Trumpet Street

Smack Heads

2006-09-24T07:51:00.000+01:00

There’s a lot of debate at the moment about smacking children;

Whether it’s appropriate in civilised society to use violence to direct a child’s behaviour
Whether smacking your child is a lesson in being cruel to be kind
Whether it’s ok to smack another person’s child
Whether it’s best if we all smack every child we lay eyes on

On a recent Talk Sport radio phone-in, one caller said that if her kiddie was misbehaving in the supermarket she used to threaten it with her singing opera in the middle of the store and that soon brought the little toe-rag into line. Can you imaging that?

I was taught by nuns in primary school and these people new how to be violent. They customised rulers by splitting them at the ends or by tying a two together so they inflicted maximum pain when hit with them. Nuns were brilliant at throwing chalk and board rubbers. They always aimed for the temple. If you were lucky there’d be four of you still conscious at the end of an English lesson.

I think most of these nuns were blokes who couldn’t make the grade as priests. I know Sister Immaculata had a tattoo of a swallow on her neck and wore size 11 Dr Martin boots.

Worzelees

2006-09-24T07:32:00.000+01:00

It seems like years since I last posted. I've been so damn busy with stupid things like earning a living. There's little short-term prospect of the pace slowing down so I'll post when I can.

Anyhoops. To the subject in hand....

As a result of purchasing Worzel Gummidge DVDs, I am now able to speak fluent Worzelees.

This makes me trilingual as I can also speak English and bollocks.

Worzelees is remarkably easy to learn.

First, all words are spelt out in Worzelees and there is no punctuation to worry about.

To translate a word from English to Worzelees, spell out the word using standard alphabet letters but follow each letter with the syllable "wor". Each word in Worzelees ends with the syllable "dip".

By applying this, my name in Worzelees is "Essworteeworeeworpeeworhaitchworeeworennwordip".See?

Seewerohwerohwerellwerdip!

Mourners

2006-08-26T08:24:00.000+01:00

You rarely see mourners
in corners of saunas
they don’t hang in steam rooms
it’s not their domain

They’re weepy eyes wetty
and not at all sweaty
but really upsetty
kickin’ ass graveside’s
the name of their game

That’s where they do their best work
Coffin Boffins

Lottery

2006-08-24T22:15:00.000+01:00

If I won a million pounds on the lottery, my first purchases would be a top hat, a monocle, spats and a briefcase with a £ sign on the side of it.

Then I'd get some respect.

Not the Brightest

2006-08-21T07:50:00.000+01:00

I despair. My 14 year old daughter asked me if Che Guevara came from Wales. Her belief that the revolutionary may have come from the valleys was borne out of her Welsh schoolmate have a Che badge on his jacket - The Motorcycle Diaries, isn't it, boyo.

Her best friend was under the impression that I was acquiring a pet bull. She had misheard. I had ordered a Motorola Pebl.

I conclude that both are dense.

To Hull and Back

2006-08-19T16:32:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, Auds the kids and I travelled to Hull to visit The Deep. We had planned to visit the coast but as the weather was typically British, i.e. as wet as an incontinent's under-trouser, we opted for this indoor attraction.

If you haven't visited Hull, don't bother. Why? Because;

It smells of fish but not a nice fish smell. This smell is not too far removed from that of an old lady with a "down below" infection.
The approach and exit to Hull involves a great deal of sitting in traffic jams with little to look at other than the men folk of Hull slumped on street corners swigging Special Brew and 14 year old mothers pushing baby-buggies in the direction of the benefits agency.

After enduring the odours and traffic jams, we eventually arrived at our destination.

The Deep would have been a great day out but for the number of people they had managed to cram into the place. It was like the Tokyo underground in there with faces squashed up against huge fish tanks and people struggling to breathe.

After enduring two hours of that, we made our way home through the streets of Hull where I was road raged - TWICE!

The first involved a taxi driver who was not too impressed with my nifty u-turn on one of their main thoroughfares - Rotting Haddock Street, I think. This vocular Hackney driver shouted "you fucking wanker" as I passed him going in the opposite direction.

"How unoriginal, you damaged tulip!" I called back, 600 yards down the road after I had time to think about it.

Just two minutes later I was being beeped by some impatient arse in a 1989 Ford Escort at traffic lights when I could move no further than three yards.

Naturally, had I not had the missus and kiddies with me, I would have given him a damn good thrashing but a combination of this and cowardice averted such an incident.

I think people in Hull are aggressive and miserable because of their surroundings and all the fish they have to eat.

