21 August 2010

Baled out?

I noticed too - and I don't mean to sound (how can I say this) callous here - but I noticed too, that at this moment of significant threat to the lives of 365 human beings (one for each day of the year) that...

No. It's too churlish.


I can't. Even at this remove, surely it's too soon.


I mustn't. It would seem tasteless.

I noticed that His Royal fucking Capeness was too busy promoting what was then 'his' new film to bother trying to save Qantas Flight 30.


19 August 2010

Down, down, down on a burning wing of fire

Do you remember when that Boeing 747, filled with Qantas passengers travelling from London to Australia, apparently had an explosion of some kind which blew a hole in the fuselage?

That's not good.

For the passengers this was - understandably - a very frightening experience. The oxygen masks appeared in front of them as the plane was forced to drop rapidly from 29,000 feet to 10,000.

Passengers were shaking and largely silent, with some vomiting, as the cabin crew yelled at them to put the masks on.

How did we know that last bit?

Partly because it was in the papers. And partly because of the footage on the TV.

That's the footage on the TV with the words "mobile phone video" in the top left corner.

mobile phone video.

Now correct me if I'm wrong (actually - don't; I don't like it) but doesn't everyone in the world know that having your mobile phone on on the plane is the - wrong - thing - to - do?

Don't they?

They do.

Not least, because - rumour has it - they interfere with the navigation systems.

So why the fuck would somebody who has just discovered that the plane they are on has a fucking great hole in the fuselage and is plummeting towards the earth very, very quickly, turn on the mobile phone so they can capture the moment??


Because - of course - their own little life is SO much more important than the safety of the other 346 passengers or the 19 crew, that taking video footage of everybody dropping like a stone is the natural thing to do, isn't it?

"Hey - yuk, yuk, yuk - I didn't make Big Brother, and I may die in a ball of flame because I'm fucking with the navigation sytems, but at least I'll get on the tee-vee! Neat!"

I suppose (and I've never seen a use for it before) that maybe that's why the mobile phone companies gave us 'Aircraft Mode'.

13 August 2010

Limiting One's Patience

I may have remarked before upon the taxi-driving classes.

I may have referred too to the difficulties some men seem to have with etiquette when driving.

So let me ask...

Why is that taxi drivers have no problem understanding "limit on public spending", "limit on personal taxation" and "limit on immigration", but "speed limit" seems to be completely fucking beyond them?

I only ask.

Diss, Respectful, Bastard

He really does get about a bit though. I see that he's on a March front page of the Norfolk Gazette. "Batman spares sheep farmers blushes".

I don't know why he bothers. Some in-breed is seconds away from being spotted with his dick in a spring lamb by passengers on Easy Jet flight 2565 from Ganja,
Azerbaijan, which is flying in low over Diss having been diverted to Great Yarmouth because Ipswich Airport is closed (due to fungus on the runway); so bloody, goody-two-batboots throws his cape around the philandering fool to prevent discovery?


I'll tell you why. Self-bloody-promotion.

It doesn't spare the poor sod's blushes at all. He is now having his ewe-poking exploits being read about by thousands, instead of maybe being seen out of the 'left hand windows just below the wing' by two dozen.

But it gets his royal Batness on the front page again doesn't it?

Thereby keeping me off. He doesn't seem to be in to take my calls, ever. Hardly respectful.

Black-suited, rubber-flaunting, utility-belt-posing bastard.

I've heard that's why Robin left.

It was 'me, me , me , me , me' all the ruddy time, from the old Cape-flinger, there.

Well, that and being made to do the same tired, old "Holy..." jokes.

Imagine bowling up in front of a big crowd and playing your part in the damsel-rescuing (somewhere like, say, Love Clough) and then having to stick - in front of all the sexy, young things of the Lancashire Pennines town - to a script which has you saying things like, "Holy Inappropriate, Batman!" and punching your fist into your emerald-gloved left hand.

They'd think it was silly, and you'd look daft.

So he left.

Well, that, and the constant imposition, by Batman, of buggery on the poor bloke.

He wasn't allowed to be saying "Holy Inappropriate Batman!" on those occasions now, was he?

12 August 2010

King, George, the thirst for fame...

"What kind of a world do we live in, where a man dressed as a bat gets all my good press"?

I often wonder this before I fall asleep. I'm sure I'd be much more of a global, household name if it weren't for Batman and his front-page-stealing, caped-crusading antics. He's on the telly right now being famous and narrowing down the opportunities for others to be similarly famous. Fame isn't like rubella - not everybody can have it at once.

I might ring him and ask him to stop the being famous thing for a few weeks; at least until I have established fully my own international brand.

Yeah. Good idea.

