Queen Victoria's todger

Recently seen out an outing to central Liverpool.

Go check it out for yersen' if you don't believe me.

Hotel of hurt

Here is the view from my town centre hotel in Scouse. And therein lies a problem.

No, not the distinct lack of Superlambananas. Although that was sad and makes Scouse a duller town. Neither is it the fact that I'm not looking directly out onto the fine buildings and statues that are readily in that part of town; all I have to do is turn my head to the right by about fifteen degrees and there they are. Not even I am that lazy.

No, the problem lies with that cream building lurking behind the trees, to the right of the redbrick office block. It's name is Ship and Mitre. It is a pub. It is a pub with which I have a certain history. One that I have difficulty remembering as every time I go in there, the beer fairies ambush me, hold me down, empty my wallet, hold my nose and force feed me beer until I am silly. It's a form of mugging. I don't WANT it to happen. Of course I don't, who would, I mean in this day and age we all drink responsibly, the government tell us to and we always do what they say because they're always right, right? On this occasion the beer fairies got a pass out to help me pass out and ambushed me early in Doc Duncans, fifty yards to the right of the picture. Hmmm, that didn't help either. It's a dangerous place. And I choose to stay there. It's madness.

Maybe I should book a hotel in a saner area. Like Kabul. Or Mogadishu.

Unexpected religious experience while Beachcombing the Dee estuary

Yes indeed. I didn't find a dead wading bird, so I couldn't take it home, parcel it up and indeed send it to the rubber faced irritant Phil Cool with a note attached saying "is this your Sanderling".


I did however spot an unscheduled appearance by Jesus. Going out for a stroll, by his posture and dress. Obviously the first century holy lands style gown thang is not appropriate with the howling west coast winds in November, they'd go right up him, so the more practical jeans and jacket approach is more appropriate to the modern dressing messiah. And the bloke with the kite powered sailboard only just missed him.

And another thing....

After all this heaviness and unpleasantness.

I was over in Scouse the other day. You know that by now. The place is coming to the end of it's City of Yoghurt status (culture) but something was amiss. Something I'd not seen for a long time. Bare streets. A lack of colour.

They've taken away the Superlambananas.

Like these. And many more like 'em.

OK, they've sold them off for charidee. And some will still be on show around the place. But there won't be the summer madness again, with them dotted in every corner, and trips around town to sniff out the odd ones in odd places. I first saw one as I stepped off a train, and said "what the hell is this modern art guff". Like everyone else by the end of the afternoon I was filling a camera data card with them. I think they're great, to hell with this justifying graffiti that folks do in the name community art, this was the real deal. The town's just not as much fun without them. Hey ho. I shall have to talk to men with curly hair, boggly eyes and shellsuits instead.

Facebook Feeding Frenzy

Been reading one of those Facebook groups on the "Baby P" business; an interesting read to say the least, from a people watching point of view, if one wants to get a grip on the state of the nation. Notwithstanding the awfulness of the crime, there's a lot here that's odd. We can't name the child, or his parents. But we can print an angelic blond haired blue eyed picture of him that's going to rile the nation. Hmmm. I haven't seen such hysteria since Diana went, and this lot would quite happily develop into an illiterate lynch mob. Isn't it interesting to watch human reactions, and then wonder why we criticise countries like, for instance Rwanda for brutality and mob rule.

A few genuine posts. The asterisk's are mine.

"THis is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard, these people should be tortured! Our world is messed up..." says Adele from Leeds.

Saying the world is messed up, and fixing it it with torturing convicted criminals? I think Adele's a symptom of a problem, not a cure in this case.

Karen of Wales "Why should we be paying to keep this evil tw*ts in prison jus release them in to field full of parents and let them see what its like to be frightened tortuerd and all alone !!! I'm not a violent person in the slightest and normally believe that justice should go through all the right channels but not in this case they showed that sweet boy no respect or gignity so why should we!!!"

Sarah from the West Midlands "poor sweet baby peter-you beautiful beautiful baby boy, you never deserved a 17month life of hell, you never deserved anything, but love.we will get you justice sweet baby boy, everyone is at a standstill almost with what has happened to a sweet little innocent baby.i hope you are laughing and smiling and happy now, RIP peter cuz now you are free x love you sweet baby".

Lora from London "sack them all the f*cking stupid idiots and dont lock that bitch away show her face let her out then beat her and course her pain like she did her poor baby dont kill the bitch just course all her life off pain let her taste death always "

John in Japan "I have been crying now for about 2 hours, just trying not imagine what poor Baby P went through. I have 3 boys. I wish I could have saved him."

