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Tuesday, 23 June 2015

Gardeners Question Time....

....With this week's guest host...

Joe Pesci!

JP: Arright ya  mama Luke's - what can I do for yous?? OK, our first question today comes from Mr. Derek Robledo - huh, what kind of crazy assed fuckin' name is that? - of Stoke D'Abernon, Surrey. OK, fire away Fuck....

DR: Good evening Mr Pesci. My wife and I have been having terrible trouble with our sebaceous borders - can you recommend a good mulching solution for the incredibly chalky soil conditions we have round our way....

JP: Oh sure! Why the fuck don't I just fucking well come round to your fucking *shit* *hole* of a garden in Stoke d'Fuckin'-Abernon, dig a great big fuckin' hole in the fuckin' ground and I can bury yous two fuckin' assholes in the fuckin' hole and then you can take your stupid fuckin' mulching fuckin' soil con-fuckin'-ditions and shove them up your cock suckin' fuckin' *ass* you crazy motherfuckers....

Next week:

Thought for the day with Frankie Boyle...


Downton Jihadi - episode 4....

Previously on Downton Jihadi...

Edith's reefer madness at the local Hindu mosque has got her ex-communicated from the C of E. She is now on the hunt for a new religion, desperately so as she still wants a church wedding and has to do *something* with those 3,479 tins of piccalili she has been systematically swiping from the local Marks and Sparks since her confirmation, hoping one day to bequeath it to the tombola stall at the annual summer fete and simultaneously catapault herself into the Guinees Book of Records. Pamuk's death has deprived both Arsenal and England of a very capable stand-in for their mercurial midfield schemer, Mesut Ozil. The former Miss Leichtenstein is also completely beside herself, itself a very useful asset when playing the offside trap. She is currently being courted by several scouts from the elite of European football but is thought to be considering seeing out her current contract then 'doing a Bosman' to Italy in the summer where she'll be a shoo in to the defence of any top flight club. Catenaccio, isn't it. She too has no idea what an entail is not neither, nor what a Catenaccio is.

Now read on...

The fair has come to Downton Village,which is just as well because the unfair was seriously starting to piss a heck of a lot of people off. Bates encourages William to ask Daisy to go with him but before he gets a chance, Thomas jumps in and a delighted Daisy accepts his offer to go to Gateshead instead - anywhere there isn't a sodding fair going on. She can't abide them and if it weren't for the yet-to-be-born-and-buddy-up-with-David-Cameron-to-usher-in-the-Coalition Nick Clegg, fairs would probably be her least favourite things in the whole wide world. It is left to Mrs Patmore - no, don't worry, she's a new one on me too - who tries and fails to explain to Daisy why Thomas is not right for her. She gets as far as his halitosis and the fact that he simply has no interest whatsoever in extending the life of his calliper by occasionally giving it a once over with the brasso but then gives up and flounces off, puffing out her cheeks and making a strange angry moaning noise. She is clearly a 'glass half empty' type, which, to be fair, is more than often the case. Thomas’s bullying increases towards William - he has progressed to crucifictions now. Even William notices and tempers flare, but there's little he can do from up there but grimace and wince and occasionally ask his Father why he has forsaken him. But Thomas takes it all in his stride, walking around with a mouthful of nails and a hammer on the off chance that he might bump into William and hastily erect a cross out of any loose timbers that might be lying around. He is definitely a 'glass half full' type is Thomas.

Sybil has awoken politically and is toying with joining Sinn Fein, even though they aren't standing any candidates on the British mainland. She instantly connects with the new Irish chauffeur, Branson, who shares her affinity for politics, although he's always been more of a Democratic Unionist himself. Robert is, at first, amused by his new chauffeur’s radicalism - he even invites him to go into an electoral pact with the local UKIP candidate in the hope that they can *really* stuff the Tories - but he comes to regret his choice, accidentally voting Lib Dem when he meant to put his cross by the Literal Democrat candidate. It might be legal, he seethes, but it really is *not* cricket, a trick like that. Meanwhile, Sybil is determined to help Gwen get a new job as a weather girl on the BBCs West Country local news programme and despite Gwen’s first interview falling through due to her making some very disrespectful comments about yet-to-be-born/famous Poldark actress Angharad Rhys (no, I don't know if that's the proper spelling either - it could well be Rees....), Sybil assures her there will be a next time.

Anxious to get the entail broken (some sort of lock?) and to advance Mary as heiress, Violet shocks Mahfuz by visiting his office to see if he will look into the matter. He says he'd love to, but he left his monocle at home. Could he give it a quick feel and maybe that way he'd be able to give her some idea as to what the matter is? Later, an awkward Mahfuz visits Robert to discuss Violet’s request. The two have grown close and Mahfuz takes his role as heir very seriously, he later runs into Mary, whom he appears to have a crush on. Mary for her part is still mourning Pamuk whom she is still convinced could have gone on to win the Champions League if only he was still alive and had been played more often in the central midfield role his surgical final passing skills demanded.

Mahfuz informs a delighted Robert that he does see Downton as his future, but only if it can be physically relocated to somewhere in the Levant. He desperately wants to die near Mecca and is not to be moved on the subject, even when told that there is an excellent William Hill's just at the bottom of the hill. But Mary feels that in Mahfuz, Robert Peston has found his ‘son’ and will no longer bother trying to fight the entail - I thought they'd made that illegal anyway, like badger baiting and things like that?

Robert Peston makes it clear to Violet that he is not moveable on his position regarding the entail and can she please leave him is peace now as the final deadline for a Greek bailout is looming and he has had several wagers over at Broadcasting house that there will indeed be a Greek exit (or Grexit). A later conversation (or latsation?) with Cora reaffirms his decision. Cora does not fight him because, although she still loves Mary (lovary?), she realises that following the incident with Pamuk, Mary is damaged goods (damoods? Or just Doods?) and that ironically, Matthew is the more suitable heir (Sueir?).

