Down with this sort of thing

Being a publicly funded organisation, the BBC has always championed free speech.

Regardez: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sD4dw2eB9Ck

Of course as Mr Robinson discovers, protesters are like whiskers. Pluck one out and another always takes its place.

English Americana

There is a newish cd being trailered on the nation's fireplace that looks quite good. It's called 'American Anthems', and the advert involves a car speeding off down route 66, no doubt with a 'trunk' full of burgers and CSI spinoffs, whilst a gravel-voiced voiceover voices the words "this is the sound of America" with his voice.

Oh, and English band 'Whitesnake' (featuring David 'definitely from the North of England' Coverdale) play 'Is This Love?' in the background. Another classic American (definitely English) artist listed is Billy Idol (from Middlesex). He went to school in the same town as my Dad, in the American city of Newhaven, Sussex.

Foreigner (formed by Englishman Mick Jones and ex- King Crimson member Ian McDonald from Dorset) are also present. The Beach Boys; Bruce Springsteen; The Doobie Brothers; Van Halen; Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers; Kiss; Guns 'n' Roses and New York Dolls are not, however I'm sure this will be rectified with the release of 'English Anthems' at Christmas.

A spoonful of lucre

And lo, there was another series of 'The Apprentice'*.

You may have thought the previous five series' had exhausted the entire UK supply of suited twerps, here come another 18 onanistic clichés strutting through the opening titles and into our houses, ready to fill our living rooms with their massive heads. It is truly startling that any one person can be as confident as one of the contestants/applicants, so it's amazing that 18 of them can all be found together. It's like Alan Sugar has discovered a twat well and happily draws a bucketful every year for our entertainment.

"There is nothing mediocre about me" shouted one participant with all the confidence of one who flatly denies his cocky shell is soon to fracture and expose the mediocre foetus within. Another of this year's group, Stuart 'The Brand' Baggs (yes, really), stated "whatever I touch turns to salt". I'm sorry? Everything he touches turns to salt? How old is he? Did he know Lot's wife before he fondled her? Whatever, in view of what we know about salt, how is this a positive boast anyway? "Aren't I great! Hooray for heart disease!" his face moons down the camera as he sits back in his chair beaming smugly at the viewing squillions, confident that he has won and that the ensuing weeks are merely a formality. He may as well have declared "everything I touch turns to trans fats".

In fact, upon reading a review of the episode today I discovered that he actually said "whatever I touch turns to sold" (because he's such a brilliant salesman, see?) but that doesn't even make sense. I can see the point he was trying to make of course. He was trying to say “I’m less of a bumfaced blurt than the others”, but in fact he is mistaken. He is simply one of a number of blurts. What’s the plural for ‘blurts’ anyway? A 'blather' I imagine. A blather of blurts.

Lord Alan of course has seen blathers such as this before. "You all look good on paper" he began, "but so does fish and chips". The assembled business urchins all laughed at his joke of course, hoping to distract him as they clambered over each other in an attempt to be the first to plant their tongue in his craggy bottom. He must hate seeing such sycophancy. Until he looks at his payslip that is, at which point he probably doesn't mind so much. If nothing else, it saves on toilet tissue.

This year the programme is populated by people who have been affected by the recession. Some ran their own businesses which subsequently collapsed, and some were made redundant. Some haven't even managed to get a job to lose in the first place. So essentially Lord Alan is taking the role of a very strict job centre clerk, making the unemployed jump through especially complex hoops in order to earn their state crumbs. But this won't phase them.

"If I can get someone to talk to me, I can sell them sausages" we heard. This skill must have been very useful in his previous occupation as a communications specialist. In fact I think BT are rolling out a fibre-optic-cables-for-sausages replacement programme in the new year.

"I know how to connect with them" he went on. Someone then walked within 'connecting' distance and he thrust a packet of sausages in their faces whilst yelling "SAUSAGES" in an elucidative manner. Selling is an artform, and this man has taken to it like a duck to sales.

