Now I was going to write a blog taking the piss out of Nigel Slater - for his Saturday morning tv program - the one where he claims to make 'simple delicious meals' out of things that he has lying around. Of course the culinary equivalent of the Wombles isn't talking about a slice of 2 day old pizza and half a jar of Helmans from 2008.
He wafts like a pastel breeze over to the spotless fridge where, by chance, he happens to have, 'just leftovers really' - the breast of a roast swan, filet of unicorn and a bit of cheese. Then it's out into his herb garden/magic kingdom for 'whatever is in season'/is just lying about and oh whoops I've accidentally made a quick simple meal that has Greg Wallace pushing his snout against the window like a starving urchin.
But that can wait.
I had finished writing an e-mail, using my g-mail account, and sent it. When up pops, unbidden from me, a little link. Now I know that if I want free e-mail I have to pay the price somewhere along the line, quid pro quo and all that. But it never used to happen and I could live with (by which I mean utterly ignore) the ads at the side of the page, but this is a bit much.
Secondly - this is what the link was advertising:
http://www.morphsuits.co.uk
Now I know what you want to know, because so did I. Why this ad ?
According to the pop up:
"This ad is based on e-mails from your mailbox"
I was suprised by this - as well, the e-mail I had just sent was replying to a friend telling him what time we would be arriving for lunch. Here's the text (with names deleted)
Hiya XXXXXX,
Looking at train timetables I can probably get back from Gloucester on Friday evening, so barring mishaps we will aim to get to yours for 12-1 on Saturday if that is ok ?
XXXXXX has her tea at between 5-6 so we will be aiming to get her back for then - I have no idea how long it will take to get to yours by car but assuming an hour - we will probably leave about 4ish.
Is there anything you would like us to bring ?
Now my friend and his wife are a perfectly normal couple. They don't as far as I am aware have a dungeon. Neither do I for that matter. So I am wondering why g mail in its wisdom thought I might want, or indeed need, a full lycra bodysuit ? I suppose it is some small consolation that it wasn't crotchless.
Fortunately it is possible (I have learned in the intervening minutes to 'opt out' of such 'personalised ads' - but you can I am assured, opt back in again. Which means they are still collecting data from you, they are just not funnelling you the results.
It's all pretty unsatisfactory and the only real solution I can see is to revert to letter writing for the purposes of correspondence. Back when I had to do letter writing every Saturday morning at school I bemoaned that it was unnecessary (this was largely because I was a day pupil at a school predominantly comprised of boarding pupils - my point was that I really did not need to write mummy a letter telling her what a splendid time I was having and how I had built a camp and gone to the Good Copy tea party because I was seeing her in a few hours - besides she's not a stupid woman and there's only so much horseshit of that kind you can be made to swallow). Little did I know.
On the other hand I can now use gmail as a purely recreational tool, concocting increasingly unlikely epistolary compositions to see what personalised ads I receive
I shall start by writing to an imaginary farm based penpal using the following words:
Stallion
Oilseed Rape
Fertilizer
Cock
Brassica Napus
I am sure you can think of your own - and if you are not the solitary Marc Singer obsessed Bulgarian who reads this, feel free to post some of your ad results
Cheers.
Monday, 23 January 2012
Thursday, 19 January 2012
Felines in Season
Lion in Winter
I went to the theatre last week, myself and the wife were very excited as it's the first time we've been since our daughter was born (not that we went very much before then) . Now whilst the evening ended badly (4 o'clock in the morning with me lying in hospital being given morphine after a rather vicious attack of gastritis, sans pants), the play did not, so I thought something approaching a little review might be nice. One of the charming side effects of morphine is constipation, so when you see it don't be suprised.
I'm feeling better now, thank you.
Cougar in Summer
I think the joke runs something like this:
Upon delivery, what were Quentin Crisp's first words ?
'Well I won't be doing that again.'
Though if I look it up on the internet it is more famously the pithy comeback of a 38 year old Burnley grandmother after being prosecuted for having sex with a 15 year old last August.
Memory is clearly no substitute for the web.
But for anyone who has seen the film version of The Lion in Winter, James Goldman's 1966 stage play it might be a similar verdict. Not because it's bad, quite the contrary, I just wondered what anyone was going to add that Peter O'Toole (Henry) and Katherine Hepburn (Eleanor) hadn't already.
