No rest for the wicked

I need a holiday [Crete, 19th May. Can't come soon enough!] I've worked all weekend and I'm knackered.

I worked all day Friday and "moonlighted" on Friday night.

Saturday was our first meeting with our "Float Manager". The pub has a float in this year's Gay Pride. This ran the usual course and we ended up getting pissed around Soho. I also "moonlighted" on Saturday night with massive post-pissed depression, not good.

Sunday, "moonlighting" again. Viasakhi festival in Trafalgar Square. I'd had about six hours kip in 48 hours and not in the best of tempers.

Most of the early problems were sorted out... early and I was just having a reviving coffee when one of the stewards radioed me and said that the Police wanted to speak to the chief stewards, NOW! All sorts of things run through your mind and you immediately fear the worst. I shot across the square to find a gaggle of "London's "Finest".

"Whats wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, I just wanted to say hello and let you know that we're goint to be here all day, if there's anythinh you need....."

Then I saw the SC above his shoulder number. A bloody "week-end warrior" [Special Constable]. Looking around, his three cohorts were the same! Fuckin' marvelous. Normally, I don't mind Specials, but I don't want to be running around at their beck-and-call. Anyway, the day went off reasonably well. We didn't need the Old Bill and probably just as well too! Eight Specials [the one of whom, I'd..... put right... by the end of the day] and four PCSO's. London's Finest my arse.

One of the Stewards, Simon, supposedly

managing the queue. Scratching his balls

by the look of it.Four happy shoppers, sorry, PCSO's trying to

figure out what's going on.

Things then went from bad to worse because I got home just in time for cabaret. Consequently I got pissed and went to work today with the mother of all hang-overs.

I'm With Stupid...

"8 quid"

"what?"

"8 quid"

"I'm with the DJ"

"OK, 10 quid"

"You're joking?"

"Sorry, I only joke on Thursday & Friday, Never on Wednesday. 10 quid".

"But I'm with the DJ!"

So I went to check the veracity of this vile, un-washed looking thing, was saying. It turns out that he was known to the prick who plays the music [who everybody treats like a god / expert musician yet, is unable to play a note].

"OK, the Manager says you're on the DJ's "guest list". If you're with the DJ, be with the DJ. If I find you leering around the whores who paid to get in, you're out".

And so ended the conversation with some cheap prick who is trying to bask in the reflected glory of some other prick. A prick who only serves the music up, as opposed to actually playing the instruments.

This is what happens when you "moon-light" during the week when you should be in bed....sleeping!

Know / No

Perceived Wisdom

Soup, like your Grandmother made.....

Received Wisdom

My Grandmother never made soup. She opened a tin, just like everybody else's Grandmother!

Objects of desire [cars]

I always liked Citroen cars. To that end, my first car was my dream car, a Citroen CX Safari. It was a huge big estate car and brilliant for shagging in the back off. I had CX's for a number of years, four in all. Three of them I managed to write of because I drove like a twat.

Citroen CX Safari

Then some fool talked me into buying what had been the predecessor of the CX, the DS. It was white with a rich red interior and looked great [and it was about fifteen years old when I got it]. It was, and still is, a very well designed car [but it was built like shit]. It first came out in 1959 so you can see how advanced the design was. It had a five speed semi-automatic, column change [very difficult to master]. The usual Citroen self leveling suspension which is hydro-elastic, NOT hydro-pneumatic as most people think. The four glassed in headlights were also a bit of an oddity. The outside two went up and down with the suspension and the bumps in the road, the inside two turned from side to side with the steering. This always caused a problem when driving into my driveway because none of the lights lit the gateway. Something like the 20th Century Fox logo! Also, it didn't have a break pedal. In the place where you would expect to find such a thing was a black rubber thing. It didn't move like a pedal in fact, it didn't move at all. This made breaking very difficult. As the [automatic] clutch, suspension, power steering and breaks ran off the same hydraulic system, you only had to look at this black rubber pad and the breaks would lock on and bring you a screeching, and suspension sinking, halt. The end result was that I could never get used to driving the beast and after a month, got rid of the bloody thing.