Violent is also in conflict with Isobel over a medical ailment affecting Molestation - she has been unable to contract one and it really is giving her the screaming ab-dabs (scrabdabs?). However, this time Isobel’s treatment fails to work and Violet’s does, which is confusing me every bit as much as it is confusing you, believe me.

The servants gossip about Mrs Hughes who takes a very rare evening off to meet a former suitor (foruitor?), Joe Burns. The evening makes Mrs Hughes question her position at Downton - she has always had a thing about tailors and haberdashery in general - and it is left to Carson to reassure her that she made the right decision all those years ago to become a black belt. Indeed, her repertoire of chops and headlocks proves very useful when Joe cuts up rough and tries to drag her forcibly back to Savile Row so he can use her as a pattern for a new range of suits for Lesbians.

Elsewhere, Carson has a problem, the wine book suggests they are missing at least two dozen of a special vintage. It might be Liebfraumilch and therefore almost by definition undrinkable, but that's not the point. Anna, in bed with a cold Frenchman, is touched by Bates bringing a tray of food up to her room - that's the French for you. An Englishman would never let a manservant touch his woman unless it was his own. It’s clear these two have feelings for one another, however, at the moment, they are unable to realise them. Not least because there's a Frenchman in the way. be continued...


Last night's telly....

It's a long time since I did a TV review - well, it's a long time since I watched a television programme, but that was never really an impediment in the past, so I don't know why I'm getting all particular now. Anyway, as there's not really much in the news today worthy of my scarcely considered adjudications, let's pick over the still warm carcass of last night's telly, possibly one final time.

Eastenders never disappoints. Invariably unfolding its unremitting misery on an increasingly obvious set, no doubt miles away from the rancourous festerings of the actual east end of London, it's now rapidly becoming the cultural glue that binds together such remnants of our fragmented and dissolute society as can still be joined together. I mean, where else can British Muslims go to see themselves presented as decent, ordinary hard working folk who bear no threat to the established order? Apart from Syria, obvs. My money is on Shabnam (Mishal Husain with a 'Demi Moore') being the first Albert Square resident to tell her folks - in her case the fabulous Masood Ahmed (David Aronovitch) - that she's just nipping out to buy a copy of OK! before boarding the next flight to Turkey, being driven to the Syrian border and smuggled over into ISIS controlled Raqqa there to enjoy a long, secluded, fertile life of domestic servitude and violence in between popping out the Caliphate's future Ummah. You can see it coming; her relationship with her dear old Dad increasingly strained, Kush's ill-advised and inconsiderate snog with Stacey (which will presumably develop into the full carnal Monty at some point during Ramadan) eventually revealed to her, not to mention Unrepentant Rapist Bastard Dean (Ched Evans played by a young Robbie Williams) and Shirley's campaign to drag poor Jade, scion of Dean's and her drunken cloakroom shag, away from the security of her adoptive home into the near-warzone that is the Mitchell/Carter stand-off and Shabnam will be just ripe for jihad. Cuckolded and shamed like that, who wouldn't want to behead a few western journalists? I know I would. Besides, Raqqa after curfew must seem like an eartly paradise after one of Mick's ever-more volatile cheery cockney knees-ups; the head-wetting of new baby Oliver being just the latest to descend into alpha male antler-locking immediately upon Dean's ill-advised arrival. The quest for Jade promises to be a good storyline and watching Shirley (Petula Clark as she would be in an alternative Universe run entirely along the lines of a sink estate) charm the social services will be a treat in itself.

One Mitchell who has managed to escape the carnage of Albert Square is Victoria Coren- who wound up as far west as Soho in last night's concluding installment of How to be Bohemian. Confession time: I missed the first programme, have yet to watch the recording of the second so have jumped straight in at the finale, so anything I say here is appropriate only to last night's show, not the series. Ronnie and Roxy's smarter, prettier and more gambly sister, Victoria began her exploration of post-war London Bohemia with Francis Bacon - and immediately it became clear why mobile phone giant EE have chosen younger sibling Kevin to front their various TV ad campaigns. Not only is he considerably better looking than Franny, but he's far less likely - at least by the looks of it - to go on a three day bender, be sodomised and battered by a violent petty criminal before smashing his mobile phone into someone's face in a jealous gay hissy fit. On the other hand, Kevin's paintings probably can't quite match Fran's when it comes to dark, brooding intensity and existential suffering. At the other end of the Bohemian misery scale was light-loving Molly Parkin (Nefertiti). Wonderful, touching footage of her younger self, fresh-faced and newly drawn to London from her native Glamorgan, basking in the sun, full of fun and smiling inside and out. VC-M teased out some of the oddities of her free-loving life - for instance, she divorced her first husband for infidelity despite having had, by her own estimate, 'countless' lovers, among them not one but two whole rugby teams - 'all that brown hair...' I know the feeling Mollster, I know the feeling. But Molly's attitude seemed sane - what's sex? she asked; just like putting your arms round someone with but with different parts of the body.

John Cooper Clarke (Harry Cross from Brookside, halfway through the third week with the jar) contrasted the rigours of his father's generation - 'no such thing as leeeeeeezure wear' for Cooper Clarke Snr. - with his own identification with and apeing of the new 'kings' of pop like Keith Richards and Bob Dylan. And suddenly *everyone* was a Bohemian, even innocents the like of Will Self now feeling possessed of the gum and gumption to wear a spotty scarf, as he still does to this day. The sixties and the seventies saw the pill enabling women to explore some of the sexual freedom that had previously been the exclusive preserve of the men in the sixties and seventies, in the eighties it was the turn of gay culture to explode. But Rev. Richard Coles (the Verger from Dad's Army) and Johnny Woo (Julian Clary, midway through the third *month* on the jar) highlighted differing reactions to the new orthodoxy that seems to have emerged from that initial liberation. Both Woo and Coles rued the rise of consumerist materialism - Woo in the gay community, Coles more generally - but they have taken radically different lines of resitance. Whilst the former dons increasingly outre costumes in which to run around the west end shouting 'Woo woo woo', the latter joined the clergy. It's perhaps a more interesting route and I agree with Rev. Coles that at the core of Christianity is a subversive and challenging code of living.

