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Monday, 8 November 2010

Howardsendaway...





...and now on Radio 4, part 5 of our adaptation of Weary Measley's 'The Calomine Lawnmower', by Spuriel Marx...

The story so far...

In the south coast locality of Christarrantcester, the Commode Cup has attracted the attention not only of the assembled sailing enthusiasts but the popular press as well - oh, and the Daily Mail were there too. Amidst fierce competition, aviation designer Hichard Burtcuthbertson sails on board the vessel he designed and built solely from marzipan and balsa wood, the Frying Fish, accompanied by his son, Soiliver. As they frantically make adjustments to the rigging and sails, the vessel streaks into the lead - a risky approach given that it's absolutely freezing out. A luxury cruiser follows their every move: on board are Hichard's wife, Rowenta, and her closest companion, Surly Porquhart, both of whom are enjoying champagne washed down with a jar of pickled eggs as they support the Fish crew in their bid to secure victory and with it promotion to the Blue Square Balsa Wood and Marzipan Conference League.

Meanwhile, back at local boat-building concern the Mardy Yermaid, proprietor Rack Jolfe is engaged in conversation with his daughter, Bovril, over the prospects of Hichard’s bid to win the Commode Cup. "How many times? You'll *never* win the Commode Cup in a vessel built entirely of marxipan - nevermind marzipan - and balsa wood. I've tried telling him, but he just sticks his fingers in his ears and goes 'ting-a-ling-a-loo' - the great big gay back passage of a failed aviation engineer turned soggy boat designer", wailed Rack as Bovril completed a particularly tricky word puzzle by artfully sprinling shake 'n' vac over a tea strainer.

Back at the race, having narrowly avoided a collision with their closest rivals, the Dalmation Pygmy (sponsored by Bradford & Bingley) crew, the Frying Fish is somehow the first boat made entirely from marxipan and balsa wood to cross the line (having sustained some minor damage below the water line involving a very delicate re-icing operation whilst still ploughing on at 17 knots per week.) A rousing celebration gets underway on board both vessels, and continues at The Soily Jailor public house. Whilst the Burtcuthbertsons enjoy a proud victory, those in attendance quietly speculate on Hichard’s future, as word is spreading that Scrotal Aviation (the company for which he had devoted twenty-two years of his life and poured a significant portion of his marmalade quilting empire into in order to keep the business afloat, not to mention the remainder of the retired-wind tunnel and sock repairer's Christmas pudding fund) is radically downsizing its Plyhamptonmouth-on-Sea operations and relocating to Aberystwith.

Over at the Yardy Merman, Rack discusses the desperate financial woes facing the business with Bovril. After three months in Christarrantcester, she has assessed the worst of the damage affecting the Yard - no customers, no pending orders, no materials, no staff - and despite Jack’s assurances that a forthcoming German Haddock-dredging coracle repair contract will extricate them from their plight, Avril remains optimistic about the yard's future. When Rack suggests they discuss the situation over a drink, she despairs with her father, claiming that it always his solution to problems and it did nothing to prevent the Suez Crisis in '56, why should it work now, God damn your eyes???!!

Next week on Howardsendaway: Will Calliperso break free from quarantine in Calais to make it over in time to be maid of honour at Soiliver's Bar Mitzvah? Will Palter and Wally recover from their vaguely incestuous fumble in the airiing cupboard. Why *is* Old Mr. Glucose-Blanket getting a nasty rash about the lower leg?

xxx
Bob

Saturday, 6 November 2010

Bobcast #3 (remastered)...

Download or listen to Bobcast #3 (remastered) here...

Originally broadcast on 29th July 2006, Bobcast #3 is from the off a markedly more confident affair than either of its predecessors. In restoring this episode, we tried several options to eliminate the slight distortion on Bob's links before deciding that the crackle was preferable to the use of compression and other filters which tended to reduce the presence and immediacy of your host. Otherwise, we hope you'll agree that, despite the odd technical flaw, in terms of content and attitude, this show stands up pretty well in comparison with Bob's current ultra high-tech output.

Morton Shadow, Senior Archivist and Executive Producer of the Robert Swipe Show remastering project.



Tracklisting:


Pyjamarama - Roxy Music

Tighten up - Archie Bell and the Drells

Clean-up Woman - Betty Wright

Free will and testament - Robert Wyatt

Sh-Boom - The Chords

Mine exclusively - Big star

Shopping for clothes - The Coasters

I'm in love - Wilson Pickett

Surf's up - Brian Wilson

Bob's original post for this episode (the links probably won't work...):

Bobcast 3 is available to download now (it's free Richard, btw) via iTunes or Switchpod. Just follow the links below or click update in iTunes if you've subscribed already...

Artists featured this week include The Roxy, Archie Bell & the Drells, Wilson Pickett and many, many more....(plus lots of Bob's incomprehensible wittering, of course...)

Right, I'm out of here to listen to it again....


Bobcasts now available at iTunes!!

click here to hear our regular Bobcasts!!

Subscribe to The Robert Swipe Show




© 2006 Swipe Enterprises

Friday, 5 November 2010

For Rubi (aged not-quite 2)...

We could count the days we spent with you
And mourn how briefly you were here.
But that would miss the point of your short stay.

Better to remember how each day
Was filled with love and how you drew
From us all that is good we have to give.

You trod gently on this earth - did no harm.
Only your plight - not you - has saddened us.
If counting days, of course we wanted more for you.
But if we're totting up: in terms of love and kindness,
Compassion, peace - you lived a life as full as anyone.

xxx
Bob

Wednesday, 3 November 2010

Bobcast #65...


Jerry Lee: All killer, no filler - just like Bobcast #65 (not!)...


That Bob retirement exclusive in full...

Download or listen to Bobcast #65...


xxx
Bob

Tuesday, 2 November 2010

Post #955...

Dear reader. Dear gentle reader - and, for once, I'm being factual and precise here in using the singular, can even give that reader a name, so fabulously have I pursued my quest to alienate you all - read on, dear reader just a little further. We're almost there, have almost reached the end, Dave - you don't mind if I call you Dave, do you? Dear Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote, Dave. Dave and Bob may not have quite the same ring, but there you go. What does? It's the credit crunch, perhaps? Nothing holds its value anymore, does it? Everything gets squeezed, squashed, shrunk - 'downsized'. Whatever it is that's happening, it's not sparing the language. It's some kind of word crunch that's pinching bloggers into tweeters, perhaps. Like the economy, we just can't stretch to it anymore can we? The longer piece. It's just too costly, too dear. We run a deficit of words; so pare it down, bring on the cuts, the slash and burn. We haven't got enough to spare or spend, it seems - have we? The time, that is. Reserves of that are running low, just like everything else. This is a little bit embarrassing actually, but...um...we're a little bit short at the moment, actually; of time and patience, of effort and thought. Look, I'll keep this brief; can you come back next week?

And so - and here's an irony of the language - as the economy has shrunk, economy of words has duly become the dominant style. The tweet, for instance - can you get more economical than that? Not outside the haiku. You could be forgiven the thought that the blog has had its say already; too vast and epic in scope, those paragraphs just seem to go on and on and on, don't they? There's just too much of them, too much...character. Or too many characters. And so we flee from the forest of words. If you don't believe me, just roll your gaze up and down the blog list a little further down at the side of this page. So many of the old stalwarts have fled their homes it seems - reading up from the bottom, back up through the mists of time and the rolling tumbleweeds; Istvanski (last post four months ago), Billy (last post four months ago) Ro-mo (last post one month ago) Dick Headley (last post five weeks ago), Betty (last post 3 week's ago), Photon (last post 2 weeks ago)... Perhaps it's just a go-slow, a work-to-rule. Or maybe they're just battoning down the hatches, riding out the storm; laying low until the good times return. Perhaps. But many of them, I'm sure, like so many around the globe, are ekeing out their words. Parsimonious of parse and tweet; their blogs now just too unwieldy, too sprawling. Couldn't afford the upkeep any longer. Too high maintenance, they've abandoned their old country seats, downsized, moved out to the margins to see the hard times out. Hoarding their words like misers in those smart little one ups-two downs, the little bijous that are springing up all over the shop; low maintenance, cheap and cheerful, no hassle. Small perhaps, but with plenty of character - well, 140 of them, to be exact.

But Dave - (you are still there Dave, I trust...*you* haven't deserted me too, have you?) - there's still a little way for us to go too. This is not another 'retirement' - not just yet, anyway. No, just a pause for thought; a reminder. Another downpayment on the old pile. But maybe a countdown, of sorts...


xxx
Bob

Tess or Claudia...?

It's time for this week's round of Tess or Claudia. Just leave a comment stating which of the Stictly Come Dancing presenters you prefer. Let's play 'Tess or Claudia'...

Coalition plans to phase out prisons, claims Kara Tointon...

As ministers today revealed plans to extend the electoral franchise to include those serving prison sentences, the government has been rocked by allegations that it plans ultimately to do away with the penal system altogether. In an astonishing outburst, prison reform campaigner and Strictly Come Dancing contestant Kara Tointon


Tointon: scantily clad for satirical purposes...

accused the government of planning to close down all of the country's jails by 2016 in a drastic attempt to save money.

