McNumpty

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/panorama/6241815.stm

See this? Blatantly blogged from someone else's blog.

Bloke's a c*nt, of course. Wait for the fuzz? To give you a crime number then do feck all about catching a crim so's the worthy magistrates can give him a community work order that he won't turn up for? Bollocks to that. The Voice of Reason says "make like the scouts, be prepared".

And another one bites the dust

You can always tell the ladies and gentlemen of my profession at a large social gathering. We're the slightly uncomfortable looking ones, hanging around the bar, only talking to each other and talking shop. It's always hilarious. Had the opportunity to watch it again this weekend; off to a wedding of a guy who used to work in my place, before he saw the light and got a proper job. The bride was beautiful, the groom was pissed as a fart and sweating profusely while dancing like a loon to every piece of seventies party shite they could play. And why not. Reminds me of the best wedding reception I ever went to, with the disco appropriately named KAK-FM providing the very dodgy sounds. Most entertaining. Prided themselves on their selection of crap seventies and eighties pap (only place I ever heard "Big Balls" by AC/DC played), and all the fine ale in the world at the bar, courtesy of Irish Paul. No formality, plus I snogged the bridesmaid. Marvellous. Ah, those were the days.

Didn't get to kill a cyclist that night though, which was a shame. A far closer run thing this time. The shit just pedalled across a red light, with no lights at midnight, in dark clothes. Did I do the decent thing, put my foot down and aim for his head? Darwin in action? No, I hit the brakes. Must be getting soft in my old age.



Oh, and it's August the 30th and nothing terminal has happened to my relationship yet. How did that happen? I thought it had become a national tradition?

Tomb of the Cider Men

Note that title? Note the clever "Doctor Who" classic story from the seventies reference, suggesting superior science fiction geekology reference? It's all Geek to me. Etc. Hell, it's just a clever way of inferring that I've been on the apple again. And I have. Skidbrookes Lincolnshire real stuff, made just down the road. Same label, different brew. That's the way to do it. Shagnasty, vicious stuff that turns your guts to trifle. Marvellous. For the Cideristi among you; it's not as sharp as their last batch of stuff, but it's about two per cent stronger. Not in the Biddendens class of easy drinking back door brain hemorrhage, but a nice refreshing mallet to the back of the brains. Carl the Landlord seems somewhat affeared of it; he's selling it, you'd think he'd have more confidence in his product than so say "oh god, they're on the cider again" very loudly but then he's an idiosynchratic sort of chap; mind you, maybe it's just my raddled reputation and that of the Hobbit. Who knows.


Actually been spending quite a lot of time in that establishment of late anyway. There's been a lot of good bands on in the last few weeks; seems they're trying to push themselves as a music venue a little more, and that's no bad thing. Seems I've found my brand for a while.

Greatest Movie Quote Ever?

Shamelessly stolen from the BBC's early afteroon coverage on News 24. What's YOUR take on the greatest movie quote ever? I thought the dweebs that Connie Haaugh Haaaaaugh HAAAAAAAUCGHHH (the human hairball generator) interviewed were unimaginative at best and have led boring lines watching boring movies. Except the ten year old that knew "Heeeeeeere's JOHNNY". Disturbing or what. No wonder our society is screwed if parents let them watch that sort of thing. Here's my starters for ten...

"Well, I guess we'd better issue a gun to Ozzy" . "Yeah, but don't forget about his personality disorder"

"Suck my spinning steel, shithead"

"I have something to say; it is better to burn out than to fade away! Ha!"

"There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die"

"There I was... Mother of God, there I am! Holy f*ck... "

"You'd better take care of me lord; because if you don't you're going to have ME on your hands"


Discuss!

Now ain't that nice

Seems I've been forgiven by Millie the cat, she of the Northbank who is the real power behind the Household Jules and who's one of my favorate felines (although of course not a patch on the G Boy). She's had a major huff at me since my unfortunate spontaneous loud laughing at the "turd dragging incident" nearly a year ago, dragging her arse across a lino floor attempting to break off a persistent Klingon warrior and leaving a nice shitty snail trail behind her. Heh. Makes me smile just thinking about it. Anyway's up. Time and persistant cat handling skills pay off; one reluctant stroke under the chin too many bought me a purr and proper friendly attention. They CAN hate you forever. Sometimes they just choose not to.

