Liar, liar, Alex on fire...

Yesterday, the hot wire story informed us that Her Majestys Rapacious Coercive (HMRC to  you) has insufficient tax experts in its' ranks, to tackle big business and its phalanx of tax avoidance...sorry, mitigation boffins. Was it ever thus. In common or garden speak, the people that make the rules, ain't as smart as those that break the rules.
It follows therefore, that it's far easier for the aforementioned Coercive to nail small business for every brass farthing due.. Now, don't get me wrong. I believe we should all pay taxes, due. However, in these ascetic times, when small businesses in particular, are hard-pressed merely to subsist, it does seem ironic in the least and plain wrong at best, to witness grandissimo fleecing of the people who, by and large, are least responsible for our economic woes, by those wankers (government of whatever persuasion) who fiddled (and then some) while Rome burned.
It's odd how capitalism can seem so...North Korean at times.
Anyway, i've been at the bugging again and can now exclusively reveal details of HMRC Chief Tax Collector Dave Hartnett's no nonsense meeting with Jim O'Neill, Goldigger Sachs Chairman, over outstanding tax and late payment interest...
Dave (for it is he) 'So Jimbo, what about this £20 million of unpaid tax then?'
Jimbo...'Er, how about lunch at Claridges, Dave?'
Dave...Fuck it, Jimbo. You know how to turn a boy's head'.
Jimbo...'Whose turn is it to pay?'
Dave...Why the fuckin' taxpayer, of course.'
Gales of laughter and popping of pre-lunch champagne corks.
Moving on...and before today's musical interlude, how I laughed when I heard Piers Moron's answer to the question of whether or not he was aware of phone hacking during his 'dear leadership' of the Daily Mirror, at the Leveson Inquiry...'To the best of my recollection, I do not believe so. I was not personally involved and all journalists knew they had to operate within the law'.
'Herr Hitler, were you aware of the genocide of 6 million Jews during the holocaust?'
'To the best of my recollection, I do not believe so. I voss not personally involved and Herr Himmler knew he had to operate within the Geneva Convention'.
I mean no offence. But with the greatest of respect, you wouldn't believe either, would you?'

Music...Another gentleman no longer with us. Incredibly, would have been 76 this year. Like so many of those flawed genius types, he was never going to get there, but entertained us royally whilst he was around. I never saw Alex Harvey in concert, so the clip I've posted, represents what I missed. However, at least there's still plenty of material around to enjoy. A true entertainer and all round bampot. Classic stuff. Luxuriate in all that is The Sensational Alex...

All in it together...

I see from last night's news and today's press, one of Prince Harry's bestest chums was mugged. Harry is now a hero, for sorting it all out...well, he phoned Plod and said, 'gosh, friend, robbed, Blackberry, you're ma' best pal, blaaaargh'.
My investigations (courtesy of some deep-throat phone tapping) reveal the true tale. It would appear that Tarquin Faw-Faw III was quietly becoming pished in Club Toffee-Arse, when some bounder stole the maraschino cherry from his favourite 'Shoot the Proletariat' cocktail. To make matters worse, the small gold embossed sword through which said fruit was skewered, was left tantalizingly perched on the edge of the glass, atop a single black velvet glove with the epithet 'WaNkA' and an appropriate hand gesture symbol inlaid in gold leaf.
Upon receiving a call from his deeply distressed buddy, Harry swept into action, without the merest fear for his own safety. He bravely finished the seven remaining courses of his light supper at Chez Silver Spoon, quaffed a HALF carafe of Chateau Mouton Rothschild (well, we're all in this together you know) and asked his fag to call 'those plebs with the moustaches' to get a number for Gran's Finest Filth and pass on his own deep shock at this 'jolly monstrous' turn of events.
So, there you have it. Hazzer to the rescue. All in a day's work for the Monarchy. Makes you proud to be from Great Britainshire (wipes tear from eye, salutes and sings national anthem).
Before I announce today's track, I also heard the disturbing tale of Marcin Kasprzak, who bound and gagged his fiance, before burying her alive in a cardboard box. Fortunately, the girl escaped and this useless piece of shit will do time for attempted murder. Given the fact that this has at least a semblance of a happy ending, I did manage a wry smile when it was reported that Kasprzak had only wanted to 'give her a fright'. Say fuckin' what?!? Whatever happened to jumping out from behind the toilet door and going 'boo'? A lot less arduous on the victim and unless the law has taken some dramatic turn of which I am unaware, not punishable with jail time. Tosser.

Let sanity prevail...music. My first ever gig, was at Greens Playhouse, City of Glesga', to see the late and so very great Rory Gallagher. I was 14 and sad to say, I remember very little about it, but the fleeting flashbacks assure me that I would have been blown asunder by the great man, close to or at the peak of his powers. I've always loved 'Live in Europe'. Still got it on vinyl and the track I've chosen, shows the versatility of the man, kickin the bejesus out of a mandolin rather than his trademark '61 Strat. If this doesn't have you leaping about like Michael Flatley on acid, you're dead already pardner.
Enjoy, with my compliments...

Reminiscenses gone astray...

