Thursday, December 31, 2009

Wolfgang in sheep's clothing: Part Two

Ok, so:

The drive back to Mum's was pretty quiet. Every time I tried to start a conversation with her she ended up bringing it round to Roger. How Roger and her are getting quite serious now. How they're thinking of taking it to 'the next stage', whatever that meant. I found it hard to believe that she could be talking about the physical side of their relationship. I doubt my mother would give me notice that she was planning to reawaken the slumbering beast of her carnality. And, frankly, I would not want to know about it if that was her intention. So I supposed that she could only mean marriage.

"Your Dad's been gone a long time, Barry," she said. "And Roger's a far better man than he was."

I couldn't really argue with her on this one. My Dad was a first class shit, as regular readers will know. I count myself lucky every day that I don't take after him in the least. Not that the comparison makes Roger a good man, of course. I'm pretty sure Pol Pot would edge it over my Dad. I bet he never ran off with a lollipop lady. Although Pol Pot's Lollipop would make for a good tune, I suppose.

Anyway, the last thing I wanted to hear about was Mum banging on about hitching her cart to Roger's wagon, so when she said: "I had hoped you might be pleased for me..." I just put my ipod on. I needed to focus, and I'm afraid Mum just had to be a casualty of war at that point.

Back at the house Roger was there to greet us, wearing a smug expression that seems to be a permanent fixture. He has the most slap-able chops I've ever seen on a man. Take Nicky Campbell, multiply his slapability by that of Piers Morgan, add the corresponding value for Michael McIntyre and, well, you're not even close.

We went inside and he insisted that the first thing I did was to introduce myself to his mother.

"And here we are, Barry," he said, "just as I promised. Two fine men sharing Christmas with their mothers. I'd like to introduce to my dear, dear mother, Greta. Mother, this is Barry."

She said:

"He looks like a skinhead. Is he a skinhead?"

Roger said:

"No, no mother. It's quite the fashion these days for men who are losing their hair to shave what's left off altogether."

"Like on Eastenders?" she said.

"That's right, Mother dear. Like on Eastenders."

I nearly hit him. I don't think I've ever seen an older looking woman in my life. I'd say she looked old for 96, really. Anyway, I shook her hand, which felt like paper, and went upstairs to my room. At least they hadn't taken down my Forest posters. But my old room made me feel claustrophobic. Like I'd never left, except here was me, the bad side of 35, lying on a child's bed in a room decorated with pictures of Forest's 1980 European Cup winning side. It felt a bit like dwelling on past glories, if you know what I mean.

So in the end, I bolted. I went downstairs, told Mum I was heading out and went to the pub. It was full of kids. But I found a table in the corner and waited it out. By the time I got back the place was dark and quiet. At least until I tripped over Roger's mum's walking stick. It wasn't the most dignified of entrances, I guess. When you're lying on the floor in your Mum's house, a little over refreshed, at my age, looking up the stairs at your Mum, her new bloke (the tip of whose cock you think you can just about see under his short dressing gown) and your Mum's new bloke's mum (fortunately in a long dressing gown) well you could look at it as a new low, couldn't you. Unfortunately, before Christmas Day was out, I was to look back on this moment as a golden memory of happier times.

I didn't get up until after one, by which stage the others were already on the sherry. There was no option for me but to take the proffered glass from Roger, I needed to steel myself.

"So Barry, did you have a good night last night?" he said, with a smirk. "I trust you slept well. We've been waiting for you. We were hoping to be able to open some presents but I'm afraid the wonderful turkey your mother's been preparing is now ready to be consumed. So we will have presents, ahem, presently." My mum actually laughed at this.

Dinner was wasted on me, if I'm honest, despite it containing all my favourite constituent parts. Roger even had the ability to spoil my food. As I sat pushing sticky toffee pudding round my plate I noticed from the wall clock that it was ten to three. I had a brainwave.

"Come on then," I said. "Let's go and watch the Queen's Speech."

"The Queen's Speech?" said Mum. "You hate the Queen's Speech."

"Not any more," I said. "It's important, isn't it Roger."

"If you say so, Barry," said Roger.

I insisted that they all move through to the living room and we switched on the telly. I fucking hate the Queen's Speech, Mum was right. But this gave me the opportunity to talk serious nationalism. And I have to say, the Queen did not let me down. It was all about the Commonwealth this year, which looked like nothing so much as a desperate, last ditch attempt to keep people focused on something other than all of the shit that's currently going on right here at home. I think we all know that the days when Britain was a serious international power in it's own right are long gone. I bet the Chinese ambassador was just quaking when she got called in to be told that her country shouldn't have executed that bloke this week. Not that we're doing anything about it, of course, just registering our disapproval. Speaking as someone who went on the stop the war march, I'd have thought that the Government would know that registering disapproval is pretty much pointless.

So, as the national anthem came on I stood up and put my fist to my chest. The rest of them looked at me like I was completely mad.

"Come on Roger, stand up!" I said. "Don't you believe we should respect our nation? She's everything to us!"

"I don't feel the need to stand up, Barry," he said.

So there I was standing up in my Mum's living room, fist to chest, singing the National Anthem all on my own. I was starting to feel it all slipping away a bit. The last thing I am is a monarchist. I can't stand the Royal Family. But I'd got so far into this that I couldn't get out. I made one last attempt after the speech was over.