Captain Birdseye is from Hull and he goes on long voyages with children. If I were parent of one of his "shipmate's" I would be waiting quayside to string him up.

Coprophobia

2006-08-17T08:33:00.000+01:00

Coprophobia is the fear of poo
and if I were to suffer
I'd scream on sight of dog dirt
and never wipe my chuffer.

A Correction

2006-08-17T08:09:00.000+01:00

The comment "layabout, thieving, drug-addled scum" in my previous post should have read "misunderstood, disadvantaged penitents suffering from addiction". I just wanted to clear that up.

Broke Again

2006-08-16T23:16:00.000+01:00

Bloody lawyers! I received an interim invoice from my solicitor today for handling a saga involving our house and Auds' ex-husband (right). So far, nothing has happened. We are at stalemate. The situation hasn't progressed one iota in six months. Naturally, I have been charged just short of £1000 by my solicitor for overseeing absolutely nothing. He claims to have perused some letters from the opposition and has allegedly sent out twenty messages. I'm in the wrong game. At this rate, I may need to pass the hat round for fighting funds.

It seems solicitors are like doctors in that their word is rarely challenged. We tend to accept what they say as Gospel. Well, I can't afford to do that, so I may be dispensing with my lawyer's services.

It would be quite a bold experiment, but it has crossed my mind to represent myself using the Internet as a knowledge pool. It worked for Eric Bottlebank...

The nasty bill from the legal leeches soured my day however levity broke the mood at news that a Welsh council had confused cyclists by erecting signs which suggested they had urinery problems. Officials had translated the command "cyclists dismount" from English into Welsh for the sign between Penarth and the capital Cardiff. However, the result had been the baffling phrase: "Llid y bledren dymchwelyd" which roughly translates as "bladder inflammation overturn." Brilliant.

I missed Bad Lad's Army on the TV last night. I love it when layabout, thieving, drug-addled scum get the living daylights knocked out of them by hairy-arsed squaddies. That alone justifies the licence fee.

Charm School

2006-08-15T07:56:00.000+01:00

Ann Arbor of Charisma Arts has set up a charm school for chaps who find great difficulty in chatting up and wooing the opposite sex.

It's true that some people find this unnatural situation intensely embarrassing and awkward. Even the most polished of raconteurs can quickly dissolve into being an babbling, stuttering dickhead with all the charm of a STD when engaged in conversation with the fairer sex. One bloke claims to suffer from premature ejectulation in that he would eject himself early from promising conversations with women for fear of rejection.

Michigan-based Ann Arbor is no idiot. She can see a niche that needs to be filled and will happily relieve flush-faced wrecks of $1600 to give them a few pointers in how to pull and there is no shortage of fellas with low-esteem and more money than sense out there

It seems a bit rich to charge £1600 just for information which may or may not work. I too used to suffer from similar anxieties but self-taught my way out of them. As a community service, I have provided three of my own tips for pulling the opposite sex, free of charge.

1 - Pretend you are gay - Women just love gay men. A lady will instantly relax in the company of a gay bloke and it's a fantastic way to discover all kinds of intimate secrets, which will sub-consciously give you the upper-hand when you eventually declare your heterosexually. It's best not to actually lie about being gay for fear of being accused of deception. Just wear really well co-ordinated clothes, be clean, sensitive, attentive, comment on furnishings and wave your arms around a lot when talking. That should do it.

2 - Reinvent yourself - If you feel awkward and inadequate about yourself, be someone else. In the past I have been a professional hot-air balloonist (I don't like heights), a deep sea diver (can't swim), a beagle master (hate hunting), a racing driver (speed scares me) and a rock singer (can't do that, either). The trick is, if rejected, it's not you being given the elbow, it's the invention. This lessens the negative impact on esteem but the drawback is when you are found to be a liar, you are toast.

3 - Get drunk - I like to call this option "Old Faithful" as it has never let me down. Well, I'm sure it has but I was too drunk to appreciate what a tit I was making of myself at the time. Yes, a drunk is a pest who no one wants around but a drunk is also an oblivious pest who no one wants around. I like to think that in my drunken state I am as charming and smooth as Hugh Grant. Reality may paint a different picture.

If all three tips fail, just be yourself and expect nothing other than a friendship and remember, there's a reason you are single.

Is that helpful?

It's Not Cricket

2006-08-13T22:58:00.000+01:00

The most recent post from my new chum, Xill-e-Ilahi, refers to England’s series victory over Pakistan. He’s clearly very upset and emotional about the whole thing. I know that in his part of the world, cricket is almost a religion.