It's been a while since I posted 'owt. It's not that I've run out of steam, but Planet Mad is so mad just now, parodying it, seems somehow like interfering with the most colossal self-fulfilling prophecy. For example, not so long ago I posted about Newt Gingrich, surely a jaw dropping satire of a potential future President of the USofA. He faded away on the Good Ship Obscurity as he was surely destined to and then...bloody hell, he's just reappeared as a serious prospect, because so many of the other hopefuls are such fuckin' contemptible maladroits. I know...it's America. Land of Reagan, where shit actors CAN be ElPrez. I'm just performing my civic duty in warning you of the dangers lurking across the Pond...
Anyway listen, 'tis the season to be exhibiting mirth, so I'm veering off my usual semi-foul mouthed tirades and turning to my eternal salvation...music. I'm also posting this for all my fans (Sid and Doris Bonkers) simultaneously, on Farcebook. Whoooo, I've gone all hi-tech. In truth, I was questioning the wisdom of continually blogging to mostly myself, so if anyone (virtually everyone) hasn't encountered my previous ramblings, you're now in for a treat (in my humble opinion). However, don't read them if you don't relish opinions or occasional swearing. I'm not responsible for any of my views (I didn't ASK to be born) and you can lose your property if you don't keep up repayments...disclaimer speak.
Back to the tunes. Given this time of year (reflection and all that) I'm just going to post some U-Choob bits and bobs, featuring faves that transport me to my lovely, lovely youth. Many of the artists are no longer on Planet Mad and whilst I don't want to go all maudlin, it seems kinda appropriate to remind everyone of some outstanding musicians sadly missed, given the sheer volume of utter pish that is mass produced today, with no small contributions from Overlord Cowell and his ilk.
All of that said, today will not be a 'missing' person. 'Book of Saturday' by the mighty King Crimson, is one of those tracks that never fails to surprise and delight me, simply because  it comes from a band and Prog era that did not regularly feature such delicate and achingly beautiful sparseness of arrangement. Additionally, the lyrical and vocal perfection of Mr John Wetton, a musical stalwart, means that it should never be covered by another soul, as long as I have the ability to purchase a firearm and take care of them. The album version is frankly, perfection. The live version attached for your delectation though, is faithful and entirely sympathetic to that original, just as it should be, given it is performed by the same artist, albeit about 18 years later.

Enjoy...you simply can't fail.

Adolf for Chancellor...

I was happily chefing away today, when all of a sudden, a diatribe came spouting forth, from a visitor to my little kitchen world. 'It's this fuckin capitalist world that's the problem. In Hitler's Germany, capitalism was effectively banned. No price rises that increased profits to then be passed to shareholders. A Centrally administered economy, to mobilize large scale projects and get people working. Employers and employees under Government control. No 'fat cat' stuff.'
I mentioned the War once, but I think I got away with it. It's this monumental economic maelstrom that has everyone and their pet goldfish, ruminating about solutions to solve our global travails. And who can blame us? We're all in a high state of 'FUC'...Fecal Underpants Concern...and why would we not be?? It's a freakin shambles out there in the big bad world and as if the general landslide of bad news wasn't bad enough, now fuckin' Adolf Hitler has the (final) solution.
Personally,  I don't know if he was all bad, all the time. Sure had a bit of a temper on him and when he didn't like you, you certainly were never left in any doubt about it (look out, look out, there's a V2 about). There's a kind of refreshing honesty about that. He was also named 'Man of the Year' by Time magazine in 1938...no, really. However, his thigh slapping gaeity, was somewhat overshadowed by his penchant for a spot of pre-tiffin, mass murder, which for my money, also pops a bit of a damper on his economic prowess. The global economy may indeed be in a bad way, just not that bad, that we need a Chancellor with a joke shop 'tache and Tourettes arm.
Oh and lest I forget, the fella that regaled me with his alternative economic theories (cribbed one might surmise from a Xmas/Birthday 'Adolf Hitler...Quite a Decent Cove?' book) was none other than an Exterminator...quite.
Whilst we don't have an Adolf in Scotland, we do appear to have a Finance minister that likes to stick a Jackboot to the minions. John Swindler of the Scottish Nazi, sorry, National Party (real name Swinney, but stick with the change) has decided to sell his second home. Big deal?...well yes, actually. Swindler bought the property under the Edinburgh Accomodation Allowance scheme, funded by the taxpayer. The sonofabitch could have rented or stayed in hotels, still using our money, but where would the fun in that be, when he can use funds belonging to you and me, buy a nice big hoose, then sell it, trousering the (post-CGT) £60,000 profit??  And the get-out, as explained on Newsnight, is that diddums had to pay the CGT at a higher rate than before. Pardon my use of the vernacular, but this bespectacled fuckwit, must be havin a laugh. After all the shit we had to endure from these leeches in the most recent scandals, you would have thought that this dickhead would have had the integrity and good grace, to lead by example and plough his ill-gotten gains back into some local employment project or charity, rather than his own fucking Bank account. Finance Minister indeed...his own. Beggars belief, even though somehow it doesn't come as a surprise. Hopefully, we've not heard the last of this, though and i'll be posting again...
Now, in a breakaway, new and excitingly innovative addition to my already excellent blog (anyone looking for a self-publicising, rampant egotist?) welcome to...McNics Minis. What the fuck are they, I hear you ask. Well, ya cheeky bastard, they're just little throwaway observations, not worthy of my normally erudite ramblings. So, gather your cheeks together for the inaugural MIni...
Brad Pitt is in Glasgow shooting a new movie about zombies. No hidden agenda there then.
Say goodnight McNic...