The reason for my shot at feline absolution was a second attempt north in one week -a promise to take the good lady Jules out and purchase naughty beer like objects in celebration for her overthrow of the Emperor Ming's torture chamber, where he would subject natural herb products to trial by fire and god only knows what else. But Max Von Sydow's unavailable for the sequel, look for Johnny Vegas in a wig. Got to take a look at it in the flesh for the first time since the overthrow and folks, my description of "achievement must be put in it's proper place folks, along with feeding the five thousand, and the north face of the Eiger" is an understatement; the turnaround is total, perfect and to tight budget. I raise my praise to more of a "building a working model of a Saturn Five rocket out of matchsticks" level. Anyway's up, as the good lady now isn't in easy range of a quality alehouse, off in GLC to the excellent Nellies previously mentioned here. Sam Smith's is still tasty and cheap; it's still dark and musty due to wonderful gas lighting and it still wouldn't pass health and safety muster in a thousand years. Hurrah for that!

Six Charlies in search of a title

Ah, that unbelievable spaced out state of being that tells the body that night shift has come to stay again. The logic of taking three people and shoving them in a car in extremely thick and well fitting body warmers on the warmest night of the year for no gain whatsover and expecting them to remain awake throughout. And then doing it for twelve hours instead of the usual eight. Breaking in some new guys on the team last night; fresh out of training. Oh well, start them off as they mean to go on with a bunch of piss poor, half arsed shite. Hey ho. Deep joy.

Anyway's up.

Bimbled over to Northbank yesterday to pass greetings to the good lady Biro, an occaisional guest star on these pages; now hopefully in a position of "on the up" given the recent departure of Ming the Merciless. It's not my place to flag up other people's strife on my page so I shan't; other to say this lady's had to put up with far more shite than is reasonable for ten people and the little scrote concerned is bumping along the top of people I think should be castrated and put on a "total shite offender register". As I pulled up, was suprised to be waved at by a blonde pulling up in a car behind the GLC; was even more suprised when the mystery blonde turned out to be none other than on old cohort, the one and only Cossie Angel from the abandoned F board from the past, a coincidental arrival for a visit as she's in the neighbourhoood (and no, I wasn't blanking you hun, I couldn't identify you through the glass and mum told me not to talk to strangers!). One of the good eggs is our Pauline, and a helluva lot less of her there is too than there used to be - a whole lot of slimming going on. Unfortunately, a new member of the "my bloke turned out to be a tosser" club. Hey ho. Seems there's a lot of it about.

Coffee, jollification and lugging furniture about in the pit of dispair that was the Emperor Ming's private quarters. How one youngster (note, not "person") can render a tidy room into something that Portdon Down would be interested in to extract microbes to drop on the Russians in one month flat is a wonder. All too soon, the fun was over and it was time to head south again but midnight texts to my nightshift purgatory would indicate the good lady got a teethgritter on with it, decided that the room must die and beasted the lot into submission through disinfectant, air freshener and the EU binbag mountain. That achievement must be put in it's proper place folks, along with feeding the five thousand, and the north face of the Eiger. Kudos, hun xx

Damn and blast

Not a good day. Really not a good day.

Totalled the ant infestation that's been building up on the window yesterday afternoon with a good wodge of your friendly neighbourhood canned insectiside. Dropped them in theirs masses, instantly. Didn't make me feel overly good and has probably done bad things to my karma; in fact it's hit back already. Confirmed this morning that those itchy bumps that I thought was heat rash, and CH was confidently calling ant bites was in fact neither. After a break of four years, the fleas are back. Damnit.

This damned place is upside down already; I have neither the time nor the energy to deal with this rubbish on top of everything else. I certainly do not have time to indulge in the mass vaccuming and carpet cleaning; seat cover cleaning and curtain washing required. I'm already two weeks behind on cleaning, still knee deep in camping equipment from last weekend. Sod it. Sod it straight to hell.

Running on empty

Been no so much burning the candle at both ends of late, but cutting a whole in the middle of the brute and having four flames going at once.

A quick mention of my last trip south, in the constant tribute to Al Haig's 1982 shuttle diplomacy that is my life.... Popped down, then back to attend the funeral of my old mate Mosh's gran; thought it'd be good to, as I actually met and knew the lady, and Mosh and I have been knocking around so long now that I'm practically extended family. A grand lady from Grangemouth; when I first met her I understood one of about every third word she said, but enjoyed her company and they don't make 'em like that anymore. Got to the crem' first by about twenty minutes, suddenly realised I didn't actually know the old girl's name - just called her Granny L*****. Strolled through the lists and had a "brain does it's job" moment, as I realised that the first customer listed and Mosh share the same forename, albeit in M's case as a second name. Two and two together; as close as to four as to make it probably that I was in the right place; as it turned out I was. On the whole, a lot more efficient than the one I went to on the bike in 2002 when my rear brake fell to bits enroute, the other guys with the map and the only idea of where we were heading zoomed off literally miles ahead and I ended up spending the cremation going around the Bristol one way system on a crippled bike, cursing loudly.