I’m indifferent to the game. Well, that’s not strictly true – I find cricket the most rock-achingly boring contest imaginable, closely followed by golf. I would rather chew cooking foil than attend a cricket match.

The one time I was bullied into playing the game (by Mr Fusco when I was a 12 year old schoolboy) I took a corky ball full in the knackers. This may have cemented my early dislike of the sport.

It seems I’m not alone in my distain of the game. UK television viewing figures support my opinion with Judge Judy raking in more viewers than any of the innings of the England v Pakistan test match.

Mark my words, unless radical changes are made, cricket will go the same way as real tennis, croquet and quoits. It will become an obscure and quaint spectacle played only by chronic nerds – the sort who maypole dance and bog-snorkel on high days and holidays.

I have an idea.

My proposal is combine one or two elements of rugby league with cricket.

I would rename the game “Crugby”.

The normal rules of cricket would apply apart from when batsmen are making runs. At this point, the fielders (or backline) would be permitted to rugby tackle the batsmen as they sprint between the wickets in an attempt to have them run out. For their part, the batsmen would be allowed to violently fend off would-be tacklers with their crugby bats.

Batsmen would also be encouraged to “take-out” nearby fielders when the ball was out of play. No one would be allowed on the field to tend to unconscious fielders. They would remain where they lay until they regained consciousness. The more fielders decked, the more runs would be scored.

Sounds good, huh? Can you imagine the viewing figures?

Rupert Murdoch, I await your call.

Supersized Me

2006-08-12T01:56:00.000+01:00

In the comments section of my post "Idiot in Tweeds" I've received feedback from a chap (I assume it's a bloke) who questions the adequacy of my manhood.

I have responded to this slur as best I can but to save this page from becoming the equivilent of a London phone box, could anyone tell me how to delete comments such as these?

I would be very grateful.

Three Into One

2006-08-11T11:59:00.000+01:00

Has anyone else noticed the striking similarities between the Home Secretary Rt Hon John Reid MP, Eastenders hard man, Phil Mitchell and Raymond Briggs' damp character Fungus the Bogeyman? Could they be related? Could it be that David Icke's theory, that most politicians are shape-shifting reptilians from the planet Zimp, has some substance and Reid is leading multiple lives? You never see the three of them in the same room.

Idiot in Tweeds

2006-08-11T01:00:00.000+01:00

I was back at hospital today. I’m at day nine post-op and my throat is still painful. I have problems swallowing. I’ll resist the obvious Carry-on gag - (gag! There’s another one). I was prescribed with painkillers that were developed with poorly rhinos in mind so I’m afraid I keep drifting off and feel……

After collecting my prescription from the pharmacy, I sat on a bench outside the hospital entrance waiting for a friend who had kindly offered to collect me and take me home. After a few moments, a large man in a tweed suit waddled up and sat next to me before lighting up a cigarette!

“You inconsiderate tweedy bastard! How dare you invade my personal space in this way? You wobble over here, park your big fat flabby arse, light up a death stick and your revolting smoke has carried straight into my face. Well, I’m recovering from a throat op but don’t let that worry you, you incautious, self-centred, thoughtless wanker” I said (but only to myself - later when thinking back to the incident).

I’ve never been forthright. I often wish I could be the type who says what he sees and if you don’t like it, good. I suppose I’m what you would call soft and you can call me softy and ofty as you please. If I think that by sounding off I’ll hurt someone’s feelings, I’ll keep my gob shut. As my old mum says “It’s nice to be nice, if a little dreary and boring”

During an insecure period in my life I considered changing my name to make myself more interesting. You see, a name creates a mental image and expectation before you even meet the person.

If you were heading for a crucial business meeting with Wally Gubbins, you'd fancy your chances of being able to dictate the direction, tone and result of the meeting. If, however, you were to negotiate with Peter Topes-Bastard, you would understandably be wary.

If you were set up on a blind date with Nora Slack or Enid Pegg, you may be tempted to forget the time and venue of the intended liaison. On the other hand, if you were set up with Roxy LaBoom or Suzi Lix, you'd me mad to give it a miss.

I was going to be either Kurt Xerox or Clint Sterling

The drugs are kicking in so I’ll sign off before I start bridge wig keyhole tit complete gobbledygook.

Groceries

2006-08-10T03:38:00.000+01:00

First a rant...