"Well Barry, what did you think of that?" said Roger.

"It was a bit... ethnic, wasn't it?" I said. "I mean, they had a bloody steel band. That's not British, is it. That's now what we're about, is it Roger?"

"Actually, I adore the sound of the steel band," said Roger. "I used to play in one."

"What the bloody hell for?" I said. "You're white!"

"Oh for crying out loud just shut up!" shouted Mum, and then burst into tears. "I don't know what's going wrong with you, Barry. You turn up here looking like a bloody football hooligan. Your face is all gaunt, your eyes are dark. You could be on drugs for all I know. And you've developed the most... odious outlook. It sickens me, Barry. How could you be so prejudiced."

"It's not me, Mum," I said, "It's Roger. He's a facist! I'm just trying to show you!"

"HE IS NOT A FACIST, HE'S A VERY NICE MAN INDEED." Mum screamed. "Now, get out, I've had enough. I'm ashamed to call you my son. I don't want anything more to do with you," At this point, she ran from the room, sobbing. I'll be honest, it wasn't my finest hour.

I turned to Roger, who was smiling. He walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Barry, Barry, Barry," he said. "When are you going to learn. Your mother can't stand those views. She can't stand them. You're going about it all the wrong way, let me tell you. In some ways, I admire your vigour, your verve. We need more like you. But if there's one thing we've learned it's that you have to change, you have to modernise, you have to become like the people you want to appeal to. How do you think we got a Labour government? All this..." here he waved a hand at my haircut, and my 18-hole, cherry red DMs, "all this is yesterday's news. We can't be like this any more."

"Eh?" I said.

"We're politicians now. We want to get elected. You see? We can't be seen as thugs, it just won't do. It won't help us."


"Look, I'm with you, I really am. For me, Hitler was the greatest statesman the world has ever known. He had a plan. A vision."

At this point, my head was spinning. And then Greta piped up:

"Ah, the dear, dear Fuhrer. You know for five months in 1943 I had the great, great honour of being one of his secretaries. Deutschland über alles mein Sohn."

"Deutschland über alles meine Mutter," said Roger. Then she stood up and the pair of them started singing O Tannenbaum! I couldn't fucking believe it.

I made a run for it, stopping only to grab my bag and a present with my name on it from under the Tannenbaum. As I left the house I suddenly remembered my voice recorder! In the middle of all that I'd completely forgotten to switch it on! Right then and there I had what I was looking for, and it had slipped straight through my fingers. My Mum, the woman I loved most in the world, hated me and had told me she never wanted to see me again. Meanwhile, she was shacked up with a neo Nazi and his mother; a woman who could probably be tried as a fucking war criminal! That's not what Christmas is supposed to be about.

I checked into a cheap hotel and, once in the room, opened my present. It was from Mum. The label said: "Dear Barry, I know how much you want to be a writer, so I thought this would come in useful. Lots of love, your Mum. xxx"

It was a thesaurus.

My feelings of loss and guilt were Brobdingnagian.

Happy new year, everyone


Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Wolfgang in sheep's clothing: Part One

I don’t know about you, readers, but I had a shit Christmas. In fact, it would be no exaggeration to describe the whole experience as a complete disaster. The bottom line for anyone who can’t be bothered to read on is that my mother has disowned me.

Looking back on it I suppose it was a bit of a bad mix. Coming off the twelve drugs of Christmas was probably not the best time to be making my last, big push to out Roger to Mum as a fascist. But I thought, in my addled state, that it would be my best chance, all of us under one roof at Christmas. It’s a difficult few days at the best of times, so I was hoping to capitalise on the season’s traditional tensions.

As you know, the idea is that I persuade Roger that I, like him, am a neo Nazi and, once I have his confidence, make a secret tape of his evil ranting on my little voice recorder, play it to Mum and send him packing once and for all.

In preparation for the whole thing, to finally get behind Roger’s veneer of respectability, I shaved my head. I tell you what; it really does make you look more intimidating. I noticed as I was walking down the street that people were giving me strange looks. You can imagine how this was making me feel having spent the previous twelve days taking the hardest drugs known to man.

By the time I reached the station on Christmas Eve I was almost shitting myself with fear. And then I actually did shit myself, just a little bit. The drugs have played havoc with my insides. So I ran to the toilet and when I came out of the toilet I got a nosebleed. People were properly moving out of my way. One woman grabbed her kids and ran. It was horrible. And this on Christmas Eve, of all days. Season of goodwill! When we’re supposed to be looking after our fellow men, people saw me in distress and legged it.

I didn’t have time to worry too much, though, as I had Roger’s destruction on my mind.

I got on the train and managed to get a seat, which was great. After a couple of cans of Cobra (I’d brought them with me. One of the great barbarisms of our national rail network is the onboard lager selection) I was feeling a little bit calmer. I stuck my ipod on and settled down for the journey.

Mum met me at the other end. She said:

“Are you alright, love? You look terrible. And what in God’s name have you done with your hair? I know it was thinning a bit on top, but you didn’t have to go and shave it all off. You look like one of those football hooligans from the eighties.”

My hair is NOT thinning on top, readers. It’s a fact that my Mum is five foot three and I’m only a shade under six foot. She hasn’t seen the top of my head since I was eleven. I don’t know what the bloody hell she was talking about.

“Roger couldn’t come with me to pick you up,” she said. “His Mum doesn’t like being left alone. She’s remarkable, really. She’s 96, you know.”