But as hipsters stoke the nation's pogonophobia to new heights of murderous antipathy, is there still a need for, let alone the possibility of a Bohemian - or any - alternative to the slow, dull grind of people making money for other people and all that that entials? The truth, perhaps, is that it's probably happening right here and right now, we just aren't aware of it and, quite possibly, wouldn't even recognise it for what it is even if we were. Just as Soho became the focus for those who sought another path after pleasure centres like Southwark and Vauxhall became absorbed into what was allowable, so will new sites emerge after Soho has been gentrified and developed to extinction. It's still a shame to see it go. But there will always be resistance to the normal out there somewhere.


Monday, 22 June 2015

Under the influence...

Well, it's official - I *finally* became a brand. And no, before you ask, that's not because Russell saw sense offered to make an honest woman of me, because he didn't (although I did get a couple of nice offers from Jo and Katie that I'm still mulling over....) No, this is all about the belated realisation among the movers and shakers of the cognoscenti that I, your humble scribbler, am an *Influencer*. Yep, the threats, extortion and bullying *finally* paid off! And in recognition of my newfound and not inconsiderable cultural *heft*, I've been asked by no less august an organisation than Twitter to curate my first 'collection'. I can't tell you how honoured I am, especially as I am just down to my last pair of marigolds*.

So, I can almost hear your silent, urgent inner question before you say it yourself, what's *in* the collection 'Berta??? Well, obviously we're still at the development stage and there will be a lot more product coming onstream - see, I'm getting good at the patter already, and I only just got the job.... - but I can let you in on a few of the highly desirable ranges we've already identifies as fulfilling the unique niche market value most closely associated with my work, lifestyle and image-reach.

First up, ladies and gentleman, I give you .....

The Deluxe Roberta Swipe Lock-tite Knee Pad...

Specially contoured by our underpaid Korean slave operatives highly specialised team of international designers, these little beauties won't let you down when you need that extra bit of traction. Whether you're being pummelled senseless from behind by a fat balding international salesman en route to a pointless sales team-building exercise in Rhyll, or you just need that little extra protection from the shagpile while you're submissively licking the Haagen das off a spaniel, the specially reinforced yet reassuringly elastic build of the Deluxe...won't let you down. Also available in special limited edition flame retardant and glow in the dark ...

Or how about these...

The 11th Anniversary Roberta Swipe Bin Liner dress....

No other item says 'Roberta Swipe' more clearly than that timeless, classic, that icon of modern fashion that is the badly creased and ineffectually sewn up refuse sack dress. For centuries women have dreamed of a look that's not only stylish, affordable but incredibly useful during industrial action by refuse collection operatives over weekend working rota, overtime and subsidised laundry payments on the part of the employer being put under review. Well, now you can have it all ladies. Available in black, white grey and green, although any biodegradables left out in anything other than a green receptacle may lead to fines and, in extreme cases, imprisonment... [Influencer's note; a small tip here, don't make the same mistake I made and make sure you remove as much of the refuse from the sack as you can before you put it on....saves a heck of a lot of Savlon...]

And finally...

Genuine Sophie Raworth and Tanya Beckett Ripped and Laddered Pantyhose....

Tired, lonely and alone in your opulent Swedish flat? The dawn can't come too soon over the Pacific Palisades? We've all wished for them, I know, and now, finally - they're here! Now you can own and wear the bespoke lingerie item that's been driving the civilised world's onanists into heights of Ryvita-assisted frenzy for the past decade. Yes, *personally* assessed by Channel 4's Miquita Oliver and stress tested to our own highly exacting standards, this limited edition collection in a variety of denier(s?) has been exclusively discarded by some of British broadcasting's most celebrated early morning news/business presenters. That's right, you'll *never* have to ladder your own to get that early morning slattern off the telly look again!

More product details as we think of them/find them in the bins outside Broadcasting House....


*see previous post

Sophie Raworth stole Tanya Beckett's pantyhose, ripped them to shreds with her bare teeth, and smeared them both with chocolate caramel Haagen das...

A short interlude, blessed reader, from the mythologically proportioned pornography. Honestly, it's been cock, cock, cock, cock, cock this week, wall to wall. And that's just chapter one. In fact, I'm not entirely sure I actually want to start *writing* the thing now if this any indication as to the groundwork that's going to be involved, but needs must, I suppose. Besides, as I'm reliably and continuously informed as I wind my wary way through the delightful world of publishing - invariably by men, most of those single - sex sells. You could have fooled me last weekend. There was precious little commercial activity in cubicle number three of the public conveniences outside the new Asda just off the high street, I can tell you. But, heck, what do I know? I thought Marcel Proust was a mute Formula 1 racing driver.

But to be serious for a fleeting freekin' second. Straits being as dire as they currently are, I started doing a little research the other day into how to boost readership, publicise one's wares and generally start turning all that random computer generated 'traffic' into cold, hard, filthy lucre. Well, without taking recourse to spreadsheets, pie-charts, powerpoint presentations and all the other bullshit marketing paraphernalia my research pointed to, the basic upshoot of it all is actually quite simple: *know* *your* *readers*. Wowee. Thanks for diddly. Part of the problem over the last 11 years - OMG, 11 years? That's crazy! Do I get soem sort of medal or something, just for putting in the hours? - is precisely that: *I* *know* *my* *readers*. (And I sincerely hope you're both having a lovely day and haven't strated on the gin and it just yet....or the methadone for that matter.)

The shock having subsided somewhat, I began slowly to pick myself back up off the floor again and compose myself. A stiff drink or three later and I began to see some light at the end of the tunnel. Going back to my research, I realised I had to be a little more forensic and, delving a little deeper, I started to see a pattern emerging, barely discernible at first, but slowly growing clearer until, finally there in front of me like a 10 foot high flashing signpost of the bleeding obvious, was the plain and simple truth. Sex may not sell, but *smut* abso-bloody-lutely does!

