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.
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
Friday, 20 June 2008
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.
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.
Monday, 16 June 2008
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 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.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
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.
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.
Monday, 9 June 2008
Eleven Things I Have Learned Since My Last Post
- Nobody looks good in flip-flops.
- Wasps are essentially stupid and malevolent. They'd do well on The Apprentice.
- Nobody looks good in flip-flops, but men look worse.
- Strawberry ice-cream does not count as one of your 'five-a-day'.
- There is such a thing as too much sunshine.
- Holly bushes are essentially stupid and malevolent. They'd win The Apprentice.
- You need to wash your hands twice to get rid of the smell of gardening gloves.
- 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).
- 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.
- 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.
- Bus travel is not recreational.
Friday, 30 May 2008
Life Before Mobile Phones
You know, I've recently wondered how we managed before mobile phones. I imagine things were very different. And here I am, imagining it . . .
1. INT. A BUSY BUS.
A WHITE TEENAGE BOY GETS ON. HE'S CARRYING A LUDICROUSLY MASSIVE PILE OF EQUIPMENT. HE STRUGGLES DOWN BUS AND SITS ON BACK SEAT.
CAP: 1982
HE PICKS UP A MEGAPHONE AND SHOUTS ACROSS OTHER PASSENGERS TOWARDS THE WINDOW.
TEENAGE BOY:
It's me. I's on me way now, innit.
PASSENGERS TUT, SHUFFLE.
OUT OF THE WINDOW WE SEE A SECOND TEENAGE BOY WITH MEGAPHONE.
CUT TO:
2. EXT. A STREET CORNER.
THE SECOND TEENAGE BOY IS SHOUTING THROUGH HIS MEGAPHONE
SECOND TEENAGE BOY:
It's Lee. He's on his way now, innit.
WE PULL BACK TO SEE IN THE DISTANCE A THIRD TEENAGE BOY, ALSO SHOUTING THROUGH A MEGAPHONE.
THIRD TEENAGE BOY:
It's Lee. He's on . . .
CUT TO:
3. INT. BUS.
TEENAGE BOY:
(STILL SHOUTING) Yeah. Laters.
HE PUTS DOWN MEGAPHONE. PASSENGERS RELAX. THE BUS STOPS. A SWEATING, OUT-OF BREATH, MIDDLE-AGED MESSENGER JUMPS ONTO BUS. HE RUSHES UP TO TEENAGE BOY WITH A PIECE OF A4 PAPER.
PASSENGERS TUT AGAIN. TEENAGE BOY READS PAPER QUICKLY.
TEENAGE BOY:
Gaylord. (PICKS UP OLD-FASHIONED HEAVY MANUAL TYPEWRITER AND TALKS AS HE'S TYPING) M8 r u having a laff. LOL. i said 2nite "colon P".
HE RIPS THE SHEET FROM THE TYPEWRITER AND HANDS IT TO THE MESSENGER. MESSENGER LEAPS OUT OF EMERGENCY EXIT DOOR.
SFX. SCREAMS AND SCREECHING BRAKES.
TEENAGE BOY PUTS DOWN TYPEWRITER. ALL IS CALM. CAMERA FOCUSES ON ONE PASSENGER RELAXING AGAIN.
LOUD CRACKLY SOUND OF COLE PORTER'S CHEEK TO CHEEK STARTS. PASSENGER ANGRILY TURNS ROUND.
TEENAGE BOY HAS AN OLD WIND-UP GRAMOPHONE. ITS TRUMPET IS PUSHING THE HEAD OF A SECOND PASSENGER AGAINST WINDOW.
TEENAGE BOY:
(TO PASSENGER) What?
I bet that's exactly how it was.
1. INT. A BUSY BUS.
A WHITE TEENAGE BOY GETS ON. HE'S CARRYING A LUDICROUSLY MASSIVE PILE OF EQUIPMENT. HE STRUGGLES DOWN BUS AND SITS ON BACK SEAT.
CAP: 1982
HE PICKS UP A MEGAPHONE AND SHOUTS ACROSS OTHER PASSENGERS TOWARDS THE WINDOW.
TEENAGE BOY:
It's me. I's on me way now, innit.
PASSENGERS TUT, SHUFFLE.
OUT OF THE WINDOW WE SEE A SECOND TEENAGE BOY WITH MEGAPHONE.
CUT TO:
2. EXT. A STREET CORNER.
THE SECOND TEENAGE BOY IS SHOUTING THROUGH HIS MEGAPHONE
SECOND TEENAGE BOY:
It's Lee. He's on his way now, innit.
WE PULL BACK TO SEE IN THE DISTANCE A THIRD TEENAGE BOY, ALSO SHOUTING THROUGH A MEGAPHONE.