Citroen DS

That was my last dealings with Citroen's. I've had various Range Rovers and now some German piece of crap. My lust for french cars [though not the buggers who make them] has been ignited by the recent launch of the new Citroen C6. It's a big, long, sleek car and reminds me so much of the DS [and I want one so bad!]. Apparently, the initial design was an update of the DS. Sadly, Dave won't part with the German shite. I'm working on it!

The design concept for the C6

Citroen C6

Jumping on the band waggon

Ok, seeing as how lots of people are blogging about what they're reading, I may as well throw my hat in the ring [don't worry Doug, I'm not taking the piss!]I've had the book sitting around for a few months and have finally gotten around to reading it. It's not bad but it leaves aside lots of info to concentrate on Glen Miller [and not the why and wherefore of him going missing] so it's not really on the conspiracy theory trick, and then moves joltingly on to how some of the aircraft crew were shot down over france and ended up running the Marquise, the french [with a small f] resistance.

The more I read, the more angry I get. I don't like the french or even the whole idea of their country. I'm a revisionist historian at heart and believe that if, as every frenchman claims, that his relatives were in the resistance, the whole bloody country wouldn't have dropped to it's collective knees twice within a generation.

As I've nearly finished it, I may as well plough on the the end.

Wicked Beyond Belief sits waiting.

Tat Watch # 1

I've been meaning to do this for a long time and an advert in the Daily Mail [magazine] prompted me to do it.

The ad is from one of those peddlers of crap / tat / dust-gatherers and on this occasion is, compared to some of the junk which is advertised in other mags, quite restrained. It's all down hill from here for the Mail, next it will be the likes of the Elvis Presley - Tutankhamen - Dambusters memorial clock with integral juice maker.

Imagine the spirit of a Native American [Why?] style dreamcatcher in the sculptural form of a winged maiden, raising her own dreamcatcher to the skies. She will capture the good dreams and ensnare the bad, allowing the person under her protection to be renewed and inspired through the healing gift of sleep.
Celebrate the reverence of Native American cultures for the power of dreams and visions with "Sacred Calling," a collectible Native American style [though not your actual thing] figurine inspired by centuries of rich tradition. Handcrafted in fine artist's resins [a posh name for plastic], your figurine is meticulously detailed and wondrously realized. Don't risk missing out [befor we melt it down and make some other tat out of it] on this extraordinary expression of this beautiful spirituality, available exclusively from The Bradford Exchange.

One Trick Pony

Last week, I was slagging off my home town of Leeds and mentioned Anthony Gormley, the artist famous for the Angel of the North [very good] and a whole raft of life-size figure planted in a beach somewhere else up north [so-so].

This bit of pre-amble leads me to one of his less well known works which, when I lived chez Green Man, I saw every day without realising that it was one of his pieces.

I should have known that it was one of his because Mr Gormley is a bit of a one trick pony and all his well known works are [very slight] variations on a theme. They're all figures of men. Admittedly, some are a tad androgynous but mostly recognisably men.

Now you see what I mean?

Anyway, back to Euston Road. Outside Regents Place, the home of the GMC is another "Gormley". Outside on the pavement is a life size figure which is mirrored on the other side of the glass by, obviously, a life size figure. Of course, It's the one I couldn't find a picture of.

I'm beginning to think that Mr G has less imagination than the average bulldog.

Book Club

This is for Doug who tells us all about what he is reading......
Back in November I was invited to join the book club. I had been invited back in July but had cried off because I'm quite "funny" about what I read.
I was finally persuaded by being told that if I didn't like what that particular fortnights book was, I didn't have to read it.
Just as well, really.
There is not one book that has been suggested that I would have used for toilet paper, never mind have wasted time reading!
I'm sorry but all this "modern writing, how it is in my mind"shit just doesn't work for me. I have my own messed up thoughts, I don't need to have some other pricks implanted / imposed on me.
Booker / Whitbread prize, my arse. I quit.

Birthday Blues

Oh no, another birthday. Not mine, but a friend and colleague, Mike. We dragged around a few pubs in Soho and then some bright-spark said "hey, there's a blues night at the Spice of Life". My heart sank. I hate blues with the same sort of passion that I hate jazz. Anyway, off to the the place we went. I don't think I got to the end of my pint before making my excuses and bailing out. I was home before 11. Both blues and jazz involve a group of people playing instruments and each one of them playing a different "tune". Bah humbug!