Welcome to Planet Mad...

Hi Lloyd. Been away, but now I'm back...(courtesy, Jack Nicholson, The Shining).

Today, whilst embarking on a fleeting Bank visit (some other bastard was holding it up) I noticed that the branch now had piped music in the background. So, to the strains of Sweet Love by Anita Baker, I deposited 50 quid with one of the cashiers, skilfully resisting the lure of asking if I could buy her a drink, or if she came here often. Now, I can remember a time when I quite liked the strains of Ms Baker. I was younger then and it was always handy weaponry, for a chap to show his more romantically sympathetic side. It was therefore more than a little incongruous to find Anita now gigging in the 'Evil Institute' when 'You've got to pick a pocket or two' by Fagin would surely have been a more appropriate musical selection.
All of this idle whimsy is merely my way of dealing with a world that has radically altered from my lost youth. Music was played in Bars or restaurants or the hairdressers, not in financial establishments. Nor was a Kenco coffee machine in evidence. I mean, what next...'That money is now in your account, sir. Oh and there's your tuna and sweetcorn panini and remember your semi-skimmed coconut latte on the way out...'
Speaking of things musical, I also recognize whilst slipping gently down life's runway, that my taste in tunes has changed somewhat. Since an earlier blog has revealed my alarming and unapologetic penchant for Radio4, an occasional saunter down Desert Island Discs avenue, reveals some startling musical selections from various assembled guests. On a recent outing, we endured, sorry, enjoyed, the verbal musings of Michael MacIntyre. Now I quite like the bloke, though in rather smaller doses than when he first appeared on screen. Sadly, like so many celebs who float your boat, MacIntyre has now become more omnipresent than God, or Simon Cowell as you may know him and I suspect we all like a little less of him. Anyhoo, his final disc selection was Ella Fitzgerald singing a live version of 'Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered', which was simply jaw-dropping. A voice meltier than melted Valrhona chocolate, accompanying a classic Rodgers and Hart composition...yes, I admit it, I lurve Ella. Now to get on with the rest of my life.
Meanwhile, back in La-La Land (some of) the natives have been restless. As extreme lassitude descended on some of Englandshire's finest fuckwits, it was decided en masse, to pillage (presumably the rape will follow) carefully selected town centres, aided by the marvels of Blackberry and Titter. There's something confusing to yours truly, about disaffected yoof (and some not so yoof) being able to afford a better phone than moi, but still feeling the need to play the proleteriat card. Goodness, whoever thought that the rise of the downtrodden would be sparked by the need to acquire a larger TV screen, so that they could watch themselves stealing said telly on Sky News, later that day. Come to think of it, that entire concept may be a little too cerebral for some of these wankers.
Listen people, there's no easy answer to dealing with these monstrous wastes of oxygen. Yes, we've ALL been screwed by the financial 'system' and in some senses our collective avarice is to blame. The rush to gain wealth, has resulted in corners being cut, in an attempt to get the prize, quicker. Rules are made to be broken, right? There is and always be, an underclass out there. It's the have and have nots syndrome and it just seems a helluva lot more pronounced now, simply because world finances are so far up the shitter, that an enema of Niagara proportions wouldn't flush out all the crap. Depressingly, it seems unlikely that we've seen the last of this mob siege mentality, but if our elected fuckwits would actually get their heads together and say some unpalatable things that those who elected them can believe in, we might get this train out of the station. Fuck Johnny Do-Gooder and the human rightists. Grab this problem by the collar, cut out the weasel words and restore some much needed sanity.
Y'know, I'm going to finish this rant and lead by example. There is a connection of thought in this little analogy. There are a never-ending stream of famines in Africa. As a whole, it is a continent, fraught with problems. It's pretty well ignored as an economic basketcase, so the only time it seems to be in sharp focus, is famine time. The call goes out, the cameras roll and the money pours in. Not once, have I ever heard any politician/anyone from aid agencies suggest that part of the solution would be to introduce the dark art of contraception en masse. It's understandable, many of these people have little to do other than procreate. They have no jobs, no societal structure as we understand it and a climate that does not lend itself to producing enough food and clean water to provide for so many hungry mouths. So why not discourage them from producing ever more children?? Remove misguided religious practices/beliefs out of the equation. No 'pope on a rope' principals of sinful childbirth interruption. Yes, wearing a condom may be akin to eating a Mars Bar with the wrapper on, but it could also become a badge of honour and put an immediate halt to unnecessary population expansion, whilst we tackle the other important underlying issues in that stricken continent. Tackle the problem at its' roots...
Ok, now that I've made myself as popular as the Chairman of the Monogamist Society, inviting Ryan Giggs to Guest Speak at the Annual Bash, i'll leave you with late news that a midget had items stolen from him during the peculiarly Englandshire riots. Just how low will these bastards stoop...Boom, fuckin, boom.
Say goodnight, Gracie...

Ramblings of a random mind...