I should point out here that I don’t much like old ladies. I had a very nasty experience with one once. And not like that, if any of you are thinking mucky thoughts. I’m not Wayne bloody Rooney.

No, I was visiting my Gran in hospital. I loved my Gran, and I’m not afraid to say it. Unfortunately she was well on the way to losing her marbles at this stage and, in many ways, had reverted to a kind of childhood. Certainly a lot of words were coming out of her mouth that I had never heard her say. I guess that generation was never really able to shake off the prejudices of their upbringing. It’s sad.

It’s like my Great Aunty Em. When I was about eleven, just as Mum was bidding farewell to the top of my head forever, I went round to see Great Aunty Em. It was the fashion at the time for boys at my school to wear St Christopher’s medals round our necks. Great Aunty Em opened the door and instead of giving me a mint humbug and a wet kiss she narrowed her eyes, pointed at my necklace and said: “That’s not one of them Stars of David, is it? Cos you’re not coming in if it is.” How’s that for open mindedness. Looking back now I realise she must have been pretty stupid. Not many kids up and convert to Judaism at the age of eleven, after all. There was only one who did at my school. Poor old Aashif. His parents didn’t speak to him for a month. He had to go and live with Mr Cohen, our guitar teacher. And that sparked a few rumours.

Anyway, Aunty Em didn’t have it easy looking after her husband, Terry. He went soft in the head and started rolling his shit into little balls and putting them into an empty Maltesers box, which he’d offer to visitors. Disgusting, really. He was bloody good at table tennis, though. County champion, or something. That’s how he’d want to be remembered, I think, not as some mephitic old goat playing in his own filth.

Anyway, I was visiting my Gran in hospital and she was sharing a room with an old lady called Elsie. Every time the nurse came in, she’d shout at Elsie (in a nice way, because Elsie was deaf as a brick):


And then she’d turn to me and shout:


And I’d say:

“You don’t need to shout at me, Nurse, my hearing’s fine, thanks.”

And then my Nan would whisper to me:

“There are lots of darkies in here, aren’t there.”

And the Nurse would say:

“My hearing’s very good as well, you know, Mrs Deakins,” and then she’d tut and walk out.

And that’s kind of how it went, round and round and round. Anyway, one day, I was visiting Gran and Elsie, who had been asleep when I arrived, started to moan. She said:

“Help…. Help me.”

Naturally I pretended that I couldn’t hear her, it was a very quite moan, so I was within my rights. I don’t need to be administering first aid to an old lady. Even though I did go on a course when I was in the scouts. But she kept it up:

“Help me… Help me….”

It was a pathetic sound really, and she was trying to reach for the panic button. After a few minutes I got up and went over to Elsie’s bed. I shouted:


And she said:

“Help me…” and carried on trying to press the button.

So I said:


And she said:

“Help me…”

So I pressed the button. As soon as I’d done that, she sat bolt upright, laughing and said:

“He he he he, now you’re in trouble.”

And I bloody was, too. I didn’t get to see Gran again until she was put in the home. And by then she’d gone completely. It wasn’t much fun in there. I tell you what, if I lose my marbles, give me the pillow and don’t let up ‘til my feet stop twitching.

Anyway, I’ve gone right off piste, haven’t I. I was supposed to be telling you about what happened up in Lincoln with my final big push to out Roger. Unfortunately I’ve got to go see a man about a dog, so I’m going to have to give you the low down tomorrow.

Hope you had a better one than I did.



Monday, December 21, 2009

A very unholy trinity

I am scared readers, it's not just a drug-induced paranoid psychosis either. Dippy has revealed the final three drugs of Christmas. She's gone just a touch mental I think. They are seriously hardcore.

We had magic mushroom tea last night and, well, things didn't quite go to plan I don't think. In short, nothing really happened. Dippy got a bunch of candles out and put on some Gregorian chant and we stared into the flames. We were naked readers, I don't mind telling you that, there's nothing wrong with the naked body, but having the two Larsons grinning over at me was quite off-putting. And, well, Dippy is off-setting her Carbon footprint, so the heating wasn't on and so it was quite cold, that's all I'm saying.

We sat around in a circle for about an hour, no one said anything, and nothing happened. The flames of the candles kept flickering and the Gregorian chant kept chanting. Dippy's nipples went like battleship rivets, and she was covered in goose bumps. But nothing really happened, no out of body or mind experiences, no doors opening into a whole new perception reality. Just the occasional fart befunking the atmosphere.

Eventually we were faced with the very uncomfortable truth that, like it says in the song, the drugs didn't work. (I know it says in the song "don't work" but some of them do, but not this one.)

Anyone who's anyone that's dabbled in Dr Uggs will know the feeling that you've been had by a dealer. It comes with the territory. Who among us hasn't bought a bag of potpourri from a traveller's urchin when the fair comes to town?

But Dippy went absolutely balistic, totally going off on one about how the dealer had 'fucked up Christmas', 'ruined everything'. I tried to calm her down by pointing out the inherent irony that the arts project, which was set up to demonstrate that religion is a drug which mankind can break, was broken by a false narcotic itself. That she had put her faith in a Camden-based shaman who had peddled nothing but hollow promises. "Fuck off, Barry," she said, "sometimes I get the impression you're only here to look at me tits."

