Number Of The Week...

I was reading Private Eye today and the magazine had a good piece on the debate celebrating the bicentennial of the abolition of slavery.

When the vote to abolish slavery was taken in the House of Commons in 1807 the House contained some 420 MPs who had shares in the South Sea Company, which profited from the slave trade. Yet the bulk of those MPs still voted to halt the traffic in slavery even though it would damage their own incomes.

Private Eye, of course, then asked if today’s Commons, which is even more laden with lobbyists and defenders of specific business interests all too keen to offer 'incentives' to 'helpful' friends, would ever vote with such force against something that would damage their own financial interests?

And you’d have to answer probably not…

It was nice to see my local MP Dawn Butler (Brent South) involved in the debate, though. Shame she still hasn’t replied to my letter asking her why she isn’t supporting the EDM (Early Day Motion) to reopen the SFO (Serious Fraud Office) investigation into the corrupt BAE Systems/Saudi arms deal.

But slavery is obviously bad and corrupt arms deals are obviously OK in the world of New Labour. Or are they? I may be doing Dawn Butler an injustice – but I don’t know because I’m still waiting her answer…

OWWLOW News…

The OWWLOW (Other Woman Who Loves Other Women) has been keeping me informed of her latest charge’s progress at a major London Theatre.

Regular readers will already know this is a goat called Bruce and he apparently had problems in his first few performances as nerves got the better of him and his entrances and exits and chases scenes went a little awry.

But Bruce has turned a corner and now the OWWLOW is glad to report that more recently Bruce was ‘amazing in the first goat chase’ and also ‘got a round of applause at the end of his first goat chase’.

Bruce could just possibly be my favourite theatrical quadruped.

Tales From Goole: Part 3...

While out drinking with Older Brother on Saturday I ran into one of his mates who’s also one of the town’s premier league drinkers and local ‘characters’.

Because he also played pool I met him quite early on in my Goole drinking career and he’s always been quite entertaining but he also told me one fantastic story.

Everyone in the town knows this chap and his love for drunken behaviour and generally pissing about. He’s been known to stand naked at the bar in pubs just enjoying a quiet pint or five whenever the fancy takes him. He’s also a karaoke performer of note – and there doesn’t have to be accompanying music. You get the picture…

Anyway a new pub was due to open in town several years ago and for a laugh he applied for the assistant manager’s job – and after fabricating a work record and conveniently not mentioning his criminal record he got the job.

But two weeks before the pub was due to open he was spotted by his new employer up to his old tricks and his employer was gradually filled in on the real story as to who this man was. So not only did he lose his new job but he was also banned from the pub before it actually opened by the manager who’d been conned by him.

Personally I think getting banned from a pub before it was even opened is a truly marvellous achievement. Respect.

Tales From Goole: Part 2...

The best joke in the world:

'Is there a rugby team called Wasps?'
'Yes.'
'Do they have a B team?'

Tales From Goole: Part 1…

My long weekend home sans the Missus was a pretty successful one.

Going home can sometimes be a bit of a trial because I’m obviously distanced from it by geography, time and experience but I’m pleased to report it was all pretty good. I caught up with my family, met my new niece, spent some time with my other nieces and nephews and caught up with a few other notables.

It turned into quite a heavy boozing weekend when myself and Older Brother headed out for a pint on Saturday morning and he took me to a pub called the Jailhouse where I was stunned that a pint only cost £1.20.

I also thought the name of the pub was quite funny as Goole has something of a reputation as a real trouble spot and, although the Jailhouse is based on geographical history (the site of the town’s original jailhouse in 1826), I’d love to have been at the council meeting where permission for that name was granted. Their PR department were obviously out to lunch when that was passed.

But Goole’s quite good for names: there’s the off-license Rhythm ‘n’ Booze; the tanning shop Tan-fastic!; and the town’s most famous transsexual who nobody could decide to call by their male or female name so instead just called he/her He-She.

I also headed out with Older Brother and Little Brother for a few hours of pool on Friday night – and it was almost like a step back in time to when we were kids playing at home and desperately trying to beat each other. Little Sister’s Fella also came along and he looks like he can hold a cue too.

I also heard the best joke in the world – which I’ll tell tomorrow…

Tough Shit!

The Other Woman and the Other Woman’s Fella (her real one as opposed to me) visited myself and the Missus on Friday.

We headed out for curry where the Other Woman’s Fella told a memorable story about a night out with Jo Guest (model), a Toxic Slut (from the punk band Toxic Slut) and several Cocksucking Cowboys (cocktails) while I spent several hours ranting about Jane Austen (a writer who sadlly will never be a Toxic Slut).

