I was rummaging through some old files and found a brief account of a holiday I took in Italy three years ago. People need to know the truth about Florence. A Room with a View has a lot to answer for. Good day.
Dear friend,
A word of warning about Florence.
Don't go there.
If you must have romantic notions about parts of Italy, and there are many that feel they must. then I urge you not to ruin them forever by actually visiting the place.
It will make you weep with its oppressive ugliness - even if it isn't raining. Which it will be.
It is the worst.
There is a Medici palace, that appears on the face of it to be all right but is utterly ruined by the performance art of George Adekunbebebeetc. whatever his name is.
One is confronted by some of the most ornate, resplendent, breathtaking indoor spaces of the Renaissance - and in each room is a placard proudly telling you how George Adkkkuntbeeetc has ruined it. In the manner of a tiny child showing mummy and daddy little Georgie’s first poopoo.
Some one has written the big words in neat handing for George, to explain what he has done. George is a ‘native African performance artist,’ what this means in practical terms is:
George can't paint (thank god)
He can't write either.
He might just about to be able to hold a stick and smile at you like some kind of retarded Indiana Jones extra in the vain hope that you give him money.
(This is solely based on the only evidence I have, which is a photograph of George, holding a stick and smiling with a bowl that has some coins in it)
What George can do (and has done IN EVERY ROOM) is lay out books, newspapers (whatever stuff he has lying about) in the Palazzo - these are meant to subtly blend in.
Quite how 'The Four Immortal Elements of Creation' that decorate the walls and ceiling, whilst a 16thc terracotta mosaic adorns the floor blends in with half a dozen old copies of Le Figaro strewn across the floor next to a 1970s dinky toy is beyond me.
But clearly not beyond George.
He really goes for it in the Medici private chapel.
There amid the gold leaf and weight of history - George has really exceeded himself.
On the floor he has arranged some books - in the shape of a cross.
My beloved had to explain it to me - but it's clever - you see - a chapel, some books in the shape of a cross. Brilliant. See, clever.
In one room I discovered an upturned paperback and a half empty bottle of mineral water.
What could it mean ?
What was George Abracadabrabayou trying to tell me ?
It turned out it belonged to one of the curators. It was their lunch.
I pondered what dark revelations George had in store for me by chosing to place the 1983 Look-In Annual on the stairs leading to the Exit,what did it mean ?
Ah I see.
Nothing.
The only redeeming thing was that on wandering through this ancient and impressive palace - I happened to walk into a full court session of Florence's civic body - it seems they still use the palace for day to day political business and you can watch.
The mayor/judge - I could not tell which, was brilliant.
He looked like Al Pacino - and in the midst of the court - with many tables of lawyers etc. was sporting a pair of sunglasses and a cheap beige jacket, the sort you would find being worn by many of our fathers.
I liked him more than a little.
The rest of Florence is beset by Americans and the smell of soiled leather. The Ponte Vecchio is small, characterless and adorned with gaudy unpleasant jewellry shops.
The streets are gloomy, and dirty.
Only where they have hidden Michelangelo’s David was there any evidence of scant humanity. There in a semi-circle of pious devotion sat the matrons of Firenze, steadfast, immovable (they were not giving those seats up ever),constant, faithful.
All staring at David’s sculpted and perfect marble anus.
We left Florence - with much joy
But what follows is, another story.
Monday, 31 October 2011
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Grecian 2011
IMF Economic Advisors Yesterday
Plans for the recovery of Greece from economic chaos were revealed today to loud applause from fans of the original Clash of the Titans.
Greek Prime Minister, Harry Hamlyn took time out from from his busy schedule chasing after middle aged women in togas, to outline his economic vision:
‘It’s simple, hey lady you’re nice want to star in an advert for soup with me ? real easy, what I done is a clever plan, nice lady, pretty lady, I’ll give you a handbag for a kiss,no knock off. I’ve got all them people from The Time Team, except Tony Robinson, you are a beautiful princess, if I answer a riddle can I show you my diamante thong ? Zeus gave it to me. Gives me powers. Anyway they just dig up King Midas and we clone him and then get the clone to touch a load of stuff. Then we sell the gold. Lady I’m a real popular man, I done it with Ursula Andress and Nicolette Sheridan, you want to make my list. All that gold will get us back on top, fast.’