On a slightly different subject; I realise I missed out some celebrities what I have bumped in to and, as I now intend to join them in celeb-ness, it's wise to name them on the way up, so they're nice to me when I reach the top.

I once walked past author Stephen King in a street near New York's Central Park, and I once met George Melly.

In a pub.

Enormous bloke he was, with a very loud suit and a very large hat. A fedora, I guess.

I recognised him instantly, of course. I'd known his name, his face and his dress-sense since I was a small child. He was a huge, national, if not international, jazz-singing sensation. And good for him!

Especially given he was actually not all that good at the jazz-singing bit; and that he looked kind of like a cross between Liberace and Max Bygraves.

He was, however, a recognisable household figure. A unique, superstar brand.

He must have had Batman's number too.

10 August 2010

pseudograph's ordagraphs ordabee bedder

Those people I've met; they're all a bit C-list.

I hadn't realised that until I wrote them down, but they are.

It would have been nicer to have met some decent names.

Like Shakira. Or Shania Twain. Or Robert Mitchum. Or Elaine Paige. Or Elaine Stritch. Some A- or B-list stars. Not like the rubbish I've met.

Well, except Debra Stephenson. She's a proper star.

Me Mam recently unearthed my old autograph book. Derek Hobson. Neville Buswell (Ray Langton). Sue Jay (of ATV today).

That's a deprived childhood, that is.

The whole autograph book is saved only by the presence of the signatures of Midlands' Seventies greats - Nottingham's Bierkeller Oompah Band.

It can play hideous tricks on the brain...

This interesting blogpost http://enemiesofreason.co.uk/2010/08/10/every-celebrity-ive-ever-seen/ made me think about my own experiences with fame.

The last time I got close to fame was as I walked past the paparazzi outside a theatre in London.

Hundreds of them, shouting and wrestling; jostling for the best position on the pavement, fighting each other for space and exclusivity.

Flashes going off constantly, like the cameras going off in a stadium during the opening ceremony of the World Cup or the Olympics.

And the shouting! All of them yelling, yelling, yelling; desperate that the celebrity glance their way, so they might be captured in digital form for ever...

"Who was that they re shouting at"? I asked someone standing nearby...

"Coleen McLoughlin".

Which makes me think.... Who are the famous people I have met?

I once walked past Michael Stipe in the street.

But that doesn't count.

In no particular order, then... Robin Cook. Rolf Harris. Bob Geldof. Neil Murray (the bass player in Whitesnake). Eddie Tenpole-Tudor. Debra Stephenson (of Bad Girls and Coronation Street). Betty Driver (also Coronation Street). The bloke who used to introduce the Krypton Factor. Fish from Marillion. Jimmy Saville. I once spent a whole train journey in a carriage wth Iain Banks and nobody else, but only recognised him as we got off.
I once spent a night sitting in a pub at the next table to Bob Mortimer's. Paul Heaton. Frank Worthington. Kirk Brandon (tosser). The daleks (outside the co-op). John Prescott. Atilla the Stockbroker. Pauline Black (of the Selector). Mark E Smith.

That's twenty. Sort of. So that will do for now.


Hermits crabby

I am tracking a Ukulele on ebay. Cherry red with chrome bars. Yum.

It's in an auction. I like auctions. I love the thrill of the chase that comes with an auction.

I remember the time I tried bidding for Peter Noone.

You know, the Kennedy-looking one from Herman's Hermits.

Me Mam fancied him for Christmas, and - as he wasn't very big, and therefore wouldn't need much wrapping up - I thought I'd buy him for her.

He was on ebay.

I waited until the last twelve minutes of a seven day auction.

0 bidders.

Not one. "Starting bid 35.00 US dollars" - which is about 1 pound, seven and sixpence in English money.

So I bid that much. Surely Herman-boy would be mine.

And I refreshed the page every twenty seconds or so, to make sure I was still the wining bidder. And I was. I was!!!

I ignored the warning "You could still be outbid" because there were just
moments left! Noone was mine. Mine! I had him, parcelled, on the sofa.

All I had to calculate was how I'd get him to me Mother's in Bournemouth, through the post...

I was outbid with 16 seconds left. Not even time to submit a new bid.


Mind you, personally speaking, I'm not a fan.

I'd rather listen to the Monks. Or the MC5. Or the Stooges (Larry couldn't drum, and Mo couldn't sing, but, fucking hell, Curly could play guitar)!

So take
that, whoever pipped me with a High Noone bid. Something tells me
I'm into something good.

And you're into something shit.

Anyway, obviously I didn't want to disappoint my Ma, specially at Cliffmas, so I had to find her something equally small to go in the wrapping paper.


Francis Rossi.