existed in any meaningful form and yesterday they chose Newcastle's Carling Academy 2 to launch their comeback, a tour in support of an anthology entitled "Rich and Strange".

A capacity crowd were treated to a pleasant set of whiny-but-likeable guitar pop from some support band whose name I didn't catch. The band members seemed happy enough with their performance, as did their mams and dads in the audience.

Aw, bless.

The main band didn't keep us waiting, their entrance was greeted like a returning cup winning team, albeit with the odd lackwit doing the "You fat bastard" chant. Really, did Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine die in vain?

Let us never return to those dark days of snakey'n'black-swilling student union oafishness, chaps.

Carl Puttnam, since the break-up of the band, has reportedly been working in an off license retail outlet. From his appearance last night, the good people at Oddbins must have a generous staff discount, and why wouldn't they? Beer and beef give a man shape, or beer and quiche if you're a vegetarian. Whatever, he still had the old magic as he belted out a set of lost classics and minor chart smashes.

With most of their back catalogue out of print at the moment, Cud are one of those bands who you really do forget how many good songs they have.


Not really, more comedy there. Enough with the joke funnies, you say? Perhaps you are right.

Suffice to say that this chap in his, ahem, mid-twenties was delighted to rediscover such bostin' tunes as "Strange kind of love", "Only a prawn in Whitby", "Hey Boots" and "I've had it with blondes". The evening finished with one of the many legendary cover version the Cudband were famed for, a wry choice of Jethro Tull's "Living in the Past".

Here's hoping the band continue together after this tour. They seemed to be having fun with it and the audience were "mad for it" as we used to say back in the last century. With the current prominence of the Kaiser Chiefs, there must surely be a place for a band that did it better, louder and dirtier fifteen years ago and can still do it.

There was one unfortunate incident after the gig that slightly soured the evening for me. At a seedy tavern not far from the venue, I was the victim of prejudice and discrimination. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of my company in recent weeks I have adopted of late a short or "skin-head" haircut.

Some narrow-minded folks cannot see past this to the individual within, alas.

I entered the pub and was about to order a pitcher of foaming mead or somesuch, when the manager came scurrying across with a mean cry of "I'm not serving you. We don't want your sort in here!"

I was shocked and appalled. I admonished the chap, saying "My sort, sir? And what is "my sort"? Because I have a close-cropped hairdo, you automatically assume I am some sort of fascist bully-boy racist, do you? Well shame on you, shame on you and all of those like you. Anyone who would deny a man a drink because of some idiotic preconceptions is worse than Hitler, dammit". That'll fettle his lip, I thought to myself. But no, Mr smart arse had more.

"No, it's not the skinhead haircut. By "your sort" I mean the sort of person who came in here on Saturday night, all pissed up on booze, slavering on and annoying all the women and finally getting his cock out and having to be forcibly ejected. That's the sort I mean".

I swallowed something hard and jagged.

"You make a fair point and it is one I will take on board. I'll bid you good evening".

Fortunately The Black Garter was still open. They love my sort in there.

Bottoms up!

Monday, August 07, 2006

What Women Want

"What you lookin' at, sugar tits?"

Evening folks. Forgive the disturbing image at the top of this entry, let it serve as a warning of the perils of the demon drink. The gurning mug shown is, of course, that of the film star and historical revisionist Mel Gibsons. Not just a rubbish actor, also a rubbish drinker and a fellow with a rather rudimentary grip on relations with our semitic cousins. I know, I was as surprised as you that an Australian would spout racist tommyrot after a few tinnies. We live and learn, what?

Back to life, back to reality as Jazzie B often mumbles to himself as he queues to sign on. An altogether more wholesome image of booze-using was presented by your very own Colonel on friday night just gone. After an entire month of abstention from the pleasures of the bottle, the saloon bar and the paint thinner, it was back to drinking with two hands in Newcastle's prosperous outskirt Jesmond.

Far from making a spectacle of one's self and threatening blameless law enforcement officials, a pleasant time was had by one, and indeed, all. A couple of jars and one taxi ride later it was off to the jewel in the NewcastleGateshead leisure experience crown, the heady delights of Buffalo Joe's nite spot and charnel house.