Chunkey Monkey, Fossil Fuel, Half Baked, Peace of Cake, Phish Food, Wich... Come on Messrs Ben & Jerry. Give me a clue! I know you do ice-cream as I've found these categorised items whilst doing an online grocery shop but I don't have the foggiest idea what they are supposed to taste of. None of it sounds particularly appetising. If I wanted to taste chimp limbs, coal, raw food and the like, I'd be pregnant but I'm not and I would hazard a guess that you're not targeting those in the family way so kindly label your food clearly. It is the height of arrogance to assume we should be sufficiently familiar with your wares as to know what they taste of but I suppose that's to be expected from a pair of egotists who use their names to promote the company.

The word "grocery" is disappearing from common usage. This is a great shame but it seems the word has been asked to get its coat and is halfway through the door to disuse and forgotton.

I suggest we all use the word as a pet-name for our loved ones to keep it in circulation. Next time you're in the throes of passion, moan phrases such as "Go on, you little high street grocer" or when postcoital, declare that you have "delivered the groceries." That should keep it foremost in the cerebral thesaurus ready for use whenever appropriate. Romance is my forte.

Whilst on the subject of romance, my 14 year old daughter has yet another beau. This one is called Wilson or Dennis or Wesley or Lewis or somethingorother. I have yet to clap eyes on this lad but if he's anything like previous incumbents, he will be a short haired, short brained, acned, pubescent yobbo with limited vocabulary, a baseball cap welded to his head and a mobile phone permanently lodged in his ear. I confidently predict that this one will last two weeks, when there will be floods of tears, drama and histrionics to mark the demise of the liaison.

I am told that I have been a bit of a crabby old sod whilst at home recovering from my op. To be fair, I'd have got sick of having me around this week. I'm tired of hearing the sound of my own voice complaining of pain and discomfort so my poor wife and kids must feel like clubbing me to death. I must really make an effort to be less like a six year old girl.

Adieu!

Poetic Pathetic

2006-08-09T00:14:00.000+01:00

In a former invention, I wrote poems. I was clearing out a few files and chanced across these.

Picasso

Pablo Picasso,
kiss my asso
your paintings look quite odd
nudes’ pubes are cubes
triangle boobs
and bottoms like Dyno-Rod
vans

Carl Fogarty

Superbike hero
Carl Fogarty
crashed into a milk-float
and got all yoghurty

Archaeology

I don’t dig archaeology
DIY’s how I get my thrills
You knob around with a trowel
and I salivate over drills.
You rabbit on incessantly
‘bout Romans and Vindolanda
and the only reason I’m still stood here
is I’d quite like to borrow your sander

That's why I stopped writing poetry.

In Recovery

2006-08-07T07:32:00.000+01:00

Oh, the pain! The agony! I thought I'd experienced misery having been a season ticket holder at Elland Road but God, take me now!
Well, it's not actually that bad. I'm back at home, popping co-codamol and diclofenac like Smarties and as long as I'm off my face with drugs, I'm OK.
For those who have not yet read my previous post, I was admitted to York District Hospital for an uvulectomy, septoplasty and soft palate diathermy last Wednesday.
It all went rather well although I got a bit windy on the way down to surgery and went all idiosyncratic by speed talking total bollocks until I went under.
As I came round in the recovery room, I picked up where I left off and made a right arse of myself by heaping praise on the surgeon, anesthetist, nursing staff, house doctors, porters, visitors and "anyone else I may have forgotten".
I then slipped into papal mode and insisted in blessing the poor nurse who was wheeling me back to the ward.
Yep, I made a complete tit of myself.
My ward was shared with an ex-paratrooper called Ian. He was a proper man who refused all painkillers and never once complained of any discomfort. We contrasted.
Ian worked out that I found laughing painful and cracked gag after gag. Nice bloke, though.
The most horrible bit of my stay was the removal of my nasal tampons. Yes, that's right - nasal tampons. My nose had been packed with a pair of tampons to stem the bleeding after the op. Two pieces of string dangled down from my nostrils and the morning after the op, a nurse removed them. When a nurse tells you that "Once we start pulling them out, we can't stop I'm afraid" you know you're in trouble. That was the most painful experience I have ever had - miles worse than catching your knob in a zip.
All's well that ends well and I'm now back at home, drugged up but on the mend.
Toodle-pip!

Under the Knife

2006-08-01T23:53:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow morning I will attend York District Hospital for surgery. I’m having an uvulectomy, that’s having the dangly bit at the back of my throat cut out as it’s too long (never had any complaints…he ho ha) some septoplasty, that’s channelling a clear route through the top of my nose and soft palate diathermy which involves burning laser holes in the back of the roof of my mouth to tighten it up.

I’m not too excited at the prospect and will lay off the salt & vinegar for a week or two but it needs doing to improve my breathing and cure the snoring.