It turns out (that ever obliging internet again and I can't help but feel that in return for this and other knowledge it's going to want my soul) it's not even the only film - Patrick Stewart and Glenn Close had a go in 2003 and Lawrence Fishburne and Stockard Channing1, on stage, in 1999. So I resolved to watch Trevor Nunn's recent revival, this time with Robert Lindsay as Henry and Joanna Lumley as Elinor , without leaning over to my wife every few minutes and whispering, 'it's not as good as the film.'
As an aside Channing won a TONY. Though you'd hope she was used to the dialogue since the play was a favourite of Aaron Sorkind, writer and creator of the West Wing (in which she played the First Lady, Dr. Abigail Bartlet). Some of you may remember the line from an episode of the West WIng 'when the President stands nobody sits,' (No internet - that was me. Though I have to look up which episode - 25th 'The Midterms'), it's not very far from 'When the King is up, nobody sleeps.' Though (and again not the internet I am afraid) Henry was famous amongst the chroniclers for his boundless energy - constantly on the move, unable to stand still - so Goldman had perhaps done his homework. Certainly more than he was credited by recent reviewers who described the play as hokum and the dialogue owing much to Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
It's a tale of the Angevin Royal family at Christmas. Henry, King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Maine and Anjou etcetera etcetera and his Queen, Elinor, Countess of Aquitaine (a province that dwarfed its neighbour France in size and wealth) in her own right. Elinor has been locked up after one plot too many and is being trotted out for Christmas Court as well as their three surviving sons: Richard (Lionheart), Geoffrey, and John. The young King of France is there too as Henry's upstart rival, officially to recover his sister's dowry since she has not married the English heir as the treaty agreed. Not least because the heir is unclear and even more so since the sister is now Henry's mistress.
The action comes in the dialogue between family sparring over the succession. Elinor wants the throne for Richard and the Aquitaine for herself, whilst Henry prefers the youngest, John. Neither consider Geoffrey. Hokum it may be and full of anachronisms but the dialogue still flashes like the knives everyone carries. Poinard rather than rapier wit, it's still sharp as mustard, Lindsay and Lumley snap back and forth at each other with relish. And it's the anachronisms that save it from the inevitable comparison, delivered as pithy asides by the two main protagonists they're cleverly used to get laughs. That they manage it is down to some clever casting, knowing not to compete with the film for gravitas, Nunn has opted for a medieval My Family in which his two leads are perfectly cast.
Yes the line 'What family doesn't have its ups and downs? ' sits incongruously in a medieval drama, but as comic punctuation, delivered at the end of a particularly rapid exchange it's perfect as a means of establishing this version of the play as a sitcom Christmas special, which is what they have very sensibly aimed for. Occasionally when they're forced to stray into drama Lumley and the three (very young looking) sons struggle and have to resort to shouting at each other. Which is a shame, but doesn't happen very much. So yes, it's not the film, it sensibly doesn't try to be; instead it's a more self consciously light hearted production, that whilst not the perfect antidote to rich food at Christmas as was evinced by my hours of subsequent agony and drug induced vacancy, the rising bile that was there didn't come from the performance either. Both reminders of the onset of old age and one's own mortality, and whilst the latter was cheaper I'd very much recommend the former.
Worth seeing.
Though do wear some underwear.
I went to the theatre last week, myself and the wife were very excited as it's the first time we've been since our daughter was born (not that we went very much before then) . Now whilst the evening ended badly (4 o'clock in the morning with me lying in hospital being given morphine after a rather vicious attack of gastritis, sans pants), the play did not, so I thought something approaching a little review might be nice. One of the charming side effects of morphine is constipation, so when you see it don't be suprised.
I'm feeling better now, thank you.
Cougar in Summer
I think the joke runs something like this:
Upon delivery, what were Quentin Crisp's first words ?
'Well I won't be doing that again.'
Though if I look it up on the internet it is more famously the pithy comeback of a 38 year old Burnley grandmother after being prosecuted for having sex with a 15 year old last August.
Memory is clearly no substitute for the web.
But for anyone who has seen the film version of The Lion in Winter, James Goldman's 1966 stage play it might be a similar verdict. Not because it's bad, quite the contrary, I just wondered what anyone was going to add that Peter O'Toole (Henry) and Katherine Hepburn (Eleanor) hadn't already.