Opposition Leader Calibos,son of Thetis was quick to dismiss the idea:
‘Clearly the answer to all our woes is to retrieve the Golden fleece.’
Meanwhile in a cynical move to try and put Greece back on the map Joanna Lumley has made a tv programme of her going on holiday there. In the first episode she goes yomping around the Acropolis whilst the camera stays glued to her arse like she was Anneka Rice out of Treasure Hunt. Mythological finance experts were quick to comment: ‘It is no accident that Lumley is here at this time. We fully expect her to emerge naked from the sea in a giant scallop shell, whereupon our debt will be renewed like her virginity off the isalnd of Paphos. Just like Aphrodite.’
‘Yes just like Aphrodite.’
‘Except less of a slag.’
‘Doesn’t she look wonderful for her age.’
‘Yes, but that Odyssey programme’s a bit shit, you don’t see anything.’
Hamlyn was unavailable for comment but was seen chasing after Lumley on a moped waggling his olive skinned privates.
Burgess Meredith was unavailable for comment.
'No comment. I'm dead.'
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
Brendan the Third
Beej, as the South Coast’s premier spymaster liked to be called, was to Eastbourne what Rick Astley was to love.
They were well acquainted.
I once spent an excruciating lunch with him (Beej, not Rick Astley) in one of Eastbourne’s Pizza Hut clones. All we could eat, which in Brendan’s excuse for a mind, and despite posters (and later protests) to the contrary, was only valid whilst his plate was clear.
So he would periodically visit the gents, his pockets stuffed with crusts from the pizza slices.
Someone, I forget who, maybe me, maybe Sir Alec Guinness (who was never one to pass up all you can eat pizza) told him quite sensibly to stop it before he blocked up the toilet.
I forget the exact words he used, but the gist was entirely that the crusts weren’t in the toilet bowl. Fella.
He was closeting them in the cistern.
And he was pleased by this. In much the same way as a dog who has performed a good trick will look at his carer for approval. My applause was reserved for the person who would eventually have to remove the mouldering mass of dough owing to the smell1
Which brings me untidily to Brendan’s marriage and preceding stag.
He met his future wife in Eastbourne, she was a hairdresser, ten years his senior, with two young children. It will be of little surprise to learn the depths of George Smiley the Younger’s feeling for his weef-to-be, were I to tell you, gentle reader, the absurd lengths he went to ensure the taxi taking him to the church went past the ‘Lezza’s’ parents house (see Part 1).
But let us first part the mists of time and the curtains of shame as we go back to that night, that portended such connubial bliss to come. Operation Stag-Do was being run by a corpulent ginger depressive who Brendan had given the diverting codename of ‘Timbo.’ aka The Best Man. It was not uncommon, if you had stayed out all night, to find him on the seafront in the early hours of the morning, sitting in one of the windbreaks (which inevitably smelt more or less strongly of urine) reading a book about physics. No idea why, Jeorge once caught him eating apples gloomily in a caravan as a teenager, so maybe he fancied himself an auburn Isaac Newton. Anyway Timbo’s first stop on this celebration of the solitary life of Beej was to the Kitten Club in a run down suburb of Brighton. Fortunately I had brought a book.
We were lead gingerly by the titian fatty down the stairs to a room where there wasn’t enough room to swing a cat, let alone watch a bored mother of two dance to Wham in various states of undress. Years later I met a lady, fully clothed, who had worked there for a while, she told me a lot about her son who did Speedway (I hoped, without conviction it was a method of taking amphetamines). She made quiet, disparaging comments about the dustiness of my bathroom whilst I tried to excise the image of her and her then paramour, Calibos, Lord of the Marsh and the son of Thetis, using what I believe is known as a ‘ball-gag’ in a caravan near Castle Donnington2.