Coincidentally, Auds (Good Lady Wife) was in dock for surgery last week. She had an endometrial cell ablation op which is an unpleasant genealogical procedure. Naturally, at visiting time I had to give my rendition of Kool & the Gang’s chart-buster -

Cell ablation time,
C’mon, let’s cell ablate

I laughed heartily but alone.

The last time I was in hospital it was to remove a nasty lump at the back of my ear. I hope you’re not eating as you read this. A local anaesthetic was administered and I was pleasantly surprised to discover that music was being piped into theatre during the op. As the surgeon cut out the lump, Simply Red struck up “Holding Back the Years.” On that occasion I did not laugh as I was too busy squirming.

Wish me luck!

The Empress' Old Clothes

2006-07-31T11:29:00.000+01:00

A selection of the Queen's clothing has gone on public display at Buckingham Palace. Gowns and dresses dating back to before the coronation are hung over queen-sized tailor’s dummies for scores of blue-rinse royalists to gawp at in admiration.

I can't for the life of me understand why anyone would pay good money to look at someone else's clothes.

It's not as if you could get a few ideas and then knock up something similar at home using a Singer sewing machine. These are all hand made outfits that cost tens of thousands of pounds using materials which are totally inaccessible to mere mortals.

Hundreds of pearls from juvenile Vernal Oysters, which are only found 2000 ft below the sea off the coast of the Maldives, are hand stitched onto one particular stole. Stole? Who the buggerface wears stoles? No one I know.

Slippers fashioned from baby fruit bat skin and decorated with diamonds mined by exploited six year old South African orphan children are on display. Ok, I made that one up but you get the picture.

In my humble opinion, the TV news channels went a little overboard on this one too. Would Jenny Bond be tear-arsing it up to York if I declared that I was exhibiting a decade's worth of my skaggy and saggy undies? Would Sky News be interested in my Frankie Says Relax t-shirt? Would ITN feature my Oxford Bags? Nope.

And (I know it's very bad form to start a paragraph with "and" but this merits it as I'm on a roll) what the hell is she doing with fifty year old gear anyway? Has she never heard of car boot sales? The woman is a hoarder. With all that free dosh she gets, you'd think she could buy new and sort out a few bin liners of threads for Help the Aged or that Scopey lot.

Once again, we The Oppressed have royal opulence waved in our dirty little common faces to keep us in check.

Well, I know my place and I'm quite happy thanks. You can stick your ludicrous dresses, stoles, bat shoes and uniforms up your royal blue arses, your majesties!

You may have guessed that I'm not a royalist.

Anyone want to see my pants?

Justice

2006-07-13T23:26:00.000+01:00

A 21 year old man was sentenced to six months imprisonment for glassing a pub landlord in front of his children. The hard man defendant (he's pictured right) burst into tears at the news of his impending incarceration, no doubt fearing for his virginity and somewhat concerned that his loss of liberty may cause the giros to dry up.

The judge's reaction to his girly sobs?
"I have 18 years' experience and I saw your demeanour when you left the dock and saw your genuine fear, regret and remorse at the thought of going to prison," he said. "I am prepared to reconsider my original sentence. The court is not in the business of destroying people. The few weeks you would spend in prison might destroy you."
With that, Judge Clark rescinded his original sentence and gave the sensitive soul a suspended term and sent him on his way.

How mad is that? If proof were needed that this country is going down the U-bend like a big chod in a hurry, then there it is.

This is great news for amateur dramatics groups in the UK. Violent criminals, paedos, perverts, burglars and thieves will soon be appearing in the chorus line of Oklahoma at a community centre near you as they hone their acting skills, to be ready for the moment they are given a spell in chokey by some in-bred toffee-nosed twit in a wig.

There will be awards for the best prostration, hysterics, uncontrolled sobbing (though it will be very much controlled as these will be seasoned actor-criminals) and physical repentance. Jonathon Ross will host the awards with Billy "Two-Hammers" Grimes picking up a life-term achievement award for getting off a double homicide through feinting.

So when did we go wrong? At what point did we decide to pander to criminals? Who came up with the notion that by being lenient we would appeal to Billy Burglar’s better nature and cause him to reflect on the error of his ways?

I find it hard to believe that any criminal has ever come out of court thinking “Crikey! How lenient. That soft judge has really taught me a lesson. I’ve had it with my criminal lifestyle. I’m devoting my life to charity work from now on.”

When did our government decide to ditch its primary responsibility for protecting the country’s citizens? It seems criminals have absolute protection of their rights but the only protection the rest of us have is an under-resourced police service who simply can’t cope.