It turns out (that ever obliging internet again and I can't help but feel that in return for this and other knowledge it's going to want my soul) it's not even the only film - Patrick Stewart and Glenn Close had a go in 2003 and Lawrence Fishburne and Stockard Channing1, on stage, in 1999. So I resolved to watch Trevor Nunn's recent revival, this time with Robert Lindsay as Henry and Joanna Lumley as Elinor , without leaning over to my wife every few minutes and whispering, 'it's not as good as the film.'
As an aside Channing won a TONY. Though you'd hope she was used to the dialogue since the play was a favourite of Aaron Sorkind, writer and creator of the West Wing (in which she played the First Lady, Dr. Abigail Bartlet). Some of you may remember the line from an episode of the West WIng 'when the President stands nobody sits,' (No internet - that was me. Though I have to look up which episode - 25th 'The Midterms'), it's not very far from 'When the King is up, nobody sleeps.' Though (and again not the internet I am afraid) Henry was famous amongst the chroniclers for his boundless energy - constantly on the move, unable to stand still - so Goldman had perhaps done his homework. Certainly more than he was credited by recent reviewers who described the play as hokum and the dialogue owing much to Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
It's a tale of the Angevin Royal family at Christmas. Henry, King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Maine and Anjou etcetera etcetera and his Queen, Elinor, Countess of Aquitaine (a province that dwarfed its neighbour France in size and wealth) in her own right. Elinor has been locked up after one plot too many and is being trotted out for Christmas Court as well as their three surviving sons: Richard (Lionheart), Geoffrey, and John. The young King of France is there too as Henry's upstart rival, officially to recover his sister's dowry since she has not married the English heir as the treaty agreed. Not least because the heir is unclear and even more so since the sister is now Henry's mistress.
The action comes in the dialogue between family sparring over the succession. Elinor wants the throne for Richard and the Aquitaine for herself, whilst Henry prefers the youngest, John. Neither consider Geoffrey. Hokum it may be and full of anachronisms but the dialogue still flashes like the knives everyone carries. Poinard rather than rapier wit, it's still sharp as mustard, Lindsay and Lumley snap back and forth at each other with relish. And it's the anachronisms that save it from the inevitable comparison, delivered as pithy asides by the two main protagonists they're cleverly used to get laughs. That they manage it is down to some clever casting, knowing not to compete with the film for gravitas, Nunn has opted for a medieval My Family in which his two leads are perfectly cast.
Yes the line 'What family doesn't have its ups and downs? ' sits incongruously in a medieval drama, but as comic punctuation, delivered at the end of a particularly rapid exchange it's perfect as a means of establishing this version of the play as a sitcom Christmas special, which is what they have very sensibly aimed for. Occasionally when they're forced to stray into drama Lumley and the three (very young looking) sons struggle and have to resort to shouting at each other. Which is a shame, but doesn't happen very much. So yes, it's not the film, it sensibly doesn't try to be; instead it's a more self consciously light hearted production, that whilst not the perfect antidote to rich food at Christmas as was evinced by my hours of subsequent agony and drug induced vacancy, the rising bile that was there didn't come from the performance either. Both reminders of the onset of old age and one's own mortality, and whilst the latter was cheaper I'd very much recommend the former.
Worth seeing.
Though do wear some underwear.
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
New Year, Old Habits
For those of you who are even partial acquaintances, who may have seen bits of me (in the shower or old issues of Woman's Realm), you may recall that prior to my blissful espousement (blows kisses at short suffering wife) I liked to spend the donging of Big Ben 'pon the lav. I feely admit it was a rather obvious and lazy way to display my cavalier disregard for the inexplicable excitement felt by those for the New Year. Fortunately my father-in-law has since appeared with his own proud tradition of fancy dress - inflicted cheerfully upon his family and their hangers on. Each year is themed, which allows me to attend every year as a nun, thereby creating a proud tradition of my own. Such festivities are not without a suitable level of danger - usually in the form of said father-in-law, sugar-deprived and caperng wildly as, armed with a flaming taper, he launches a small arsenal of fireworks at his wifes carefully pruned trellis, then at one or more gravid offspring (fortunately safe behind the re-inforced glass), all the while his son stands on in the costume of an officer of the NKVD.