Anyway, a good sendoff. Top padre, even if he was one of the christian variety. Turned out he rode bikes (VFR800 and an old beemer, can't fault the bloke), and actually did human before religious (invited to the family scoff afterwards; took a bread roll, chuckled and asked if anyone ordered fish; to which someone passed the water jug and asked if we could rustle up some wine); that's a rarity and not a bad thing either. Anyways up. Time came to drag my arse up the country again; a rough trip this time, rest breaks every twenty miles or so until I got to Boston and got second wind. Haven't felt this shagged out since I was regularly doing the 150 mile commute on the bike when I was seeing Hellbitch2.

Croppers... those that didn't help. And other tales.

Yes, you know who you are; the beardy old bastard with the stupid yellow hat, the over suntanned wife and the vile Golden Virginia roley's who insisted on standing in front of the seating area for three quarters of the Zappa tribute set blocking the views to the screen. Next time, go to the front where you're supposed to stand, you selfish old git. And in case you don't, I'm bringing a good supply of throwing stars next year.

To the couple that shoved their fecking great enormous caravan into the camping field, and then shoved their fat great awning out of the side of it, leaving me a postage stamp to put my tent up on. Nazi's. How much room do you need to fecking annex for your fecking bunny-hutch? Isn't enough to piss off the entire population on the road, you've got to own all the grass in the campsites too? Not got enough Lebensraum? Bastards. I hope Clarkson gets you and all your kind.

Ah, feel better for that.

Got a text the other day from my item of missing kit. "Dear Mike, gone on my holidays. Will send postcards. Yrs, Harry the Hat". That'll be my battered old festival hat, left in the tent of my good muckers of old, Ginger Chris and Sharpshooter Sal to dry off after a particularly heavy downpour, and clearly forgotten. Well, not forgotten as such, more like they're much more efficient than I when it comes to packing up and clearing off a campsite on Sunday morning! Clearly it's time I shifted myself down to Surrey for another drinking weekend to claim Harry back. Or maybe I should leave him down there and see just how many worldwide diving trips he goes on before I get around to the rescue! And speaking of the Cropredy Cohorts, what can I say about a certain long haired individual, maybe to be known as Braveheart herafter after his personal Dunkirk moment; ie a rapid evacuation in trying conditions? I think a veil should be drawn over any allegations of chemical splashback and blue arses and you'll hear no more of it here... ahem....

Cropredy Tales II

Righto, let's try to get some order from this hazy, addled weekend.

As the man Raoul said in the original and greatest, "We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into locked a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon. ".

Well, I didn't have that stuff. But in the back of my car was a gallon jar of Willy's; half a gallon of Double Six bitter from Louth; half a Gallon of Broad Oak Perry (note, that's NOT pear cider which is a contradiction in terms no matter what the marketing men try to say) and a suspicious looking hip flask which smelled of Blueberries. Not that we needed all that for the trip but once you get locked into a serious booze collection, etc... you get the point. On my planner for the Thursday morning was the advice, written after last years arrival debacle "leave early, this time Fatboy"... seemed like good advice and I took it; baggage prepped the night before and only kicking the tyres and lighting the fires to be done on the Goldie Lookin' Car. Not early enough of course though, got a text message to advise that the chaps had moved the meeting time forward by an hour and there wasn't a farts chance in a thunderstorm of me getting down half the length of the country in time to meet that deadline, but nae worries, and my new friend Emily the GPS easily recalculates all routes at the touch of a button, and everyone's in electronic contact anyway so all are able to co-ordinate their arrival. Technology, eh? What did we do without it? (have to meet up and travel in big groups, is the answer to that one). I can't be doing with a long narrative writeup this year; firstly I can't be bothered and secondly my memory is in pieces all over the place. Hmmmm. Wonder how that happened. So have some bite sized chunks to read instead, that I can place in some kind of order....