"What we're hearing is the insidious drip-drip-drip of policy announcement and supposedly independent evidence put out into the public domain in order to create a climate in which this outrageous step might somehow seem to be a rational and sensible one. Yesterday we had the frankly bewildering news that heroin is better for you than the odd can or two of Colt 45, paving the way for drug decriminalisation in the near future. Today they're giving criminals the vote. What next? Legislation that makes it perfectly OK to thieve and rob, to murder and abuse???" If I'd wanted a bunch of hoody-loving, namby-pamby do-gooders to be running the country, I'd have voted Liberal Democrat....erm..."

A clearly wrong-footed David Cameron responded angrily to the claims. " Look, I think it's entirely reasonable that these indecent, non-working, law disregarding people be allowed to exercise their democratic rights at the ballot box. After all, by the time we're through wreaking havoc on the social fabric of the nation, we'll need every vote we can get, I can tell you! I realise that for a small minority, living on the ill-gotten gains of their criminal activities is a lifestyle choice - but I'll come to reform of the House of Lords later if you'll bear with me - but at least these crooks are not scrounging on the dole and claiming housing benefit - mainly because we've seen to it that they can't. They have to wait for 2 months after coming out of chokey before they can claim any state benefits at all, and given that we only give them £42 pounds when they finish their stir, it's probably no surprise that half of them end up back in the clink, really. Besides, what's the big deal about the odd bit of harmless skullduggery and bending the rules a bit? It hasn't stopped Andy Coulson rising to the top of government, has it? I want to be quite clear about this: blim-blam-blooooblooob-glitch-hammock-zaba-daba-deeeee-boon-boon-boon..."

The prison farrago comes on top of fresh evidence that the country's economy is indeed heading for a double dip recession. Statistics revealed today by Felicity Kendall suggest that by 2016 the jobless totals in the private sector alone could have risen by 1.6 million.


Kendall: scantily satirical for cladding purposes...

"Add these to the nearly 1/2 a million public sector losses already announced and things are starting to look a bit grim," said Kendall in between executing a perlious series of leg splits whilst sliding in between the legs of her dance partner, Vincent. " At this rate, they may as well close all the prisons down. No one will have anything worth stealing anyway..."


xxx
Bob

Monday, 1 November 2010

Howardsendaway...

...and now on Radio 4, part 5 of our adaptation of Weary Measley's 'The Calomine Lawnmower', by Spuriel Marx...

The story so far...

In the south coast locality of Christarrantcester, the Commode Cup has attracted the attention not only of the assembled sailing enthusiasts but the popular press as well - oh, and the Daily Mail were there too. Amidst fierce competition, aviation designer Hichard Burtcuthbertson sails on board the vessel he designed and built solely from marzipan and balsa wood, the Frying Fish, accompanied by his son, Soiliver. As they frantically make adjustments to the rigging and sails, the vessel streaks into the lead - a risky approach given that it's absolutely freezing out. A luxury cruiser follows their every move: on board are Hichard's wife, Rowenta, and her closest companion, Surly Porquhart, both of whom are enjoying champagne washed down with a jar of pickled eggs as they support the Fish crew in their bid to secure victory and with it promotion to the Blue Square Balsa Wood and Marzipan Conference League.

Meanwhile, back at local boat-building concern the Mardy Yermaid, proprietor Rack Jolfe is engaged in conversation with his daughter, Bovril, over the prospects of Hichard’s bid to win the Commodore’s Cup. "How many times? You'll *never* win the Commode Cup in a vessel built entirely of marxipan and balsa wood. I've tried telling him, but he just sticks his fingers in his ears and goes 'ting-a-ling-a-loo' - the great big gay back passage of a failed aviation engineer turned soggy boat deisgner", wailed Rack as Bovril completed a particularly tricky word puzzle by artfully sprinling shake 'n' vac over a tea strainer.

Back at the race, having narrowly avoided a collision with their closest rivals, the Dalmation Pygmy crew, the Frying Fish is somehow the first boat made entirely from marxipan and balsa wood to cross the line (having sustained some minor damage below the water line involving a very delicate re-icing operation whilst still ploughing on at 17 knots.) A rousing celebration gets underway on board both vessels, and continues at The Soily Jailor public house. Whilst the Burtcuthbertsons enjoy a proud victory, those in attendance quietly speculate on Hichard’s future, as word is spreading that Scrotal Aviation (the company for which he had devoted twenty-two years of his life and poured a significant portion of his marmalade quilting empire into in order to keep the business afloat) is radically downsizing its Plyhampton-on-Sea operations and relocating to Aberystwith.

Over at the Yardy Merman, Rack discusses the desperate financial woes facing the business with Bovril. After three months in Christarrantcester, she has assessed the worst of the damage affecting the Yard - no customers, no pending orders, no materials, no staff - and despite Jack’s assurances that a forthcoming German Haddock-dredging coracle repair contract will extricate them from their plight, Avril remains optimistic about the yard's future. When Rack suggests they discuss the situation over a drink, she despairs with her father, claiming that it always his solution to problems and it did nothing to prevent the Suex Crisis in '56, why should it work now, God damn your eyes???!!

Next week on Howardsendway: Will Calliperso break free from quarantine in Calais to make it over in time to be maid of honour at Soiliver's Bar Mitzvah? Will Palter and Wally recover from their vaguely incestuous fumble in the airiing cupboard. Why *is* Old Mr. Glucose-Blanket getting a nasty rash about the lower leg?


Driving home, the family enjoy singing a wide range of nautically-themed songs ahead of a bountiful lunch over which they joyously recount their memories of the victory. Jack reveals that he is due to have lunch with Laurie Meadows, the Mermaid Yard’s bank manager, the following day, and that he will convince the bank to extend their overdraft. He also discusses Avril’s return to Tarrant, and claims that one day she will have to explain the reasons behind her sudden departure from London and return to the fold. At the end of their lunch, Tom intercedes in the proceedings to reveal that he has been made redundant, surprising his children and shocking Jan even more so. When she presses him for an explanation, he reveals that the situation had been on the cards for a month, and that he kept it a secret from the family as he believed he could find another position before his final days at Southern Aviation. However, this having not eventuated, he must now rely on his redundancy settlement. Jan is angry that Tom did not confide in her earlier, and she storms from the dining room. Tom, realising he has handled the announcement badly, he endeavours to placate her. Jan angrily confronts him, demanding to know why he didn’t speak to her before announcing it to the family. She voices her concern that they once shared their worries, and as the pair exchange apologies, they speculate on their uncertain future. Jan is confident that Tom will find another job easily, but he angrily reveals that after a month-long search, he has been unable to find a new position. He reveals he will be unable to find a new aviation role at his time of life, and that his contacts have “melted away” upon hearing the news. He tells Jan that he considered an offer in Pretoria, and poses the question of leaving Tarrant; Jan expresses her desire to remain in the area, to which Tom counters by revealing he turned the offer down. Jan is upset that he had already made up his mind regarding a future decision without consulting her.

Meanwhile, Leo and Lynne try to come to terms with the news of their father’s redundancy. Tom reveals to his children that the family will be forced to trim their sails somewhat in the future (namely Lynne being forced to find gainful employment, the cancellation of their planned summer holiday in France, and Leo cutting back on expenditure ahead of his first-term attendance at Exeter University).

At The Jolly Sailor, Jack ruminates over his current predicament over a pint, and is joined by site foreman Bill Sayers. They discuss Avril’s bitter temperament of late (Jack believes a man is responsible for her guarded nature), the future prospects of the boatyard and their mutual past together.

With Tom having taken a walk to clear his thoughts, Jan emerges from her isolation and engages in a bitter exchange of words between herself and Lynne, with Leo acting as peacemaker.

On the banks of the River Hamble, Tom encounters Avril, who has also been endeavouring to clear her mind of personal matters. They are reunited after five years, and they discuss her return to Tarrant, the Commodore’s Cup victory and the news of his recent redundancy. At forty-four, Tom has reached a turning point in his life: having devoted so much time to a job in which he was far too comfortable, he now considers working on his own, running his own business. He is adamant he will not re-enter the rat race to be kicked in the teeth again, and his future lies in engaging in work on his own time. When the conversation turns to Avril’s time in London, she becomes evasive and does not want to discuss her recent past. Tom is surprised that he has spent half an hour bearing his soul to a complete stranger.

At the Howards’, Jan apologises for her exchange with her children. Whilst they are all hopeful that Tom will secure a new position, Jan is damned if she will be forced to scrimp and save once again. She speculates on whether or not Ken Masters, a local businessman, can offer her increased hours at Masters Chandlery, and Leo expresses a desire to work rather than go to University himself. She is shocked when he reveals he never wanted to go in the first place.

Later, Jan telephones Ken, whom she interrupts in bed with his girlfriend, Dawn. Breathless and half-naked, he is concerned when she asks to meet him the following morning to discuss “something important”. At the end of their conversation, he expresses his concern that she might hand in her notice, and reveals to Dawn that he would not want to lose her. When Dawn asks what Jan is like, he describes her as an ordinary housewife, and not in her league.

That evening, Jan and Tom discuss the situation as they prepare for bed. Determined to put his redundancy pay-out to good use, Tom is keen to secure a fresh occupation which will put his aeronautical expertise to good use. He expresses to Jan his desire to utilise the money and venture into independent design work, but she voices her concerns over the risks involved. Tom believes that is playing it safe has got him where he is today, perhaps it is time to take a few chances.

Meanwhile, Avril has a disturbed night’s sleep as she recalls her recent past in London.

The following morning, Tom visits the Mermaid Yard, at which the Flying Fish is being hauled into dry-dock for a preliminary assessment prior to repair work being undertaken. Jack assures him that a scratch like the one on Tom’s vessel would not affect the wooden ships that the Yard prides itself on, and the pair discuss the high-quality craftsmanship they predominately deal in.