Ignore Hamlet, in fact, fire Shakespeare’s entire canon out of one; you have never seen tragedy until you’ve seen the expression on the face of a fat ginger virgin in his mid-20s whilst a woman (doesn’t matter who, I suspect even his mum would do) gives him a lap dance. I spent two hours trying to read a book. After that it was drinking and not dancing in a club, then an hour long taxi ride back to Beej’s secret hideout (the house above a hairdressers he shared with his beloved). We got there long before his fiancé had returned from her hen do, so the James Bond of Eastbourne plans a little surprise:
‘We should hide,’
‘Why ?’
‘Well we can jump out.’
Everyone (myself and the best man and a large Canadian, who no one knows) agrees, waits ‘til Brendan goes upstairs then we put on the telly and drink more beer. An hour or two passes. At some point I go to the toilet. A chubby forearm clutches the sill.
‘Brendan what are you doing out there ?’
‘I’m waiting to leap out on the missus.’
‘In the toilet ?’
‘Um yeah.’
‘Well I need to go.’
‘Oh just close the window, I can balance on the kitchen roof if it’s quick.’
I thank the gods that I just needed a piss and then contemplated not opening the window again. But I did.
His future wife returns with her friends, they have had a much better time.
‘Where’s Bren ?’
Nobody answers.
Our eyes all gesture upstairs. There’s sadness in all of them, compassion too. Poor woman.
She’s had a couple of drinks so what passes for sublety amongst us is lost on her. Fortunately she needs the bathroom. Fortune is relative in this instance, I think everyone was just glad it hadn’t been one of her friends.
Minutes pass.
There’s a scream, surprise not fear, a very loud crash. Then a pause, followed by a heavy footfall down the stairs and then the front door slams.
No one does anything for a bit. Then I, and a possible future bridesmaid to the oh-so-happy couple venture silently up the russet paisley (that’s not a euphemism they just had nasty carpet). The toilet is at the top of the landing, facing the stairs. The bowl is the first casualty of Brendan’s master plan, then the pot pourri strewn over the broken enamel like dirt on a coffin. At the risk of neglecting the very real human tragedy of the evening, I confess my first thought was, ‘if someone tries to flush that, the room’ll flood.’
My companion discovered the third casualty in their bedroom. The future Mrs Spy, eyeliner and nose running.
Those of you who have seen me channel my inner Columbo will know what follows, so there is no need to make you suffer as I did to piece together The Case of the Broken Bowl.
Beej had hidden outside the bathroom,holding on by his arm and balancing on the kitchen roof. Upon hearing his wife to be, he launched himself bodily into the confined space. Fortunately she had not begun to avail herself of the facilities. His ingress and landing were not controlled and his foot went through the porcelain. He saw no way out other than the most brutal. He told her he ‘didn’t love her and couldn’t go through with it.’ He then vacated the building.
There was discussion about the very nature of Beej, whereupon it transpired that she was well aware 1. - 4. of the following ‘facts’
1. Beej had never got over the death of his uncle who died in a plane crash.
2. Beej had got the scars on his legs from the plane crash he was in with his uncle.
3. Beej’s uncle lived in Chiselhurst. He ran a greasy spoon café.
4. Brendon obtained the scars whilst trying to ‘karate kick’ his elder brother after he (Beej) had just got out of the bath. At the age of 5 or so his towel had fallen off and the naked youngster had sailed over his brother (who ducked) straight into the glass partition.
5. Beej had not, as he claimed to Jeorge ‘caught one in the leg in Bosnia’
6. Nor had he,as he claimed to me, ‘been shot in the leg parachuting into France.’
Beej’s mother had helpfully revealed 3. and 4. and I contributed 5. and 6.
None of which located Brendan, Ace of Spies. My work done3 I found a quiet corner and settled down to sleep.
