Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Ins and Outs: March '07

Rising majestically like a well-struck one-iron, it's the only, I say only, guide to what's vital and what's shite y'all. The dearest of countdowns returns refreshed and reborn after a much needed February break spent soliloquising in secluded solitude.

(Makes drinky-drink motion).
A lovely Kapok tree.
The old boy pundit on the Arab football channel who looks like a roguish war criminal.
Running a lovely hot bath, tea lights akimbo, and chilling out to the sounds of a cast recording of "HMS Pinafore".
Watching endless documentaries about the Nazis.
Saucy office types, all aled up and photographing each other's d├ęcolletage.
Being a Fatman Scoop completist.
Attempting to accumulate your five-a-day via the medium of lime chunks in bottled lager.
Indulging in the noble art of pedantry.
Teofilo Stevenson.
Trying to recall whether it's The Young Knives, The Knives or The Knife whose music you enjoy, before remembering that it is, in fact, Def Leppard.
Upon being informed that no, she doesn't wish to go round the back for a knee-trembler, drawing yourself up to your full height, flicking a speck of dust from your cuff and saying haughtily "Madam, the loss is yours. I'll bid you good evening".
Talking to southerners in a ridiculous, exaggerated "cockney wanker" accent. They lahve a bit of it!
Taking really shit phonecam pictures.
Not being averse to a bit of bluegrass.
Getting an early inkling of an extra supermarket queue opening and skilfully nudging a leaden-footed fat lass out of the way to get there first.
Turning to aforementioned f.l. as your purchases are being scanned and telling her "Respec' the cock, sausage gut!"
Robinson's Fruit Shoots™
After being subjected by an acquaintance to an in-depth outline of some mawkish documentary or gruesome film they have recently watched, brightly asking them "Is that a comedy, is it?"
Possessing a table tennis serve that stays lower to the table than a fat rattler's belly.
The trading routes of the ancient Phoenicians. Those boys knew their stuff.
Worrying excessively about your carbon footprint. Carbon is natural, plants eat it.
Wassocks videoing a fellow when he has had one over the eight.
The Caspian Sea. Too effeminate by far.
Having a gnawing suspicion that one of your bitches is holding out on you, despite the fact that you aren't actually a pimp.
Grown men saying "I'm loving x" when discussing something of which they approve.
Pool table tubbyboohooing with respect to safety shots, revealing a hitherto unknown concern for "the spirit of the game".
Stick-wielding incapacity benefit type women who turn into fucking Flo-Jo when there is a danger of missing the (free) bus.
Waking up at 2am with a disctinct but mistaken belief that you have left the oven on.
Being overly familiar with tradespeople.
In a strange town, piling into the back of a cab and proclaiming "Driver! Take us to the titty bars".
Receiving "constructive feedback" after unsuccessful job interviews.
Behaving foolishly in late night fast food outlets.
Crushing your prey in your powerful mandibles.
Bothering all and sundry to do a round of shots, then being markedly less forthcoming vis a vis putting your hand in your pocket.
Eagerly planning an expedition to the nearest Tap and Spile to coincide with the interesting new "guest" they'll be stocking from Friday.
Beady-eyed, bus queue-jumping biddies.
Crawling into a bottle to forget your troubles, before remembering that you are a mouse. A mouse that's stuck in a bottle.
Feeling obliged to apologise for a solecism, despite not really knowing what one is.
The paucity of screen time given to BBC3's delightful comedy of manners "Two Pints of Piss and a Packet of Wanking".

Sunday, February 25, 2007


Hairy types, rocking a fat one.

What ho, bitches!

Your Colonel is back, back, back and serious as a heart attack. I've been off touring the country in search of the rock and, to a lesser extent, the roll.

If I were to tell you that it was tracked down in the sleepy Kent town of Folkestone, you'd probably think I was lying.
"Sheee-it, fool! They ain't nuttin' goin' down in Folkestone. You be shittin' me" you would probably exclaim, suspecting I was having a little simple fun at your expense.

Well, doubt me not, because myself and six other bohemian coves made the long journey from North-East England to the South Coast in order to enjoy the kick-arse rock stylings of famed stateside hairy types The Kings of Leon.
This was accomplished only after undertaking an arduous eight hour journey via the following modes of transport - Bus to Gosforth, Metro to Central Station, Train to Kings Cross, Tube to Oxford Circus then on to Charing Cross, Train to Folkestone.

Now, I'm no Bill Brysons, but let me tell you this, that journey was A Right Fuck On.

However, we did once again encounter Viz co-creator Simon Donald, boarding the same train as us at Newcastle, doubtless off to London for some power lunch where numbers would be crunched and projects green-lighted.

Or maybe he has taken to following me around for reasons best known to himself. To paraphrase the rapper Ludacris maybe it's 'cos he likes my handsome face or maybe it's 'cos he likes my gangster ways. Who can tell?