BIKES OR LACK OF
A year to the weekend since my big beast the Mile Eater went bang. The engine rebuild is complete to all intents and purposes, the hairy new piston arrangement means that "bigger, faster, stronger, better" is the concept we're basically achieving here. The engine went back into the frame a couple of weeks ago. Yep, been meaning to write a bit about that for a while. Ninety something kilo's of serious metal being precisely manhandled into place by mech supremo Baz the Bike on skill and knowledge aided by myself on unskilled labour, hitting things with hammers and coffee making; jigging bits in to millimetre precision with the aid of a couple of bits of wood, a couple of jacks and some axle stands. The thing is ready to be connected up and tested, but these things can't be rushed; we find that as old bits and fittings are brought out to be refitted, they turn out unserviceable and require replacement or renovation. There have been a few winters, and rust gets everywhere. C'est la vie. Of course, with the benefit of hindsight I could have just gotten another bike but frankly I like this one, and can't wait to see what Beast v.2 is going to handle like. The aim of getting it rolling for Cropredy is obviously missed; but that turned out to be not a bad thing anyway. Combat Hobbit didn't mind travelling in comfort this time, and it it turned out to be quite beneficial for organising the trip, stowing the gear and she likes her new name too. Well, anything's better than Turdwalker's Mum. Hey ho. Next year, maybe bikey.

WOMBLES
"Over the gig, under the gig, wombling free; getting in your face about all kinds of trivia and bottom inspecting are we". Yes folks, a lot of Wombles in fluro jackets this year to poke their nose into peoples lives in a very earnest well meaning way. The usual Gate Wombles to check wristbands; but also Chair Wombles to make sure you didn't set up your foldaway chair in front of the "established chair line" (where DO they learn phrases like that? Womble school?)(and since when have I taken chairs to gigs? Must be getting old); we had Campsite Wombles to make sure our camping habits formed nice, established Blairite utopian lines. Unfortunately we had no "Sitting Down Wombles" to encourage folks who wanted to keep standing to NOT bloody do it in front of where I was sitting (see later); neither did we have "Direction Finding Wombles" to locate the source of the loud explosion heard on Saturday morning at around three AM. At ten, they didn't know what the hell it was so it would appear that Cropredy's first suicide bomber cooked off in vain in a masterpiece of screwing up your publicity. Either that or a desperately miscued beer fuelled fart lighting contest was taking place somewhere.

BANDS
No complete rundown and review from this boy, oh no. If you want that, read a proper review and not a lazy blogger heheheheh! Just a few mentions to those who especially deserved, or really really didn't:

John Tams: He's that Private Hagman off Sharpe, he is. Very excellent, best presented trad' British folk music I've seen in years. And of course he has to do the closing theme from Sharpe as well; a bit special that.

Supergrass: Petulant little scrotes maybe? A funny choice for this bill and didn't go down as well maybe as they hoped? Don't know, I was pissed, seemed a workmanlike set but certainly a lack of encore as Onslow was trying to wind the crowd up for for one... "do you want to hear more; ah no, we have to stop". A complete lack of their most famous hit made one think either a hissy fit was thrown backstage or that band member who sleepwalked off a hotel balcony had maybe done it again...

Family Mahone: that's that Mark Radcliffe from Radio Two, to you. And the rest of his sometime band who were rather excellent. A full set, all presented as "This is a drinking song from...". A missed opportunity to annoy Supergrass by opening with the old Shirehorses "Feels like shite", to poke at their missing encore hit but as by all account they'd only just arrived and were attending to the important things in life (drinking beer in the campsite), I'll forgive them that. Constantly requested beer supply to the stage which arrived in reused four pint milk bottles ("good stuff, this skimmed beer").

Julie Fowis: beautiful voice. However, wasted request of the festival. "Feel free to sing along if you know the words" - she only sings in Scottish Gaelic...

Joe Brown, Dave Edmunds: two bona fide British rock guitar heroes on the same stage. I swear Joe Brown is a music vampire, that's the only reason for him looking younger than me at his advanced age. Virgin's Blood. Doesn't do the "playing guitar behind his back" thing anymore; "I'm getting old, my doctor gave me a note and said you lot could sod off" raised a communal chuckle from all. Dave Edmunds - held the Cropredy stage spellbound with a single electric guitar; banged out Mozart's number 40 in G on a single instrument; that's bloody impressive in anyone's money. Mind you, after all these years, I'd have liked to have heard those anthems of my childhood "Queen of Hearts/I hear you knocking" from a slightly more salubrious location than I actually managed - the queue for the gents. Never mind. He did "Girl Talk" too. We'd probably not have lynched him if he hadn't, as he was going down so well, but you see, that's the trick, play all your BIG hits. Supergrass, take note.