Speaking of which, "they are out there selling" the male team captain was seen to shout. To illustrate his point the camera cut to his salesmen who were standing around scratching themselves and chatting. Probably discussing which of the lady contestants would be most likely to show their perineum for a Twix.

Dan Harris was the team captain in question and he found himself in the boardroom trying to justify his poor sausage hawking skills. Dan has completed three marathons, climbed Kilimanjaro and once held the world record for the fastest ascent and descent of Mount Kenya. He now holds the record for fastest exit from 'The Apprentice'*, a record he holds jointly with five other deflated egos.

So yes, lo there was another series of 'The Apprentice'*. And we saw that it was good.



*other forms of public humiliation are available

Other people's orgasms

My neighbour has a good sex life.

Isn't that nice.

Many times a week she makes love.

I make tea.

I probably make more tea than she makes love. Which is probably just as well since if she matched me cup for f**k (or is that f**k for cup?) she'd probably run out of juices and the friction would be a fire hazard.

Not that she doesn't make tea of course, I'm sure she does. After all, she's British. The difference is that whilst I potter into the kitchenette and lean on the counter watching 'Come Dine With Me' whilst I wait for the kettle to boil, she hobbles into hers with legs wobbling like laundry in a light breeze following a sugar-wall shaking petite mort.

You could be forgiven for thinking I am envious, however I assure you that I am not. I've seen them. It's just difficult to hear their moans and groans as anything other than moaned gloats. "Oh yeah" he shouts, "yeeesssss!" she squeals, but all I hear is "ha ha, we're doing the sex, aren't we great, look at you alone in bed reading your Danny Wallace book and chuckling into your fat. You're so sad and dull. We judge you with our sexy time". Maybe things would be different if my bedroom encounters didn't consist of two minutes of fumbling, five of apologising and then an awkward wait for a cab.

That, incidentally, was a joke. You see it's not like my flat doesn't have its moments. Only last night in fact the rutters were busily writhing around in their brilliant sex, and approximately twelve feet away I too was making my own "ooh" noises. Sadly mine formed the opening of the rather less interesting statement "ooh, 'The Apprentice' is on next week".

I then texted this news to a friend and put my headphones back on.

Good deity you

It's always nice to experience things for the first time. Unless that happens to be the experience of watching Bruce Forsyth tap-dance of course, but at least you then get to experience chewing off your own feet. I recently experienced something that I wasn't particularly expecting. I had someone turn up at my front door, trying to deliver some religion. This rather took me by surprise because I couldn't remember ordering any.

A yawn was making its presence felt as I opened the door early on Saturday morning to be greeted by a smiling old lady. Her posture adjusted as the door opened, presumably scarred by decades of having it slam shut in her face. Upon judging that I wasn't much of a door-slammer she produced a leaflet.

"Good morning, I wondered if you had seen our leaflet"
"Er...no" I said. I assumed she didn't mean the specific leaflet she was holding. It would be fairly odd behaviour to go from door to door holding something and ask the occupiers if they could see the item in question. Maybe if you were selling spectacles.

"What's it about?". This was a bit of a stupid thing for me to say. I could see that it had a drawing on the front that depicted the garden of Eden so it was fairly obvious it was something religious. The only other option was that she worked for a garden centre, and she could see that I don't have a garden. Unless she thought I had turfed over my living room, and if she thought that then she was an idiot.

I can't really tell you exactly what she replied. Not because it's a secret, but because my mind (if it can do such a thing) glazed over. I can tell you that it was something about how brilliant religion is.