'Fair cop, ' I thought as I looked at her tits. Mesmerized for a second I was, but the spell was broken when one of the Larsons got up and announced he'd get on the phone to his dealer and get in some supplies.

Well, Dippy jumped into life at this point and announced that the final three drugs of Christmas would have to be pretty fucking mental.

I'm totally crapping it readers, all the drugs so far have been fairly manageable, but over the next three days I get the feeling we're in for quite the ride.

Very shortly, Dippy will be doing what MLS warned against just the other day, she'll be opening up the advent calendar and finding a deeply suspicious looking crack behind the door. Jesus, like millions of you out there, I saw Whitney Houston on the X-Factor. If crack can do that to Houston, I don't stand a chance.

Then tomorrow Dippy has lined crystal meth. FUCK. I've got no idea what it does, but in the words of Super Hands out of Peep Show, it's quite moorish apparently.

Then on Christmas Eve itself, when supposedly the Arch Angel Gabriel Batistuta came down from Heaven and told the shepherds about the baby Jesus, we'll be doing our own version of the nativity with PCP - that's Angel Dust to you and me.

I thought that we had Angel Dust at school, it was a kind of super sweet candy that crackled on your tongue, but I've been put right, I think I was possibly mixing it with Angel Delight and Star Dust. Maybe that's what PCP is?? I dunno, but apparently Angel Dust makes you feel invincible, much like having about 12 cans of Cobra, the only difference is, it doesn't knock you out. Far from it.

I don't think that I'll be any kind of fit state to post over the next three days. But if you see a story on the news about a middle-aged, yet youthful looking, Citizen Journalist jumping off the Millennium Eye - it'll probably be me.

But know this readers, I did it out of love, and not just because Dippy's tits are to die for.

Yours in love

Barrington E Newsdesk

Sunday, December 20, 2009

An apology

OYG readers, I've just finished reading Dave the roofer's rant. I feel I need to humbly apologise to the blogosphere for the lowering of tone caused by his foul-mouthed tirade.

I know you're reading this Dave. You've sunk to new depths, you really have. As if sleeping with my ex wasn't bad enough, you then you knocked her up, now you've insulted my craft.

Insulting the blogosphere is beyond acceptance. I've changed the log-in details so hopefully there'll be no more unwanted visits or posts from the roofing fraternity.

Thing is Dave, I wish you'd ranted before I'd ordered C.N. Mindham's Roof Conversion and Loft Conversion (paperback) on

I hope you're enjoying the minus 45C Edmonton winter by the way!!!!!

I also feel I should offer a particularly heartfelt apology to Mr UberGrumpy. Not just for Dave the roofer's attack, but also because I wrote something that made you follow me, only to write something that made you unfollow me and publicly let the world know. I think I know how Jesus must have felt the night Judas fingered him to the Romans.

If you've not seen Uber's blog, I suggest you check it out, he might not be following me, but I still support him. Uber has a host of blogger awards to his name and has generated (at the time of blogging) a followership of 60! His blog isn't a patch on Mr London Street's, however, he does feature a soft porn picture of an attractive lady on his blog posts, so it's still worth having a look.

I would have blogged sooner, but I've only just come around from my opiate-induced comaette. After the speed-based activities of Friday evening, Dippy and I slowed things down on Saturday with some laudanum. It's quite an old fashioned drug readers, and like strict discipline, sexual repression and ingenius feats of engineering, it tends to be associated with the Victorians. These days you can usually find some in old people's homes - along with strict discipline, sexual repression and ingenius feats of engineering.

I can't say I particulalrly enjoyed the laudanum, but at least I got some sleep. I'd give Phyllosan a crack, as it seems to be doing MrC the power of good, but Dippy is in the driving seat drugwise. I've got the feeling she's building up to something quite major as she's insisted we take it quite easy with today's drug of Christmas.

We're going to have a few cups of tea tonight readers, sounds quite civilised doesn't it? Tea made Britain great ater all. Although, Dippy did go out to pick up the 'shrooms from a bloke she knows in Camden, so (your)God only knows what'll happen.

The last time I had the mushies, I spent eight solid hours talking to Steve's cat, Phillip. Phillip was unusual for a couple of reasons, first he was a she. I'm not talking about a transexual cat, although that would be quite intriguing. No, it was just a girl cat that Steve had called Phillip, although the reason was unclear and Steve did get a bit defensive whenever questioned on the matter. Second Phillip was odd because she had six toes. As you can probably well imagine, a six-toed trans-gender feline was quite the oddity in Lincoln, even more so after imbibing hallucinogens.

Anyhoo, peace out blogosphere and, once again, please accept my apologies for Dave's rant.



Saturday, December 19, 2009

A word from Dave. And, no, there's no fucking picture

Right, I’m not one to fuck about, as I understand Baz has let you know in his previous posts. And I’m here to have a virtual word with Mr Ubergrumpy, a man who can’t even be bothered to locate the keystroke necessary to stick a fucking umlaut up top of his ‘U’.

The umlaut on the word ‘über’ is like the roof on a fucking house. That’s to say – or ‘ie’ as ‘ubergrumpy’ would probably rather have it – it is FUCKING NECESSARY. Alright? You do not want to be a roofless person. It does not make for peace and fucking harmony. And it goes without saying that, as a roofer, I take exception to some cunt coming along and leaving the roof off a fucking house.