At Masters Chandlery, Jan arrives for her early-morning meeting with Ken, at which she ventures the possibility of working more hours. Ken is hardly surprised at news of Tom’s redundancy, as he had been made aware of Southern Aviation’s cutbacks, and is more surprised when he learns that Jan was only informed the previous evening. Agreeing to her request, Ken is surprised that she has taken him up on his offer to work longer hours. He reveals he has other plans in mind for her future, which he will discuss with her at a later date.

At the Mermaid Office, Jack and Avril discuss Tom’s paint-job commission on the Flying Fish. When she counsels him to reduce the cost of the commission to something of a gift to Tom, Jack is surprised to learn he has been retrenched from Southern Aviation. He hurries to collect himself ahead of his lunchtime appointment with Laurie Meadows.

At the Howards, Leo and Lynne discuss their futures in light of their father’s redundancy before Tom arrives and invites them out on a picnic. Over lunch at the Yacht Club, Jan complains to Polly regarding Tom’s treatment of herself and the family with regard to keeping his redundancy a secret. She ruminates over the fact that they no longer discuss their problems, and whilst Polly assures her that he has the children’s best interests at heart, she reveals that her husband, Gerald, has hardly noticed that their daughter, Abby, is in Switzerland.

Nearby, Jack and Laurie Meadows enjoy a modest lunch whilst the former highlights the financial viability of the Mermaid Yard. Laurie pressures Jack into revealing the last and most lucrative design commission the Yard has enjoyed, and when he cannot provide examples more recent than two years previously, Laurie insists that unless incoming cashflow improves the loan the Yard has with the bank will be called in. When Jack implies that the German repair contract will bail the Yard out, Laurie highlights the fact that without confirmation in writing, the bank will foreclose the loan. Jack pleads with Laurie to lend a helping hand in his hour of need, but he is found wanting.

Jan reveals to Polly that Tom is tossing around the ludicrous idea of “going it alone”, and Polly assures her that they will need to find him a nice, safe job.

On the banks of the River Hamble, Tom and Lynne enjoy a quiet lunch-time picnic. She is concerned when Tom voices the option that they may have to sell the Flying Fish if their finances become depleted.

At the Mermaid Yard, Bill catches sight of Jack solemnly returning from his meeting with Laurie Meadows. When he approaches him for news of the meeting, Jack reluctantly reveals the bank intends to foreclose on the loan in the immediate future. He later reveals to Avril that they will be issuing an official letter later that day, and that the firm may not even be able to meet the wage bill over the coming months. They speculate over the future of the Yard, and Jack is at a loss to provide a solution. He lets slip that he even married to secure the Yard, and whilst he believes his daughter was previously unaware of this fact, Avril confirms that she was told that when she was at school. When Bill reveals that the repair work on the Flying Fish is complete, Jack suddenly has the spark of an idea. He tells Avril that Tom Howard might be the solution to their problems, and he hastily telephones the man in question and invites him for a drink at the pub.

Over a game of Scrabble, Tom and Lynne discuss Leo’s meeting at the job centre in pursuit of paid employment. Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of a delivery driver, who presents Leo with a bouquet of flowers addressed to Jan – from Ken Masters.

Tom clashes with Jan over her desire to work longer hours at Masters Chandlery, and even more so when she expresses the fact that Ken has offered to establish some contacts for him in pursuit of a new position. Their tense exchange of words is interrupted by a telephone call from Polly, who reveals that Gerald has learned of a design position at the Civil Airforce Authority which would be ideal for Tom. When Jan broaches the subject with Tom, he insists that the position is entirely unsuitable, as it would involve increased commuting time and, despite the healthy salary, he is not going to endure another position he hates just to bolster her social status. Tom concludes that “I intend to spend the rest of my working life doing something I want to do”.

At the Mermaid Yard, Avril confronts Jack as to his intentions to soak up Tom’s redundancy money to temporarily bail out the company. She insists on having no part in his plans, as she could not forgive herself if the Yard finishes up bankrupt and Tom is destitute.

At The Jolly Sailor, Jack presents Tom with a proposal: inject his redundancy money into the Mermaid Yard, and come on board as a partner in what he has described as a thriving enterprise which could only benefit from his design acumen. The manner in which Jack frames the proposal is such that Tom may find the offer too difficult to resist: “Here, you could be master of your own little kingdom”.

Drug reclassification: a cut out and keep guide...

As a reformed substance abuser, I take a keen interest in developments in the area of policing and legislating the use of illegal drugs and chemical enhancers. Well, I say reformed; I'm down to two tubs of Copydex a day which might sound like a lot to you, but is a *very* long way from the apogee of my addiction when I was maintaining a 5 figure-per-day industrial strength adhesive habit. You'd only need to have looked at my Homebase customer loyalty points to realise that I was in a seriously bad way. So, I'm obviously as shocked and surprised by today's announcement of the new drug classification recommendations as anyone. It's a complicated business alright, and one's sympathy goes out to the young people of today as they try to work their way through the minefield of advice and proscription, often conflicting and heavily couched in judgemental morality, as they try to decide the best way for them to get completely off their mash with the pittance they have left over from their jobseeker's allowance now that they're having to stump up all that extra cash to make up for the housing benefit cuts being imposed on them to bail out the banking sector that nearly brought the global economy to a point of total anarchy.

So, we here at Swipe Towers have gone through the new classifications with a fine tooth comb - not to mention a couple of rolled up twenties - so that our readers will know the cheapest and the safest way to get seriously fucked up by mind-altering substances. The drugs are listed in class order, with a helpful street value and easy to understand illustration of their respective strengths and harmful side-effects.

Class A

Heroin.

Strength/Side effects:

Not as bad for you as you might think, but using will probably subject the individual to quite unnecessary exposure to the songs of Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground. Not quite as bad for you as a prolonged arm-wrestle with Betty Stove, but has a bit more of a nip to it than the average street dose of Aruldite.

Street value:

Currently you can pick up a fairly useful sachet for about 17p, but if you're living in a rural area, it will cost you about a tenner each way to get to your dealer and back so you might want to stick with a litre bottle of Diamond White from the offy round the corner and add a bit of sherbet dip to get the pleasant bubbling-in-the-petri-dish effect of proper smack.

Cocaine:

Strength/Side effects.

Surprisingly, coke is almost completely harmless - if you're not too worried about losing the bit of your nose between the two nostrils and being forced onto an endless treadmill of reality TV shows while you wait for the platic surgery replacement to knit together so you can go back to being in Eastenders.

Street value:

Currently being given away with the Observer newspaper now that they've run out of cheap DVDs of films you've already seen a hundred and one times. Get in quick though; rumours of an impending visit to Columbia by football legend Diego Maradona may see prices set to soar in the new year.

Class B:

Cannabis.

Strength/Side effects.

Not as potent as the stuff that blew a million minds in the 70s. Most deals today are now padded out with common or garden herbs such as Oregano, Thyme and Tarragon. Not for those who desire a proper 'hit' after a nice meal and a glass of wine; but probably not a bad idea to sprinkle a bit on your rocket and parmesan salad if you want to liven up the entrees at your next tupperware party.

Street value:

About 80p a go in my local Waitrose. They also do handy top up packs so you can keep re-using the nice little jar and do your bit to save the planet.

Alcohol

Strength/Side effects.

The big shock of the current review. Alcohol, consumed irresponsibly, is more harmful for you than most of the class A and B chemicals, a fact which will certainly have a marked influence on policy in the months ahead - and lead to a lot of people giving up drugs to get blotto mixing cheap supermarket plonk and spirits instead. Not quite as dangerous as rollerskaing across Piccadilly Circus with a blindfold on, whistling Chesney Hawkes' 'I am the one and only', but booze is still pretty lethal when consumed in large quantities. Dosage is also a serious contributing factor to the harmful effects of drinking. The calorific content alone of bitter shandy consumed in sufficient quantities to have the slightest effect on the average person is enough to put you in hospital, never mind the price of purchasing 500 crates of the stuff and getting it back from the cash and carry.

Street value:

Varies; a typical meths based cocktail can keep you going for several nights and you'll probably still have change left over from a twenty for a packet of pork scratchings. Commercially available beverages tend to be more pricey so unless you can dare to risk a visit to the local off license where you have as much chance of being stabbed by the local druggies as you do of getting liver damage, you're probably better off buying a cheap bicycle and sticking with smack. The choice is yours...

xxx
Bob

Sunday, 31 October 2010

Howardsendaway...



The story so far...

It's August 1939 and Calliperso, Wally, Palter and Soiliver are visiting their Aunt Rowenta and Uncle Hichard Bertcutherson, and their 10-year-old cousin Oophy who has been taken in by Rowenta and Uncle Hichard to live with them at Howardsendaway. They are often visited by the twin sons of the local rector and Monny and Maxika, a Jewish refugee couple from Austria who have been taken in by the rector to use as insulation for his somewhat drafty Rectory. Their only son, Polio, is in a concentration camp, somewhere in the darkest depths of Neasdon.

Young Oophy is delighted with the arrival of her cousins, especially Soiliver, who has a tongue as long and agile as a common grass snake. She is determined to run 'The Terror Run', a coastal path that the cousins race along at full moon with only the songs of glamorous American crooner Riff Clichard and a king-size jar of brylcreem for company. However, during a daylight practice run she is flashed by the local coastguard - although whether the lighthouse was involved is still a matter of some debate - many feeling that a simple hand held torch or Davey lamp may have been sufficient to get Oophy 'in the family way', as her disconcerting propensity to walk about the grounds of Howardsendaway with a pillow stuffed up inside her cardigan is affectionately referred to by the other family members.