Anyhow, since we were travelling on the 8.30am service, the natural thing to do was break out the cans and bottles of premium strength lager beer.

In this age of healthy eating campaigns and binge drinking crackdowns, it is reassuring to note that the rights of all male groups to swill ale heavily on crowded public transport is still enshrined in the constitution of this fair land.

No doubt brave Tommy Atkins over in Basra will be thinking "This is what we're fighting for. The great British way of life." Word up, my squaddie brethren.

We got through London as quickly as possible, most of us thankful we don't have to live there. Whether it was the crowded, claustrophobic nature of the tube trains, the unsmiling countenances of the sour-faced commuters or the dismay caused by having to pay twenty pence for a slash at Charing Cross, I don't know.

All I do know is that we seemed to be the only people who were smiling. Possibly it is down to our cheerier outlook on life and refreshing bonhomous attitude to travel, possibly the Londoners were just uncomfortable in the company of stinking, aled-up northern arseholes.

Eventually we arrived at our hotel and very nice it was too. Clearly, after a long journey the best thing to do was to get settled in, have a good scrub and get a bite to eat.

Fuck that shit.

Dump the bags and get straight out on the lash was the plan. A plan that was beautiful in it's simplicity and achievability.

About £2.60 for a pint, since you ask.

After spending a good three or four hours vainly pursuing the good times in Folkestone and giving the locals a few pointers on the fine art of pool playing, it was off up the hill to the venue, the Leas Cliff Hall, a medium sized local theatre.

Having wisely decided to stay in the bar during the support act, three of us were straight down the front for a bit of hurly-burly in the pit of mosh, as I believe the youngsters call it. The remaining four stood at the back, feeling that easy access to the bar was as big a factor in gig enjoyment as getting all hot and sweaty.

The band were excellent, knocking out heavy hit after heavy hit mixed with a few slower, more intense tunes from the new album. However, the infernal practice of crowd-surfing remains as tiresome as ever.

When a chap is attempting to bust his best moves to the upbeat sound of "The Bucket" or "Four Kicks" it is disconcerting to be kicked upside the head by a number nine Doctor Marten aggravation boot.

That said, the lowlives who took advantage of one 'surfing female by titting her up and attempting to remove items of her clothing should hang their heads in shame. While this old soldier may appear to a hoary old chauvinist in the mould of Jim "Nick Nick" Davidsons, this isn't strictly the case and I waded into the fray and administered a hearty shove on the beleagured female's shoulders, propelling her towards the arms of a burly security employee.

I am quite the Walter Raleigh, yes?

Further evidence of our group's high-minded morality was provided by the location and safe return of a girl's purse and a lad's mobile phone. The lad was particularly lucky as not only did he get his phone returned he also had received a text message from a female admirer informing him that he was "Nathan, UR fit az fuck".

Well, we may have been acting the Dudley Do-Right but we aren't made of stone. It was the work of but a minute for my mate to send the reply "Yes, I know I am, but you, madam, are a minger. All the best".

I fear Nathan may have had some explaining to do the next day.

We headed for a couple of post-gig pints in the nearby gay bar, where anybody not sweating profusely was regarded with suspicion by some of the less enlightened members of the group. At this point I could make a joke funny about their being nowt as queer as Folkestone, but you wouldn't thank me for it and frankly, that type of base humour has no place in a sophisticated journal such as this.

Sophisticated is precisely what I'm all about and that's why we ended up in a seafront nightclub called "Jolson's" astonishing the locals with our smooth seduction techniques.
Naturally, none of us got our fingers into anything more appetising than a large doner from the kebab shop next door.

Despite the lateness of the hour when we repaired to our rooms, all were present and correct for the full english breakfast next morning. With a couple of hours to kill we were thankful for the hotel's excellent provision of table football and table tennis, free of charge like. A tournament was soon arranged and in full swing, trash talking flying round the table and extravagant service styles tried out.

It pains me to relate that I was knocked out in the semi-finals by the eventual winner.

I will draw a veil over the return journey. There is enough unhappiness in the world without inflicting an account of the foul odours that permeate a group of blokes who have been living on fry-ups, gassy beer and kebab meat.

On that eggy bombshell, I will bid you a good day.

Rock on!

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Blyth Spirit

Hanging with my Blyth hoes

Ten-four, good buddies, this is Cleopatra, comin' atcha!

I trust you have all been "having it" with sufficient largitude to ensure satisfaction all round since I spoke to you last. Round these parts it has been equal parts toil, work, labour and graft since the inception of this chilly new year we are having.

That isn't to say there hasn't been the very occasional bout of steam letting off. To quote a tired old cliche, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. And that's Jack, who as you all know is a fine chap, popular with all and sundry. Since I am starting off at a point where I am already a fairly dull boy, it is essential that this "all work" situation doesn't arise.