A little perspective here maybe, folks? I didn't know the kid. It's a shame what happened happened, but I wonder would this outpouring of national hysteria have happened if the papers hadn't got hold of such an angelic shot of a blue eyed white child; the inverse of the infamous "Myra Hindley" photo that ensured she'd never get out again. If the picture had been yet another black kid, would they be wailing so? Two black girls got stabbed by their mother at the weekend, are the tabloid readers calling for her head? That'll be a no, then. Many of these folks are claiming to have gotten their information from the News of the World footage (tells the trained mind a thing or two).

Hey, I just have the thoughts. I just point out the rot. It's for other folks to make something of it and maybe make the world a slightly more sensible place. "I am the weaver". Take down your Diana tea towels. It's over. She's gone. Have your scream about the baby, the media bots will have something else with which to entertain you tomorrow. The Simpsons are on two channels at six. "Fifty Six channels of American Gladiator".

And finally. Folks, if you're going to publish your opinions in the open, for the sake of all that is holy, use a spellchecker and grammar-bot. Back when I was a lad, the uneducated possibly read the books (unlikely as it appears) and the great, the good and those who had at least rudimentary education wrote them. Now it seems we preserve the thoughts of every drone for posterity. At this rate, there might even be a copy of the rubbish I write around in a hundred years.

But at least mite be spelt rite.

Beware the fruity ( a beer review )

I've been in Scouseland again drinking beer, folks.

I've got a good one to share with you. But you'll have to be quick, because it's only on for a month. And it's flying out of the handpumps like irate Sun readers after Baby P's mum. Cain's Raisin Beer. A five percenter that's been available in bottled form all year, but has appeared from time to time in cask form at Beer Festivals, in advance of it's scheduled appearance as "beer of the month" from the Cains brewery.

Oh my god, it's a good'n. I know a bit about five percenters, growing up as I did in the shadow of both the Shifty Abbott, and marvellously monsterous Adnams Broadside. And this one, friends and neighbours, is the most accessable, suppable, quaffable, easy on the palete damned easy to drink big beer I have ever have had the pleasure of slurping. It's a bit special, and Cains aren't paying me to say that. I wish they'd do the sensible thing and put it on as a permanent cask ale in the new year. It's too good to keep in bottles, the barrelled stuff is easilly fifty percent better. Could even do the ailing brewery some good. Knowing my luck of course, they probably won't. Or they'll just go under anyway. But you need to be careful. It's a dangerous thing to sup a five percenter like pop, especially as this one doesn't tire out your tastebuds like for instance Tanglefoot, or some of the Belgian fruities, but just sups and sups. In fact, the only reason we moved pubs was because it was getting near closing in Doc' Duncans, the Ship and Mitre had another hour to go, and then it was off to the Swan. But the Cains took a big wallop. It's like a friendly smiley lady who's got a baseball bat concealed in her drawers for when you turn your back. Monster head in the morning. Worth it though.

So I've just added only the third entrant ever to the "Mikey's greatest beers ever" list; keeping Black Sheep Bitter and Adnams Broadside in fine company.

Karma bonus

Be caught in ghastly traffic jam in a strange town.

Be trapped alongside small car containing blonde woman on her way home from work, going equally nowhere.

Passenger winds down window, crank up stereo to maximum volume and play 30 second long track entitled "Vatican Broadside"by local satirical humourist musical act.

Drive off to see blonde traffic jam victim pissing herself with laughter in rear view mirror.

SORTED.

Gig night

So, let's have a look at this list I wrote out.

Busy day, last minute departure? Check.
Long journey? Check.
Stressy drive, lorries, sunday drivers, too much road for too little time? Check.
Many stupid roadworks? Check.
Lots of swearing? Check.
Three bald blokes from Birkenhead with guitars and a drummer? Check.

Ah, must be the ever popular "attempt to shoehorn live entertainment into the already creaking schedule" then.

Actually, amazingly managed to make it into the Norwich Waterfront just in time for the first song, thanks to Emily the GPS being spot on the money. Goldie Lookin' Car's a little in the wars at the moment, but the vroomy bit still vrooms and the steery bit still points it in the right direction at terrible speed when required, which on this trip down is all the time so all is well and the destination is achieved with no hassles other than time and stress; no crashing or police issues to deal with, which is good.

The reason for all this energy is that Half Man, Half Biscuit have gotten out of bed and are playing. This is a big thing. I'm through with justifying why I love this band, enough to say they're national treasures and have been a feature in my stereo since around 1985. Google them if you're interested ;o). But a few thoughts:

It's very, very surreal to hear a song that you've played so many times for so long that it's lodged in your subconcious played live for the first time ("f*ckin' 'ell, it's Fred Titmuss") as the second song in.

Their old stuff is very, very different played in the way they play these days - ie: competently, and with capability of tuning instruments.

Yes - Nigel, their singer really does look like Jap Stam but is far less scary in real life than he looks in pictures, banters with the audience about where to buy hiking boots and really does read out the football scores half way through the gig (Chelsea lost on penalties, YAY).