It’s not like I ain’t seen it before. You only need to go to Kefalonia and you’ll see it all over the fucking shop. But there’s a reason for that, and that reason is that they stuck a fucking roof tax on all new buildings years back, which meant that every twat building a house out there pretended to put an extra floor on and left it without a roof. In all my fucking life I have never been anywhere so fucking tragic as Kefafuckinglonia. I went out there looking for work and what did I find? A land where roofs are fucking taxed! What a bunch of cunts.

Anyway, I suppose I’d better explain what I’m doing here, apart from what I’ve already said about wanting to have a virtual fucking pop at Mr Ubergrumpy. I’m Baz’s best mate, which you lot know already. Anyway, I keep up with his blog to make sure he’s ok. I care, that’s the fucking truth. And just because me and Gill are together these days don’t mean that I’d leave him hanging. And before you ask, yes, I follow him under a pseudonym. Not Ellie, either. Christ, does that sound like me?

Now, I’m not a blogging man. Truth be told blogging makes me fucking sick. Blogosphere? Cuntosphere, more like. Take me, right? I’m a roofer. I am, without wanting to blow my own trumpet, which I don’t need to do on account of Gill, who is more than happy to blow my trumpet every tea break (she stays in the van), no without wanting to ‘big myself up’ as the urchins are saying these days, I am the fucking Michelangelo of roofs. And before you start in with your fucking comments, Michelangelo did ceilings, not roofs. It’s a little known fact that, before he started off painting fat kids with wings, Michelangelo was an apprentice to one of his nation’s leading roofers. He didn’t last long, because he was a fucking cunt. Not because he was gay. Contrary to what a lot of people thing, roofers don’t hate gays, and there are some gay roofers who I would trust with any job I had. No he couldn’t fucking concentrate, that was his problem. Anyway, his gaffer told him: ‘I think you’d be better of with ceilings, Mickey. And that, as they say, was that.

So maybe you’d be right to say that I’m not the Michelangelo of roofs, because that would make me a shit roofer. But I’m just trying to put it in a way that the cuntosphere can understand. Truth is, I’m the Dave the Roofer of roofers.

Anyway, my point is that, as a roofer, and as the best of the fucking roofers, the fucking Gandalf of roofers, I do not take kindly to shitty-arsed untrained interlopers. Would you, for example, get some cunt who knew jack shit about roofing to do you a roof? I should hope fucking not. And if you did, you’d fucking deserve it when that shit came crashing down on you when you were bang on the job with your missus on that one night in a thousand when she gives you carte blanche (or one night in one, for me).

So my point, as I was saying, is that people do what they’re good at. Or they used to, until the fucking internet came along. Jesus Christ, that Tim Berners-Lee’s got a fuck of a lot to answer for. Bloggers? They seem to think that, just because they have the capability to publish something, that the something they publish is worth fucking reading. That’s fucking internet democracy in fucking action. What a lot of catshit.

And I count Baz in this, I really do. I mean I can’t fucking believe that people are interested in the floppy shit that sad little monkey spunks up all over his computer. I really can’t. I’m staggered, to be honest with you. But that’s the way of things in the cuntosphere, I suppose. I mean, we’ve got writers, see? People who are good at writing are pro fucking writers. Like me and the roofs.

But at least Baz doesn’t do things like Mr Ubergrumpy. You see, it strikes me that, if you’re going to stop following one of these blogs, you might as well just stop following it. Disappear into the night like some fucking spirit of the silent darkness. But not Ubergrumpy. No, you see Mr Ubergrumpy fancies himself not just as a writer, but as a critic as well.

You see Mr Ubergrumpy decided to make his feelings known. He said the following:

‘Hmmm. Bye’.

And this from someone who breaks Fitzgerald’s cardinal rule, probably without even knowing what Fitzgerald’s cardinal rule even is. If Mr Ubergrumpy wants to be a writer, he should avail himself of Fitzgerald’s cardinal rule. FSF said you should never use an exclamation mark because it’s like laughing at your own jokes. And what does Ubergrumpy do? He points out his jokes and demands a laugh for them, like the worst fucking chick lit book I’ve ever read, and I did a stint reviewing chick lit books for the Daily Telegraph under a pseudonym, so I should fucking know.

Here’s one example:

“a good marriage is built on solid foundations (snigger) and moreover there's a festive tradition to be upheld here.”

Right, well, do we really need you to indicate that there was a joke there Mr U? I do not fucking think so. I think you know that, Mr U. I think you know that your readers are able to spot the double meaning in there. What I actually think happened here is that you realised your gag was a balding thatch so you decided to reinforce it with a request for approval. And what, after all, is a blog if it’s not a request for approval? Daddy not love you? I mean, have you read Barry? Jesus, if his old fella had stuck around he wouldn’t be such a cockless fuckup!

Here’s another:

“P.S. The very lovely Vodka Logic has posted my 'New Santa's Hit' (watch that punctuation) at her sumptuous blog. Complete with tasteful illustrations!”

Jesus fucking Christ, is Mr U so concerned that his joke’s too clever for his readers that he needs to tell them to read it again? Are his readers that stupid? I should hope fucking not.

It comes to something when you’ve got to beg for sycophancy, doesn’t it? Fuck me.

Oh, and Barry’ll be well pissed off when he finds out about this, but fuck it. Gill had his login details. She was reading this from the off. Why do you think she dropped her kecks for me?