Note to Ronald McD

Mr McDonald succumbs after tasting his own products [though I can't begin to imagine what he was doing with a light sabre...]

Once bitten

Great pic in the [sub] Standard....

and the article that went with it....

The crocodile severed Chang Po-yu’s forearm on Wednesday at the Shaoshan Zoo in the southern city of Kaohsiung when the veterinarian tried to retrieve a tranquilizer dart from the reptile’s hide, zoo officials said.
The Liberty Times newspaper said Chang failed to notice the crocodile was not fully anesthetized when he stuck his arm through an iron rail to medicate it.
As Chang was rushed to the hospital on Wednesday, a zoo worker shot two bullets at the crocodile’s neck to retrieve the forearm, said Chen Po-tsun, a zoo official.
”The crocodile was unharmed as we didn’t find any bullet holes on its hide,” Chen said. ”It probably was shocked and opened its mouth to let go of the limb.” The 17-year-old reptile is one of a pair of Nile crocodiles kept by the Kaohsiung zoo. The crocodile is listed as an endangered species, and is rapidly disappearing from its native African habitat.
Chen said the zoo purchased the crocodile from a local resident who had kept it as a pet.

What was that old addage about letting sleeping dogs........?

Revenge on Dave [& Sidney]

Dave maintains that he isn't feeling well and intends watching a few DVD's and going to bed early. This is his hint at a "cuddle up on the sofa" type scenario.

I've comprehensively put the mockers on this malarkey and for good reasons too! 1. I'm not a "cuddle up on the sofa" type animal. 2. I know the sort of films he watches. 3. There's bugger all wrong with him.

If he wants to cuddle up then he can cuddle old ginger chops [Sidney].

Good old Sid enjoys a bit of TLC and after having just tried out Christian's theory, he may need a whole bucket full of TLC.

Christian's theory states that: The number of Cadbury Cream Eggs it is possible to feed to a bulldog is exactly equal to the number of eggs available at the time of feeding. [on this occasion, 7]

and here's betting that there is no sick bag in the seat pocket infront!

Revenge on Tesco

I made the mistake of taking Sidney for a walk. I hadn't intended going any further than Tesco to get some cigs but David conned me into taking the hound.

Having no cigs is a bad thing.

Having no cigs while walking the slowest dog in Christendom is worse!.

It takes around forty minutes to get around the block with the hound from hell. Then he has to be put on the lead to cross the road. Sidney will not walk on the lead. Luckily, its only a narrow road so dragging him across doesn't wear down his paws to much.

Tesco have, very thoughtfully, put a dog ring on the wall outside. Unfortunately, it had a dog tied to it already. Unthinkingly I tied him to a metal frame thing with a stack of baskets in / on it. Tesco was its usual chaotic self, but having stood in the queue for a minute or so, the chaos seemed to be getting worse. Low-and-behold, Satan's spawn saunters around the corner towing a stack of baskets behind him. Now I'm in a bit of a quandary, do I admit to owning this vile ginger dog and his impromptu caravan [and thus lose my place in the queue], or do I ignore it, smile benignly, and hope he wanders off? Bulldogs, in general, and Sidney in particular, tend not to recognise their owners so the later was not an impossibility, but on this occasion, the beast spotted me and plodded right up, tail a-wagging.

I don't think I'll ever be able to show my face in Tesco ever again.

Flowers on the street, guff in the papers

A killing in the street means a killing at the tills. Another youth is killed on the street and anybody and everybody who knew / knew of him rushes to spent their £4.99 in Tesco on flowers.

The Evening [sub] Standard [the local rag] nearly choked itself on the crap written about this latest murder, a few quotes....

"Friends told today how Paul survived a knife attack last year and claimed he was often a targeted by boys jealous of hi musical talent"

"Paul, a talented rap singer....."

Ok, so the kid is dead, nobody should have to die like, that but people do. What I don't get, apart from all this faux grief and flower / teddy bear placing, is why the media have to quantify the waste of life by grasping at any supposed talent or quality that the victim may have had.

On this occasion, the sub Standard has out-done itself with the "talented rap singer" line. Oxymoron or what?

Leeds, the city that nearly....