A fun night was had by all (even though the Other Woman is obviously punching above her weight with her fella and I’ll tell her so when I next see her).

When the next morning arrived, however, it seemed an extraterrestrial being had carried out an experiment on my body in which my previously functioning bowel had been replaced by an agricultural muckspreader on a high pressure setting. Consequently I spent large parts of the weekend on the toilet but I did manage to listen to quite a lot of Radio 4 and Radio 5 Live while in situ.

The real fun part of the day was a trip to see Porgy And Bess, though. Watching the show and wondering whether I was going to make it to the end of the next song – never mind the first or second halves – was an experience I would not want to repeat. Ever!

Things are thankfully now back to normal but it has made me re-evaluate the joys of a healthy gut. And that’s why I’m currently eating nice, healthy and not very spicy things. It won’t last, though…

PS. Ulrika Johnsson has a show on C4 tonight called Ulrika: Am I A Sex Addict? Now I could have told her the answer to this without the need of a TV show. So here goes:

No Ulrika, you’re not a sex addict. You’re a publicity addict who chose to indirectly accuse a man of rape several years after the event on TV and kick off a chain of events that ensured he faced a trial by media before he got a trial by court and was proved innocent – just so you could sell some fucking book. If it was about rape you’d have handled it the way many women do and go through the correct legal channels and not turn it into the sort of media circus that may actually put women off going to court if they’re victims of this crime. So Fuck Off My Telly!

There… I feel much better now.

Porgy And Bess…

Porgy And Bess is a musical written by two Jewish men about the experiences of a group of poor black people watched predominantly by wealthy white people in London’s Savoy Theatre.

If, however, you can get your head around this bunch of cultural paradoxes it’s quite a good show.

The story focuses on a cripple called Porgy who takes in a bad girl Bess after her bad boy boyfriend kills and has to go on the run. While living with Porgy, Bess finds redemption for her former corrupt lifestyle – until her murderer fella comes back and is killed by Porgy.

Then Bess runs off to New York alongside the local drug dealer with Porgy determined to follow her and save her. Again.

As a slickly packaged evening of musical theatre it’s a good show and the performances were impressive, particularly as the night myself and the Missus saw it three of the main leads were played by understudies.

It's a Trevor Nunn production so it's cleverly staged and beautifully paced and I learnt three important lessons from it:
i) Poor black people always get the shit end of the stick in America. Folk from New Orleans take note in case you didn't already know this.
ii) Bad boys are far more attractive than well-meaning do-gooders. My wife has been told to ignore this lesson.
iii) Never trust women.

I still quite liked it, though.

Plastic Fantastic!

Me, the Missus and the Boy are sat eating tea (supper for southern readers). Ten Years Younger with style Nazi presenter Nicky Hambleton-Jones is on the TV.

In this show a very pleasant HGV of a woman is being magically transformed into something slightly less behemoth-like thanks to the magic of telly (and several thousand pounds worth of style makeover, wardrobe changes and plastic surgery).

Such shows usually prompt a volley of abuse in From Beer To Paternity Towers. But myself and the Boy are distracted discussing the relative merits of being fancied by gay men after the Missus has just told the Boy he is not slim enough to attract the attentions of any chap-loving Adonises.

Our musings, however, are interrupted by the Missus…

‘That’s what I’m going to spend money on when I get older…’
‘What? A fat woman from Nottingham?’ asks the Boy pointing to the telly?
‘No. Plastic surgery…’

I interject as the woman on the TV has her nose sliced open.

‘But you don’t need plastic surgery. You have a fabulous face.’
‘Oh I wouldn’t touch my face.’
‘So you don’t need it then…’
‘I could get my stomach done…’
‘Your stomach’s fine…’
‘And my legs…’
‘Your legs are fine…’
‘And have liposuction…’
‘You don’t need liposuction. That’s ridiculous!’

There is a pause. Myself and the Boy think the moment has passed. But it hasn’t.

‘I wouldn’t get my breasts done though.’
‘Oh. That's the bit I'd have chipped in for...’

The Boy sniggers. The Missus turns and smiles. She gets the gag but there will be pain later. Lots of pain...

Fame!

Holy Moly is one website that I can spend several hours on and it can consistently make me laugh.

For those unaware of Holy Moly it’s a spurious celebrity gossip and slating website a la Pop Bitch but it’s much funnier. It also does a very natty line in funny T-shirts (see above) and the site features several different sections and my favourite one of these is called C**ts Corner where readers can nominate their own favourite celebrity c**ts.