It was with this aim in mind that I headed off to a night of voguish beat group music in glamorous Blyth recently.

"What is Blyth?" I hear you ask. "I ain't never even heard of it" you continue. Well, if you'll shut your gaping maw for a moment, I will tell you.
Blyth is a former mining town and port which, until recently, was famous only for its excellent non-league football club Blyth Spartans, and notorious for the unusually high amount of young folk dying from heroin/morphine/methadone-related deaths.
It used to be a tragic sight, gangs of pasty-faced, unwholesome looking undesirables mooching about the place, generally loathed and despised by the normal townsfolk.

And as if the non-league football enthusiasts weren't bad enough, there were loads of smackheads knocking about too.

Oof! How's about that for a zinger? Lots of wristy follow-through on that one, eh?

Anyhow, joke funnies aside, the old town has been putting in some serious renovation and re-invention work and it is now a pretty good place to visit of a night time. The prime mover in all of this is an alehouse that was formerly known as The Boathouse Tavern, now rebranded as The Quay.
In it's inglorious past, your correspondent has variously seen fistfights in the toilets, strippers performing tricks with pint pots in the back room and cut quite a dash with some fine-assed beeyatches out on the dancefloor.

However, such low-rent days are consigned to the recycling bin of history (no food waste). The Quay these days is home to themed club nights during the week and live gigs on a Saturday.
Now while nobody has a keener appetite than I for schlepping along to see beat combos with unorthodox fringes and pointy shoes, the fact that the venue in question offers free entry and sells cheap ale was undeniably a major factor in my agreeing to darken their doors.

£1.50 for a bottle of Becks, since you're asking. Right up until 9pm, when the price reverts to normal.

To the entertainment. First up were a bunch of eager young hopefuls from Hereford called Brandon Steep. Let me tell you this, they were dashed good. Two lead singers, a cheeky, good-looking self-assured cove and an ungainly, awkward little chap, shared "vocal chores" and "traded riffs" as I believe the rock weeklies would put it. Tunes you can hum and a well-scrubbed, smartly turned out bunch of young fellows, what's not to like?

I didn't shell out five quids for the CD their keyboard player later tried to punt to me, though. In this age of file-sharing and broadband downloads my CD purchasing budget has been ploughed back into the ale-buying and taxi-riding areas of the business. It is a tough old world, what?

Sordid financial haggling aside, the rest of the evening was slightly downhill from there onwards. Drawing a veil over the in-between band, a ramshackle affair fronted by what appeared to be the village idiot, a sort of cross between Fred Durst from The Limp Biscuits, and a goat.
Our small band of thinkers took this opportunity to sample the atmosphere at The King's, where it was rumoured they have barmaids in bikinis.

Alas, no fighter pilots thumbs or beetle bonnets were to be had on this occasion, the serving staff were all wearing regular clothing. At least the exercise and the fresh air did us some good and we returned for the headline act with a renewed appetite for more uptempo rocking and rolling from the much vaunted Hungover Stuntmen.

A note of caution was sounded when the singer appeared, wearing a waistcoat. A bad sign, I always feel. These misgivings were confirmed by the band's set, which revealed them to be rather dull "authentic" rockers in the mode of The Ocean Colour Scenes or The Paul Wellers. Between you, me and the wall I fucking hate all that shit.
At least there was a bit of celebrity spotting fun to be had, the band's manager Simon Donald, who used to edit Viz Comic, was in full effect. While I didn't care much for his proteges' brand of plodding dadrock, to have a piss alongside the man who created Sid the Sexist, Johnny Fartpants and Millie Tant, was a personal highlight.

Now, it would be nice to sign off there, a neat little account of a pop show in a provincial town. A slice of life, if you will. However, regular readers will be aware of my tendency to overdo the blissful hippocrene and end up making rather a show of myself.

To this end, I ended up in the insalubrious surroundings of BJ's Nite Spot, pissed up on booze and talking tommyrot and tingle-tangle to anyone unfortunate enough to come within ten yards.
Incredibly, there was even a spot of what can only be described as "necking on" with some unknown female. I have no recollection of who she was, what we talked of, or where she went.
It would appear that the Blyth lady goes for an overweight, slurring, incomprehensible pissheid, possibly feeling that it makes a pleasant change from an underweight, slurring, incomprehensible smackheid.

Whatever, Trevor, Blyth is the place for me. Thanks for the add.

If you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this posting, please contact us at ColonelKnowledge at gmail.com. Perhaps you are a strange harpy who has necked on with a fat chap recently. Maybe you love owt like that and would be interested in schtupping a weird chap off the internet. Our researchers are standing by now to take your call. All calls are free and you may be offered a cash reward for information. Your statutory rights are unaffected.