Personal highlights? Fred Titmuss; Paintball's coming home; Vatican Broadside; The Best things in Life; Trumpton Riots, National Shite Day of course, Joy Division Oven Gloves. Ah sod it, the whole long set list. Plenty missing, but you can't shoe horn in everything that's great - you'd be there all night. Hmmm, this may not be a bad thing. This gig has been a long time coming for me; 23 years? That beats my previous "fan of the music-finally gets to see gig" record with Morrissey by about five years. And I think I enjoyed this more.

Nice to run into Jacko and JJ from the world famous class of 1987 there. But no time for big chat, for it was time to point the GLC northwards again. And the gig didn't finish in time for the pub, which was a shame because I know a very fine pub in that locale which was chucking out just as we drove past it. Hey ho. And if this looks as if I'm finishing off this review because I'm in a hurry to be elsewhere - I am! Back to that crappy schedule!

Are they trying to tell me something?

Age Concern, that is.

They've just put a collection envelope through my letterbox. On this of all days. Bastards.

One year older, folks - that's me. I've taken the day off work and having a lazy one, partially because I'm a grumpy old git and don't like buying doughnuts for my colleagues, but mainly because I have a hangover. It's nice to be remembered, even stranded up here in the arse end of civilisation as I am. Heavy delivery from the postie today, muchos grassias to all folks who remembered; plus lots of texts and online goodness.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Righto, I suppose it's time to mooch into town and be less lazy.

Bang night

So once again, the air was thick with the smell of burnt cordite and the sounds of apparent battle were in the air all over this part of town. I could have gone to an organised display; I could have bought my own and let them off, if not in the garden (kitty insecurity) then somewhere in the locale. Instead, I got myself a free display.

Walked into town and went to the pub.

Oh yes. Free fireworks as I get to watch everybody else's. Boys and girls, it's time to celebrate religious intolerance in our secular, multi faith society. Wonder if we can have a day to celebrate torturing and burning Muslims, as we are today with Catholics? Hmmm. Can't see that being a popular idea anytime soon. Hey ho. Just being devils advocate here, folks.

Actually, I'd much rather do my own (fireworks, not burning catholics) but once again I've not had the time to visit the Shop of Quality Bangs over the previous months to build up a quality arsenal, and the ones in ASDA are frankly just too ginger beer. Aught to do it before the safety nazi's ban it, really. I'm not with them at all. Just how are you supposed to enjoy life if everything is detuned, unavailable and can only be done by you if you've read the risk assessment, got the license and then just gotten scared and watched somebody else do it? Screw that. If you're left with only one hand, you've clearly learnt a very important lesson you can pass on to your kids. Which is why it's vitally important not to fire rockets from your fly zip.

Also, it's a pretty bad idea to mix explosives with alcohol. Not literally, you understand. Can't see that creating much more than a "phut" and a cloud of smoke. But the chaps in The County public house who were having an impromptu display in the alley at the side were perhaps a little on the side of irresponsibility, even by my own libertine standards. I've never seen a rocket get jammed into a buildings gutter, burn out and then explode before. That was interesting. Also, the Air Bomb that flew under somebody's Beemer and went off, largely because the tit that was launching it was launching it by hand. Feck it. I worship at the church of Darwin, and while an accident might not have stopped his farting in church, to paraphrase Obergefrieter Josef Porta, he certainly would have had to change his wanking technique. This would entertain me, and if I'd have had the sensibility to record it for posterity, might have made me a few quid on You've Been Framed, if not creative immortality on Youtube. The accident, that is, not his wanking technique. Unfortunately, I felt it wiser to retreat indoors to my pint, as things were just getting silly.

More Brand

Have you heard that the BBC have offered to reinstate Brand?

He's got to sign the Sachs Offenders Register first....

(I'll get me coat)

This time of year

Well, I love it. I'm a November child so I guess I associate the damp smells with oncoming birthdays and loot - ha, back when birthdays were to be anything but dreaded - and found myself pointing towards home town to do certain hometown related business things yesterday. Have you ever noticed how the rain smells different when you're back home? It's true. And lordy, wasn't there enough opportunity to prove that yesterday. Anyway, I like the autumn. Grey overcasts like that remind me of being on the inside of an electric lit kitchen, the artificial light making the outside seem darker and the classified football results on TV. Suppose that's my safe place.

If you like autumn too, you could do worse than to take a drive through Thetford Forest in the afternoon. I'd reccommend the road from Elveden through Brandon to Whittington. The colour on the trees and the mass fallen leaves on the ground are just concentrated autumn in a box. Astounding. Normally I'd have stopped for pictures, but to be honest the light had dropped just a little too far towards evening and it was a just too overcast. Maybe later.