At the risk of being a complete Blog-bore, I find little at this juncture of pressing concern, about which to work up a lather, so to speak. So, rather than chunter aimlessly on, I thought a few random observations and general stupidity would do nicely, whilst I await my next brain tsunami.
It would be remiss I suppose, not to mention what an absolutely shit summer it has been thus far, here in the neo-Arctic wastes of Scotland. Seriously, I write this little featurette on the longest day (Midsummer) watching the rain cavort from the ever blackening skies, thinking 'this global warming thing...what a crock.' We've certainly upset someone along life's merry way, to be lumbered with this relentless precipitation. I hear a whisper that the 1958 Scottish Tennis Open Final has been postponed for another year, after what meteorologists are insisting is merely a 53 year heavy shower, which will give way to a sunny interval, possibly in time for a late decision on play in 2012. Typically, it was the only occasion in a glittering tennis career, that Aussie fave Rod Laver, made it to Scotland and given that he'll be 73 next year and that the other finalist is now sadly dead, he may well be awarded the title, with his opponent 'in absentia'...bet the weather's better there too.
Shitey weather is not something that our Greek Euro-cousins will have to contend with at this time. Ah the heady days of the Drachma and Ouzo pissing out your pores. It must seem a long way off now, as they've run up a bigger tab than Amy Winehouse at an 'all you can drink for free' night, at Temptations Bar, next to the Betty Ford Clinic. I've clocked up a few miles keeping up to date with the Doomsday scenarios relating to Greek debt and whist I think it inappropriate to delve too deeply in this Blogette, using my years of financial experience, I think in brief, it could be summed up in two words...total fucking shambles...yes Einstein, that's three, showing just how easy it is to get your sums all fucked up. Listen, those Greek protestors should worry. At least they can bask in the luxury of a superb tan, whilst they eat the bark off trees, because it's 600 Euros for a pint of taramasalata (I was going to say, on the rocks, but that could seem a little insensitive, given the parlous state of their economy)...
Anyhoo, European Monetary Union amongst a whole bunch of disparate nations was a basket case from the off. Not 20/20 hindsight folks, just common sense. None of us actually likes each other, with the possible exception of a just about bearable two week annual vacation and then its back to xenophobe central...and that's just Glasgow and Edinburgh.
and finally Cyril, I heard a piece on radio today that made me choke a little on my Kung Fu Panda Crunchers cereal (I am very 'cereal hip'). Burmese pro-Democracy heroine, Aung San Suu Kyi has announced that during her 15 year detention by the Burmese authorities, listening to Dave Lee Travis on the World Service, 'made her world so much more complete'. I can't make my mind up if she's...
a. just insane after years in the virtual chokey,
b. ready for another wee therapy spell 'away from things', or
c. the biggest piss-taker since David Icke during his 'Son of the Godhead/Turquoise Twat' phase.
Whatever the explanation for Ms Kyi's fondness for the Hairy Arseho...sorry, Cornflake, that detention must have been some scary experience, for that beardy todger to be the sanity saviour...and I thought I had problems.
Now, Charlie Sheen and David Icke in a sitcom..that's the kind of detention experience I want...

Politics. Or the inability to imitate life...

I find myself (reluctantly) returning to the political stage, after hearing an interview this week on the 'Today' programme on Radio4. Oh yes, I listen to Radio4. Quite an admission and although I am seeking help, the pills haven't kicked in just yet.
Michael Gove is the current government oik, running the Education Dept. He also has a face made for punching and a matching supercilious attitude, borne no doubt, of his Calvinistic Aberdonian adoptive upbringing and scholarship won English studies in his Oxford Alma mater. He was actually born in Edinburgh, so he really has in fairness, had very little good fortune from the earliest of times. I can somehow picture Gove the Younger, in full bespectacled mode, bullied remorselessly, for being...well, a git. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in any way condoning or in favour of such actions, but I'll make an exception in his case. With his little head poised perilously over the lavatory, awaiting the inevitable flush, muttering dark oaths about returning to the education system in adulthood and 'sorting' things...
Well, Uncle 'call me Dave' seems to have found it within himself to have faith in this weasel...well his wealth is estimated at around £1million...so he's ripe for a cabinet post in this 'we're all in it together' governmental hierarchy. Even prior to this great elevation, he seems to have had rather a chequered little political career thus far, never a million miles away from rubbing someone up the wrong way...sadly never an axe murderer, but there's time yet. In keeping with many of his counterparts, he's been partial to the odd dalliance with his expenses and when all is said and done, nothing I have seen or heard, will convince me that this little nonentity of a gnome should be doing anything that might be considered important to the UK populous.
Anyhoo, in this interview, he was asked a pretty straightforward yes or no question regarding an accounting blunder in his department, with £300 extra per pupil being allocated in some academies. Cue the smooth talking glove puppet, turning into a babbling, tittering little prick, because he had been found out and couldn't bring himself to admit the thing that all of us little people ask of these out of step/out of touch politicians...yes, the truth! I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or jump on a plane to Londonshire and toe-end Gove straight up the passage.
You see, friends, Romans, Countrymen, Gove is just a microcosm of the many reasons that swathes of people throughout this pox-ridden island, despise politics and the system that allows wankers like him to preach their gospel to us, to show us how to improve things and by definition, ourselves and yet when they are given the opportunity to admit to that one human frailty we all possess - the ability to make a mistake - they choose to wriggle and squirm (or simply lie) their way out of it, thus attaining instant credibility expiry and full unencumbered membership of the 'unfit for purpose' club.
As someone once said, 'if voting changed anything, it'd probably be made illegal'...