Returning during a tea-break from fighting in the Spanish Civil War, a depressed and disenchanted Soiliver has a changed outlook on life although he is still wearing the same underwear he had on when the Treaty of Locarno was signed and retains his crush on Calliperso. Calliperso, knowing that she isn't what Soiliver is truly seeking - namely a prostitute who will have sex with him at every conceivable moment *and* give him large amounts of money into the bargain - is determined to make the most of her beauty and marry a rich man with a large collection of crustaceans and/or an electronic egg timer.

Sensible, intelligent, practical Wally is observant and, noticing that there is a war on and having been bequeathed the old family clipboard and a variety of coloured pencils, eventually joins the War Office as a clipboard/coloured pencils monitor, bravely dispensing precious office stationery to a roomful of blindfolded recruits who have been deemed too sexually deviant even for the armed forces proper but who have to be perceived to be fulfilling *some* sort of useful activity because don't you know there's a bally war on etcetera etcetera. It is implied - although by whom, we are left none the wiser - that she is working on War Intelligence, although in reality, she is an icecream salesperson at the Worth Matravers Rialto, occasionally doubling as a stand-in projectionist whilst the regualar incumbent, a war-wounded and mercurial Cypriot known locally as Mr. Spanniploppita is sanding down his piles. Her brother Palter joins the Navy - which, if you've ever seen the way he holds a cigarette holder is about par for the course.

But then disaster strikes. With the war all but won, Uncle Hichard is made redundant from his job as an aircraft designer after twenty years and is unwilling to re-enter the rat race again - he just can't stand rats, you see, especially not in a competitive sporting environment. A sailing enthusiast and amateur whelk fondler, Uncle Hichard decides to pursue his dream of designing and building boats made solely from marzipan and balsa wood, putting his redundancy pay-out into the ailing Marmite boatyard, run by Rack Jolfe, a gruff traditionalist with a fully independent hernia, and his daughter Bovril. Uncle Hichard immediately finds himself in conflict with Rack, whose reliance on the bottle - he uses it to keep his hernia in when not wearing it - and resentment of Tom's new design ideas - "you'll never keep a boat made from marzipan and balsa wood afloat on the high seas, you stupid gay rectum of a man!" he never ties of telling Uncle Hichard - lead to no end of rows and recrimination until Bovril can stand it no more and takes up a correspondence course in raffia work run by the local polythechnic.

All of these tensions threaten to ruin the business, but not quite so much as the fact that they aren't making any money. Suave and ever-so slightly handsome in a Boris-Johnson-with-a-hump-sort-of-way as he is, Hichard has an unlikely ally in Bovril, who turns out to be the real driving force behind the yard with her cool, businesslike brain and ability to whistle the Marseillais with a mouthgag on and her ankles behind her ears. Rowenta, who has spent the last twenty years raising the children and building the family home, is less than impressed with her husband's risky new venture - although she has a soft spot for his hump, so long as he keeps it neatly shaved and moisurised. Putting down her hod and spirit level in protest, Rowenta finds herself pursuing her own life outside the family through establishing a new marine boutique whilst working for flash "medallion man" Men Kasterson.


Next week on Howardsendaway...


Will Calliperso find the man of her dreams and, having found him, be able to resist the temptation to post him up on eBay? Will Men Kasterson make good on his threat to hide his medallion somewhere that hasn't seen the light of day since assasination of Franz Ferdinand? And can Mr. Panniploppita get back from his urgent internal examination at the hands of Jistopher Cartin-Menkins, the sinister, wheelchair-bound locum doctor, in time for the second reel of "I Was a Male War Bride"?

Now read on...


xxx
Bob

Saturday, 30 October 2010

Harem Scarem...

Many of you will already be aware of the speculation mounting on the Strictly Come Dancing chatrooms and other scurrilous corners of cyberspace concerning my private life. Obviously as a celebrity with such a prominent position in the public eye, I realise that a large part of my life is considered to be held in common ownership and I have learned over time to accept most of such incursions into my privacy as being to some extent an occupational hazard. There are though some areas of the individual's existence that I had always thought to be exempt from such intrusion and general scrutiny, so it is with great regret that, in order to end the prurient interest, I now find myself forced to make public matters of my own personal spirituality and private faith.

In order to put an end to the rumour-mongering, I can officially reveal that, yes it's true, I have adopted Islam as the one true faith. That's right; I have become a Muslim. Obviously, this is not a decision I have taken lightly. I've spent long hours wrestling with my inner demons and, quite literally, searching my soul about this. After all, on entering into a faith which allows men to take multiple wives, you can't just leap in and grab the first bird you see by the headscarf like a bull in a china shop, can you? No. So I've given the make up of my harem a lot of thought.

Where better to start than Lauren Booth?



OK, Laur's not exactly a looker, but her old man's a diamond geezer and she's ideologically sound to the point of boycotting P&O ferries because they missed the 'L' out. What's more, she's probably pissed the Blairs off more than any other single individual - apart from David Kelly, obviously...but he didn't bother 'em for long.

Then there's Linda Bellingham:



Great jugs and the filthiest laugh in Christendom - sorry, the Caliphate. She'll be joined in the master bedroom by none other than the perennial year of the rear....Felicity Kendall:



She may be 77, but she brings a whole new level of depravity to the terms lithe and lissom. And who better to guide me in the mysterious ways of the Islamic sisterhood than our own lovely Michal Hussein?:



Al-Jazeera's loss is my gain, I should cocoa. But it's not just preaching to the converted. I'd like to give those who are sceptical of the faith a thorough introduction into the joys of polygamous contentment (if you get my drift...) Who better to argue the toss over the demeaning aspects of the harem whilst having her loofah those hard to reach parts while she's bathing you in ass's milk than the unbelievably saucy Jane Moore?



And before you all start getting on your high horses. Look, it's *not* all about sex. Women *do* have a lot more to offer a man than being opinionless sexual playthings. Besides, with all this little lot to feed, there'll be one hell of a lot of work needing to be done in the kitchen. So who better than to augment my bevvy of bedroom beauties than the ravishingly lovely Nigella Lawson?



What's that Nige? Oh, anything you like love, so long as it's Halal...

Right, I can't sit around here all day gassing about religion, I've got a wife and seventeen others to support...

xxx
Bob

Friday, 29 October 2010

Bobcast #2 (remastered)...

Listen to or download Bobcast #2 (remastered) here...



Production notes:

Originally posted on 25th July 2006, this is the first Bobcast proper. On 22nd July, a trial broadcast - a very poor quality, barely audible spoken word effort - was put into the public domain, but the story of the Robert Swipe Show podcasts really starts here. Initially recorded onto a portable mini-disc player through a £10.00 microphone bought specifically for the task from Dixons, the tracks and Bob's links were then edited to form some semblance of a show on Bob's full size mini-disc player. The sequence was then recorded in real time onto Bob's CD recorder and the resulting CD imported into iTunes to enable Bob to post up an Apple encoded MP4 to SwitchPod. Even by contemporary standards, this was all quite a pallaver! Taking the original MP4 file, through painstaking audio restoration work using the most up-to-date technology at our disposal, we've managed to make Bob not only audible, but actually at times as close to sounding as if he's actually in the same room as the listener as contemporary recording technology allows. As Bob's original editing options were pretty minimal, we've taken the liberty of adding a few tighther edits between the links and tracks and the occasional cross fade between voice and music as we imagine Bob would do were he making the shows today. But otherwise, no audio or spoken content has been altered and we will be maintaining this policy for all future re-masters. We trust the listener will agree with us that the show sounds as if it were recorded yesterday and yet retains the get-up-and-go, try-and-stop-me-you-A-holes spirit of Bob's original broadcast.

L.U.V. on ya,

Mort

(Morton Shadow, archivist and executive producer of the Robert Swipe Show re-release project)


Bob's original post:

That's right! Packed with over 40 minutes of fun, frolics and excessive background noise, the latest episode of our podcast is now available. It may take a devil of a long time to download, but watching that envelope flap has to beat Celebrity Love Island, hasn't it??

The Robert Swipe Show - bringing people together to argue over a laptop since 2004....

Track list:

Really that bad - The Pipettes

The lighter side of dating - The Monochrome Set

Life is short - Billy Nicholls

I'd much rather be with the girls - Donna Lynn

My arms stay open late - Tammy Wynette

Lost someone - James Brown

Everything about it is a love song - Paul Simon

The right stuff - Bryan Ferry

Baby that's me - Cake

Outro - The young ones - Vivian Stanshall


xxx
Bob

Through the cast darkly...

Forgive me a brief lapse into the poetic, but it's ever so hard being avant garde. Imagine the scenario: you spend most of your time being pilloried for your outrageous behaviour and then, when everybody else finally catches up with you, you have to suffer the indignity of watching them pat one another on the back for doing all the things they used to pillory you for. Doing. No wonder Yoko 'Bloody' Ono was always screeching like a crazed, pre-menstrual ban-shee on a hot plate.