If you don't believe me, take a look at the cold, hard facts. Last week's numbers: top search terms in ascending order:

10. Marigolds - 452 hits

9. Zoe Telford - 466 hits

8. Crotchless - 489 hits

7. Garter-chafe - 512 hits

6. Tanya Beckett - 553 hits

5. Ridged - 554 hits

4. Underdrip - 798 hits

3. Butane-minge - 12,467 hits

2. Sophie Raworth - 13,584 hits

1. Pantyhose - 15, 404 hits

Well, I don't really need to spell it out to you, do I? It's just bloody genius, isn't it? I mean, these things will virtually write themselves. So, it's with renewed vigour that I return to the fray, eager to give my adoring public - yep, that's you Ms. Sandvik, Vasstra Gotoland (7 min, 23 seconds, 01:46, 21/06/2015) - boy, have we got some threats in store for you, lady!! And as for Mllle. Pacific Palisades, CA (1 min, 45 seconds, 03:47, 20/06/2015 - boy, you don't hang around, huh? Go for it girl...), well, those cold and lonely three a.m.s just got that teeny-weeny bit brighter. No really, it's all part of the service....just remember to click on the ad at the bottom on your way out....


Tuesday, 2 June 2015

Call me Bob...

As it's been a while since I communicated with you my dear, loyal reader, I thought I'd try to make it up to you for my inexcusable absence by letting you in on a little secret. That's right my limpet-like little bijou(s) ....(bijoux? Damn, I hate the French - why can't they speak English like the rest of us, Dammit!?) as the exclusive preview of my latest Vanity Fair cover shoot will more than amply demonstrate, I am...(come on gal...I mean...guy ...let's be true to the real us, boyfriend....shame on all the haters....we can *do* this* thang*!!!) Yes, I can finally reveal that, after years of denial, decades of pain, misery and living a falsehood, I am, finally....ta-da..., yes, you guessed it...I am in mid-*trans* *for* *may* *shun*!

Yay brothah!

Go me!!

Oh sure, there's still a little bit of work to be done, as you can see. For a kick off, the tummy-tum-tums is *waaaaay* too flat and almost lends me a look of someone who does the occasional bout of exercise requiring more effort than just reaching over to the coffee table to take another slurp of 'buie breezer in between mouthfuls of Tesco finest salt and vinegar potato sticks. The beard? Well, that's still a little too obviously false and velcroed on to make me look like the genuine lard-bucket male hipster dude I aspire to be. And as for that mascara brush that's been poorly run over my flimsy blonde down to give the impression of a full pelt of unsightly male chest hair - well, it barely registers so much as a blip on the Giggs scale, does it? I know, I know, I know. But hell, give me time to *eaaasse* into my new gender will ya?? And besides, look how well I'm carrying off that grimy, 'just gone for a wee in the middle of my afternoon nap, but still didn't get a stain on my sweat pants' look. *Sexy*!! So, ladies, gentlemen, people of indeterminate gender who fall somewhere in between...I give you...

my new body....

my new self....

the new *ME*.....!!!!.....


So how, I can tell you are *dying* to know, am I doing? Well, it's all been a bit of an upheaval, obviously. But the lads at the Rygbi club have, to a man, been very kind, and as gentle and supportive as you could reasonably expect of a bunch of hardened Welsh farm lads with minimal familiarity with their own bodily hygiene, let alone the needs of someone experiencing the biological turmoil of a complete gender reversal at an age by which most impoverished valley folk have either perished or been consigned to a dismal end of life spent salivating into a Toby jug of Harvey's Bristol Cream, muttering about Max Boyce whilst watching the 'Pobl y cym' omnibus on repeat. Given the difficulty they have in even accepting the existence of someone like Alan Carr-Chatty-Mann, they've taken having to watch the fragrant, lithe, leggy, lushly-maned nymph from whose ample cleavage they've grown up pinching the half time orange segments transmogrify herself into a portly bearded nerk pretty well I suppose, all in.

Obviously, this is just the beginning for me. I still have a long way to go, I knows that. There will be very difficult adjustments to make - not least in the undercarriage department. At the moment, I'm still finding a few *blocks* to my masculinity. For instance, I can't be doing with those badly bitten false nails with the fake black grit in the pith - no, it's Maybelline extra durable with a Cardiff City crest tattoo for this boy's talons, every day. And how do you guys walk in those shoes???? I know better than any one that, come hell or high water, high heels were never, ever,*evah* meant to be worn with a pair of tracky bottoms. But I'm sorry. I'm just not ready for the ultimate sacrifice. Can you *seriously* imagine a lad like me wearing flats? No, exactly. So, as we say at Laboratoires Garnier: *day-ull* *way-uth* *ay-ut* - Because *I'm* *wurth* *ut*...

Saturday, 7 March 2015

Tanya Beckett & Sophie Raworth are......Waiting for Godot......

TB:, Soph. Can you lend me some of your nail varnish? I think I've just chipped one picking away distractedly at this cheaply decorated set meant to convey a bleak existential landscape in which you and I are waiting for a metaphoric redemption in the form of Godot...... who never arrives.

SR: Sure thing Tanny. Midnight Plums OK? (Why does that colour always remind me of Jeremy Bowen, by the way?) Now, where did I put it? Ohhhh! Don't tell me I left it on the dresser by the hall with the gas bill I forgot to post on my way to the theatre. £55.65 by the way? Is yours ever that high?

TB: Sounds a bit steep to me, Soph old girl. What have you been doing, taking midnight bubble baths with an entire Premiership Rugby side and indulging in a crafty sachet of Belgian choccy options or several while they practice their rucking techniques with your aromatherapy bath cushion? It's a wonder your bills aren't sky high carrying on like that...

SR: ...I mean, you expect it to be a bit more in the winter quarter, but this is just ridiculous...