This year it was not to be. My turkeden came home to roost - which serves me right for attempting to re-heat it and serve it up as risotto 5 days later. I was violently ill and unable to attend the annual costume party. Which had been cancelled anyway. So, alone I ushered in the New Year, my stint on the toilet now obligatory. Still, there's nothing quite so fine as playing Sid Meyer's Civilization at 3 in the morning dressed as a nun. No strides on, but I've dragged the Ancient Greeks into the Renaissance by 440 BC. Happy New Year.
On another, smaller, smaller note, how nice it is to have a Follower.
I'd all but resigned myself to becoming the destination of last resort for Eastern Europeans desperate for results from the search terms 'Marc Singer' and 'naked' (you know who you are - and you're probably using Google Translate to translate the rest of this now - I sympathise with your inevitable disappointment - but can not find my postcard of Bobby Chunka or I'd scan it in for you as a late Christmas gift). But yes - I feel like I'm a Character in the late 80s boardgame Talisman, so thank you Jez Fielder (is that a tent in the background) - your signed photograph of Simon Fay is in 'the post' (of course it isn't - I've probably lost that too. Though if anyone knows what happened to Simon Fay, last known whereabouts: Preston Tescos in 1994 - let us know. I should point out that Jez Fielder and I, like Richard Astley, are no strangers. He was the shorter of my best men at my wedding and very good he was too (reasonable rates available for wedding and Bar Mitzvahs).
This year it was not to be. My turkeden came home to roost - which serves me right for attempting to re-heat it and serve it up as risotto 5 days later. I was violently ill and unable to attend the annual costume party. Which had been cancelled anyway. So, alone I ushered in the New Year, my stint on the toilet now obligatory. Still, there's nothing quite so fine as playing Sid Meyer's Civilization at 3 in the morning dressed as a nun. No strides on, but I've dragged the Ancient Greeks into the Renaissance by 440 BC. Happy New Year.
On another, smaller, smaller note, how nice it is to have a Follower.
I'd all but resigned myself to becoming the destination of last resort for Eastern Europeans desperate for results from the search terms 'Marc Singer' and 'naked' (you know who you are - and you're probably using Google Translate to translate the rest of this now - I sympathise with your inevitable disappointment - but can not find my postcard of Bobby Chunka or I'd scan it in for you as a late Christmas gift). But yes - I feel like I'm a Character in the late 80s boardgame Talisman, so thank you Jez Fielder (is that a tent in the background) - your signed photograph of Simon Fay is in 'the post' (of course it isn't - I've probably lost that too. Though if anyone knows what happened to Simon Fay, last known whereabouts: Preston Tescos in 1994 - let us know. I should point out that Jez Fielder and I, like Richard Astley, are no strangers. He was the shorter of my best men at my wedding and very good he was too (reasonable rates available for wedding and Bar Mitzvahs).
Monday, 12 December 2011
Monkey Business
As I wandered alongside London's grim,polluted mistress, a portly,be-spectacled stranger propositioned me with an offer I could only refuse but not ignore.
'Would sir like to get in touch with his inner ape ?'
All true, except for the sir and the faux Dickensian waft; he was wearing a black nylon hoodie - adorned with a red logo announcing 'The Rise of the Planet of the Apes.'
I have left the grimmest bit of this invitation to fun,'til last.
He gestured at a large enclosed pen/climbing frame that wouldnot be out of place in a zoo. It was mostly already filled with similar 'keepers' some with video cameras, but there were people in there as well, those who they'd already lured off the street,all of whom were in various stages of play.
I didn't need to be asked twice - I leapt in the cage threw off my clothes and began to pelt those outside with my own excrement. Followed by vigourous public onanism and aggressive sexual harassment. Admittedly I have made it sound easier than it was. I was chased around the cage by guards. Fortunately they lack my climbing skills.
My point is this, in his novel Seeing, the author Jose Saramago describes an electorate who refuse to participate in the political system which serves not them but the interests of a political elite. The bemused political class only eventually realising that they have been utterly by-passed by a society that finds ways to exist and express themselves without them.
So that when David Cameron announces how tough he's been with his veto.
Or there is an utter failure to reach agreement in Durban about climate change. Or wise heads comment on the foolishness of the RBS takeover of ABN Amro, long after the event. Surely we should take to the outdoor spaces and express our disinterest faecally.
Monday, 31 October 2011
Italian Holiday Part One
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.
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.
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.
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