Sunday, February 24, 2008


Of course, the best thing about blogging is the response from you, the dearly loved and fondly missed reader. I love comments threads that go off on a tangent and the interaction between different commenters, especially as it doesn't involve much work for me.

Sometimes it's nice to get a response from monomaniacal, humourless anonymous fans who are indignant on behalf of their idol and have only found you from the twentieth page of a Google search.

So I was a bit jealous of the other half, who has been getting a few indignant comments from persons unknown who are smitten by the immensely charismatic Darius Danesh. This one turned up in Geoff's e-mail box today in response to his post about the choice of Darius to play Rhett Butler in Trevor Nunn's forthcoming stage version of Gone With The Wind:

"www.gwtwmusical.com I think is the url of the offical site, and it now has videos of Trevor nunn et all discussing casting - Darius evidently is the perfect Rhett. snippets of the music wil be added soon - anyone who has seen Darius on stage will know he has the charisma, stage presence an dability to play Rhett - in the book the description of Rhett IS Darius,"

Much as I can understand the commenter's point of view about Darius and his dability, I can't quite agree with it, and would suggest the following as more suitable to play Rhett:

Mark Lawrenson
Gary Coleman
Nobby Stiles
Pete Shelley of The Buzzcocks
Steve Diggle of The Buzzcocks
Norman Collier
Michael Cera
Michael Jackson
Boris Johnson
Tyrone "Mouthbreather" Dobbs from Coronation Street
Dot Cotton from Eastenders
Duncan Norville
Stephen Merchant
Roky Erickson
Iain Dowie
Ray "I Will Prevail" Winstone
Hugh Grant
Matt Lucas
David Vine
Daniel "That Weatherman With The Windmilling Arms" Corbett
Ronnie Corbett
My mum's cousin, Paul B*******
Bruce "Happy Birthday Brucie!!!!!!" Forsyth
Prince "Bloody Fucking Frankenstein" Philip
Perez Hilton
The drummer from Franz Ferdinand
Al Pacino
Richard Madeley

Any other suggestions to add to this list are most welcome.

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Sunday, February 17, 2008


It has been officially declared on this blog that The New Seekers are the greatest band of all time.

Originally formed by The Seekers' Roger Potger to appeal to Seekers' fans, but with a "rockier edge" (???  Eh?  Where?) they bestrode the early 1970's like a patchwork bellbottomed, feathery shoulder length haired ten legged collosus.  

We will never see their like again.

It's difficult to explain to young people nowadays, but in 1971 there was a generation gap the size of Cheddar Gorge, or Watford Gap, or summat.

People who were over forty used to say, controversially enough, that they "preferred The Old Seekers".  People who were under forty used to say "I prefer The New Seekers.  F*ck off back to your allotment grandad, you just don't understand".

My dad used to make a point of saying how ugly The N. Seeker's bass player (the dark haired bloke on the far right in the picture) was whenever they were on telly.

"He is so bloody ugly, they always stick him at the back of the stage and never point the camera at him.  He is the ugliest man in the world, apart from your mother's cousin, Paul B******y."

This was a a bit harsh, in my opinion.  Mind you, I used to fancy that Australian bloke myself, which rather went against form because the main dreamboat was supposed to be, er, dreamy teutonic Marty Kristian (second from right), whose solo picture was always the poster on the back page of Jackie magazine (as opposed to the centrefold which usually featured David Cassidy And His Appendix Scar).

My mother's cousin, Paul B******y became a legend in our house because of my dad's repeated references to him whenever The N. Seekers were on telly.

I got to meet him once.  He was a horse faced, Jacques Brel-like man, to be fair, but not the ugliest man I'd ever seen or ever would see.  This was a few years before the 1980's Tory cabinet formed, after all.

"So, did you see your mum's cousin, Paul B******y then?  He is a bloody ugly bugger, isn't he?" my dad said triumphantly when I got back home.

Anyway, shimmy on over to YouTube or eBay or your local junk shop and feel the autumnal sunburst magic of The New Seekers ... or the melancholy of The Old Seekers.  Keep the faith.

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Thursday, February 14, 2008


Arabella suggested that I should post about my recent change of dentist.