TB: My uncle Stan used to work for the gas board. He was a funny old stick. Used to make us little puppets based on prominent politicians of the day - Lord George Brown was a particularly eerie likeness, as I recall - and entertain us with a little miniature theatre he made up out of old cornflake boxes and j-cloths when we were kids. That was when he wasn't trying to get his hand up our skirts. Filthy old sod! He still sends us a Christmas card every June. It's amazing how much things have changed in secure psychiatric units, isn't it?

SR: ....£55.65. And we were away in Dubai for all of October...

TB: You found it yet?

SR: Sorry, Tans. I was just leafing through my little red book. I didn't realise I had it with me. Gosh, some of these dates...I'd completely forgotten about them - with good reason... Did you know that Griff Rhys Jones is double-jointed?

TB: Really?

SR: Well, that's the only explanation I can think of.....him and his pair of plyers...

TB: How long did you go out with him for Sophs?

SR: Only a couple of weeks - until I got bored rigid with his sheet metal origami obsession. Honestly, he couldn't go anywhere without a full toolkit and a pack of handy wipes. Until, that is, he dislocated his shoulder trying to make a huge ornamental Mandarin Duck out of our boiler flue. I never heard back from him after that. Here we go. Oh, sorry Tans, it's Prussian Blue. will that do?

TB: Oh I suppose so. It won't clash with my mustard twin set, will it? This is Desiree by the way. She's waiting for Godot too. What's he like eh?

Desiree: I know - I waited 3 days for one last week....and then they were all only going as far as the Broadway....

SR: Hi Desiree. Course it won't clash, you picky mare. Here, something I've always meant to ask you - you know when your skirt rides up when you're interviewing someone on the couch on Breakfast News?

TB: Mmm-hmm...

SR: Do you do it on on purpose or is just accidental?

TB: What do you think!! As my dear old Grandfather used to tell my Mum, "there's no point wearing stockings if you're not going to flash a bit of garter, girl!" How she put up with him wearing her smalls for all those years, I'll never know...

SR: Thought so. I always wear tights myself. You should give them a go - you know how chilly it is on the studio floor before the heating clicks on at 7.30. Now, are you quite finished with my varney? I've just bitten one of mine off remembering Griff and his bizarre metal folding exploits. I still wake up in a cold sweat sometimes when I hear a creaking noise in the night...

TB: Here Soph, have these for being such a brick about lending me the nail varnish.

SR: Oh Tans, they're lovely! Where did you get them?

TB: I half-inched them from outside the Sally Army on the way in while they were out beggaring about with their trombones and tambourines. See, I forgot to take the card out, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it??

SR: Too right Tans - I'll just stick them in some water. Now, where has that confounded Godot got to? Shall I stick the kettle on......??

Delle de Jour

The Diary of a London wheeler and dealer.

Nice little earner this call boy lark, Rodders. The manager - madam, if you will - takes 30%. Tips and travel expenses are exempt from her commission. The client usually pays an extra 30-50 pounds on top of the agreed price for travel. About a quarter of 'em tip. Cushty!

I have only seen the madam in person a handful of times. I prefer to pay the spondulicks in to her account, and she knows I am reliable with it. Some of the other lads she meets at restaurants or at home or down the Black Horse, but she ain't comin' back to our grotty little flat in Nelson Mandela Mansions, I'll tell you that for nuffink, my son!

Most other WBs I have met do not work for the same agency and are usually friends-of-friends. I only meet others from my agency if someone hires two of us at a go - Mange tout de Triomphe, Rodders! As we say in the trade. We arrive and leave in seperate transportation, and know nothing of each other beyond professional names, which is just as it should be. Honi soit qui malibu, Rodders.

I have never had an overtly negative review reported to the manager. My clients are not usually drunk and I have not yet run into an abusive one. We are instructed that if they are abusive, we take the money, ring the manager, and leave. They are instructed by her that if we find them objectionable, we leave. Bish bosh! You might say I'm lying, or have been extremely lucky. You might also say that I have some skill in putting people at ease. But I've never had a spot of bother. Apart from when one old bag recognised me down Peckham market and wanted a refund on some dodgy inflatable Korean carp I'd flogged her. Said she'd put 'em straight in her pond and they were all dead. Dozy mare! Still, Cherchez la femme, eh Rodders? Cherchez la femme!

I do get a bit nervous about clients if they've changed the location or time of the liaison more than once. In these instances the agency provides security, or I ask Trigger to drive and guard me. I bung him a pony out of me pocket for this. If you want the bestest but you don't ask questions, brother, he's your man. Nastro azurrio, my son!

Do I kiss clients? Of course I do, you plonker! Pretty Woman is not real. Comprendez? Fiction. Richard Gere is not really a gigolo. You're thinking of David Hemmings in American Gigolo, Rodders.

Refusal to kiss is an affront similar to fake porn lesbians who won't put their tongues anywhere near a pussy, but are perfectly happy to shove a fist up one. Denial is not just a river in Egypt, Rodders. I don't hold back. Kissing is no more intimate than any other act - intimacy is what the mind does, not the body. Outlandos d'amour, Rodders.

Now, where are me low-waisted flesh-coloured lace knickers (La Perla). What do you mean they're in the wash, Rodders? You plonker!

// posted by delle @ 3:21 PM


Blog Comment Whore....

Why do I do it?

I must spend several hours a day posting rubbish like this (on Blind Flaneur's effort) on blogs belonging to people I have no connection with other than that they happen to have chanced upon my blog rather than any of the other billion or so that they might have:

The 27 used to be a nice route. We used to be able to pick it up at the bottom of our road in Twickenham and go all the way to Archway for 4 pence. Christ knows why you'd want to do that, mind - but you could. Then again, I can't see why anyone would want to buy a record by Rod Stewart, but people still do. Though I doubt you can pick one up for 4 pence. Bloody charity shops - they're worse than HM bloody V. My late father once opened the door to Rod Stewart - on the Archway Road as it goes. It wasn't this that killed him, by the way - it was progressive heart disease, but the door thing might well have been a contributory factor. It must've been quite a shock I imagine, opening the door to find a pre-fame Rod Stewart standing there with a tea chest bass and a Scotland scarf demanding "can Kenny come out to play?" We'll never know now, of course. My uncle was a mate of his. Rod Stewart, that is. He was tight as arseholes, apparently - always hid at the back with his hands in his pockets, never bought a round. Rod that is - not my uncle Ken - he's a diamond when it come to buying a round. Had a trial at Brentford too Rod Stewart, not Kenny. Never really had much time for him, personally - although I do quite like the strings on Do ya think I'm sexy...


p.s. Just a quick technical point here, BF. Being blind, was this sequence of events relayed to you by a sighted companion, or did you just make it up? Don't give up hope - it's amazing what they can do with lasers now, apparently...