Pecking order...

Just when you thought this arsehole country could not possibly get any more insane, news reaches the docile masses that Asil Nadir, the Polly Peck fugitive, is to receive legal aid, to fight fraud charges stemming from the collapse of his empire (or house of cards as it should better be described) 20 years ago. Now I read somewhere that 'providing the case is in the interests of justice', legal aid is granted regardless of financial status. Oh bravo, that's alright then. I had this foolish notion that all court cases were held in the interests of justice, but something got lost in the translation.
Mr Turkish Delight bought PP in the 70's. It was a textile company, which he expanded into fruit distribution and packaging and subsequently, consumer electronics. Don't know 'bout you, but whenever I think of textiles and clothing, pomegranates and hi-fi's just slipstream into my subconscious...
Well, whatever old Anusol was up to, as soon as the fruit hit the fan, he took an extended vacation (17 years) to the Turkish bit of Northern Cyprus where, as good fortune and immaculate timing should have it, he'd squirreled away about £200 million in the two years before Polly shuffled off its' mortal perch in 1990. Presumably a premonition...just to keep the 'p' consonantal aliteration going you understand. Further, this convenient neck of the woods has no extradition treaty with the UK, from which fact, the term 'royal shafting' presumably emanates.
Now Mr NoScruples may indeed be innocent of all charges, just as the River Clyde is host to shoals of barracuda, but fuck me, legal aid?!? The 70 year old shacks up in a £20,000 a week flat, gets an (Armani) electronic tag lashed to his ankle, has to turn up at Plod Central once a week in a limo and then shuffles off home to his 27 year old wife (who like Paul Daniel's wife, surely wasn't in it for the money) for a deluxe spam fritter supper from the local chipper, washed down with a splash of Chateau Lafite Rothschild from a cracked pint mug. Enough punishment already.
Look, this sonofabitch played politics back in TurkeyCyprusville thru his media outlets, which left him with a tax bill for $6million. Whilst the various factions fight it out over his duplicitous affiliations, he picks up another multi-million contract to run an airport in Northern Cyprus.
So what do we surmise from this bundle of facts or fiction...
#Having watched Midnight Express years ago, I think Asil caught a rerun on Movies4Men, coming to the conclusion that he should cut his losses(sic) and come back to the old country, rather than get pumped by an outsized Turkish prison warder in an Istanbul chokey. Ok, having soap on a rope doesn't guarantee your safety in a UK hotel...sorry, prison, but(t) the likelihood of your being 'a friend of the sausage' is proportionately reduced.
# Asil was not intending to apply for legal aid, or so we were told in 2003. Apparently his friends were going to help him. This has indeed proved to be the case, though we were never told that his friends were in fact the UK Government, who lay down the obviously completely fucked up rules in the first place.
#This country once again proves itself to be a safe haven and soft touch on another crooked 'businessman', who left investors owed over £1billion and the life savings and pensions of thousands of innocent individuals wiped, whilst feathering his own nest, which presumably still holds a sizeable egg. This septuagenarian snake, slithers back into the United Kindadum and we pick up the tab to see him get a fair trial.
It's an equitable life, Henry...

Line(han) of least resistance...

Ok, I loved Father Ted (not in the biblical sense, you understand). The creator of the series, Graham Linehan was interviewed on Radio4 this morning, regarding his new stage production of the Ealing Studios classic, The Ladykillers...and boy, was he just a tad tetchy.I've seen this guy on one or two telly things and have to say, I didn't warm to him at all. He may well be a fantastic bloke and obviously a tremendous comedy writer, but he just seemed like a git.
The gist of the radio interview, was why had he chosen to revisit a total classic film, for a stage version. Was there essentially any point, since it could scarcely be bettered and was very much a metaphor of its' time. Linehan stuttered and stumbled his way through 'exploring characters in greater depth' and 'things that make sense in a current setting' and then proceeded to go into a fairly extraordinary huff. His response smacked of, 'who the hell are you, to question my motives or aims in undertaking this project' and accused the interviewer of setting up an adversarial interview with someone whose views opposed his. How dare someone else have a contrary opinion to a British Comedy Awards winner!!
Anyhoo, the point of challenging Linehan and his ilk, was simply to suggest that instead of plagiarising cinema, he/they should toddle off and write some brand new stuff for theatre. I agree. It totally smacks of lassitude and a shortcut to a few bucks.
Listen chums, if you haven't seen The Ladykillers, invest in a DVD copy instantly. It's a stunning piece of 50's Ealing genius. Gently, but wickedly funny and with an unforgettable Alec Guinness performance.
Oh and 'na,na,na-na,na' to you Mr Linehan...