Those highly-paid judges selected to deal with the bastards who break into our cars, burgle our houses and intimidate our senior citizens haven’t a clue about the reality of it all. They exist on a different plane.

All judges should be made to live on inner city estates for a year. That’s do the trick! If inthat year a judge had his car stolen, his house burgled, became a robbery victim, lived next to neighbours from hell and had his garden trashed by vandals, he may gain a missing perspective.

I’ve written myself into being fed up again.

Generation Morph

2006-07-12T16:00:00.000+01:00

I've turned into my dad. I swore it would never happen but it has. I’ve developed IBS – Irritable Bloke Syndrome.

My ‘hope I die before I get old’ has become ‘hope I die before I get cremated’. My CD collection is considered too passé for Radio 2 and my kids are aliens.

When I was a teenager, my dad would embarrass me by singing along to opera records whilst my mates were around. He could be über-surly, gruff and unwelcoming to visitors.

As a man of routine, when he came home from work at the office, he would change into the same clothes every evening – sky blue Farah trousers and a white cotton shirt with the top two buttons missing. He wore the same sandals (dessert wellies) for two decades. They eventually left the house of their own accord having sought a divorce from dad’s feet.

The old man had a talent for ruining Top of the Pops with his acidic commentary - “Mott the Hoople? Which one’s Mott? You can tell they wrote this one themselves” – “David Bowie? Denise Bowie more like!”

Now you may thing that there’s not much to love there but you’d be wrong. My dad was/is a misunderstood soul with a kind heart if you can find it.

Dad fell asleep at the top table during my wedding reception for which he was utterly unapologetic yet he sobbed when his cat got run over. Complex, huh?

I always struggled to understand him and vowed that I would never grow to be like him but lately I’ve noticed one of two worrying signs.

I suppose an early warning marker was when my fourteen year old daughter accepted a lift to meet her friends but then insisted that I park half a mile away so I wasn’t seen. Her friends stopped visiting the house and I was encouraged not to answer the phone.

I’m only 45, for God’s sake. I’m still relatively, er… young –aren’t I?

My ten year old daughter has developed this look she casts my way. It’s usually in response to a perfectly reasonable request on my part. Her eyes roll then drop into a stare which says “Have a word with yourself, you daft old fart.”

My four year old lad considers me to be below him in the domestic hierarchy. He’s probably spot on.

My twenty year old daughter gave birth to Joshua this year. I’m a granddad and I think Josh’s arrival is what has caused my fogey hormones to run rampant.

I now have all the patience of an ADHD sufferer on speed. If a shopping queue isn’t moving quickly enough for me, I’ll abandon my trolley and bugger off. If that’s not fogeyish enough, I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen all about it for the next two weeks.

I get a bee in my bonnet on a daily basis. This is known as my daily bee. No prizes for creative thinking.

Yesterday, my daily bee was kids being allowed to take calculators into maths exams. Why? What is the point in testing them? What are the knob heads who run education trying to test?

Today’s bee is the dross they dredge up as subject matter for the Jeremy Kyle Show. Where do they get them from? What species are they? Why can’t they shave before appearing on national telly? As for the men…

It’s not just the guests who rattle me. I thought Tricia was a know-all bint but I’d like to put Kyle through a turbine. What an arse-hole!

Text messages infuriate me. Do we not write English in this country anymore? Da wy kdz txt fx mi of. What hope have we when young people communicate in this way and manage to understand each other? They are killing the English language in instalments.

I hate the music my kids listen to. They call it R&B. R&B my ass! R&B is the wonderful musical form produced by artists such as Dr Feelgood and Bo Diddley with his ‘shave-and-a haircut-six-bits’ rhythm guitar. The crap my kids listen to all sounds the same. The lyrics are obscene!

My daily bees are fast becoming twice-daily bees and this is a matter of some concern. I’m morphing into dad. I’ll soon be up to a swarm a week and have people pumping smoke into my face.

Physically, the warnings are there. I am sprouting hairs everywhere. I was hirsute to start with but now the growth rate and location of new hair is a phenomenon all on its own. I actually have to shave the outside of my ears on a daily basis or within a week the hair’s down to my shoulders.

My ears are growing at an alarming rate. I have developed the profile of a weather cock. They are effing huge!

There are many more aspects of life that I have fallen out with and I’m noticing physical changes to my body daily and that means one thing – I’m 45 going on 80. I am my dad.