Say you ponced about like that for three hours a day. That's 21 hours a week. That's almost a full working week. (If you can call it a working week when you spend 2/3s of it posting meritricious crap on blogs belonging to people you've never met etc. etc. instead of doing what you're being paid to do. Whatever that is. It's so long since I've done anything except blog that I've actually forgotten. I know it can't be very important...) I wonder if you could put it on your passport - occupation: spurious blog commentator (p/t)?? Imagine the adverts: Aimless individuals, highly unmotivated despite being in regular, full-time employment but with time on their hands are required to bombard pointlessly world wide internet weblog sites with frivolous, self-aggrandising verbage. No prospects. No supervision. No time wasters.

The other thing is I've started using the word 'cunt' in every comment I post. Must stop doing that. Imagine if there are children reading it....I really need to start setting a better example. I'm forty fucking one years old......

Envoi: S. this morning, overheard from the bathroom while she's watching the BBC Breakfast News item containing an interview with the chaps on the wrong end of the the recent bungled terror raid - "with a beard like that, I'd've fucking shot you.."

She's the funny one.

Further envoi:

I can't stop myself - just posted today at 11.02:

There's a technical term for it, BF. You are a sufferer of what we in the medical profession (I am a registered Paedophile - I know what I'm talking about and have the broken windows to prove it...) refer to as Severe Geoffrey Howeing of the Hair Syndrome. It's a relatively managable condition, but in extreme cases it can flare up into the more general and potentially life threatening affliction of Incurable Darcus Howeing of the Scalp. Once diagnosed, there is little hope for the poor victim of this awful illness. There is no cure, unfortunately, and the only known palliative care involves the patient being taken out into a field by the Secretary of State for Health and shot at dawn. You will, however be pleased to know, that this treatment IS currently available on the NHS.


© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

The Other Girl With a One Track Mind...

I bought the Sunday Times yesterday (and no, before you get all aeriated, I'm not going all New Labour now we've joined the propertied classes - it had a free DVD of One Plus One in it, if you must know. See, bit of culture and that) and there's an article in there about this tart. Apparently Girl with a one track mind is a freelance camera assistant (surely they can't be that difficult to operate...??) and she's been working her way through the casts and crews of what remains of the British film industry (I bet that Puttnam gave her a good seeing to - he looks like a right saucy sword swiveller, doesn't he? It's the beard, I think...) and posting up the (incredibly interesting, I'm sure) particulars on her eponymous blog (although, apparently she also witters on about films a lot as well, making her a girl more of the two-tracked mind variety by my reckoning...but, hey, whatever...)

Anyroad up, GWAOTM has just become the latest blogger to have her highly riveting sexploits published in good old analogue* book form. So, after years (well, a year) of trying to persuade the sceptical world of publishing (and radio, Reality TV, DIY show hosting, mail order catalogue modelling etc.) that Roberta is the greatest thing since sliced wotsits, I've finally realised what I've been doing wrong all these year(s). So, brace yourselves dear, gentle readers for the new look Roberta Swipe Show. That's right, from tomorrow, you and the rest of the world of Global Publishing can sample the delights of the Other Girl With a One Track Mind.....(be warned, if you don't have much time for Goth girls splattered with fek blood wearing fishnets as string vests, I'd stick with Spinny - at least you know what you're going to get with La Spinster. Well, you know what you're not going to get, anyroad...)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have beggars to flog and a podcast to tape......

* Will Self: "they're portable, you don't need batteries for them and they last for hours..." (books that is - filth!)


© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Friday, 6 March 2015

I'm in a band.....(Yay!)....

That's right Swipettes - all those years hanging around backstage in a beehive wig wearing fake leather twinsets with a pretend cigarette dangling seducticely from my lower lip have finally paid off! I've been asked to play keyboards in my brother Bob's newest techno pop combo - and he's even asked me if they can call the group after me. I was a bit sceptical at first, but Bob thinks it's a great idea and cited other great bands that were named after real people - Alice Cooper, Lynyrd Skynrd, Pele, Jeremy Irons etc. etc. So I'm cool with it, plus I get to have my mush pasted over every bus shelter and big issue poster in the Greater London area - what's not to like? I did wonder at first if I was letting my sisters down by allowing my physical charms - yes, that's right, charm*s* (I have at least two) to be put to use selling the band. But then I realised that, hey, if you've got it flaunt it - and if you haven't, you'll probably soon be able to get it on the NHS, once they finish fully privatising it.

Anyway, we've been doing a lot of rehearsing and recording of late and I'm pleased to say that my high school one finger sythesizer line skills have not completely deserted me. OK, I'm no Linda McCartney yet - although I can do a mean veggie sausage roll, believe me - but what I lack in musical ability, I more than make up for in sly sexual manipulation and a thoroughbread's understanding of the minutiae of  the upholstered brassiere. Just think of me as the new Candida Doyle, only without the candida....well, mostly...

Right, judge for yourselves...

Friday, 27 February 2015

You stare at the blank screen.