The Best Man later found him asleep beneath a bench in a nearby pub garden at 3 in the morning.
Brendan the Spy and Dee the Hairdresser were reconciled the next day and married the following month. They have one son. They separated after Beej relocated to the garden shed of the domicile, where he lived for two months estranged from his wife, before returning to his parents house. They have never divorced. ‘Uncle Bren’ now lives in France with a lady and their young son.
Footnotes
1 The pizza crusts, not Brendan the Spy’s sweaty carcass; which would doubtless expire in just such a place, a half-smoked rollup made of the unprepossessing remains of another, already smoked, cigarette hanging from his fat purple face
2 An image Jeorge had conjured for me whilst I was cooking them all dinner. All true, Calibos had cheerily informed him. I wonder to this day what make of caravan it was.
3 Actually I found Brendan ‘round the corner (I am not without tradecraft of my own). We discussed his options, it was clear he still had feelings for The Lezza and was convinced he could win her back by travelling to Paris and finding her. I disabused him of this fanciful notion with certain salient pieces of evidence to the contrary, the chief of which was that she had enjoyed frequent periods of intimacy with Jeorge, indeed he had visited her in Paris quite recently. It was at that point H.17 decided to retreat still further, both geographically (from me) and mentally (from life). I could not be bothered to pursue him. There was still beer to be had and the task of bringing him in from the cold belonged to a fatter, gingerer man than I.
They were well acquainted.
I once spent an excruciating lunch with him (Beej, not Rick Astley) in one of Eastbourne’s Pizza Hut clones. All we could eat, which in Brendan’s excuse for a mind, and despite posters (and later protests) to the contrary, was only valid whilst his plate was clear.
So he would periodically visit the gents, his pockets stuffed with crusts from the pizza slices.
Someone, I forget who, maybe me, maybe Sir Alec Guinness (who was never one to pass up all you can eat pizza) told him quite sensibly to stop it before he blocked up the toilet.
I forget the exact words he used, but the gist was entirely that the crusts weren’t in the toilet bowl. Fella.
He was closeting them in the cistern.
And he was pleased by this. In much the same way as a dog who has performed a good trick will look at his carer for approval. My applause was reserved for the person who would eventually have to remove the mouldering mass of dough owing to the smell1
Which brings me untidily to Brendan’s marriage and preceding stag.
He met his future wife in Eastbourne, she was a hairdresser, ten years his senior, with two young children. It will be of little surprise to learn the depths of George Smiley the Younger’s feeling for his weef-to-be, were I to tell you, gentle reader, the absurd lengths he went to ensure the taxi taking him to the church went past the ‘Lezza’s’ parents house (see Part 1).
But let us first part the mists of time and the curtains of shame as we go back to that night, that portended such connubial bliss to come. Operation Stag-Do was being run by a corpulent ginger depressive who Brendan had given the diverting codename of ‘Timbo.’ aka The Best Man. It was not uncommon, if you had stayed out all night, to find him on the seafront in the early hours of the morning, sitting in one of the windbreaks (which inevitably smelt more or less strongly of urine) reading a book about physics. No idea why, Jeorge once caught him eating apples gloomily in a caravan as a teenager, so maybe he fancied himself an auburn Isaac Newton. Anyway Timbo’s first stop on this celebration of the solitary life of Beej was to the Kitten Club in a run down suburb of Brighton. Fortunately I had brought a book.
We were lead gingerly by the titian fatty down the stairs to a room where there wasn’t enough room to swing a cat, let alone watch a bored mother of two dance to Wham in various states of undress. Years later I met a lady, fully clothed, who had worked there for a while, she told me a lot about her son who did Speedway (I hoped, without conviction it was a method of taking amphetamines). She made quiet, disparaging comments about the dustiness of my bathroom whilst I tried to excise the image of her and her then paramour, Calibos, Lord of the Marsh and the son of Thetis, using what I believe is known as a ‘ball-gag’ in a caravan near Castle Donnington2.