Curse of the acronyms...

flippin 'eck...I was really quite worried there for a moment. A strange, seldom seen phenomenon called sunshine, visited us fleetingly in the last few days, temporarily removing my 'rantability'. I'd heard some urban mythology about this sun 'thing' and its'ability to promote feelings of inner serenity, so it is with more than a modicum of relief that I can announce the return of our normal atmospheric state or 'shit weather', to use the time honoured colloquialism and with The Beast of Motorhead  lending a suitable background vibe, my natural venom for all things annoying, has returned. Hoorah! (I really should have got this Blog thang going in winter, during the normalcy of unremitting gloom and despondency).
Had a bit of a 'debate' (euphemism for small fight) with the other half, one night during last week, so getting up and going to work with each other was the standout highlight of the following day. I've never known the feeling one gets from removing a pick axe from ones head, but I was probably closer than would be considered, comfortable. Anyhoo, in the true spirit of reconciliation (or, we're stuck here with each other, so we might as well get on with it) we set about the business of our small but perfectly formed restaurant. I only mention this little cameo, to help anyone reading this, who does not work directly with the public, understand that we Restauranteurs are only human and our little lives can be just as meaningful or pathetic, as the customers who grace our establishments. The fact that we choose to make a living serving the public, does not mean we are somehow estranged from the 'norms' of human behavioral frailties. What i'm trying to say (badly) is, on this particular week, I was a bad boy...
I am a temperamental sod, prone to more than the odd outburst. Not overtly rude to everyone, just people with troglodyte tendencies and matching manners, at which point I must bring to your attention, news of a disturbing organization, growing in number, who are devoid of any normal civilities, ignorant of all those around them and prone to leave a trail of devastation and destruction in their wake.They are known under the acronism 'MTF'..yes, I refer to the Mother and Toddler Fascisti. The MTF consists of...
#Mothers inflicted with selective deafness,
#Prams modelled on the armoured tank division of the North African World War 2 offensive, wheeled into restaurants during busy lunches to cause the kind of jam associated with the M25 at teatime,
#brats who spend most of their day, plonked in front of CeeBeebies, before being wheeled out and ignored in the restaurant, whilst mummy chats about the poor quality of clothes pegs, to other mummy,
#mumsies who leave the table space looking like a shithole ( cos ickl Timmy was 'expressing himself' ) and expecting the lowly-paid scumsuckers to clear up after their fat, lazy keesters...there, I said it,
#etc, etc...
Now there are certain establishments that choose to specifically cater to the MTF. They employ endless lines of spotty youths who work for two groats a day and all the Monosodium Glutamate they can suck through a straw, safe in the knowledge that they are too shit-scared to create any kind of fuss over the ensuing chimpanzee tea parties, for fear that Tarquin tells Mummy-fascist, Mummy-fascist complains to Manager, who in turn craps his pants in fear over the likely bad publicity on Trip Advisor and veiled threat that Mummy-fascist will tell all her followers, who will similarly boycott said establishment. These hell-holes are however, an entirely good thing, as they keep the MTF ringfenced and well away from the remainder of those individuals who simply want to enjoy lunch in a convivial atmosphere and behave like a fully fuctioning adult.
Well, anyhoo, to cut a long one short, I made 'bad attitude faces' at a couple of these goons in our wee hacienda and after clearing up their personal Hiroshima, they reported their disdane to my other half and left, vowing not to return and would recommend other MTFs to do likewise...fuckin result!! It's a latter day Basil Fawlty 'well, we don't want that riff-raff in here anyway, Sybil' victory for the Restauranteur and high time someone let these wipes know that their slovenly manner and 'we bring our fuck-off prams/breast feed/let ickl Britney bawl and scream because it's the modern way' (choose any one) fascist behaviour, is not appreciated by either customers or staff.
So then, anyone for a quiet lunch...

A Wunch of Bankers...