Big Brother

2006-07-11T10:10:00.000+01:00

Until recently, I had never watched Big Brother. I knew very little about it. Of course, I was aware of the general idea behind the programme - A group of strangers are thrown together into a confined living area for several weeks with no contact with the rest of the world. It was promoted as a social experiment which made us feel more like anthropologists than voyeurs.

I resisted watching a single minute of it until last year. The idea of watching a group of strangers picking their noses and lounging around in their underpants did not appeal to me in the least.

Then I met my wife. Of course, she wasn't my wife when I met her. There had been no secret arranged marriage, a marriage so secret that even I had no idea I'd been hitched. No, I was fully aware of all aspects of the courting, engagement and wedding process and a bloody good thing it turned out to be too.

Then I met Audra, my wife, who is a bit of a Big Brother fan. I grudgingly sat through the first programme of Big Brother 6 as a group of social misfits and no-marks were introduced to the public as they strutted and posed to a baying crowd and gathered press before disappearing into a prefabricated unit known as the Big Brother house.

I was hooked. I have no idea who decides on which inmates take part but they have a nasty, sick streak in their nature.

I watched the rest of BB6 whenever time would allow, though I did resist doing the night shift to watch them sleep. Who the hell does that?

I often found myself shouting at the telly "Get a bloody grip, lad" or "He'd last about 30 seconds in Seacroft Working Men’s Club" or "Put them away, love" or "He/she can go on Friday, for me".

The show relies on our dislike of the people involved or our sympathy for the token misfits such as Eugene in BB6 or Peter in the current series. An inoffensive Bill Average would be voted out in no time. We want nasty buggers, ass holes who make idiots of themselves, exhibitionists and social flounderers and Channel 4 are happy to keep dishing them up as evidenced through the current Big Bro.

Take Lea as an example. Lea is a 35 year old (if she's 35 I'm a sausage) ex porn star with cartoon knockers and the sexual appetite of a hyena on heat. We were 'treated' to Lea sticking her busters in the face of any male who sat still for more than ten seconds. That was her thing and all she had to offer - an enormous chest which she wasn’t afraid of using.

Then there's Pete, a young lad with Tourettes Syndrome. Well, either he suffers from Tourettes or he was just telling Lea to f*** off with her squashy knocker trick. He's the bookies favourite to win Big Brother. He's reasonably inoffensive (easy for me to say - he hasn't told me to go eff myself) he's not a bad looking lad and he gets the sympathy of the viewer because of his condition.

Richard is a British born Canadian who is as camp as Christmas. He can mince with the best of them and adds a real splash of colour to the house, though on occasion shows a level of maturity missing from the rest of them.

Aisleyne is a mixing little mare who struts around in next to nothing (a common trait) and causes no end of misery by dividing the house with her back-stabbing comments and superior attitude.

Jane is a strange one. A large lady who belches and farts like a Pontefract brickie. She projects herself as larger than life which is always a sign of insecurity.

Nicki is a spoilt little thing who is used to getting her own way, has ambitions to be a footballer's wife and the maturity of a seven year old. She'll do well.

We tune in every evening to watch the fireworks, flaws and fakeness of it all and Big Brother never fails to deliver.

There's a good argument for taking the cameras away and just leaving the inmates to themselves. When they eventually emerge they would see a bloke sweeping up, a mongrel dog crapping by the fence, tumbleweed and no one else around. That is maybe what they deserve for wanting to be on BB in the first place.

It's all very well feeling so superior to the contestents and sniping and picking them apart as I do, but if they're so freaky, sad and inadequate, what does that make me?

Open All Hours

2006-07-03T23:41:00.000+01:00

We were once known as a nation of shopkeepers. Not too many years ago, tens of thousands of corner shops were manned by tens of thousands of Ronnie Barker look-alikes who stood behind wide wooden counters, dressed in used tea-bag brown overalls, offering fine wares and good counsel to customers they considered to be friends.

Cash was paid and big fat, blunt pencils scribbled "reckoning-up" on paper bags.

The shopkeeper was a respected member of society. He, more often than she, toiled long hours with few staff and prices were kept keen and affordable. A shopkeeper was considered to be reliable, solid and dependable.

Sadly, all this is a distant memory. Shopping today is about as enjoyable as chewing tin foil.

It matters not which retailer you choose; Asda, Sainsbury, Tesco or Morrisons, the retail experience is pretty much the same.