Ignore Hamlet, in fact, fire Shakespeare’s entire canon out of one; you have never seen tragedy until you’ve seen the expression on the face of a fat ginger virgin in his mid-20s whilst a woman (doesn’t matter who, I suspect even his mum would do) gives him a lap dance. I spent two hours trying to read a book. After that it was drinking and not dancing in a club, then an hour long taxi ride back to Beej’s secret hideout (the house above a hairdressers he shared with his beloved). We got there long before his fiancé had returned from her hen do, so the James Bond of Eastbourne plans a little surprise:
‘We should hide,’
‘Why ?’
‘Well we can jump out.’
Everyone (myself and the best man and a large Canadian, who no one knows) agrees, waits ‘til Brendan goes upstairs then we put on the telly and drink more beer. An hour or two passes. At some point I go to the toilet. A chubby forearm clutches the sill.
‘Brendan what are you doing out there ?’
‘I’m waiting to leap out on the missus.’
‘In the toilet ?’
‘Um yeah.’
‘Well I need to go.’
‘Oh just close the window, I can balance on the kitchen roof if it’s quick.’
I thank the gods that I just needed a piss and then contemplated not opening the window again. But I did.
His future wife returns with her friends, they have had a much better time.
‘Where’s Bren ?’
Nobody answers.
Our eyes all gesture upstairs. There’s sadness in all of them, compassion too. Poor woman.
She’s had a couple of drinks so what passes for sublety amongst us is lost on her. Fortunately she needs the bathroom. Fortune is relative in this instance, I think everyone was just glad it hadn’t been one of her friends.
Minutes pass.
There’s a scream, surprise not fear, a very loud crash. Then a pause, followed by a heavy footfall down the stairs and then the front door slams.
No one does anything for a bit. Then I, and a possible future bridesmaid to the oh-so-happy couple venture silently up the russet paisley (that’s not a euphemism they just had nasty carpet). The toilet is at the top of the landing, facing the stairs. The bowl is the first casualty of Brendan’s master plan, then the pot pourri strewn over the broken enamel like dirt on a coffin. At the risk of neglecting the very real human tragedy of the evening, I confess my first thought was, ‘if someone tries to flush that, the room’ll flood.’
My companion discovered the third casualty in their bedroom. The future Mrs Spy, eyeliner and nose running.
Those of you who have seen me channel my inner Columbo will know what follows, so there is no need to make you suffer as I did to piece together The Case of the Broken Bowl.
Beej had hidden outside the bathroom,holding on by his arm and balancing on the kitchen roof. Upon hearing his wife to be, he launched himself bodily into the confined space. Fortunately she had not begun to avail herself of the facilities. His ingress and landing were not controlled and his foot went through the porcelain. He saw no way out other than the most brutal. He told her he ‘didn’t love her and couldn’t go through with it.’ He then vacated the building.
There was discussion about the very nature of Beej, whereupon it transpired that she was well aware 1. - 4. of the following ‘facts’
1. Beej had never got over the death of his uncle who died in a plane crash.
2. Beej had got the scars on his legs from the plane crash he was in with his uncle.
3. Beej’s uncle lived in Chiselhurst. He ran a greasy spoon café.
4. Brendon obtained the scars whilst trying to ‘karate kick’ his elder brother after he (Beej) had just got out of the bath. At the age of 5 or so his towel had fallen off and the naked youngster had sailed over his brother (who ducked) straight into the glass partition.
5. Beej had not, as he claimed to Jeorge ‘caught one in the leg in Bosnia’
6. Nor had he,as he claimed to me, ‘been shot in the leg parachuting into France.’
Beej’s mother had helpfully revealed 3. and 4. and I contributed 5. and 6.
None of which located Brendan, Ace of Spies. My work done3 I found a quiet corner and settled down to sleep.
The Best Man later found him asleep beneath a bench in a nearby pub garden at 3 in the morning.