"Right...thanks very much but I'm really not that interested in religious matters," I said, "not that I'm against people that are, it's just not for me". This was mostly true. What I meant of course was that whilst I appreciated that some people take comfort from such things, I've never been able to get over the idea that it all just seems a bit silly.
"Oh right dear, so I can't interest you in taking this little bible then?". She rummaged in her handbag and produced a book. When she said 'little bible', she really wasn't joking. This book had obviously been abridged to such a degree it was in danger of being mistaken for one of her leaflets. Roger Hargreaves has produced heftier tomes.
"No, thanks anyway but I'm sure there are other people who would get more enjoyment out of it than I would".
"No? Oh that's a shame because it really is wonderful" she said, looking down at the well thumbed booklet in her paw. It was quite sweet how she was beaming down at it. I was expecting her to kiss it and whisper "I love you" into one of its dog-eared corners, but instead she opted to tell me why she loved it.
"It's just so amazing how everything in it is coming true"
"Is it? Great. Thanks very much then"
"We won't give up on you" she said, and with that slightly threatening statement hanging in the air she tottered off down the hallway, and I shut my door. And locked it. And hooked up the security chain.

So there you go, my first door-to-door God botherer. Naturally I didn't have the heart to tell her that if she really wanted to bother God, did she really think that a small ground floor flat in a Sussex commuter town would be good place to start? Then again, maybe he heard that I once saw Mariella Frostrup by the deli counter at Sainsbury's and thought he'd try his luck. Then again, I may have misunderstood the phrase. When I returned to my boudoir it was a few minutes before one thought started echoing around my head. Namely:
"How the fuck did she get in to the building?"
Assuming she isn't able to sprinkle herself with magic dust, and trot through the keyhole like a blue-rinsed Father Christmas, she had to be buzzed in. Therefore there are two options:

1- She pretended to be delivering a pizza.
2- There is someone in the building who think old storybooks are bibletastic too.

I personally hope it's the second, because if the bible is coming true, they are bound to have stocked up on locust repellent. I'll find out soon enough though, because if they are going to dupe their way in with promises of junk food I'm going to be seeing an awful lot more of that old lady...

Croc Monsieur

I just thought I would share this with you.

Altogether now:

"That's not a tax bill...THAT'S a tax bill".

Sitting comfortably?

You will be pleased to know that everything went well with my move and I am happily installed in my dwelling, brimming with contentment now that I have my own little cave to shuffle about in. All that remains is the installation of a good size telly and a sofa to stare blankly at it from. Noone wants to visit me until I have a good size telly to drown out my blather, so priority-wise the sofa has taken a back seat.

Yes that pun was intentional. Don't judge me.

My brilliant brother has acquired a television for me from a website called 'freecycle', which I believe is much like ebay, only instead of bidding money you win things by typing 'mine' in the largest lettering. The only sticking point is that it is an old style cathode-tube set (the box type) which being that it's a 28inch screen is going to prove something of a 'feature' in the living room. I have a feeling that when I switch it on there is going to be a loud hum, the lights will go dim and my skin cells will quiver and burst like Sigourney Weaver's eggs in 'Ghostbusters'. On the plus side, I won't have to squint when I'm bashing zombies on the head with a cricket bat whilst playing 'Left 4 Dead 2'.

So now I need to get a sofa. I have been reminded that a sofa from the old family home is still locked up in a garage in darkest Cambridgeshire. The trouble is I remember it being a bit near to the end of its life when it last saw daylight so I am very tempted to get a nearly-new one from the nearly-new furniture place around the corner from my flat. My logic for this is simple: I don't want to have the palava of hiring a van to go and bail out the currently imprisoned sofa, break my back getting it into my flat only to have a spring make a break for freedom and impale my unmentionables after a week's use. The final revenge of the Couch of Monte Cristo. However, I know for a fact that noone has died on that one, wet themselves on it, or attempted to hide the body of a dead prostitute amidst its springs. Always a risk with second-hand furniture.

Or I could simply not have any visitors and live out my days in my pants on a beanbag, surrounded by empty cans of Stella Artois, eating crisps and bashing zombies on the head with a  cricket bat. As of last week, this has been working for 29 years.