Thursday, November 29, 2007


In the 1980's John Peel used to champion a band called Serious Drinking. One of their songs was Countdown To Bilko. The lyrics seemed to be based around the fact that Sundays were crap. There was nothing to do and you would be bored silly until Bilko was on BBC2 in the early evening (I think Bilko was on BBC2 on Sunday evenings for about half a century).

Still, that was the 1980's for you. As I've said on a previous post about, er, a year ago, older generations were lucky by comparison. A Sunday morning at church would be followed by a cycle home through muddy country lanes, then you'd get a sound thrashing from father and everyone would gather around the wireless to listen to The Larkins, The Navy Lark, Wot Larks Pip and Round The 'Orn (Bona Fide Bona Bona Drag Racing) With Kenneth Williams, Kenneth Connor and Kenneth "Ooh, Get The Sturdy Knees In That Kilt!" McKellar.

Nowadays, Sundays are also much more exciting because the twenty four hour lifestyle means that even the most sleepy hamlet has a Starbucks and an opium den on every corner to while away the day before the seven hour commute into London.

If there isn't enough to entertain you in your home town, then you must drive off to join the nearest fifteen mile long traffic tailback to a designer retail outlet or out of town *shopping and leisure experience*.

If that isn't enough to entertain you, perhaps you feel that your life is an empty consumerist race. Maybe it is time for you to become a modern Christian. Why not spend Sunday mornings among acne riddled dungaree clad sorts clapping along to "enlightened" vicars in '80's style black denim jackets and paisley shirts playing modern hymns on the acoustic guitar?

Sundays: something has been lost; but something has been gained. Although not everybody yearns for what has been lost, or cares. Or, indeed, remembers.

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Tuesday, November 27, 2007


In the 1980's John Peel used to champion a band called Serious Drinking. One of their songs was Countdown To Bilko. The lyrics seemed to be based around the fact that Sundays were crap. There was nothing to do and you would be bored silly until Bilko was on BBC2 in the early evening (I think Bilko was on BBC2 on Sunday evenings for about half a century).

For me, the modern equivalent of Countdown To Bilko is Countdown To Amstell. As I've grown older, Friday Nights are no longer extended into the very small hours. Getting dressed up, pubbing, clubbing, waiting around in the freezing cold for night buses and eating cheese on toast at four in the morning while talking gibberish. Those days are well behind me, thank the feck.

Instead, Friday nights revolve around imbibing suspiciously musty tasting wine that was on a special offer at Oddbins and catching up with whatever is on Sky Plus, apart from that three hour Japanese film which was on BBC4 in March and is highly acclaimed.

First stop after Coronation Street will be Never Mind The Buzzcocks feat. Simon "Countdown To" Amstell.

All evening, I will be doing the Countdown To Amstell, in the hope that Simon will say something reasonably funny and in fairly bad taste.

Fortunately, last Friday night wasn't a letdown, because of the gag about befriending C*urtney L*ve (she murders you then pretends you committed suicide).

We live to fight another day.

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Thursday, November 22, 2007


It has been suggested on several occasions here that I am a frightening woman, so here is pictorial evidence to suggest that this is a longstanding condition, and one that has run in my family for several generations. It ain't my fault guv. It's genetic.

Here I am on a joyful family holiday in 1967, the summer of love. At the time, the likes of Tom 909 were *getting it together* with some *chick* in a field while tripping out to the sounds of Big Brother And The Holding Company. Some of us were having to endure a damp and overcast week in North Wales with seriously annoyed parents who were dressed as if they were twenty years older.

I am the miserable shortarse in the ridiculous bonnet which I DIDN'T CHOOSE TO WEAR MYSELF, my dad is Grandpa Munster and my mother is the one that has a face like thunder.

This post comes to you courtesy of Photo Scanning At Boots Week. Further results can be seen here.

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Saturday, November 17, 2007


You may have gathered by now that I managed to avoid any of the horrendous operations that were described on the internet, and was sent away with a cast on my arm which will be removed in five weeks.

The cast was put on by a young bloke who had a wonderfully delicate and precise touch. All the grains of the bandage seem to be aligned to one another! What an artist!

Then he ruined the effect by saying "two fings you need to know: DO NOT get the cast wet and DO NOT put nuffin daaaaahnn it".

When I escaped from the hospital, I was deliriously happy. Of course, this didn't last long.

I returned home to find that the Ongoing Problems with the elderly and ailing relative in the Midlands were getting more complicated.

I don't want to turn this into one of those Boo Hoo, Pity More Me blogs, particularly as most other people have horrible things to deal with themselves, but it really would be nice to get through a few years without having to deal with family illness, hospital visits, a responsibility to everyone in the S*rbian community to look after *family*, oncology units, phoning social services, people going a bit loopy, emotional blackmail, people who refuse to have medical treatment, weird Orthodox funerals, missing wills, solicitors and every kind of hassle you can think of.