Brendan the Spy and Dee the Hairdresser were reconciled the next day and married the following month. They have one son. They separated after Beej relocated to the garden shed of the domicile, where he lived for two months estranged from his wife, before returning to his parents house. They have never divorced. ‘Uncle Bren’ now lives in France with a lady and their young son.
Footnotes
1 The pizza crusts, not Brendan the Spy’s sweaty carcass; which would doubtless expire in just such a place, a half-smoked rollup made of the unprepossessing remains of another, already smoked, cigarette hanging from his fat purple face
2 An image Jeorge had conjured for me whilst I was cooking them all dinner. All true, Calibos had cheerily informed him. I wonder to this day what make of caravan it was.
3 Actually I found Brendan ‘round the corner (I am not without tradecraft of my own). We discussed his options, it was clear he still had feelings for The Lezza and was convinced he could win her back by travelling to Paris and finding her. I disabused him of this fanciful notion with certain salient pieces of evidence to the contrary, the chief of which was that she had enjoyed frequent periods of intimacy with Jeorge, indeed he had visited her in Paris quite recently. It was at that point H.17 decided to retreat still further, both geographically (from me) and mentally (from life). I could not be bothered to pursue him. There was still beer to be had and the task of bringing him in from the cold belonged to a fatter, gingerer man than I.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Modern Life: Conversations with my Window Cleaner
'Where are you off to,anywhere nice ?'
'The Isle of Wight,'
'Oh lovely,used to go there as a kid'
'Never been there myself,my mum lives there though,'
'Oh it's very nice, and I'll tell you something, you don't get any black people there.'
Now I don't know my window cleaner very well, and after the above conversation,less so than I thought. I'm still getting used to the idea that I even have a window cleaner, but well the windows were dirty and he was in the road and the wife said, 'the windows are very dirty.' So that was that.
I've always thought he was a nice chap, he'd sometimes stop for a cup of tea and ask if I followed the football, which I didn't and occasionally he'd leave his ladders around the back because he didn't have a car.
So I'm a bit surprised to discover I've got a racist window cleaner.
Is he a racist ? Or was he making some sort of joke about black and white, a play on words with the Isle of Wight ?
Maybe he thinks I'm a racist ?
Do I look like one ?
Is that racist ?
What about me has said that's ok ? Why does he think I might choose my holiday destination on the basis of skin colour ? Maybe he's peered through the window whilst cleaning it and seen my copy of Bridget Hitler's Diary and thinks it won't be an issue.
What's more worrying is I'm starting to sound like David Mitchell, Mark from Peep Show. The thing is I just don't know him well enough to ask what he meant, we're not exactly drinking buddies, which after another revelation, it turns out, is just as well:
'I'll get my car back in a month,'
'Oh, what happened?'
'Got banned didn't I. Drink driving. They test you though,now,have to be clean for a month. They test your hair. I'm doing it now. Tough going.'
Is it wise for him to be near all that window cleaner, I mean,the temptation.
I scuttle back indoors. The wife returns and I tell her, she's shocked.
'You didn't tell him we were going on holiday did you ?'
I shrug. I'm resigned to it now. Yesterday he just cleaned my windows every month. Now I fully expect to return to find our house broken into whilst someone runs a BNP rally/AA meeting in the front room. Better hide my copy of Mein Kampf though, it is signed.
Let them dig flower beds
You may or may not have heard, but there's been quite a bit of 'rioting.'
There's a lot of tough talk about, and if someone had put a brick through my window when my daughter was asleep upstairs I'd want them strung up. And I'd be right.
But 24 hr courts ? Really ? I didn't see that happening when MPs were fiddling expenses with public money.
Anyway here's a little story about arson:
'Yeah... I, erm, I was at a party and I drifted into a greenhouse with a friend, saw it was full of cacti and lit a match to find our way, as there were no lights on. The flame accidentally touched one of the cacti, which glowed rather beautifully.'
Was it an accident, then? He looks at me. Only at first, it seems. 'We did that to a fair number of the cacti. Not really knowing what we'd done.'