Anyway a few weeks ago I nominated Dr Gillian McKeith and my entry made it on:

'Dr Gillian McKeith: Sanctimonious, sour-faced, shrill-voiced, patronising, fraudulently certificated, 20th-century snakeoil saleswoman, Jock bitch... You're not a "Dr" any more than my cock is a fucking heart surgeon. Get off my telly. Cunt.'

My mum will be so proud…

300...

The Boy is very excited. I am very excited. The Missus, however, couldn’t care less…

But the film version of Frank Miller’s graphic novel 300 is out in the UK soon and myself and the Boy have tickets to see it at the Imax.

The film is based on the story of the 300 Spartans who sacrificed themselves against a huge Persian army to make the slumbering Greek empire wake up and defend itself, thus preserving its legacy of democracy, art and philosophy for the rest of the world.

It’s an epic film and it looks utterly stunning. And as Frank Miller is a favourite artist and writer of both of me and the Boy it promises to be a real treat.

It is a sign of how excited the Boy that he is actually venturing out with just me for company. On an evening. Where other people can see him. With me. Who will not be as fashionable or as hip as him.

But if anyone asks he'll probably use his usual line and say he's taking me from the 'special' home for a night out. The shit.

I’m also heading back to Goole the day after seeing this film so a few hours of warfare, fighting and violence will handily prepare me for a Saturday night out in my old haunts should I decide to head for a pint down Aire Street – or Blood Alley as it’s affectionately known to locals…

Diseased!

Whenever I get stressed I get coldsores.

But as I don’t really do stress I rarely recognise the normal signs of when I’ve pushed myself too hard so the coldsores, ugly and annoying little buggers though they are, are actually a good barometer of my mental/physical state.

Coldsores, of course, are a simplex of herpes, which in a more advanced form is an STD – and ironically I am researching STDs at the moment.

I mentioned this to the Other Woman as we were walking home from playing pool last week and I also complained how a major downside of having coldsores was that I can’t kiss the Missus as I have no wish to infect her. And the Other Woman's words of comfort were:

‘Well I’m not bothered. I’ll give you a friendly kiss goodnight to show I don’t mind catching your sexually transmitted scabby lip disease…’
'But it could infect you - and your boyfriend.'
'He'll understand. I'll tell him it was a mission of mercy.'

Outside of my marriage this is possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

Although Shaggy, one of my long-term pool playing colleagues, did send me a text from a county game yesterday saying how he missed me playing pool. I thought this was really sweet – until I realised this was because without me present nobody had a token northerner and part-time drunk to take the piss out of.

But it was still very sweet in a bloke sort of way. It's good to have friends – for whatever reasons...

Other Woman News…

In our quest to find a decent pool club in the centre of town myself and the Other Woman ventured to Rileys in Victoria last night.

And we were quite impressed: drinkable beer, a cheeky little red wine, decent food and good tables. There were a few City twats trying to big themselves up but everyone treated them with the disdain they deserved and they soon pissed off.

The Other Woman also told me of her dad’s latest impulse purchase – a wheelchair…

Now this is not as bonkers as it sounds because the Other Woman’s father has Parkinson’s and he’s bought the chair in preparation for when the illness eventually takes hold and he needs help with his mobility.

But this is some considerable time off yet and the Other Woman is convinced he’s simply getting her and other members of the family to wheel him around when he feels like a bit of relaxation or attention – or if he just can’t be arsed to move anywhere under his own steam.

Thoughts of the Other Woman grumpily wheeling her dad around the house at the drop of a hat make me smile. Especially as when everyone else leaves the house I bet he gets out of the chair and goes to play on the pool table he bought last year.

I think he’s a genius…

Breaking Through…

Yesterday was a day of breakthroughs.

My first breakthrough came at hapkido where I finally fell out of a front throw for the first time. Like properly. Legs over head and everything.

This is quite a basic thing for most students but it’s something I’d struggled with for three and a half years. And it’s been bloody annoying because my falling under my own steam is quite good and I knew I could fall out of this particular throw but I just had a mental block on doing it.

But yesterday the clouds parted and, hey presto, I think I’m in business.

Breakthrough two came when I finally realised I couldn’t include everything I wanted to write about in one play. So I’ve decided to write two plays instead. And in a moment of genuine serendipity I happened to chance on one interview about venereal disease in Victorian England that unlocked everything in terms of the structure and characters for the first one.

So I now have a former sailor who is so rotted with VD that he has a wooden nose.