Today was a Bank Holiday in the UK. In accordance with economic events over the past 3 years or so, a lobby has been established for consideration of a name change on such future suspensions of work, to Bastard Holidays.
The Bastard...sorry, Bank Holiday, dates back to an Act of 1871 when Henry James Earl decided to take the first Monday in May off work, thus closing his Bank to the public. Others of his fellow Bankers followed suit and hey presto, another feather in the cap for the lazy arseholes charter was established.
Seriously, when you think about it, what the fuck do these halfwits do, that demands so many official Holidays? Admittedly, making a gigantic contribution to fucking up the global economy, is sure to take it out of you. All those afternoon small business meetings with their, 'yes I know we said you could count on us for unflinching assistance with your generally successful business, but that was when you called this morning' , must make for more than the odd dash to the lacquered mahogany 'drinkies' cabinet in the boardroom, for a swift Pimms, to calm those frayed edges. The shattering blow delivered by the realization that ones declining bonus could result in the yacht being bought 'off the peg', rather than custom built...oh the shame. How can one amusingly moon at ones chums from a mere 40 metre toy boat. Yeh, life's a beach, baby.
But hang on people. The Banks are an easy hit. Don't get me wrong, they 100% deserve to be treated like something nasty on the bottom of your shoe. But...let's face it, General Joe Public doesn't come out of this smelling of Chanel No.5. Our penchant for a bit of largesse meant that we allowed ourselves to be led Pied Piper style, into the land where tomorrow never comes.The land of gravity defying house prices, debts that 'never, never' get paid off and Banks being the gift that just keeps giving. Yeh, right. How fucking stupid are we? Banks called the tune and we did the Morris dancing.
So, what can anyone who may have the ability (dosh!) to plan finances, learn from this pile of horseshit? (I don't mean my blog...it's obviously superb).
#1  Don't go to any Bank for financial advice. Both RBOS and BOS have been fined more than £6m in the last year for flogging crap and non-relevant retail investments to their customers. They are without question, the greediest of the greedy. The Banks are a huge part of our global ills and having palpably displayed their avarice and incompetence, why anyone (other than someone who buys Opal Fruits because it contributes to their 5-a-day fruit&veg portion) would trust them with anything other than a simple, straightforward Bank account, leaves me mystified. History folks, history!!
#2 Don't trust 'financial experts/advisers', unless they can demonstrate a decent track record of fiscal probity and talk to you in a language you can understand.
#3 Don't be so fucking greedy. If you have a little stash, be grateful. Many's the person who invested a large fortune and ended up with a small fortune in return! That smooth talking prick phoning from above a Dutch knocking shop, with promises of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, investing in specialist shares of which little is known (principally 'cos they don't exist) is indeed a Grade A wanker.
#4 Bert the Butcher is not a financial expert... (my mate the plumber told me about this share...). If he tells you to invest in anything other than pork chops, change your butcher.
And for those who have zippo to invest and struggle with mortgages, food, hell just basically living...die young!!
Anyhoo, as the old song goes, 'always leave them laughing'(when you say goodbye)...
A guy walks into the Bank and says to the teller, ' I want to open a fuckin' current account.' The teller says, I beg your pardon, sir?' to which he replies,' look damn it, I want to open a fuckin' current account right now!' The teller says, 'Sir i'm sorry but we don't tolerate such foul language in this Bank' and she calls over the Manager. 'What seems to be the problem here Sir?' says the Manager. 'Look' says the bloke, 'there's no fuckin' problem. I just won 50 million quid in the Lottery and I want to open a fuckin' current account in this shithole Bank!' 'I see Sir', says the Manager 'and this bitch is giving you a hard time?'
Hey ho. I'm off to watch Clint rob the Bank at El Paso again...

Pissing a late fatness test...

and now, football.
Switzerland has revelled in its' preferred state of neutrality, since 1515 (or quarter past three, in old money). As such, it is generally regarded as, well...boring. Before anyone gets shirty (more on shirts later) any country that becomes (in)famous for an action man size army knife and a bar of pointy chocolate, is unlikely to feature high on the list of very funny, but controversial humour. (Ok, ok, there is Roger Federer, but he plays tennis and cries like a big girls blouse and anyway, this is loosely based on footie, so sod off).That though, was yesterday. Today...step forward, Joseph Sepp Blatter.
For those not in the know, Joe is El Presidente of FIFA (The International Federation of  Avarice). In June, he'll have been top dog some 11 years (about 2.5 times the term for aggravated assault) and despite being roundly regarded by anyone outside the arselicking footballing hierarchy as about as much use as a slip-on football boot, is seeking re-election until at least an exhumation order is granted on his cold dead corpse. Incidentally, his longevity in the post, is in no way related to the fact that his first foray into football authority, was as President of the Zurich Brown Shirts, whose annual Kristallnacht anniversary celebrations, were considered quite a thing by the Zurich elite.
Old Joe is no stranger to controversy. In 2004, he sought (and probably succeeded) to alienate himself from the female football loving fraternity, by suggesting they 'wear tighter shorts and low-cut shirts, to create a more female aesthetic', sadly a proposal that was only adopted by David Beckham.
Further, after awarding the 2022 tournament to Qatar (previously only known to followers of the beautiful game, as inflammation of mucous membranes, especially of the nose and throat) Mr B suggested that gay fans (additional explanations of that term for followers of Millwall FC, will appear in future postings) should refrain from any sexual activities, what with such tom(dick and harry)foolery being frowned upon in Arabic circles. Seriously, did he watch any of the last World Cup? There were more than a few occasions where buggery was becoming a serious probable diversion...or is that perversion?
Anyhoo, it appears that his worst crime (pending the current investigation) was to be implicit in not awarding Englandshire the World Cup in 2018. Not the tournament you understand, but the actual trophy. Instead, it was awarded to those pesky Russians and as my Great Uncle Alfie used to say, ' you can't trust those fuckin arseholes'. It later emerged that he was referring to the English, but you get my drift.
So bringing us right up to speed, The Great Blattsby is now under an ethics investigation for prior knowledge of presumably illegal cash payments being made to some committee members. Brown envelopes passing about amongst fat cats?!? Whoever heard of such a thing?!?
In a yet to be officially announced sensational development, a rumour is in circulation, that the story/accusation was conjured up by BBC bosses, as an excuse (as if they fucking needed one) to show highlights of the 1966 World Cup Final, as a precursor to an article on the whole sorry mess.
In any event, if found guilty, not only will Blattwurst be in permanent disgrace, but he will also be sentenced to 10 years in Belgium. That'll teach the 'fat, repugnant, duplicitous, self-obsessed perjurer', which by remarkable coincidence, happens to be an anagram of Sepp Blatter.
Funny old game...