This charming, wild west themed lager palace offers the thirsty reveller the chance to shell out a fiver to enter it's sweaty embrace. Hard-working bar staff will relieve you of £3.70 for a bottle of beer while your senses are assaulted by the asinine patter of the typical greasy'n'cheesy nightclub DJ. It's not that impressive, to be honest.

However, as the refreshing brew of the Corona Firewater Corporation begins to work it's magic, a softening in one's attitude takes place. The various stag and hen parties thronging the place like so much cattle, but cattle wearing devil horns, are probably all fine sorts when you get to know them. The DJ isn't such a bad sort after all, with his cheeky banter with the fatter members of the audience. Playing "Cotton Eye Joe" by The Red Necks Band three times in an evening may be seen as an ironic circumvention of the audience's expectations.

Three seventy is still a bit steep for a bottle, mind.

Anyhow, unworthy price-taggery aside, the more forgiving mindset may possibly be assisted by getting chatting to a lady. What is more, a lady in a cowboy hat. Giddy up, eh?

However, I shall say no more regarding this fine woman. A gentleman never tells, don't you know?

Especially a gentleman who got nowt. Bah!

Saturday saw another major event. The delivery of a new mobile phone. Now I must warn you, what follows is a less than thrilling discussion of said phone. The type of dreary conversation countless slack-jawed teenagers and thirty-something women who read Bridget Jones and Shopaholic novels have in offices and on buses the length, breadth and even heighth of this green, unpleasant land.

Still, this is a blog you know, not the Bill of Rights or the Magna Carta. You don't like it, blow me, huh? Va fangul!

That's got rid of the trouble-makers, moaning minnies and no-goodniks, on with the handset lowdown.

The Samsung E530 has all the usual things one expects from cutting-edge handheld technology;

* An mp3 player so one can enjoy the latest boppers from Lawrence Welk or Bounty Killer while out and about.

* A camera/camcorder, ideal for the gent who needs to take a quick snap of his old chap and send it to any ladies who may be interested.

* Texting, for the composition of such profundities as "CU in da pub M8" and suchlike.

* Bluetooth for the easy sharing of obscene short films and "fun" ringtones with one's dreadful mates in the local four ale bar.

All topper and dandy you are no doubt thinking, while possibly wondering "why is the fat knacker telling us this, it's well dull, and that?" Ah, my buxom young fools, be not ye so hasty for there is, as Jimmy Crickets was wont to note, more.

This model was possibly conceived on a friday afternoon at Samsung towers, when the guys in Product Development, perhaps after a long liquid lunch, were having an old brainstorming sesh, throwing around a few ideas and generally having fun with it. What other explanation can there be for the features that target this mobile at "the ladies"?

We start with the baby blue soft leather carrying pouch and matching handstrap. Totally queer eye, as the kidz say. These can easily be discarded by the man of taste, but further horrors lurk within the phone itself.

Just for the gals, there is a section under Applications entitled "Lifestyle". In here are such vital female goodies as a Biorhythms calculator, a calorie counter, a shopping list generator and a fragrance matcher.

This beaut asks you to select your favourite clothes, activities, colours, types of music, foods and drinks before generating, with a matching mood picture, a description of your ideal type of fragrance. Oh yes. I give you the intimate aroma of "Colonel":

Woody Scent Type - For the delicate and refined, the Woody fragrance has you in mind. The Woody scent reveals powerful wood fragrances (no shit, sherlock?) and touches the heart with the fresh, green tender tones of the forest, expressing a warm and comforting glow.

They love all that, the lasses.

Finally, the guys in Prod Dev have got a bit coy on our asses. The last feminine feature is called a "Pink Schedule". The lady puts in the date of her last "visitation" and the number of days in an average cycle and the phone generates a calendar for her which highlights the little woman's "pink days", the best days to get pregnant and her day of ovulation.

Thus armed, I shall be trying for a baby on the glorious 12th of August.

If you notice any unusually intemperate posts over the next few days please bear with me, I've just "come on".

Besides, what do you want for forty quids, a half and half off of Lady Melons Windsor?

L8rs, t8rs.

x x x