Midge Ure: Did one better than Dave by holding the Cropredy stage spellbound for his entire second on the bill set with only a single acoustic. In incredible form. A top set. Did you know he wrote Fade to Grey by Visage? I'd forgotten. Which of course means he owns the rights and can play it when he likes. A very different thing, hearing that on acoustic. And Vienna of course. All good stuff. A very, very good set; this reviewer gives him many out of ten and suggests you add him to your personal "gigs to look out for if he comes to my town" list.

Fairport Convention: Yes, they do the same thing every year and they do it well. It's their gig after all. And Dave Pegg was whoring his bass out for practically everyone this year. But Robert Plant as a guest slot during the Sandy Denny tribute was inspired, and he actually did songs we'd heard of this time, rather than his attendance here before ('99? 2000? I don't know, I was pissed) when he just banged out a selection of "Jazz fusion" that he'd "been into in his teens". I don't know about you, whenever I hear the words Jazz Fusion seriously mentioned I need to either call the Pretention Police or reach for a rifle. I am the hardcore element of which "Jazz Club" satire ("Nice....") is the soft end. But hey ho, we forgive, we forget, the grouchyness of previous years fades into fuzzy alcoholic mist and this time the raddled old warrior got it right. And if they hadn't have done "Meet on the Ledge" , we WOULD have lynched them. But they always do and are probably as sentimental about it as we are. First rate video backdrop to "Matty Groves" as well, with the bloody tale of passion being acted out by animated Mr Potato Heads.... Cue discussion as to how this "makes the story accessible to kids".... bollocks, it's just funny !

Welsh Wales

Been travelling again..... snippets of it.

Betws-y-coed; nothing happens here. The good cafe closed years ago.

Blaenau Ffestiniog; among the most rancid shitehole's I've ever seen - how those slag heaps hundreds of feet above the town are legal, I'll never know. Interesting to visit if you're ever curious to see what a mining colony on Mars might look like. Pretty houses. But that's pretty much all that's to recommend the place unless you like your life surreal.

Rhyl; that bloke threw an egg at Prescott here. And Dirty Sanchez superglued Pritchard's todger to a road sign here. That's about it. Oh, and the sign's been removed which tells the trained mind a thing or two - or the local students have nicked it, which is far more appropriate. Another of TWM's holiday destinations which allegedly used to be great, and which has died a total death. The seaside town that they forgot to close down. Come armageddon, come.

Rhosneigr, Anglesey; suitable holiday destination for the propellorhead in the family due to the proximity to Valley airfield. Actually a very nice beach in a surfer sort of way. Could waste some time there. Note to self; pack waders next time for accessing the photography spots without a twenty minute diversion; or a backpack to safely transport the camera through the salt water of the dune streams.

Llandudno; actually breaks the mould, it's a lovely place. They seem to have caught on to the fact that the family holiday doesn't actually need to be plastic and noisy, it's got a bit more class. I'd go back.

Here endeth the snippets. If you want more, I'll take paid commissions to go back and sit at the end of Valley runway for a week ;o)

Suicide bunnies

I think I've discovered an Al-Qaeda training scheme in Lincolnshire. Rabbit suicide bombers. As soon as they work out how to make a rabbit scream "Allah Akbar" and press a detonator button with a paw, there won't be a safe car in the country. Driving the other night, encounted several of the little buggers in my headlights. Swerve to avoid the most pressing one, and instead of bugging out to safety he did a swift one eighty turn and ran straight into my drivers side front wheel. Thud. Game over. Now this one wasn't wearing the bomb vest so he was clearly training but when cars start catching fire for no apparent reason at high speed, remember folks, you read it here first.....

The British at Play

Yup, I can use that title afresh because although I've used it to head a paragraph before, never a whole article. N'yer.

Take a pub. Any pub. For instance, the pub I was in the other night. Just as an example. Fill it full of middle aged and older drinkers, just like you and me. Oh well, OK, like me. You readers of course are all young and lovely and not seeing any grey hairs at all.

Ahem.

Anyway, I'm digressing. What is the proper reaction to the fire alarm going off very loudly indeed? Clearly, look around - see if anybody else is is leaving then return to your pint with a shrug. Not one table emptied, not one person moved. Including me. Oh well, if you're going to burn to death, neck a pint of strong bitter first to numb the pain, right?