Bogarde: "I'm not avant garde"

And such has been the predicament of your humble scribe. So many of the daring innovations pioneered on these pages - the one post blog, posts made up entirely of other people's comments, shifting personae, extensive real-time narrative structures, self-referential subject matter, wigs made from synthetic blue rope (to name but a few) - are now so widespread as to be bordering on the cliched. It's hard to recall the time when these creative strategies were not just novel but, to some, highly outrageous. How quickly the shock of the new becomes just another old titfer.

Still, I suppose that one has to accept one's lot. I've always been of the view that the only real significance of having an audience in the first place is that it enables you to make every effort to lose that audience. In that, if nothing else, I have been singularly successful. It may be personally distressing to be, as I have become, all-but universally despised, but it's probably a healthier place to be creatively than being lauded to the rooftops for one's every bowel movement. I'm sure Duchamp wouldn't have won many popularity contests down at the salon (although he does look particularly fetching in a soap-sculpted D.A.) but the work endures.


"Bom-ba-ba-ba-bom-ba-danga-danga-dang-dinga-dinga-dong-dong...bluuuueeeee moooooooooon"

But it was not always thus. There was a brief time - long passed, for better or worse - when this site managed to marry the twin imperatives of popularity and staggering creative originality. And probably the single most important contribution to that happy state of affairs was made by the original Bobcasts. Poorly recorded and - unbelievably, it seems to me now - solely available in the i-Tunes only AAC format, these embryonic efforts probably best capture the charm and lo-fi/indie approach that characterised the best of the Robert Swipe Show in its pomp.

Now, long overdue, they've been spruced up and overhauled in MP3 format so that the world and his wife can finally enjoy these seminal forays into the realm of digital broadcasting. That's right, I've decided to re-post all of the Bobcasts originally hosted on Switchpod* in gleaming, 128kbps remastered audio so that the full family of casts will finally be available in one place in their entirety. Listening back to them as we painstakingly tidied up the often barely audible and muddy-sounding tapes, I was struck by what a genuine community of listeners I seemed to be delivering them to. There's a lovely listening-under-the-duvet quality to the best of them that, notwithstanding the slightly clique-ey name-checking of members of my long-vanished audience, will I hope remain fresh to any new ears discovering them. We've been able to vastly improve the sound quality without, hopefully, losing the lo-fi, broadcast-and-be-damned spontaneity of the original shows. It's nice for me personally to be reminded of a time when all of this effort wasn't completely unrewarded.

I'll be posting Bobcast #2 up some time over the weekend, and then one a week after that. I hope you enjoy hearing the newly presented shows as much as I have rediscovering them.

xxx
Bob


* With the exception of the original, spoken-word only Bobcast #1 which is not only exceptionally boring but barely audible.

Thursday, 28 October 2010

Osborne defends increase in gender inequality under Coalition...

Chancellor George Osborne today insisted that the Coalition government will not be swayed from an ecomomic programme which some commentators have claimed lays more of the burden of debt repayment on the shoulders of women.


Women: can't live wiv 'em...

Speaking to a group of business leaders in the midlands, the Chancellor hit back at critics who say that women are being unfairly taxed and especially targeted by cuts to the welfare budget. "True, in my great-grandmother's day, a woman was more than happy to stay at home, raise a large family and act as unpaid skivvy to her poorly paid and often aggressively misogynistic husband. But times have moved on and I like to believe that we live in slightly more civilized times. Nowadays, there are a lot more amusements around the home for the genteel lady of leisure - the internet has opened up whole new areas of entertainment for those who choose not to go to work - online gambling, Mum'snet, soft core pornography - these are all luxuries that would be the envy of our ancestors."

Warming to his theme, the Chancellor upbraided those who accused him of a regressive attack on the economic advancement of women over the past century. "Come on, let's face it, work isn't all it's cracked up to be, is it? You'd think that these ladies would be pleased as punch to have the opportunity to lounge around all day watching re-runs of the Jeremy Kyle show in saucy lingerie and a fetching little faux fox fur stole with a sobranie cocktail in one hand and a marguerita in the other; every so often raiding the Terry's All Gold and engaging in a little harmless flirtation with the DHL delivery man. I know I would. And the shoes - couldn't you just *die* for the opportunity to spend all day trying on your vast collection of preposterously high heeled shoes, perhaps even staging an imaginary gymkhana with all those L.K. Bennet boxes and then having a 'private moment' with Jilly Cooper's Riders. I know plenty of chaps in the cabinet who'd give their eye's teeth for the opportunity to sashay around all day in a skin-tight leopard skin number trying out sling-backs instead of putting in long hours in trying to take Britain's public services back into the 19th Century. You know, some of these women don't know they're born!"


Simon Hughes: Rexless Eric

The Chancellor's line was echoed by Liberal Democrat Simon Hughes. Addressing a Gay Pride rally in Nuneaton, to rousing cheers, Hughes asked the assembled crowd,

Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so honest, so thoroughly square;
Eternally noble, historically fair.
Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat.
Why can't a woman be like that?

Why does every one do what the others do?
Can't a woman learn to use her head?
Why do they do everything their mothers do?
Why don't they grow up, well, like their father instead?

Why can't a woman take after a man?
Men are so pleasant, so easy to please.
Whenever you're with them, you're always at ease.

Would you be slighted if I didn't speak for hours?


The case continues...

xxx
Bob

Tuesday, 26 October 2010

Clegg refuses to withdraw "noncepan" slur...

Nick Clegg, the deputy Prime Minister, has astonished colleagues and the Westminster media scrum as footage released on YouTube has revealed him launching a frenzied verbal attack on the Labour Leadership. Among an incredible list of freshly minted terms of abuse, the 5 minute litany of hate-filled biled contained the choice insults such as 'noncebag', 'clit-face', 'spatula-cock' and 'rim-tongue breath, as Clegg pulled no punches in welcoming the new leader of the shadow cabinet to the fray.

Coalition will draft in badgers to break strikes...



Prime minister David Cameron today announced shock new plans to use teams of badgers to cover vital public services in the event of predicted industrial action in the wake of last week's spending review. Speaking on BBC Breakfast News, Mr. Cameron said, "obviously, in normal times, I'd just have them culled and fed to the local hunt as an example to the rest of you - fouling up our lovely rolling lawns as they do and keeping the kids awake with their hideous wails and mating calls. But these aren't normal times - as, indeed, a cursory glance at the make of the cabinet should tell you. Badgers are cheap, reliable and, from certain angles and in a darkened room, tolerably attractive; certainly an improvement on Danny Alexander, that's fo' sho! I know I'd rather have one driving me to hospital, fetching an errant kitten down from a tree or inadvertently turning off my life support machine than some east European gypsy or Pole - anyday! And let's be quite clear about this: blib-blubblib-blub-blib-blooobb-blloobb-bloooobbbb..."

But the move has attracted wipespread criticism, most notably from animal welfare groups. "Mr. Cameron's move is clearly a slickly presented attempt to disguise wholesale changes to the rural demographic which add up to little less than a programme of ethnic cleansing in the shires. They tried it before in the 80s and 90s with the fox population and look what happened there; millions of foxes migrating down south desperately trying to find work that wasn't there and ending up living a life of vagrancy and scavenging for scraps with only the occasional opportunity to nip off the ears of unattended youngsters to redeem the misery. Mr. Cameron says he has the interests of the public at heart, but how would *he* like it if a bunch of masked thugs were to come round to his gaffe, bellow abuse in his ear through a loud hailer for 45 minutes before daubing the legend "Badger baiting wanker paedophile" on the windshield of his mini metro??" said a spokesperson.

But sources close to the government insist the coalition will remain firm on this issue. "We won't be budging on the badgers", said some Liberal Democrat or other. Some of these badgers are on a whole raft of handouts that would, quite frankly, astound the average hard-working taxpayer. Job seekers allowance, housing benefit, disability, winter fuel allowance - you know, some of them think they're entitled to the whole sett."

xxx
Bob

Monday, 25 October 2010

Fara's Way (Part 313)...

The story so far...

Fara has retreated from the unsightl;y denouement of her doomed courtship with Demetrius Drabbe to her family's rural retreat where her step-mother, Lady Dithering is preparing a grand ball to lift her beloved step-daughter's spirits. Among the fabulous array of guests are Force Brusythe (the nonagenrian light entertainer and bowel expert), Salerie Vingleton (the former children's broadcasting personality and consumer advice expert), Riff Clichard (the world renowned minstrel and balladeer), B'arsy Dussell (the ballet dancer and frog handler), Caniel Dorbett (the somewhat effeminate but ultimately lovable Meteorologist), Prosemary Roops (the celebrated agony aunt and spleen fixer), Brayfriars Dobby (the fictional dog who famously - and somewhat mawkishly - pined for his deceased owner for 17 years)

Sunday, 24 October 2010

Fara's Way (Part 312)...


The story so far...

Dappled, demur and ever so slightly ditzy, our heroine Fara Titzgerald has washed up back at Ditherer's Rest, the old family seat secreted safe among the emerald folds, deep in the heart of England's rural shires. Awash with the vapors and still experiencing several daily bouts of her 'nerves', Fara whiles away the days and weeks in the timeless serenity of the old Conservatory, half shrouded in ancient ivy fronds, numbed in equal measure by Lord Ditherer's exotic tales of his part in the Great Poor Law reforms of 1832 and his plentiful topping up of her tumbler of 12 year-old Bugati Brake Fluid. Can Tara ever escape the traumatic memories of the Brocaded Kipper Tea Rooms that so scandalised the sleepy hamlet of Orbison Rippling? Will Demetrius Drabbe return, as promised, to reveal her terrible, terrible secret? What exactly *did* Lord Ditherer do during the Great Poor Law Reforms of 1832? And is there any of that 12 year-old Bugati Brake Fluid going? I'm *quate* *parched* Ay am...