Well, as you probably know, I'm something of a social phobic, so anything that means I have to change my usual habits and fraternise with new people leads to all sorts of panic about impending catastrophe. Fair enough, it's beyond straightforward shyness, and means my mind tends to blow any *challenge* out of proportion to what will actually happen. I'm a mentalist: aren't all bloggers mentalists?

"Stepping out of your comfort zone" is believed to be a good thing in the modern world, but stepping outside my comfort zone turns me into a nervous wreck.

The dentist I've been visiting for the past ten years or so seems to be losing his marbles. He only does about two hours work a year, and goes off on holidays to India for six months at a time. He can't seem to do his job properly.

So it was decreed that we should change practices.

Cue impending panic, tsunami-like waves of fear and endless worry about possible potential for embarrassment, bad social interaction, coming across as an idiot to people I've never met before, etc., etc.

I now attend a modern *centre* where there's a nice garden, a state of the art surgery and a bright, airy, clean reception area with a flat screen TV showing property programmes all day.

I'm starting to pine for the old surgery's grottiness. The dusty box full of manky kiddies' toys, the dog eared 1995 copies of Reader's Digest, the wonky old telly with the blurred coverage of This Morning and the general air of gloom. Besides, it was always interesting to see what the receptionist had done with her long, shiny, burgundy coloured hair. Would she be wearing it up? Down? With a few fronds over on one side? She always used to make such a statement with her earrings and clothes too - the more tasteful end of Essex woman style, probably bought from those boutiques in Bl*water ... such a waste of effort for such a dreary job.

Still, the dental check at the new surgery lasted a few seconds, much to my relief.

... except that I will be expected to see a dental hygienist next week. Apparently, I have gum disease, and there's a possibility that I'll need to see the hygienist for another appointment after that. Each visit will cost £38.

Geoff saw the hygienist, who has basically ordered him to buy an electric toothbrush. On average, the cheapest ones cost around £25, plus the heads have to be replaced every few months (£15 a time) and they have to re-charge all day.

We now have to devote most of our income to appeasing the new dental surgery.

I prefer the laissez-faire approach of the old dentist. It's never been my aim in life to have teeth like The Bee Gees. Teeth like David Bowie I can just about cope with.

Besides which, it looks as if I'm going to have to step outside my comfort zone for ever and ever, on a regular basis. It's the quickest route to a nervous breakdown I can think of ...

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Tuesday, February 12, 2008


(Go to about 1 min 35 if you have a short attention span like me)

"This one's for My Blakey, My Blakey, incarcerated".


Monday, February 11, 2008


Things are on the up.  The sun was out today, we're almost halfway through February and, to top it all, there are a couple of opportunities for me to become a sinister stalker within a decent radius of my home.

1.  On Wednesday, Jean Christophe Novelli signs copies of his new book at Bluewater.  As I've said before, I can't give a monkey's cobblers about cooking, but I know a dishy Frenchman when I see one.

2.  Jeff Goldblum is currently starring in a production called Speed-The-Plow at the Old Vic. 

Apparently, he's currently enjoying "the single life".  

*jumps up and down enthusiastically*

Of course, it's all a bit of harmless fun, and at least a year since the last restraining order was lifted. 

I just like to indulge in my psychotic, unhinged side ever so often, is all.


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Tuesday, February 05, 2008


Due to the increasingly mild winters, tortoises are having difficulties getting into the mood for hibernation, according to the esteemed Metro.

The solution to this problem, apparently, is to stick them in a fridge.  

People of my generation were brought up to believe that tortoises should spend about eight months a year in a cardboard box full of straw.  This was due to the Blue Peter presenters' treatment of transgender pet Fred/Freda.

Face it, tortoises are not really the most charismatic of animals, are they?  I think my cousin's pet, though, may have been the exception to the rule.

He went missing for about two days ...

... only to be found a couple of miles away from my cousin's house, having walked uphill over some fields.

He was waiting at a bus stop.

I bet he'd got it all planned: the bus from the Midlands village to Walsall; a connecting bus to Birmingham and a train to Euston.

Small town life isn't for everybody, after all.

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