I've always been quite proud of the fact that I'm from Leeds. Leeds is famous for lots of things like, er..... well lots of things.

It's famous for trying to have what other cities have [and failing miserably]. In the 1980's it had the chance of a huge brick statue by designed by an unknown artist called Anthony Gormley. The City Council voted against and Mr Gormley went to Gateshead and made his Angel of the North statue out of steel instead.

Manchester got a new tram system and Leeds spent £4 million on bidding for government money. They failed.

Bradford and Manchester got big fancy museums, Leeds got the Royal Armories.

Manchester bid for, and won, the UK's first super casino. Leeds, despite being refused permission to bid, has again bid for a super casino.

And then, of course, there's football.....

Asking the question

[Another Boat Race Day story] Another one of the crowd who was at the BRD party had the bottle to ask me what happened to my ear. It's not that noticeable bit it can be a bit obvious, especially if viewed from behind. "I don't like to ask it's just that my son has an "iffy" ear, and I wondered how you got yours".

Apparently, his was caused by having his motorbike helmet ripped of in an accident where as mine was done in a fight.

Her son had his ear "sorted" in the same hospital, Mount Vernon, as I did. The difference being that when he was offered the option of having a chunk of cartilage removed from his chest, plus a bit of skin from his arse to make a new ear he took it. I didn't.

I have the hairiest arse in the world and I didn't relish the prospect of having big black hairs sprouting from the top of my ears.

From what she said, he had the same problem as I did, in as much as he arrived at A&E with his ear in ice and was roundly bollocked by the staff for doing so. According to current medical doctoring, you should put any loose bits in milk, putting them in ice freezes, and thus, damages them. So, remember children, the next time a piece of you comes off, don't pack it in ice, or it will need to be microwaved before it can be stuck back on.

Easter Shit

Easter, again. The obligatory egg, this year came in a huge box. Inside the egg was nothing. Inside the box which contained the egg was a bar of chocolate. Shit. I'd rather have the a shitty egg with some crap inside it than an empty egg with a crappy bar of chocolate inside the same box.

Money Problems

I'm quite easy on the pocket. I don't have a huge big fascination with clothes or gadgets or most things that involve money. My weekly expenses run to about £15 for lunches, about £35 for cigs and about £50 for drugs.

What has brought this to the fore was the fact that we [that's David, me, and most of the staff were supposed to be going out to Fire [a shit club in Vauxhall] tonight. David has a bout of laryngitis so didn't want to go. I was quite ambivalent about going. As a result of this, everybody has ended up going to the Black Cap. David didn't want to go. I said that I was going and then I asked him if he had managed to "sort out" my illegal substances. No, he hadn't. "Why not?" I asked. "Well, I wasn't going, so I thought that you weren't going" So, all of a sudden, we're joined at the hip and the handbag. My salary pays the mortgage and the day to day living expenses. What David makes from the pub pays for next to nothing. On top of this he goes to the gym three times a week. His personal trainer charges £30 per session. Hmmmmm.

A Toast

Yet again, Boat Race day finds me on the roof of the Rutland in Hammersmith. A friend of ours runs the pub and we go there every year for her Boat Race party.
Today was quite special. Sarah is leaving the company. She is the last of the “bunch” to go. Many moons ago David and I worked for Scottish & Newcastle, a good outfit to work for. Then in 2002 S&N sold out to Spirit.
Spirit were a bunch of shyster bastards. A shit-house, asset stripping outfit run by a scruffy bitch [Karen Jones] from hell with a whole host of 16 year old area managers, all scurrying around doing her bidding while covering their own arses.
Anyway, on the day that Spirit got their hands on 2000 odd pubs up and down the country they sent all of their new [old S&N] managers a bottle of champaign. On the label it said “Spirit, welcome to your new company”
At the time, I was running a pub in Brighton [Hove, actually] and had a little ceremony of opening the champers and pouring it down the sink.
Today, Sarah had a little ceremony of opening her bottle, which she has diligently kept, and all of us ex-Spirit, ex-S&N managers made a toast to Spirit and Karen Jones.
Here’s to you Karen, from David, Christian, Sarah, Aiden, Mary, Jim D, Mary D, Chris, Jan, Richard, Richard M-D and Caroline, cheers, you sad old bitch, we hope you’re happy.