The greenhouse belonged to a professor of botany whose life's work had been to gather and nurture exotic specimens from all over the world. 'He'd been to the jungles of Brazil and stuff to find these cacti.'
The boys weren't arrested, because they ran away. 'We didn't know what we were doing. We were teenagers, we'd drunk too much - frankly, we did behave appallingly, irresponsibly, criminally. Next morning, one of the organisers of the exchange rang me up and said, "We know you did this." I came clean.'
The boys were taken off to see the professor, who was livid, but he was somehow persuaded not to press charges. 'Instead they created a kind of community punishment for us. Me and the other bloke ended up having to dig communal flower beds in the baking sun. Then I spent the summer with my mum, going round one specialised garden centre after another, trying to replace some of the cacti. Of course they were tiny, and his were all large.'
One of the boys, who was 16 at the time, had this to say about the recent riots:
"the priority, right now, is to punish the criminals, to get them in court and to get them behind bars."
Not digging flower beds and going shopping with your mum ?
Just in case anyone was unaware, the man responsible,why Nick Clegg the Deputy Prime Minister of course.
Of course the Prime Minister is far too sensible to get caught, he ran away early when the Bullingdon Club embarked on a spot of criminal damage.
I wait with faint hope that the government will stop trying to make political capital out of the rioting. And what happened to the business with Rupert Murdoch, everyone seems to have forgotten.
There's a lot of tough talk about, and if someone had put a brick through my window when my daughter was asleep upstairs I'd want them strung up. And I'd be right.
But 24 hr courts ? Really ? I didn't see that happening when MPs were fiddling expenses with public money.
Anyway here's a little story about arson:
'Yeah... I, erm, I was at a party and I drifted into a greenhouse with a friend, saw it was full of cacti and lit a match to find our way, as there were no lights on. The flame accidentally touched one of the cacti, which glowed rather beautifully.'
Was it an accident, then? He looks at me. Only at first, it seems. 'We did that to a fair number of the cacti. Not really knowing what we'd done.'
The greenhouse belonged to a professor of botany whose life's work had been to gather and nurture exotic specimens from all over the world. 'He'd been to the jungles of Brazil and stuff to find these cacti.'
The boys weren't arrested, because they ran away. 'We didn't know what we were doing. We were teenagers, we'd drunk too much - frankly, we did behave appallingly, irresponsibly, criminally. Next morning, one of the organisers of the exchange rang me up and said, "We know you did this." I came clean.'
The boys were taken off to see the professor, who was livid, but he was somehow persuaded not to press charges. 'Instead they created a kind of community punishment for us. Me and the other bloke ended up having to dig communal flower beds in the baking sun. Then I spent the summer with my mum, going round one specialised garden centre after another, trying to replace some of the cacti. Of course they were tiny, and his were all large.'
One of the boys, who was 16 at the time, had this to say about the recent riots:
"the priority, right now, is to punish the criminals, to get them in court and to get them behind bars."
Not digging flower beds and going shopping with your mum ?
Just in case anyone was unaware, the man responsible,why Nick Clegg the Deputy Prime Minister of course.
Of course the Prime Minister is far too sensible to get caught, he ran away early when the Bullingdon Club embarked on a spot of criminal damage.
I wait with faint hope that the government will stop trying to make political capital out of the rioting. And what happened to the business with Rupert Murdoch, everyone seems to have forgotten.
Friday, 12 August 2011
Some Bards Are Gooder Than Others: The Further Adventures of Tirian & Jewel
This month's 'They're not as poetic as they think' prize goes to another classic attempt at simile by regular winners, Tirian and Jewel: "It is as if the sun rose one day and were a black sun."
"I know," said Jewel. "Or as if you drank water and it were dry water. This is the end of all things. Let us go and give ourselves up."