Now, read on...

Floating in and out of a pleasurable haze of mechanical oil fumes and the nostalgic minutiae of an ancient class war, the terrible scene at the old Brocaded Kipper Tea Rooms when, you'll recall, she gave short shrift to the ambivalently tendered hand of her erstwhile suitor Demetrius Drabbe, the minor poet and underwater ventriloquist, couldn't be further from this peaceful idyll. There, he'd behaved in such a beastly fashion that she'd had no alternative but to hotfot it immediately back to the bosom of her family, barely giving Demetrius time to towel himself down and remove an unwieldy ruddy-cheeked, redheaded puppet from his fist before giving chase. Oh what an awful sight it must have been! - her fleeing sobbing and distraught, pursued the length and breadth of the normally tranquil main thoroughfare of the sleepy hamlet of Orbison Rippling by a sodden bard waving a snorkled ginger mannequin-clad fist at anyone who cared to listen and telling them he'd only tried to do the decent thing and what were they staring at, had they never seen a cuckolded underwater ventriloquist in sodden pursuit of a scandalous flibberty-gibbet, eh?

But then Fara's quiet repose was interupted by the gentle coughing of Grindly, the butler. Shaking off several fronds of ivy, Fara reached out a palsied hand toward the proferred silver salvour and felt the familiar nap of ancient Drabbe family stationery. "I do wish he'd stop writing on baize", thought Fara as she absent mindedly clawed open the felty green envelope and removed a similar patch of cloth into which a series of characters had been elegantly gouged in ornate copperplate script. "So dashed hard to read and, what's more, that snooker table will soon be all but unplayable if he keeps inundating me with correspondence like this...cue ball's all but impossible to keep straight as it is without any further deterioration of the playing surface..." "Brthhfdggkknng mnkjjjjdnhhshbbsb likoijjjjj..." jabbered Lord D., having fallen asleep with a mouthful of 12 year-old Bugati Brake Fluid. "That perishing poet still giving you the heeby-jeebies is he?" He spluttered, raining a spray of highly flammable liquid across the room. "Damn and blast his eyes, I don't know about you, but I'd tell him where to stick his patiently parlayed rhymes - and that goes for that monstrous ginger dwarf he insists on ramming his fist into in a paddling pool at the drop of a hat. Come on, let's hear it - what tripe and utter codswallop is he bombarding you with this time??"

Lord D. may have been an unspeakable brute with a level of evenly applied misanthropy not seen since the days of Genghis Khan, thought Fara, but he's a canny old egg when it comes to affairs of the human heart. Lord D. was right on the money - Demetrius had indeed sent more verse; another lengthy scrawl of an eponymous epic love poem he had dedicated to her. In a reedy, quavering voice, she read out aloud from the flapping green parchment:

Should you care to make your way up to the Ritz,
There a tender hearted lover sits,
Dreaming of the day he'll get his mitts
On the secret, shaded under-bits
Of the lovely, lovely Fara Titz...


The poem went on at some length in this vein and Lord D. was soon snoring in his habitual bisonic fashion. Oh well, thought Fara, all the more Bugati for me, I suppose, and she was soon floating high above her troubles on a cloud of joyous exhaust fumes dreaming of greased up stevedores with lashings of Yoplait. Yes, she thought - everything's going to be alright....!!

Next week on Fara's Way:

Will Fara escape the clutches of Landy Silage and Randy Lairweather-Foe, the visiting American professors of trends in Pro-Am golfing wear? Can Lord Ditherer remember where he left the family hair looms. What will the future hold for Curbly Allanish, the local Jack the Lad when a detailed account of his indiscretions with Tara in the hayloft are read out loud during the annual Harvest festival service? And will Fara's remarkable resemblance to the celebrity socialite and anorexic Tara Farrar-Pompidou prove costlier than anyone could possibly have imagined? Find out next week on Fara's Way...

Saturday, 23 October 2010

Truth & Beauty...

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder...


Get it out with Optrex.

(Spike Milligan)

xxx
Bob

Friday, 22 October 2010

From Alan Bennett's 'Writing Home'...

Bennett recounts a story told to him by George Melly. Melly was coming back to London from a gig up north and got lost somewhere in Yorkshire. Anxious to get back on his chosen route, he flags down a passing car.

"Excuse me sir," he asks the motorist who's pulled over for him, "do you know the Bradford turn-off?"

"Know her? I bloody *married* her..."

xxx
Bob

Wednesday, 20 October 2010

Bobcast #63...


...just for you, George...

Download/listen to Bobcast #63 here

xxx
Bob

Tuesday, 27 July 2010

California Demons...

Los Angeles. 1975. Curtains drawn at midday, Kraftwerk's 'Autobahn' plays quietly on the stereo as the room fills with the heady aroma of burning incense. The walls and floors of my luxurious apartment are bedecked with daubs of paint. Frantically scrawled symbols and arcane numerals designed to ward off evil spirits cover every available surface. They're not working. Tables shake, floorboards moan and impishly fitful light flits from candles that sigh and moan with the desolate grief of a million trapped souls. I'm so scared, so lonely; so frazzled I can barely face the few shorts steps out into the kitchen to put another vial of urine in the fridge.

Demons hate wee. Or so I'm told - that's why they're always trying to steal it, you see. It contains the essence of your soul, or so I'd read, so obviously you don't want that falling into the hands of some grubby little gremlin. Peppers don't agree with them either, - you know, red, green, yellow; those sort of peppers - so I've been stuffing myself with them too. Mind you, I'm not sure they agree with me either. They play havoc with your guts. In fact, last week I could barely keep my first bag of Aruldite down, my stomach was heaving so miserably from the pure cellulose diet. Sometimes I think it's almost worth being one of Lucifer's eternal concubines if it would mean a night off the can and no more fizzing and wheezing echoing around the bathroom as my poor, knotted intestines manfully attempt to break down the lethal stew of roughage-heavy vegetables and industrial strength adhesives on which I've been living for the past 6 months. Dark days.

But then a very good friend of mine took me to one side and said, Bob, take a look at yourself in the mirror. No, face on, you're like Flat Stanley from the sides. Come on man, pull yourself together.' And that's what I did. Out with the wee and in with the signed collection of Hermann Goering photos and the well known Berlin Transvestite with the big bazoombkas. And no more raw peppers. No, you'll find they're much more nutritious stuffed with a few button mushrooms, cherry tomatoes and some finely chopped garlic. Just drizzle that little lot with some extra virgin olive oil and roast in the oven for 25 minutes on a medium heat.

I've probably forgotten more than I could ever remember about my LA nadir. I get the odd flashback now and then, of course, but it's all behind me now, really. Next came my dramatic renaissance in Berlin and the rest, as they say, is history. But they were, for a while, very bad times indeed. Still, could have been worse, I suppose. At least I never made a record with Lulu...







- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Monday, 26 July 2010

Lady Grinning Soul...



A text from Lady Gaga:

Bob, srry 2 hear u r indisposed. I m making a new record. R u still able 2 produce?

Ciao gorge,

Gaga


Listen lady - I may be living in assisted accommodation and require a nubile young rubber-clad wet nurse to get me started, but I can still produce alright. In fact, last week's ended up halfway up me chest! And there was enough there to father a sub-continent, believe me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of the Lady. She's certainly got a daintily manicured fingernail on the pulse of the modern psyche, that's fo sho. I could never stand it either when I got a call in the middle of jive talking my way across the Studio 54 floor - and you could hardly call the phones back then mobile, I can tell you. My first one needed its own road crew. You had to be careful too, walking about with a 6 foot high communication device pinned to your ear if Mick and Bianco were there. Take your eye off the ball for a second there and you'd end up trampled under the hooves of a white Arab charger. Must have cost a fortune in straw that thing. Cost me a tidy sum at Ladbrokes, I know that.

But there's a bitter sweetness for me when I think about the Lady's phenomenal success. I suppose part of it is that I see so much of myself there. I suppose seeing Gaga staging her spectacular shows, being swallowed up by eager hordes of papparrazzi, the whole planet waiting with bated breathe for a glimpse of your new look reminds me of another nervous young lad in gauzy female attire, perilously high heels and a wig made from loft insulation material.

Of course that's about where the similarity ends. Gaga's appealing to a much younger audience than I ever could have. In my day, children weren't allowed to stay up long enough to watch Top of the Pops until they were 12. Nowadays, they're having their second baby by the time they're 11. You can trot out any old badly programmed, tuneless Euro-thump racket and the 6 and under Market will lap it up. Then there are all the accessories: cobble together a pair of spectacles from a used ashtray and a bit of gaffa tape, stick a Gucci label on the side and you're laughing all the way to the Multinational Investment Corporation. He's got a canny business head on his petite shoulders has Gaga, I'll give him that.

Whereas in the old days, you had to be a bit more sophisticated. Mime, German Expressionist Theatre, Kabuki, automatic writing - these were just a few of the influences that went completely over the heads of most of my audience. Mine too, if truth be told. Especially that Kabuki. I thought it was a rice wine for the first 6 months. No surprise really that Fine Fare never seemed to be able to get hold of a bottle...

L.U.V. on ya,

Bob



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Sunday, 25 July 2010

Where are you now that I need some noise???...