I’m also naming him after my father-in-law. He’ll be pleased…

Protest Vote…

I wrote some time ago about how BAE Systems used its clout to make the government over-ride a due legal process and make the SFO (Serious Fraud Office) drop an ongoing investigation into bribery and corruption over a Saudi arms deal.

I also reported that CAAT (Campaign Against the Arms Trade) and Cornerhouse were bidding to challenge this decision in court and make the government reopen the case to bring BAE Systems to book for its corrupt activities.

Well an Early Day Motion (EDM), a sort of petition which gauges opinion on this matter, has been tabled by a cross-party group of MPs and is due to go before parliament.

The EDM in question is Early Day Motion 595 (Serious Fraud Office Investigation into the Al Yamamah Military Contract) and you can check if your MP has signed it here:

http://edmi.parliament.uk/EDMi/EDMDetails.aspx?EDMID=32264&SESSION=885

So if you think it’s wrong that BAE Systems can interfere with a due legal process and pressure the government into covering its arse then it’s worth dropping your MP a line asking him or her why they’re not supporting this action if they haven't signed this.

For example my MP, Dawn Butler of the Labour Party, hasn’t so I think it’s worth asking her why she’d support a corrupt government defending a corrupt company, a company whose business is largely funded by my taxes.

Is she an apologist for government corruption? I think we should be told…

Training Day…

It is Monday morning and I am very stiff – and not in a good way…

This is because yesterday was a full day of seminars and grading at the hapkido academy and I don’t think there is a single part of my body that does not ache.

Things got off to a gentle start with a three-hour ki seminar then it was grading time. As I wasn’t grading I played opponent to several people who were so I was merrily thrown around for an hour.

The day ended with a three-hour seminar on kicking and ground fighting. The kicking was tiring enough but the ground-fighting seminar was just brutal and it saw me get choked between the thighs and knees of several women, including the ever-fragrant OWWLOW (Other Woman Who Loves Other Women).

Then I went to the pub and got a bit pissed and made my way home with my body very stiff and bruised but my general demeanour very relaxed and fluid.

It was about halfway home that I realised I’d just paid money to get beaten up by various women. I may well be some type of pervert…

The Science Of Sleep…

I went to see The Science Of Sleep with the Missus at the Curzon Soho at the weekend.

For those not in the know the Soho Curzon is a very trendy cinema that shows foreign arthouse movies that draw a very hip and chic crowd. And me. Sometimes…

Although going here to watch films with meaningful silences and subtitles can sometimes be a drag, there is a plus side – and that plus side is that some arty films are French which means they must have sexy actresses. It’s like a rule and this film adhered to the rule and boasted the services of Charlotte Gainsbourg who sounds French but is actually English.

And it was a win double because the male lead was Gael García Bernal (of Bad Education fame) so both myself and the Missus had eye candy to view. Bernal is actually a lucky fella because he is on the wife’s Allowed List alongside Johnny Depp and Christian Slater. Gainsbourg is now also on my allowed list alongside Ani Difranco and Mary Shelley. Although because Shelley is dead I feel I should have another pick.

Anyway the film, directed by Michel Gondry who helmed Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, was quite a treat. It’s an offbeat love story about a man who can’t distinguish between his conscious and unconscious states. It sounds utter cock but it’s very sweet and bizarrely uplifting. It’s also visually quite stunning.

Worth a look…

Confessions Of A Diary Secretary…

ITV had a stab at political satire last night with its own take on the infamous affair between Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott and his diary secretary Tracey Temple.

This comedy-drama took the form of diary recollections narrated by Temple, played with a nudge and a wink by former Shameless sexpot Maxine Peak, which took her from her first days working for the DPM to the end of the affair and her subsequent move away from the office of DPM (although she’s now back working there).

John Henshaw, the landlord from Early Doors, playing a slightly depressed Benny Hill took the role of Prescott and he was suitably coarse with a hint of a heart but with very little sign of the calculated intelligence that Prescott watchers insist the man possesses.

Pippa Haywood of Green Wing fame also added some class to proceedings as Prescott’s chief aide.

But overall it was a bit of an odd product.

Henshaw and Peak were pretty good in the key roles but the show could never decide if it was political satire (there were some nice touches such as Temple putting a gifted kimono into a cupboard at the DPM’s offices where a pair of cowboy boots were also hung up) or a bawdy, knockabout comedy (the script had double entendres that would have shamed Dick Emery or Robin Askwith in their 1970s pomp).

But it was amusing if not hilarious and watchable if not gripping and ITV should have a pat on the back for at least trying something a bit different that had no soap stars or tacky game show element. Probably…