Still, hey! That's my crayzee family for you. Anyone who wants to house and look after the ones that are left is quite welcome to them. The further away you live the better.

If anyone wants to leave a comment advising me that I should have a more positive outlook on life, and that worrying about things is a waste of time, perhaps they should consider putting their fingers into a paper shredder instead.


Rant over. I will leave you with a test card. A test card for monochrome TV sets, no less. Keep raising money for Pudsey Bear, you lovely people, and have a nice weekend.

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Tuesday, November 13, 2007


Thanks for all your kind comments about my current predicament. Sadly, I STILL haven't been given any money or beautiful Scandinavian men. Ah, well ... I know who my friends are, that's all I'm saying ...

So: how did it happen?

On Friday morning, I put some washing in the tub and got the laundry basket from the top of a cupboard.

I turned, lost my balance, reached out for the wall to stop my head bashing into it, and the next thing I knew was that I was looking at my right arm, which was horribly lumpy and distorted.

A few minutes later, I had put the washing on, because I was taught that we have to pull ourselves together, keep a stiff upper lip and, if the worst comes to the worst, have a cup of sugary tea.

For the next half an hour I was frantically tidying the living room.

I still hadn't had a cup of sugary tea.

Then I thought it might be a good idea to phone around to see if I could get a lift to the local minor casualty department.

"Oooh, poor you, that looks horrible!" said the woman behind the desk. "Helen, come in here and see this one!"

"Oooh, that's a good one, that's really different!" said Helen, David Lynch fan and collector of pictures of Victorian sideshow freaks.

An X-Ray later meant that I was on my way to A & E.

Well, I say "on my way".

My in-laws were the escorts.

My MIL delayed the journey by about ten minutes. "Looook, it's my friend Barbara over there!" she said in the car park, which meant that she had a good old chinwag with Barbara when I was potentially DYING.

When we got to A & E, and after the inevitable NHS hold ups and mix ups, I was given some sedatives and put on a trolley bed and told that there was a *possibility* that I would need an operation.

Within minutes, a couple of people seemed to be trying to stretch my arm to approximately twice my height. It's possible that I may have a lucrative future career as a human cherry picker.

"I've got it!" one of them said.

A cast was put on my arm and I was whisked off for another X-Ray.

An appointment was made to see a specialist.

When I get home, predictably enough. I START GOOGLING.

The potential operation could involve having pins inserted ... or a bone graft from my pelvis.


*faints again*

On the plus side, my forthcoming infection with MRSA and subsequent death will lead to some very frank and moving writing here, which may even mean that I break through the Post Of The Week four nominations but no shortlist barrier. I won't win though, beaten by a frank and moving account of someone's pet chinchilla having kidney failure, surviving against all the odds, but tragically dying in a fire.

Then, the posthumous written collection will do great business in WH Smiths Stories Of Great Personal Suffering section, and Geoff will be able to give up his job, move to Hollywood and *find happiness* with a 19 year old blonde socialite-turned-reality TV show star.

The hospital appointment is tomorrow :(

I should say as a footnote that anybody who slags off people who work at the coalface of the NHS is a c*nt, by the way.

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Saturday, November 10, 2007


This is me at around 15:30 GMT today hyped up on a cocktail of painkillers and sedatives (that Codeine is some good shit man, as a Spacemen Three fan might say).

I've got my arm in a semi-cast to allow it to swell up and cause me to have sleepless nights because of the fucking pain. I've got a fractured wrist and will furnish you with the full, tedious details in the next post.

I'm trying to make a rude gesture in the picture, but have got limited arm movement and can't get it up.

*waits for inevitable comment from MJ regarding previous paragraph*

In the meantime, all messages of sympathy, donations of money and offers of help to look after me from beautiful Scandinavian men to be sent to the usual address.

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Monday, November 05, 2007


... so, anyway, we're sandal-munching, lentil-recycling Guardian readers, who are interested in, I dunno, independent schools, sneering with a sense of indignation at poor people who join the army because they think they are going to get some hot dating action (apparently), that sort of thing.

This weekend we had to go against type and buy a tabloid newspaper in order to read an *explosive* muckraking two page article about someone who is related to someone who is related to someone who I am married to. This person has also been mentioned on a blog post here!

Obviously, I can't give you a direct link to the article ... here ... or the repercussions could be DISASTROUS, har har.

A pity, because the article gave us several minutes of amusement as did the pictures.

"Oooh, get his forty eight inch biceps!! He's goooorrgeous!" and other stuff was said that I can't really mention here, or link to here.


Anyway, when we were walking back from the shops with the tabloid newspaper that shall remain nameless, Geoff told me that the main headline on the front page said "PAUL AND STELLA MCCARTNEY USED MY LEG AS A BAT IN ROUNDERS GAMES CLAIMS HEATHER MILLS".

I thought that he was telling the truth.

He was just joking.

More disappointment.


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