There's a real buzz about the place today. A while back, up and coming West Coast teen angels The Dum Dum Girls wrote in to Jim'll Fix It to tell Jim what huge fans they were of your humble scribe and asking if it could be arranged for them to pay me a visit. After a hurried exchange of emails, Jim did indeed fix it for them to come over to the Entertainment Artistes' Benevolent Home for a cup of tea and a chat, and so we spent much of the morning getting ourselves tarted up to greet them and the film crew this afternoon. Unfortunately, there'd been a bit of a hoo-ha in the garden just before the girls were due to arrive. Cat Stevens had been doing a spot of gardening - or, as he's wont to call it, Jihad against the Scurrilous Infidel Overgrowth, which certainly sounds a better way of describing what, in effect, amounts to little more than pootling about a bit and, in between whistling 'Mujahedin has broken' and sticking pins in an alarmingly lifelike small doll bearing an uncanny resemblance to former 10,000 Maniacs chanteuse Natalie Merchant, deadheading a few rose bushes.

Anyway, call them what you like, Cat's endeavours were disturbed by an sinister rustling sound allied to what appeared to be the sounds consistent with a sustained physical struggle between two consenting adults. Curiosity aroused, Cat unsheathed the purely symbolic replica medieval scimitar he often carries around with him as a sign of the depth and devotion of his faith and began to wade into the verdant undergrowth - there are conflicting reports as to whether or not he was yelling 'Infidel, Infidel' or not, but I'd be highly surprised if he was. He went *right* off Dylan around the time of Slow Train Coming, for some reason. So, with lurid inevitability, a startled pair emerge blinking into the sunlight. Joan Collins and Oliver Tobias just can't seem to keep their hands off one another, can they? Poor Cat is visibly shaken at the sight of Joan wearing nothing but a silver fox fur and some lustily disarranged stockings and suspenders and almost loses a toe due to his having dropped the scimitar. Fortunately Oliver's had the good sense to cover what remains of his dignity with Joan's peaked leather cap or else there really would have been hell to pay in the nadger department.

Amid all this hoo-ha in the back garden, the planned visiting party lining the circular driveway leading up to the front of the Home has completely gone for a Burton. It's only after I finally manage to get Cat back into his tent that I notice out of the window four impeccably leggy, black-clad young ladies and a rather shifty looking cove in a chauffeur's outfit pacing around impatiently alongside a gleaming powder blue Rolls Royce. I finally arrive out front, breathless and generally discombobulated, to greet them. "Hello Girls, lovely to meet you. L.U.V. the stuff - which one's the writer? And who's the silver haired, cigar smoking midget with the bling?" "Now then, now then, Professor, Howzabout, oh yes indeedy, goodness gracious me..." (The silver haired, cigar smoking midget with the bling goes on like this for some time - I think he must have sprinkled some U-Hu into his Havana or something - he's barely coherent and what's more, there's a distinct whiff of urine emanating from his whereabouts) "Hi Bob," says the tall one, "we're the Dum Dum Girls - and this is Mr. Jimmy Saville, OBE..."



"Ah, of course! Jimster, it's indeed an honour and a privilege. I didn't recognise you without the flannelette flares and pimp's puffball cap. The scales have fallen. And that would explain the whiff of wee - it's all that marathon running; you just get used to going whenver you feel like it, I suppose. "Now, girls, Jim, follow me into our delightful Grade 1 listed assisted accomodation unit and I'll get the Battenburg on and fix us a brew. There's one thing I wanted to ask you ladies, it's about your name...I take it you're big fans of The Idiot? In particular, the song Dum Dum Boys"?" (Seasoned Swipe followers will recall that I spent much of the late 70s ensconced in a soundproof bunker in Berlin producing some of the most innovative popular music ever to have been coaxed out of a Fischer-Price turntable and a cheap Casio keyboard. With me were Fripp, Eno and a young roister-doister from the outskirts of Detroit named James Ousterberg - otherwise known to the world as Iggy Pop. Sure, he may be little more than a disgustingly withering, superannuated, miniturised car insurance salesman made of latex now, but back then Jimmy was indeed the canine's bollocks. We recorded his LP 'The Idiot' as a dry run for my own experimental trilogy of albums - My Teutonic Espadrilles, 1000-year Krankhaus Loewenbrau Pogrom and the in my view criminally under-rated Strassenbahnhaltestelle of the Gods - and one of my favourite tracks from that seminal work was called, you guessed it, "The Dum Dum Boys".)

"Sorry, never heard of it," pipes up the blonde at the back who looks as if she might have taken my line about 'Jap girls in synthesis' a little too much to heart.

After this somewhat awkward opening, we spend the rest of the afternoon pleasantly enough, sipping our tea and comparing influences. They're big on Spector and the jangly 80s guitar sound whereas, obviously, I'm more of a Neu!!/Can/Guru with Candi Staton on b/vs Scot Walker playing a treated Japanese nose-flute kind of guy. But I do like what I've heard of their stuff, and tell 'em so too. But, as I also tell the girls, they're only at the start of what could prove to be a very exciting but strenuous journey towards the top of a very greasy pole. Whether they can develop their free-spirited, open-throated harmonies and sunny psychedelia and begin to write the sort of material that addresses the really important issues of the day - incontinence, pension protection and the future of long term care for the elderly adhesive abuser under the Lib-Con coalition - remains to be seen...


L.U.V. on ya,

Bob

Saturday, 24 July 2010

Karma Karma Down Doobie Doobie Doo...

Eno pops over with a bundle of recent National Geographicals for me and a new random sudoku generator for the iPhone. It's the first time he's come to visit me at the Entertainment Artistes' Benevolent Home. The puzzles are virtually impossible to solve, but the programme does emit a very soothing ambient bleep every time you fill in a box wrong, which is nice; although, to be fair, the rather cumbersome transmitter he has strapped to his back and that is generating the algorithms also seems to be interfering with Lyndsay de Paul's electronic bladder control system, which is not going down too well in the girls' corner.

Whatever it is, something appears to be causing a severe inflation of her already rather bulbous beauty spot which is now beginning to exhibit the dimensions and appearance of a tennis ball that's been persistently soaked in a very muddy puddle. Fortunately, Yvonne Goolagong is up in front of matron, accused of graffiti-ing the ladies loo, otherwise you can see that it's an accident waiting to happen. She's vehemently denying it, of course; insists it's Virginia Wade who has festooned the women's powder room walls with the likenesses of koalas, wallabies and boomerangs. But then, as Mandy Rice Davies would probably say - 'She would say that, wouldn't she?'.

But yes, it's good to have a visitor and Brian's always excellent company, if a little quiet. He's also highly adept at smuggling in 'recreational substances' using his reliably garish headgear - although even he must have been *seriously* stretched trying to secrete a tub of industrial grade Air-tex inside an ostentatious ostrich feather tiara - can't imagine what that's done to his scalp. The ingenious scoundrel's somehow managed to keep it moist too. That little lot'll keep me pinned to the ceiling til next Tuesday, with any luck.

Suitably refreshed, we're having a lovely old natter until Neil flipping Sedaka starts pounding away on the old Joanna, completely destroying the ambience of dignified serenity. He's had that Rick Rubin in his swanky private chambers all week, recording his new hip-hop LP. It's great to see the old mincer having a new lease of life. but there's a time and a place, isn't there? OK, so Neil's never lost it, but is afternoon tea in a retirement home for superannuated variety artistes really an appropriate forum in which to be wailing out, 'Yo, I hear laughter in the Mo-fo rain' to an aggressively overdriven beatbox accompaniment?? I think not. He wants to get busy with the old dust pan and brush too, when he's finished pounding the ivories. It's like a sequin shagpile in here after all his matinee idol head shaking - the stuff comes off his shoulders like dandruff. Or maybe it is dandruff. Can you get it from a wig?

L.U.V. on ya,

Bob

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Thursday, 22 July 2010

The Heart of the Matter...

As my more loyal readers will know, 2009 wasn't the happiest of years here at Swipe Towers. Not only did the year bring your humble scribe more than his fair share of chronic health problems, it also saw me become increasingly estranged from my beloved wife, the glamour model and puppeteer, Roberta Swipe.

Yes, one way or another, it was a pretty tough year for the old Swipe ticker. No sooner had I recovered from what subsequently proved to be a fairly severe silent cruciate embolism (or knee trembler, as it's more commonly known) than I had my heart broken good and proper by the former trouble and strife. I was barely out of the neck brace before I was forced to endure her public canoodling with a barely distinguishable procession of lithe young mannequins. Things reached an insurmountable impasse between us when she was seen emerging from a topless bar physically entwined with the mini Iggy Pop from the insurance commercial only hours after having publicly proposed to Lamb Chop live on air halfway through the Shari Lewis Show. Then, to add injury to insult, I suffered what has since been diagnosed as a recurrence of the heart murmur that forced me to pull out of the 'Marmite Macht Frei' tour a couple of years ago.

Fortunately, this time my health problems had less impact on my schedule as I'd already scaled back a lot of my work commitments in light of my mounting knee woes. Still, I won't pretend. It wasn't a bit of a blow when this wretched heart murmur of mine forced me to to withdraw myself from contention for a place in Fabio Capello's world cup squad - especially as it had started murmuring things like '4-4-2 is a dead formation you hide-bound Italian caution monkey. Get Cole in the hole and start playing it on the deck, you useless mafioso bollock brain. (It was murmuring in flaming Italian too, which can only have made matters worse...I dread to think what my scores were on that much-maligned Capello index of his.