THIRD TEENAGE BOY:
It's Lee. He's on . . .
CUT TO:
3. INT. BUS.
TEENAGE BOY:
(STILL SHOUTING) Yeah. Laters.
HE PUTS DOWN MEGAPHONE. PASSENGERS RELAX. THE BUS STOPS. A SWEATING, OUT-OF BREATH, MIDDLE-AGED MESSENGER JUMPS ONTO BUS. HE RUSHES UP TO TEENAGE BOY WITH A PIECE OF A4 PAPER.
PASSENGERS TUT AGAIN. TEENAGE BOY READS PAPER QUICKLY.
TEENAGE BOY:
Gaylord. (PICKS UP OLD-FASHIONED HEAVY MANUAL TYPEWRITER AND TALKS AS HE'S TYPING) M8 r u having a laff. LOL. i said 2nite "colon P".
HE RIPS THE SHEET FROM THE TYPEWRITER AND HANDS IT TO THE MESSENGER. MESSENGER LEAPS OUT OF EMERGENCY EXIT DOOR.
SFX. SCREAMS AND SCREECHING BRAKES.
TEENAGE BOY PUTS DOWN TYPEWRITER. ALL IS CALM. CAMERA FOCUSES ON ONE PASSENGER RELAXING AGAIN.
LOUD CRACKLY SOUND OF COLE PORTER'S CHEEK TO CHEEK STARTS. PASSENGER ANGRILY TURNS ROUND.
TEENAGE BOY HAS AN OLD WIND-UP GRAMOPHONE. ITS TRUMPET IS PUSHING THE HEAD OF A SECOND PASSENGER AGAINST WINDOW.
TEENAGE BOY:
(TO PASSENGER) What?
I bet that's exactly how it was.
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
Euthanasia: Be Careful What You Wish For
They've invented a card that allows anyone to refuse treatment in a medical emergency. Here is the BBC banging on about it. Have a little read, by all means, then pop back.
What frankly worries me is that, by signing the card, you might be entering into a written contract. And they are very difficult to get out of.
I can imagine the scene. And here I am, imagining it . . .
EXT: An ambulance arrives at the scene of a road traffic accident. The driver has a nasty cut in his arm and is stuck behind the wheel.
PARAMEDIC 1: Hello, my name's Stephen. What's your name?
DRIVER: Tom.
PARAMEDIC 1: Right, then, Tom. Let's see about getting you out of here. Ooh, bit of a nasty gash there.
DRIVER: Yes, it is a bit tender. (Laughs weakly)
PARAMEDIC 1: I bet. Right, oh, there's a bit of metal stuck in your thigh. Should be okay. Finbar! Tell the fire bobbies we'll need to cut him out.
PARAMEDIC 2 (who has been standing behind): Right you are, Stephen. (Walks off).
PARAMEDIC 1: Right, let's get that arm sorted out (opens medical bag).
PARAMEDIC 2 comes back
PARAMEDIC 2: What are you doing?
PARAMEDIC 1: I'm going to bandage him up, lest he bleed to an untimely death.
PARAMEDIC 2: (Sucks teeth) Have you checked his wallet?
PARAMEDIC 1: Yikes! Nearly forgot. Could have got into serious lumber. (Leans across DRIVER and pulls wallet from pocket).
DRIVER: Oi!
PARAMEDIC 1: (Opens wallet) Just checking. (Pulls out card) Blimey! Cheers, Finbar, that was a close one!
DRIVER: What?
PARAMEDIC 1: You've got one of those Right to Die cards. (He reads) STOP! I want to make an advance decision to refuse treatment. Look, you've signed your name here.
DRIVER: But?
PARAMEDIC 1: (starts putting away bag) There you go. (hands back wallet and card) Well, good luck, Tom.
DRIVER: Hang on. I didn't mean . . . It's only a cut. I meant if I was unconscious.
PARAMEDIC 1: You will be in a minute, if that's any consolation.
DRIVER: Okay, okay, I'm giving you permission now. Treat me.
PARAMEDIC 1: Sorry mate, more than my job's worth. We put so much as a plaster on, and you're straight off to your brief to sue us.
DRIVER: But . . .
PARAMEDIC 2: He's right, mate. You say we've got permission now. But that's not going to stand up in court.
DRIVER: But . . .
PARAMEDIC 1: (Points at watch, clears throat) Finbar, Casualty.
PARAMEDIC 2: Tut, we'll miss the first five minutes. All the best, Tom.
PARAMEDIC 1: Yeah, cheers, Tom.
PARAMEDICS walk back to ambulance. They meet firefighters with cutting equipment and have a short discussion. Then all drive away.
You see, they've opened a can of worms there.
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