Ooh, He's A One, Isn't He?

I feel it important to remind my regular readers that this chap does have form in the unauthorised fiddling with ladies' bits arena.

Look at him here, waiting, biding his time. Then, at last, the lady bumps are unleashed, and he pounces . . .



I've checked with my lawyers and they've assured me there's no way this is prejudicial.

Inflationary Pressures

I have pictured a scene. And here I am, picturing it.

1. INT. MORNING. Swish London apartment. Double height windows. Lots of marble and wood and glass and that (think the apartments in that Billie Piper filth-fest).

CHARLES enters main living space (as Kevin McCloud would no doubt call it on Grand Designs). He's exaggeratedly posh, rakish, and expensively dressed (Armani suit, etc) with stubble.

CHARLES
Open.

The curtains automatically open showing stunning vista of London.

CUT TO:

2. INT. Bedroom. Beautifully and tastefully decorated, with massive king-size bed. There's somebody in it, but we can't see who.

CHARLES goes to bedside table and picks up Rolex. Slips it on.

CHARLES
(TO BED) Ah, you're awake. Thank you for a wonderful evening.

PULL BACK to reveal TWO BEAUTIFUL WOMEN in the bed, obviously in the nip (although covered up with those special U-shaped sheets).

WOMEN giggle.

CHARLES picks up some car keys.

CHARLES
I'm sorry I can't run you home. Duty calls, I'm afraid ... (THROWS KEYS TO WOMEN) ... but please take the Porsche ...

BEAUTIFULLY DISHEVELLED THIRD WOMAN (also in nip) crawls out from under sheets at the other end of the bed.

CHARLES
... and the Lamborghini. (THROWS SECOND SET OF KEYS)

CUT TO:

3. INT. Apartment block lobby. Lift doors open. CHARLES strides out through lobby, talking on mobile phone.

CHARLES... God's sake, you're my stockbroker, not my mother. It's only £250k. I pissed half that away last night. Just put it on, it's my risk, not yours ...

CUT TO:

4. EXT. Entrance to apartment block. CHARLES exits building past COMMISSIONAIRE.

CHARLES
... Anyway, see you on the court. I'm at work now. Ciao. (SWITCHES OFF PHONE).

COMMISSIONAIRE
I've brought it round, Sir.

COMMISSIONAIRE hands CHARLES copy of the Daily Star.

CHARLES walks over to dirty Shell petrol tanker with paper under arm. Climbs in to cab. Drives off, beeping horn.

END.

Goodness! Gracious! Great Balls Of Fire

I am terrified. Literally. Terrified. And I'll tell you why.

The petrol pumps have run dry in my neck of the woods because of people panic buying petrol. I'm not even sure how you panic buy petrol. Do you run into the little shop screaming?

Anyway, it's all because the Shell tanker drivers have gone on strike. And why have they gone on strike? Because they want more money.

They want a big pay rise. The bosses say the pay rise they've been offered would take the average salary to £41,000, the unions say the average would move from £32,000 to £36,000.

Either way, that seems a lot of money for just driving around a bit. If I'd known all I had to do to pull in £40k a year was get an HGV driving licence, I wouldn't have bothered with all that work in college, all the extra hours, and all the greasy pole climbing*.

Of course, it's not just driving around a bit. They have extra money for the sheer risk of driving around big lakes of flammable liquid. I don't understand that, either. If you're killed in a massive ball of flames, the extra money won't make a big difference. If you're horribly burnt by flaming petrol, you'll be living on compensation anyway. If you're not killed or maimed, what's the extra money for?

Anyway, let's assume we're happy the drivers get this danger money. The question we then need to ask is this: are we happy that big mobile unexploded bombs are being driven around the country? Is this really the best way to get fuel from one place to another?

And if it is, why don't I get danger money? I'm expected to risk my life and limb driving next to these tankers of death, and I haven't even had proper haz-mat training.

And that is why I'm terrified.

*It's not pleasant, climbing greasy poles, either. The special grease clogs up their moustaches. Mind you, there aren't so many of them around now. They've all made their money and gone back home. It's all greasy Lithuanian climbing in my office now.

The Cruellest Cut

I am a little disconcerted. And discomfited, as it happens. My barber appears to have closed down his shop.

I'm a man of habits, particularly in the follicular forum. I had the same haircut for 19 years, for goodness' sake, from the age of 15. I scoffed at fashionable opinion, on the grounds that a stopped clock is right twice a day, and the style was bound to come in again at some point. I'm still waiting.

I only change my barber if I have to. I particularly liked this barber as he wasn't very chatty. Chattiness is fine in its place - say, when you're having a chat - but it's surely right that when a hairdressing professional is letting fly with sharp scissors around your ears he should be on the attentive side. Also, I don't know enough about football to sustain more than about a minute's conversation.

I don't know what I'm going to do. It's nearly time for my next haircut. I have flirted with other establishments when I've had to in the past, but it's like Russian roulette. Only with hair, and without the bullet. Or the gun. It's just that I'm too old to carry off an ironic haircut, so if it all goes wrong, I'm stuffed.

I hate my old barber for this.*

*Unless he's dead, in which case I'm very sorry.

Eleven Things I Have Learned Since My Last Post

1. Nobody looks good in flip-flops.
2. Wasps are essentially stupid and malevolent. They'd do well on The Apprentice.
3. Nobody looks good in flip-flops, but men look worse.
4. Strawberry ice-cream does not count as one of your 'five-a-day'.
5. There is such a thing as too much sunshine.
6. Holly bushes are essentially stupid and malevolent. They'd win The Apprentice.
7. You need to wash your hands twice to get rid of the smell of gardening gloves.
8. Gulliver's World is a theme park. And the theme is larceny (£3.50 for a digital picture print-out of Bandage looking like a big fool on a log flume).
9. Brooklyn is considered a suitable name for a child outside the social circle of the Beckhams. How pleased the child I encountered saddled with that name will be in later life that David and Posh did not name their first-born Tracy, or Toenail.
10. Nobody looks good in flip-flops, but you can make yourself look worse if you are A) male, B) fat, C) wearing those special long shorts, and D) wearing a vest top.
11. Bus travel is not recreational.