Tirian: 'Or as if,as if you ate a bag of monster munch and they were air flavoured,'
Jewel: 'Fuck's sake Tirian stop looking at my exercise book and stealing all my simile ideas. And get some human friends you girl-haired munder'
Tirian: 'Well what is dry water anyway. Just because you found that copy of Ted Hughes 'The Iron Man', doesn't make you the Poet Laureate of Narnia.'
Jewel: 'Only virgins can approach unicorns Tirian. Fact.'
Tirian: 'I have massively had sex. With loads of dryads. At a time. And talking animals.'
Jewel: No you haven't or you couldn't come near me, and globbing off to that portrait of Susan Pevensie doesn't count'
Tirian: Let's not fight,I hate it when we argue.' [They nuzzle. Jewel becomes excited]'Hey King Lune's got a poetry jam on in Archenland this evening,let's do it.'
Roonwit: "So how was that poetry night thing you guys went to at Anvard?"
Jewel: "Oh we didn't go. It was spitting and we didn't fancy getting soaked on the way there."
Roonwit: "Oh...crap."
Jewel: "Nah, it's ok...well, no. I was actually real...ly, really disappointed... really disappointed. It was like eating a delicious cheeseburger and then discovering that there was no cheese in it. Or burger. Tirian said it was like inviting a hundred guests to your birthday party and then finding they were murderer guests. Or like doing the ironing and then finding - "
Roonwit: *looks at moon* Wo, is that the time? I've got this thing..it's like...now and..."
(sound of hooves)
(2 posts in 1 day. Though really this was Ben 'The War' Warwick's idea, which I sadly ruined by trying to introduce sex into Narnia. It's all Susan's fault, or Joy Gresham's or something. Anyway it's from The Last Battle, the one they will never ever film ever. Never.
Though the only way to really do this justice is have Michael Hordern read the part of Roonwit, Tony Slattery as Jewel and whoever you can get as Tirian, maybe Nick Hancock - he's in nothing a lot nowadays. Or whoever played Eustace in the BBC Narnia).
Let Gayfellow Take You To The Cleaners
'There is only one reason why we are showing you this . . . (dramatic pause the size of which would make Harold Pinter hang his head in awe) so that you are armed with knowledge, because knowledge is power' ('power' should almost certainly be in capitals but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Sorry)
Wise words from LA cop and silver fox, John Barrell.
Somewhat undermined by the clip of two teenage girls speeding and then crashing into a family car, what pearls does John have for us:
'Wowee man, they must be going 100 miles an hour.'
Thanks John we can all take something from that.
Maybe the knowledge that cars go fast.
So Australian Masterchef.
I loved Professional Masterchef - a special blend of an interested world class chef, Michel Roux Junior, whose ego didn't need re-assuring by getting needlessly fraught over nothing every 15 seconds (Gordon Ramsay take note) and offered genuinely useful advice, and a fat bald clown who used to sell vegetables and may have eaten a pie in a pub once. You, like me , will be doubtless thrilled to know Greg the Greengrocer is opening a restaurant serving 'good honest food' whatever that is. Personally I like my food dishonest: a sly lasagne, dishonest tarts (you knew that was coming).
Anyway, Australian Masterchef. Why bother ? I thought. How wrong I was. 30 seconds in and not a kitchen in sight. Instead there's a man in tears, telling another man how much he misses his wife. Eventually it transpires that the weepy man is a contestant and he's quitting the show because he can't stand being apart from his wife. It's not clear but it's implied she's given some sort of ultimatum - the host isn't taking it lying down though - they start showing clips of the interview process and there's the wife saying she'll be fine with him doing the show.
10 minutes in and there's still no cooking.
All this and Cesar Romero as the Joker on ITV4. Only equalled (never bettered) by Frank Gorshin as the Riddler, who's stuttering assaults on grammar and word order seemed like a precursor to Yoda except in green spandex and a lavendar mask.
Must dash the Joker's up to something with an inflatable sultan and The Gayfellow Cleaning Company.
Armed only with knowledge I run to the Batpole
The Clown Prince of Cooking
Romero's Ghost
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