He needs to be told, and so do the rest of you.

Dave the Roofer.

Friday, December 18, 2009

speed makes your dick shrink but you don't really care but you do care but you don't until it's too late then you care but then it's too late

I worked in Butlins when I was a student, just in the summer break it was, Skegness. I was a waiter, not in a cocktail bar, I was struggling for work that summer, but needed to get away from Mum, I needed to get away from Lincoln too and Trent poly (your) God I only wish I'd met Mr C back then. Seven days a week we worked, seven, no rest for the wicked. Up at six, off to do a morning shift, you start off with like one or two tables of six to eight and you slowly work your way up to a station of ten, ten tables of six to eight, that's a lot of fucking grub to serve up and you've got two hours to serve up to 80 breakfasts too, 80, eight, zero, and you don't just rock up and dish out the Cornflakes, I mean you do, you do dish out Cornflakes, but they have the option, the campers, the diners, they get to say what they want, but you already know what they want becasue they choose what they want the night before, Cornflakes, Sugar Puffs, Snap Crackle and Pop, porridge, I can't remember all the options, but they get a choice, then you take them tea or coffee, tea or coffee or orange or all three and water, tea and coffee and orange and water and toast, plenty of toast. You got your toast from the toastman. I. AM. TELLING. YOU. The toastman was without doubt the man of power at Butlins. Not only could he fuck you up, fuck you backwards and sideways and all ways by not giving you the toast on time, honestly, you could have a perfect shift, a perfect shift of delivering the breakfasts and then the toastman woulnd't deliver. That was it, that was your tip gone. And the tips were what we lived on, wages were like £2 per hour, and we did two three hour shifts per day, for seven days a week, but the waiters earned the big bucks at Butlins, more than the red coats, because the waiters got the tips, with a station of ten tables of eight, and a tenner per table, which was by no means uncommon, that was you sorted with an extra £100 on a Friday night, and that's when you needed to know the toastman. After you'd finished your dinner shift, after you'd been asleep all day after breakfast and you'd been to slop out the mush that was passing itself off as food, starters, mains and puddings, teas and coffees, you'd get your tips. Then after you wished the campers well and thanked them all for a wonderful week, a wonderful week of laughing at their jokes and of telling them about your life, and how you're a student and need the money to help pay your rent, you get back to the chalet, you get your glad rags on and you get yourself out to the Enchanted Castle. Before 8pm, the Enchanted Castle is a great big warehouse of a venue full of kids playing video game machine and going nuts on Coke and lemonade, after 8pm the Butlins staff make an orderly queue to see the toastman, it's not the first time they've been in his company that day, but this time you don't want toast, you want something all together more uplifting, something that is going to get you through the hours of mindless Europop while you try in vain to get yourself laid with that girl from Scunthorpe and so you get yourself a couple of wraps of pink champagne, a glucose-enriched amphetamine. It's speed Jim but not as you know it, it's the kind that keeps you drinking the £1 bottles of turbo cider until the early hours, until you pass out from exhaustion, then wake up and six am and do it all again. Morning campers, Hi-di-fucking-hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Journey to the centre of the K hole

Hey readers, I tell you what, please ignore all that stuff I wrote about wanting you to take acid. I had the worst stomach ache of my life for five hours and I was a right old mess. I re-read what I’d written and, wtf? What a load of old bollocks! I’m embarrassed, to be honest with you.

Hello to my new follower Kate, btw. Nice to see you but, take my advice, steer clear of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds!

The thing is, this arts project is getting a bit out of hand. But when it comes to Dippy, I’m just a guy who can’t say “no” and the sixth drug of Christmas was quite something else. I’m not sure exactly what though. Jesus drugs are quite dangerous, dangerous but quite the experience.

And I have just had quite the experience, I can tell you that for the price of nothing. I am just back from what is known in the parlance of those who know as the ‘K-hole’. I did intend to blog about my first experience of ketamine, otherwise known as K, as it happened, but I was too fucked to type. Actually, out of my face doesn’t even come close – I spent 20 minutes thinking I was nothing but a little white box with the letter P on it. WTF?!

Madonna was wrong by the way – K is no way better than ecstasy. Then again, she is about 70 or something and has probably done the 12 drugs of Christmas more than once, especially since she used to go out with gangsters like Ice T.

Anyway, I digress, I was going to tell you about my experience in the K-hole. It was actually pretty scary from start to finish. Dippy reckons she’s done K loads, so I followed her lead. Apparently K is quite hard to get hold of on the street these days, but Dippy said we’d be able to get some at this squat party. It was one of those ones where you have to phone a mobile number an hour before it starts to get the address, which was some disused warehouse on the A406, near the big Staples.

It was like that party where I met Dips, it was like a drugs sweet shop. Everyone was fucked out of their minds. There were tramps with dogs on string smoking crack out of beer tins, prossies touting their wares and little kids of about 14 running around selling acid, I’m not touching that again in a hurry. There was even a stall set up in the corner, just selling drugs openly. It was brilliant, just a great big two finger salute to The Man, like we were all saying, “you can’t keep us down, because we’re free thinkers! You can’t keep us boxed up, because in here, we are no longer in your world and we can access the truth!” So we bought three grams of K from the shop and Dippy was all like “let’s just do it now,” but I didn’t want to taint my first experience in such a weird vibed environment, so I said we should go home.