It can take minutes, sometimes hours. Sometimes nothing comes at all. Sometimes it's so poor and expresses so badly what you wanted to say that you wish it hadn't come at all. But usually something comes and you're grateful, grateful because, when something comes you can hope - hope that it will build, hope that you might feel that pleasure-rush behind the ears, that quiet ecstasy that radiates around the base of the skull when you do get it right, or read it when someone else has. Usually though, you're grateful for nothing more than that the screen is no longer blank. But it's the good days you do it for, when it comes before you can even get yourself before the screen, your fingers do their merry dance in a blur and the flow of words picks you up and transports you - the images shine, the meanings resound and you follow every twist and turn, every pause every punchline as if you are outside it all; you are not writing so much as something is being written through you: you, your eyes aglow, your skull aflame. And then it fades, the words cease and those guiding hands put you back down, you go back to the routine, back to the drone, back to the blank screen.

And there you are, today, back in front of the screen, trying to will the whirring of the wheels in that free mind of yours, trying to wipe away the grime and the grit from the windscreen of your consciousness, trying to see. Trying to write down what you see. There may have been words, you may have made a start, the piece may have been completed, you may have had about you that quiet smile or look of mild consternation as you finessed the almost finished article, squeezed those last few drops of meaning, irony, humour or remorse from whatever you were writing. We won't know what it was you were writing, only that that was what you were planning, or what you had done or what you were in the middle of doing when they came.

They came, I imagine, from behind you - the coward's way. Because you would have had a desk with a screen, by a window or a lamp so that you could type facing towards the light. I know this, because that is what we all do, no matter how ineptly, no matter how pointlessly, no matter how reviled or acclaimed. It doesn't matter. We just do it because that is what we do. We type towards the light.

So now all we can do is to go here and hope to see your words one day replace the night black screen. Hope that even if you can't, your words may come back. And then we go back to our own blank screens and wait.

Wait for it to come.

Then we type.

We type towards the light.

For Tim Footman and in memory of Avijit Roy.

ISIS members sue Apple Corps over lost Beatles royalties...

Lawyers acting on behalf of the self-styled terror group, So-Called Islamic State have begun a civil action against Apple, the company set up in 1968 to manage their affairs by self-styled lovable mop-tops, the So-Called Beatles. Members of So-Called Isis also known as the self-styled, So-Called Beatles - Jihadi John, Jihadi Paul, Jihadi George and Jihadi Ringo - claim that they are not receiving royalties due to them for a large body of popular songs they wrote during the So-Called Swinging Sixties, songs which set the toes of the world tapping and launched an era of sexual freedom and social experimentation as the world reverberated to their tuneful Mersey beat music. A spokesman for the group which is currently succeeding in returning large swathes of the so-called Levant and self-styled Middle East to the Middle Ages through an impressive use of 21st Century social media skills, strict adherence to So-Called Islam and lots of beheadings, urged Apple to cough up.

"They're just four ordinary, working class Muslim lads from the north of England who have given us all a lot of pleasure with their grisly execution videos and cheeky but completely reverent and Halal-observant online banter. It just doesn't seem fair that they are toiling away in the desert with a 2nd generation i-pad and a pathetic 32 giga-bite laptop while Sir Paul McCartney and Ringo 'So-Called' Starr swan around with top of the range personal computer gear - how can you wage a Holy War aimed at restoring the Caliphate to its 11th Century boundaries with intermitent internet access and no wi-fi signal??? Even just freeing up the royalties from one of their big songs like 'Yesterday' or 'Let it Be' would keep us in broadband and viagra for several months. We might even be able to stretch to some kinky underwear for the lasses - Christ knows they need something to sauce them up. They make Jihadi Cilla Black look like Gina Lollabrigida. Still, at least you can't see their faces I suppose. So, come on lads, play fair - or we'll be round with a machete to chop off Heather's other leg..."

Critics of the regime who haven't already been silenced with a scimitar up the jacksy have pointed to the large revenues that are helping to prop up ISIS' campaign of violent jihad. They are currently funded from a variety of surprising sources - donations from wealthy Saudis, oil bootlegging, tobacco smuggling, sales of Yazidi women as sex slaves and the National Lottery. They also question the probability that members of a violent sect that has banned all forms of music in the territories it controls could possibly have composed songs of the beauty and expressive depth of 'Across the Universe', 'Hey Jude' and 'The Long and Winding Road' - although it's quite possible they may have been responsible for stuff like 'Octopus's garden' a singular dud from the 1969 classic album, Abu-Dhabi Road.

Meanwhile, in related news, former Beatle Jihadi John has himself been at the centre of controversy surrounding comments he is supposed to have made about the group's manager Jewish manager, Jihadi Brian Epstein. Epstein, a practicing homosexual, is alleged to have asked John to suggest a title for his autobiography to which he is purported to have replied, 'Queer Jew', a suggestion which could, if true, have dire consequences for him in homophobic, anti-Semitic ISIS controlled areas. The punishment for these crimes could lead to Epstein being beheaded and thrown from a tall building, or possibly the other way round, depending upon which is going to look better in a glossy snuff video aimed at radicalising young British teenagers. Fortunately, Epstein is no longer a smoker. The punishment for smoking - 'slow suicide' according to the ISIS ideology - is having a series of explosives tied to your waste and being very rapidly detonated in a crowded area.

The row comes only months after the furore generated by the controversial pop star's assertion that one day his group were going to be 'bigger than Muhammad'. 'If I'd said Buddha or Jesus or Krishna, I might have got away with it', said a clearly medicated Jihadi John.(Probably all that viagra.) The comments generated a spate of record burnings, book burnings, Jihadi Beatle wig burnings and a few innocent people were thrown in too for good measure.

The case commences on Monday...

Thursday, 26 February 2015

Coalition Announces Stepping up of British Roles in Syria and Ukraine...