Things we know that we don't know...(with no apologies to D H Rumsfeld)

One thing i've noticed as the ageing process creeps inexorably over my being, is that when it comes to politics and the media, I just don't know who the fuck to believe any more. I know, I didn't mean to set sail on the good ship HMS Politicia, it's just that I heard an interesting radio article today about a little dust-up between The Murdoch Machine and arch climatology bore, Albert Arnold Gore (you can call me Al...source:Paul Simon).
Frankly, there is no referee, umpire, arbiter, etc, etc, qualified to judge who's spilling the truth beans between these two. Darth Murdoch and his yessir I can boogie men, have pretty much got Mediaville in their giant kangaroo pouch and Al...well he was Vice Prez of the US under Billy Bubba Clinton (surely one of the planets most successful post-coital liars in history) and then lost out to Dubya (there really is nothing left to say about that pavement turd). What is undeniable about both of their respective positions however, is surely the sheer volume of porkies they seem hellbound to spout.
In short, Gore has a little venture called Current TV (viewers Sid & Doris Bonkers) and Murdoch is giving it the heave-ho. Gore says it's because they've hired some liberal politics news anchor called Keith Olbermann. Although Keith has an Aryanish surname that makes me think he's fresh out of the Bolivian jungle after experimenting with blue dye in childrens eyes, it appears his motives may more innocuous and he's simply hired to stir up some more sensational contemporary revelations and Murdoch says it's to do with money (who'd have thunk it) and pish viewing figures. Anyhoo, it's all getting very heated (bit like the planet eh, Al?) and the whole debacle is just a microcosm of the political and media circus, bringing me back to my point about who the hell you believe. Sure, this charade is about as important as who was the first astronaut to fart in his spacesuit, but there are innumerable major issues out there that we all care about 'cos they impact on us. Every one of these 'politmedians' has his or her own agenda, which seems to outweigh simply telling us the truth more often than not.
So in conclusion, at the risk of sounding too melodramatic (it's my blog and if I want to inject a little false pathos, get over it) we are my friends, all just smoking beagles and whilst the rich become oligarchs and the liars pick up obscene sums for public speaking engagements, the beagles cough up phlegm and wither on the vine, because they can't afford decent healthcare...

Pond Life...

Who'd be a politician, eh? Yes, they're mostly shit..in it for themselves..ego-maniacs..duplicitous..(by the way, stop me when I get one wrong) but they are remarkably, disturbingly, interesting. Even to those of us who are not politically 'aware'.
Today on the news, I saw Newton Gingrich for the first time. Sure, i've heard of him..you don't forgot a name like Newt..but i've never actually seen him. Apparently, he fancies his chances as the next Prez of the good ol' US of A. At 68, apart from anything else, he's a step in the wrong direction on the age front. He also looks a bit like Jim Kirk being called up for one last Enterprise gig. Further, he brings all the statutory baggage...a mad shagging past, third wife and the gravitas that comes from leading impeachment proceedings against Clinton for his very own 'Blowathon' with the fragrant Monica, whilst simultaneously having an extra marital humping session of his own with the devout Cathoilc, Callista, some 23 years his junior. Kudos, baby!
And finally, this man is no slouch when it comes to what one might call, 'Rumsfeldisms'. Here's a peach... 'a mere 40 years ago, beach volleyball was just beginning. No bureaucrat would have invented it and that's what freedom is all about'. Excuse me?!?
Just when you thought that the world couldn't get any more fuckin' crazy, arise Sir Newt. Seriously, if the Yanks even give this guy a whiff of the Presidency, call me a cab boy...

Tuesday's Gone...

or not, actually. If you're perusing this blogette of mine, it means you didn't succumb to the finality of a 'Camping' holiday...Harry Camping, to be precise. Yes, the 89 year old American fruitloop who pronounced that the apocalypse was indeed upon us. In case you missed the last ever earthquake, it happened earlier today. As the great Linus Van Pelt once said, 'the world can't end today, because it's already tomorrow in some other countries.' Hey ho.
Whilst my little restaurant didn't have the most  stellar of Saturdays, it never quite felt like the end of the world. So pleasingly (depending on your view of the current parlous state of global economics) it appears that God had a prior engagement - maybe dental work - so doomsday will keep.
From old Harry's perspective though, technically it's hard to dispel the notion that Armageddon is already under way. It's just more that the planet is fast becoming financially, as well as morally bankrupt. I don't want to get too down, what with us already having dodged a bullet, it's just that this feels like a practice run for a catastrophe. Still with my stiff upper lip (and little else with such rigidity) i'll march stoically on, safe in the knowledge that we're all in this together..the last words I believe of General George Custer in 1876, before a brief skirmish with Brave Bear, in which he came off slightly worse.
Anyhoo, on Planet Rock today, I heard a version of the great Lynryd Skynryd song 'Tuesday's Gone' (from their first album) by Metallica. Now the Skyn had more than their fair share of hardship and tragedy, which tenuously links in with my rather doomladen meanderings. The Metallica effort is pretty cool and I might have liked it even more, had I never heard the original, which is perfection. So if their only reason for doing it, was as a homage to the Skyn, that's ok, but if it was for any other reason, kiss my buns boys and tootle off back to heavy metal central...
Now where did I put my 'End of the World is Nigh' sandwich board...