Still, what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger, no matter how much havoc it might play with your no claims bonus. The surgeons say it could all have been considerably worse. They put it down to all the seig heiling I got up to at Victoria Station in the mid-seventies. The doctor bids reckon that if it hadn't been for the fact that stack-heeled glitter boots make it virtually impossible to goose-step, I'd be *dead* by now!!

Fortunately, the recent sale of the rights to my back catalogue has given me enough financial security to mean that I don't need to worry so much on the work front. I've also been fortunate enough to be able to move into assisted accommodation. So all my fans the world over can rest assured that even though the hits might have dried up, their idol will be looked after most handsomely.

I'd be lying if I said that being incarcerated in the Entertainment Artistes Benevolent Home hasn't been pretty hard to adjust to - especially as I've been forced to room with Kenny Lynch while they get my room ready for me - although how it can take grown men three days to daub a few Kabbalist symbols on the walls is beyond me - I mean, where do they go to get the goat's blood; Greece????

Oh well, better dash, Kenny's hovering behind me desperate to get on the laptop to pre-order his Arnold Palmer US Masters Golf wii set. I just hope he gets out of his pyjamas before he starts swinging away on that thing - no, hold on a mo, I think those are his new flares...

Toodle-pip!

xxx
Bob




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On Becoming a National Treasure...

Yes folks, it's all true. As of 23.00 hours tonight I will officially join the likes of Stephen Fry, John Peel, Patricia Routledge, Alan Bennett, Derek Nimmo and Raoul Moat and become a fully-fledged National Treasure. The envelope came through the other day - 2nd class post, obviously, what with all the recent cutbacks. You have to provide your own ermine trim now too, apparently as the cost of stoats has gone through the roof by all accounts. They've all been bought up by the hedge funds it would seem - although why they can't just stick to buying up hedges instead of storing the world's supply of cocoa in a vast shed in Uganda with half the world starving is anybody's guess.

Still, it's not all bad news - I do get a weekly pair of state-sponsored hold-ups courtesy of the Great British Taxpayer and my own choice of assistant to act as Chief Petty Officer to the National Hose who will be kept on a retainer during weekly office hours to help with all the routine admin stuff - laddering them, and so forth. I'm currently torn between asking Brian Blessed and Mariella Frostrup. Obviously nimble-fingered, improbably feisty Mariella is in pole position, but I can't help but think that Brian would bring a certain gravitas to the position - plus he can do the silly voices and has a pole of his own, or so I'm reliably informed down at the Polski Sklep. of course it's a 24/7 service when you reach the lofty heights of the Order of the Garter, in which eventuality, I've already put the feelers out as to the availability of Vicki Michelle. (I'm assuming, of course, that Gordon Kaye will already have been booked.)

I'll obviously be mindful of the harsh economic circumstances in which much of the nation I'll be treasuring for find themselves. I've asked Iceland to do the catering for the post-investiture party and Michael McIntyre will be Master of Ceremonies - you can't get more cheap and nasty than that now, can you?

I'll also be making sure that I give something back in return for the adulation and awe of my fellow citizens. In line with the Coalition's new Big Society initiative, along with a host of other celebrities, minor royals and investment bankers, I'll be helping out with the refuse collection in the Thames Ditton area every 4th Wednesday. I'd like to take this opportunity to remind residents that green waste and otherwise recyclable materials may not be collected...





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Friday, 11 June 2010

The World Cup in more headlines...

Captain Biko!!!

Praise in liberal circles as Stevie Gerrard reveals a prominent tattoo of the former South African freedom fighter Steve Biko beneath his captain's armband...'The eyes of the world are watching now,' pronounces the England skipper before solemnly chanting 'Keela maja, like - the man us dead, eh?' for several hours...

Nelson Riddle!!!

Will Mr Mandela be appearing at the opening ceremony and, if so, will he be visible behind Archbishop Desmond Tutu's shirt???

Vickery in a Tutu!!!

Mass confusion at the opening ceremony as England rugby union star Phil Vickery is caught on camera attempting to enter the charismatic clergyman. 'I thought he was an impala...' pleads the combative prop forward lamely as he's given an unceremonious going over by security officials on the way to the airport. 'What was he doing there in the first place??? splutters Richard Littlejohn in the Mail, 'the Rugby world cup was 13 years ago!!!'

Township Dive!!!

Red top fury as Bastian Schweinsteiger's theatrical tumble in the box helps eliminate England from the last 16. 'A name like that writes its own headlines...' croaks a distraught Fabio Capello, punching a nearby springbok in fury.

Nelson Widdle!!!

Anger in America as former president Mandela is caught by cameras, pitchside, attempting to emulate DaMarcus Beesley's infamous touchline emptying of the bladder. 'Clearly the senile old fucker should be in a home' rants President Obama, adding fuel to the flames in the wake of the recent BP oil slick fiasco during which he's alleged to have called the Queen 'a rancourous old cunt'...


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Thursday, 10 June 2010

The World Cup in headlines...

Boer draw!!

England struggle in goal-less opener against USA

Rand-y scouse git!!!

Tabloids weigh into Wayne Rooney's attempts to cash in by ppning up Soweto the squad'st grab a granny night to Hello! Magazine photographers...

Roo-noceros!!!!

England teeter on the brink as their feisty striking talisman is gored during a rest & relaxation break to a national safari park

Veldt in Motion!!!

Sun's readership quadruples with the addition of the former poet Laurete to their team of pundits....

More to follow, no doubt....

I've posted elsewhere on here before...

...about how someone like Orwell would have been an excellent blogger. We'll never know. But I'd be equally intrigued by the thought of a smart phone or similarly tweet-enabled device in the hands of B.S. Johnson.

I say this because, reading him at his best, you feel startlingly close to Johnson's consciousness at times. All those internal interjections and self-doubts and muttered-under-the-breath clarifications and, 'oh well, what does anything bloody well matter anyways...?'

The cumulative effect is to make you feel that you're in frighteningly close proximity to such a fiercely functioning mind; you can almost feel all the clanks and frictive shaft shiftings of memory, for instance, as it whirrs and grapples exactly like the net haulers so stunningly evoked in 'Trawl'.

Johnson, I think, would have relished the immediacy of the tweet, don't you think? The logical extension, perhaps, of his book in a box conceit. (He once wrote a book that sort of came in a box kind of thing, so the reader could shuffle the pages and randomise their order - you dig?). The only problem would be in collating the material. (You'd want it in book form, ultimately, wouldn't you?)

Anyway, just a thought. If you haven't read him, you should.

OK, time for Question Time.

Nighty night,

Bob

This would have been much funnier if, instead of calling it "Wendy Hurrell watch", I'd called it...

The Hurrell Observatory...



...cloudy but mainly dry, a fair breeze keeping the temperature down to a maximum of twenty with small patches of rain drifting up over the south coast later in the evening...

{.....}

(...or even 'Wendy Watch' would have been an improvement...Not difficult, really...)


xxx
Bob

Hanging Chads...

You can tell a lot from a teamsheet, can't you? Aside from a handful of dull old Tims, Michaels and Jonathans, the USA team that plays England on Saturday will be a joyous riot of New World energy and democratic informality: Clints, Brads and Landons will rub shoulders with Joses, Carloses, Ricardos and even the occasional Herculez. Marcus, DaMarus Beasley, Demerit et al will link arms with Benny Feilhaber, Josmer Altidore and Steven Cherundolo. Will the pitch even find room for Oguchi Onyewu, Carlos Bocanegra *and* (my favourite) Edson Buddle? Doubtless there are a million future Chads and Thads and Brads lining up behind their awesome battalions of Soccer Moms - and 'Soccer' isn't even their number one game.

And up against them will be our Johns and Franks and Joes and Robs and Waynes and Glens with only Jermaine and (God, how unlikely it sounds!) Emile to add any hint of the exotic depths of the brave new England!

Pleasant aromas...

...on the bus this morning. A sort of warm and drowsy, slept-in pyjamas smell, giving way to gently steaming espresso. Soon eradicated, of course, by the familiar bolt grease bus tang; but nice all the same, while it lasted...

B.S. I love you...

All that has helped me understand perhaps just one thing in my research to trace the causes of my isolation: I now realise the point at which I became aware of class distinction, of differences between people which were nothing to do with age or size, aware in fact of the class war, which is not an outdated concept, as those of the upper classes who are not competely dim would con everyone else into believeing it is. The class war is being fought as viciously and destructively of human spirit as it has ever been in England: I was born on my side, and I cannot and will not desert...

B.S. Johnson, Trawl

Wendy Hurrell watch...



...cloudy but mainly dry, a fair breeze keeping the temperature down to a maximum of twenty with small patches of rain drifting up over the south coast later in the evening...

{.....}

Wednesday, 9 June 2010

Montevideo killed the radio star...

We he held our office World Cup sweepstake the other day.


I got Uruguay...

A night at the opera...

For those of my reader(s) fortunate enough to be in possession of a smart phone/iphone type gizmo, I really can't recommend the new Opera web reader app highly enough. It's a brilliant way of accessing web content. You can choose text sizes that are actually readable and it seems to work well with all the sites I look at regularly - Arsenal News Review, the Guardian and the Beeb all are a joy to flick through now ( although there are the usual access issues on the Tarty Doris website, obviously, but that might just be the effect of the restraining order. That Holly Willoughby's a touchy mare, isn't she????

But best of all, it's *free*!!!!

As they used to say on the Goon Show; 'Get some today!!!'


L.U.V.on y'all,

Bob