The first problem encountered is in selecting a trolley that actually works. Only 7% of shopping trolleys move in the direction you push them. Don’t be fooled into thinking that this is as a consequence of wear and tear. That’s what they’d like you to believe but it’s bollocks. Supermarkets, or superstores as they prefer to be called, provide omni-directional trolleys as standard. This is to ensure that the hapless shopper, i.e. me, covers optimum floor space in my journey around the store as opposed to travelling in direct lines from one product to another. It’s genius when you think about it. You’re led all over the bloody place by a trolley which you are pushing. No one is shoving you toward the beetroot in the hope you’ll make a purchase. The damn trolley is taking you there.

Supermarkets are busy places. The isles are invariable too narrow for the traffic. Much of my time is spent stationary, as septuagenarians stop to talk to each other after slewing their trolleys across the isle causing gridlock. I routinely shop against the flow of the masses so I get trolley raged often. I get rammed, sworn at, pushed, refused passage – you name it, I get it.

Supermarkets are the most impersonal places. There’s no sense of the warmth you got at Ronnie Barker’s Emporium. Try finding a supermarket worker who can string a sentence together. If you do, you’re speaking to the manager. It’s a fact. All supermarket workers are thick scum. (possibly a slight generalisation)

Then there is the queuing. Do old people who smell of wee wait for me to approach the check out before trundling up behind me? If I wanted to experience that aroma, I’d work in a nursing home. Call me an OCD sufferer, but after five minutes of having old urine-drawers stood behind me, I sense my food has taken on something airborne and feel like putting the contents of my trolley back on the shelves.

I could go on about the slack-jawed check out staff, rogue trolleys on the car park that dent vehicles, high pressure sales people accosting you as you walk through the door pleading with you to sign up for a credit card, the Tannoy announcements no one can understand, the utter stupidity of having a grinning “meeter & greeter” stood in the entrance – it’s a supermarket, not a dinner dance and loyalty reward cards which mean we’re paying too much in the first place, but I will resist.

We use these places as we have no other choice.

Ronnie Barker is dead. What a real shame.

World Cup Eurovision

2006-07-02T07:37:00.000+01:00

I really am spoilt for choice of subject for this first posting.

This country is going to the Hell in a Hillman Imp. My evidence for this statement? England's whimpering exit from the World Cup yesterday.

Set aside the fact that you'd expect the recipients of £100,000 per week pay packets to be able to find the back of the onion bag from twelve yards in a penalty shoot-out. Maybe it's too much to ask for these professionals to be able to project a football all that way in a straight line.

Overlook the agonised writhing of Jock Mole, Chelsea and England, who falls over clutching his shins and screaming in agony whenever anyone so much as looks at him funny. How would such a sensitive soul have managed in the days of Norman Hunter, Tommy Smith, Chopper Knacker et al?

I remember seeing Jack Charlton have his scrotum split open through the studs of Martin Chivers. Big Jack trotted over to the side-line, had a dangling testicle pushed back in and his love bag stitched up pitch-side before trotting back on and maiming the Spurs striker with one just below the knee. Those were the days.

I will ignore for the moment that those foolish enough to waste their time following the team cannot pronounce the name of their country. It's England, not Engerland. If you were one of those who had frittered away your life savings on a trip to Germany to watch that lot, you'd be inclined to think "Well, even the hooligans got more for their money than I did. At least they got to throw a table through a shop window and managed to boot some innocent bystander in the Jacobs." Would you not feel just a little short changed?

The thing that really get's me boiling is the reaction to the defeat.

The players reacted by prostrating themselves around the centre circle and bawling like babies, hoping the cameras would be on them to record how sick as a parrot they actually were. In fact, for once the players became quite competitive at this with centre-half Remo Funglehand, sobbing uncontrollably in response to left-back Noddy Gaville blubbing like a schoolgirl in response to striker Weener Pouch sniffing and snotting onto his sleeve.

For God's sake! Get a grip! Whatever happened to keeping emotions in check with a stiff lip, a quick handshake and a "played" to each member of the opposition before jogging off to trash the opponent’s dressing room whilst they're out on the pitch celebrating?

Freckly Spud, AKA Wilf Grooney, was noticeable by his absence having been sent packing by the ref for trampling on some Portuguese privates. He should have saved the genital work until after England had taken the lead. Someone needs to point this out to him as he doesn't seem to be the brightest.

The news followed the football and the headlines were about the football. This was followed by reports of fatal car bombs in Baghdad, renewed conflict in Gaza and other real tragedies. BBC News has their priorities A to T. No one died at the football match. It's not going to affect anyone at all in the long term. It's about as significant as the result of the Eurovision Song Contest. When did a game become more important than a life?

England is not very good at football. Its players are overpaid, overly precious incompetents and they are followed by idiots. That is the news.