The government has announced major military engagements in both the Syrian and Ukraine conflicts. Following heavy international criticism of the failure of Britain to shoulder its responsibilities as part of the coalition forces engaged in airstrikes against the so-called Islamic State in Syria and Iraq, the Prime Minister announced that it will do all it can to bring about a swift resolution to the current bloodshed in the beleagured Middle Eastern states. "We will not tolerate the barbarity and bloodthirsty ideology that ISIS is inflicting on the poor citizens of the areas it has under its control. Crucifictions, beheadings, stoning people - these are simply not appropriate actions in a civilised society. That's why we'll be sending some of our finest singers and variety artistes out there to form a concert party. People often ask me, 'how are we going to put the smiles back on the people of Raqqa and Aleppo? It must be a living hell out there.' Well, ISIS may have banned music, but let's see them try to stop Ed Sheeran and his vast array of foot pedals and digital loops - I wouldn't even know how to turn them on, let alone decommission them."

A clearly pumped up Sheeran, interviewed shortly after his performance at this year's Brit awards was defiant: "I can't wait to get out there and play the same four chords over and over again, starting off gently then building up a series of loops to a near deafening crescendo and then shouting over the racket my foot pedals make. It's the only way I know how to help, but naturally I'm going to be first in the queue to go there and try to put a smile back on the faces of the poor innocent civilians who've got caught up in this terrible civil war. I've even been growing a beard for the last 3 years in the hope that I won't get beheaded - it's just starting to take root, what do you think?"  Questioned as to whether this was just a cynical career advancing publicity stunt, Sheeran was adamant: "I really believe we need to get out there and sing those people back into the 21st Century. Honestly, it's been a top night for me, getting this award, playing at this prestigious show, then finding out I'm going to be playing Syria, the nearest place to hell on earth. The only thing that could top all that would be if Madonna were to fall off stage..."

 Ellie Gouding: 'Apprehensive, Michael'

Sheeran will be joined by a dazzling roster of British talent said to include the likes of Ellie Goulding, Paloma Faith, Ant & Dec, David Suchet, The Krankies, Joe Pasquale, Russ Abbot, Chris de Burgh, The Arctic Monkeys, Colin Welland, Krishnan Gurumurthy, David Walliams, Tony Robinson, The Proclaimers, Chris Tarrant, Simon Cowell, the surviving mebers of Dave, Dee, Dozy Mick & Titch, Celia Imrie, Rhod Gilbert and several of the families from the hit Channel 4 couch potato reality show Gogglebox.

In a separate but parallel development, Mr. Cameron announced an escalation of British involvement in the Ukraine conflict. "We're committed to backing up the legitimate Ukrainian government and making sure that the terms of the recent ceasefire are adhered to on both sides. That's why we've decided to reunite the concert party from 'It ain't 'arf 'ot Mum'. We're going to get the old gang together - Don Estelle, Windsor Davies, Melvin Hayes, 'La-di-da' Gunner Graham, the one he used to call 'Lovely boy' that one always assumed would turn out to be his son. 'Land of hope and glory, mother of the free - SHUT UPP!' I can't think of a better way of sending a very clear message that we have the resolve to stand up to Mr. Putin and tell him exactly where he gets off. If we had more than 6 tanks, we'd be sending those too."

Melvin Hayes: 'delighted', Allan.

Tuesday, 24 February 2015

Scott Walker's Indispensable Guide to The General Election 2015!!!!...

With what promises to be one of the most fiercely fought and unpredictable elections ever just around the corner, we asked our resident Psephologist and Sixties Crooner-turned-weird-avant-garde-art-thing Scott Walker to give us the lowdown on all the major parties and their leaders...

This week....

The Conservative Party: 

The received wisdom: Many doubted the Conservative Party's alliance with their Liberal Democrat Coalition partners would hold on for the full five year fixed term Parliament, but Tory leader David Cameron has seen off hard right critics in his own party and in the process hobbled a major political adversary - few expect the Lib Dems to recover from the taint of being the junior partners in a coalition despised by many on the left. Cameron may still feel the squeeze from the alienated via a strong nationwide UKIP showing, but he'll be secretly hoping that the upstart anti-Europe party will wreak as much havoc in the north for Labour. Scotland may, ironically, hand him control of the UK on a plate if the SNP do as well as many expect.

Chances this time round: Odds on to be the largest party in an even more fragmented parliament.

Scott says: The benecol demands a hurried Instagram denouement constellations spitting rancid flu-jab rigmarole pyjamas at the moooooooo-oooooooooooon.

Next week:

The Labour Party...

Friday, 20 February 2015

Carlton Palmer of the F.O.....

A House of Lords committee has issued a damning appraisal of the Foreign Office and its reading of the build up to the current crisis in the Ukraine. The Committee's report has been highly critical of what it sees as a loss of experience and skills within the department and has poured particular scorn on the employment of former Sheffield Wednesday and England footballer Carlton Palmer. Palmer, seen by many as little more than a tenuous attempt by desperate bloggers to link the current Foreign Office story to the 1959 Boulting Brothers comedy, Carlton Browne of the F.O. starring Terry-Thomas and Peter Sellers, was unavailable for comment as he was appearing for the Foreign Office works team in a friendly against a Qatar Embassy XI. However, a spokesman for the lanky and industrious defensive midfielder defended his appointment to the seemingly incongrous world of high level diplomacy and strategic global security.

'Obviously Carlton's a box-to-box type player, likes to put himself about a bit, has a better touch than many people expect from a big lad and has a similarly intelligent range of passing. Some may question whether he has the genuine world class ability to power the sort technically adept, quick thinking midfield unit you expect in the engine room of a modern international governmental department in today's game, but you could certainly do a lot worse, mentioniong no names. Marouane Fellaini."

The report expressed alarm at what it sees as a skills deficit within the Foreign Office, questioning whether the department had the requisite linguistic and cultural expertise to comprehend the subtleties of developments within the Russian sphere of influence. A Foreign Office expert defended the department's skills set: "Obviously it's just one of those where we've taken our eyes off the ball for a second, failed to switch on at a set-piece and no one's picked up the lad Putin, ghosting in at the far post and extending Russian influence in the former Soviet bloc. But it's a cold war of two halves, they've got to come back to our place and no doubt buy up the other half of London they don't own already while they're there. We're still very much in this tie and let's hope we can give the fans something to really sing and shout about while they're stopping black people boarding the tube on the way home..."