Lucky we did too – the pigs were outside waiting for the party to die down enough to charge in and beat everyone up probably. I thought they might shake us down, but I outsmarted them. I hid the wraps of K in an open packet of smoky bacon crisps I had. They didn’t stop us but it would have been ironical if they had – smoky bacon – pigs. Lol!!

So back at home Dippy racked up two fat lines of K. Apparently you can’t die or overdose on K. It’s actually a horse tranquiliser, and they used it as a field anaesthetic in ‘Nam, for that very reason. That you can’t OD on it, not that it’s a horse tranquiliser. They didn’t have horses in ‘Nam. Probably because they were all eaten by the Viet Cong.

Anyway, K is a dissasociative, which means it makes your mind feel as though it’s outside of your body. Far out man! But [your]God that stuff is awful! It hits you pretty much instantaneously and you just lose control of your motor functions. It’s like you’re a passenger in your own head, watching your body move around like a Thunderbirds puppet. It’s a really disorientating experience and it makes you feel sick. I had to crawl on my hands and knees to the lav so I could worship the porcelain altar, because I swear to [your] God I thought I was sitting on the ceiling. Dippy didn’t even make it that far, she puked down the side of the sofa. It was like the room was spinning so I just had to ride out the rest of the trip laying on the bathroom floor. I don’t even know how long it lasted ‘cos time just seemed to loop in on itself, like it was infinite or something. And just as I was coming round again Dippy said we should do another line, and then she said that having sex on K is a really weird experience. So I saw my chance here readers, I said we should try it then, you know, for the sake of research ;-) afterwards we could always say it was the drugs talking. Dippy was up for it which was brilliant because I’ve been wanking like a trooper lately and I really needed a chance to properly clean out the pipes. But as soon as we got our kit off (Dippy has amazingly pert knockers BTW!) it all went wrong… Now I’m not talking brewer’s droop, everyone knows that happens often after a night on the sauce and it’s nothing to worry about, but this was different. Suddenly I felt as though I was in the centre of a Roman amphitheatre, about to do the deed with thousands of people watching from the stalls. And the crazy thing is that I could see myself from the crowd’s eye point of view, and there at the front of the crowd was Dan, looking at me all accusingly. I know none of this was really happening but it was like I was a passenger in my own nightmare, while myself was acting of its own accord. It gave me stage fright, my knob shrunk to an acorn, Dippy got the hump and the moment was ruined. I needed a couple of Cobras to get myself back together but it’s a bit awkward with Dippy still.

I’m never doing that again.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

The Truth

Hello readers. I thought I’d take this opportunity to come and speak to you. Dippy’s not really with me at the moment. I mean, she’s here, in the room. Her body’s here in the room, but she’s somewhere else. Her self, you know? She’s been wiggling her hands for two hours and giggling. Wiggling and giggling. Before that she sat and stared at the table without moving for an hour. And that’s her thing. And that’s beautiful. Fucking beautiful. We really need people like Dippy, she’s so… alive to the moment. She’s a smile, a real smile.

I can’t help it, though, my mind just goes and goes and, well I guess I’m just an explorer, you know? Right now, though, I’m not exploring so much as evolving. I’m not the person I was. Literally, my mind has expanded to the size of the universe and that’s because I’ve found The Knowledge.

No wonder governments close the door to The Knowledge with their laws. If everyone found it there’d be a fucking revolution. Not a violent one, that’s not the answer at all. But a spiritual revolution, a revolution of thought. I mean, if a policeman came in now and said to me: “you’re under arrest” I’d just say: “Only in your world.” And that would be the truth. Because where I am now, they can’t touch me. They can only touch my body.

I’m not the person that I used to be. Lennon fucking knew it, I tell you. That man could see – really see, with his mind, not just his eyes. You know that song Tomorrow Never Knows? That’s it!

It’s like this: if you draw a stick man on a bit of paper, that stick man can move sideways, and he can move up and down. That’s his world, right? That’s what he understands. For the stick man there’s nothing but up and down and side to side. Up and down and side to side. Up and down and side to side. Up and down and side to side. Up and down and side to side. He can’t move off the paper, he’s stuck on a bit of A4 for his whole life. The paper’s his prison.

He has no concept of actually moving out of the paper. He’s got no in and out, only up and down and side to side. But if you showed that stick man how to move out of the paper, if you showed him that there was in and out as well as up and down and side to side, well you’d blow his fucking mind. Yes, my friends, indeed you would blow that little stick man’s paper brain wide open.

And that’s what we all are, we’re stick men and women and the world, and our life – they’re the paper prisons we’re stuck in. We only see the dimensions they let us see, because they want to keep us down. Keep us working, keep the truth from us. But I’m the stick man who’s come off the paper, you see? I’m out and I’m never going back. There’s a hole in the paper world where Barry used to be but Barry’s gone. Barry found his way out.

It’s so funny, I can remember Barry the person that existed before The Knowledge. But it’s not like it’s me, it’s like an ancestor, a distant thing, a sense of a thing, like where instincts come from. That person was defined by his limitations, his strictures. But I’ve become part of the infinity now. The mind is infinite, and it’s inside you! That’s the whole thing about perception: You think that you’re finite, because of the dimensions you understand. But actually, within the physical finite bounds of the body there is something infinite. You can only get out by first going in. Get it?

We used to know. As a species, I mean, we used to know. The Knowledge wants us to find it because only by different beings finding The Knowledge can The Knowledge grow and find more beings. That’s why it puts its doorways all over the world, and the Shaman, the spiritual leaders (not the band), they knew where to find them (maybe the band did too). The mushrooms, the herb, the cacti, the doorways are plants! What could be more natural than that? Believe me, The Knowledge wants to be found and when you find it, you become it.

But we’ve forgotten the truth. The people in charge, they don’t want us to find The Knowledge, they want to keep it for themselves. So they’ve made the plants illegal. How can you make a plant illegal? When you stop and think about it, you have to realise it’s the most ridiculous thing imaginable. A plant just is. You can’t allow or disallow something that just is. There it is growing out of the ground – it’s fucking life in its purest form. It comes out of the ground, out of a seed, it’s FUCKING BEAUTIFUL. You kill it, but it grows again. They want to make LIFE illegal!!

But they’re wrong, and if you want to eat that plant and find infinity that’s as it should be. I mean, this isn’t a drug I’ve taken. I thought it was a drug when Dippy gave it to me. But that’s what they want you to think. DRUGS ARE BAD that’s what they tell you. But this isn’t a drug, that’s my point, this is the fucking TRUTH!!!

They call it Acid, right? And that sounds like it’s bad. But it’s not bad. You know what though, it is a trip, like they used to call it in the 60s. It’s a trip, a one-way ticket to the reality of things. They say that people get damaged by it, that it fucks with their minds. Well, hello? Of course it does. Imagine if you were blind your whole life and then suddenly you could see. That would fuck with your mind, too. All that information going into your brain that wasn’t going in before would cause a few problems. So don’t go on to me about acid casualties, because the sad truth is that not everyone’s brain is robust enough to cope with The Knowledge right away. That’s all it is, readers. They’re not damaged – they’re just taking things in.

Hang on a minute, Dippy’s calling me.

Blimey, my sense of time has been really altered. I’ve just spent 90 minutes watching words move round on yesterday’s Metro. That’s some funny shit!

Anyway, where was I… Yeah, the truth. The Knowledge has always been and will always be, that’s how it is. There was nothing before The Knowledge, which isn’t to say that there was an absence of something before The Knowledge, more that there was no ‘before The Knowledge’ because The Knowledge has always been. See? And The Knowledge is a giant, speeding accumulation of experiences from the whole of time and infinity. You go through the doorway and you find the truth. All it asks in return is that you offer the sum of your experiences to it so that it can grow. And now it has Newsdesk in it and it’s a tiny bit bigger, a tiny bit brighter. But it is time and infinity and the universe and all the things we have these words for.

I guess if I was trying to explain it to someone who hadn’t come through the doorway, I’d say it’s a bit like Wikipedia. Like a sort of cosmic Wikipedia. Except while it’s an accumulation, I’m not sure if it’s actually a reference of accessible facts. Knowing The Knowledge is The Knowledge, if you see what I mean. I don’t know if you can just go up to it and say: “what’s it like to be a rabbit?” and then immediately experience what it’s like to be a rabbit. It’s still pretty new to me. That would be cool, though.

But, thinking about it, I guess the Web is a bit like The Knowledge. We’ve made the Web in its image. Accidental? I don’t know.

What it most definitely is not is God, or Allah, or whoever the fuck the religions try and make us think it is. It doesn’t care about stuff like that. It’s not a person, it’s not something you can understand unless you really embrace it. The religions, they give you just enough of the truth to make the lie credible. FUCK!!!

And here’s the funny thing, right? All the religions go on about when you die you find eternity and all that bollocks. Wrong! If you die without finding The Knowledge, you’re fucked. I’ve found it and it’s taken me with it on its journey through forever in every direction. So when I die, when my body dies, I’m still part of The Knowledge. So you find eternity through life, not in death.

I haven’t figured out yet if I need to keep going through the doorway, taking acid, to keep the connection going. Or if that’s it now, I’ll just constantly update. Like iTunes. I’m guessing this is it, I’ve changed. But I’m just going to take another one, just in case, to keep the door open a bit longer. I’ve got a lot to learn.

By the way, the whole time I’ve been typing this, I’ve been wearing a top hat.

You’re my readers and I love you so let me tell you this: If you only do one thing in the rest of your lives let that one thing be coming through the doorway. Whatever way you can, come through and find The Knowledge. Get some acid, whatever, just do it. I want you to live in The Knowledge, like I do. I want you guys to come with me. The Knowledge wants Mr Coleman’s gags, Mr London Street’s wry observations, Mess’s lovely French thoughts, Ellie’s dirty stories, all of it. It wants to be all of us and for all of us to be it, too. Come with me.

I want Mum to come with me too. Not Roger, though. I’m not sure I could ever persuade her to do what you have to do to come through the doorway, so I’m thinking I might just slip a tab in her dinner one night. I can’t bear the idea of her dying without becoming part of the The Knowledge.

Right, I’ve got to go now. We’re going to listen to some Jefferson Airplane.

Peace, really everyone. All the peace in the world to you and yours.

Get some acid, please.



Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Get back on the Horse

I didn’t get much sleep last night readers. Dippy and I broke one of the rules of the 12 drugs of Christmas arts project, we kept on taking the third day’s drug well into the fourth day. That’s the thing with coke though, you really can never quite have enough, unless you’re The Who bassist John Entwhistle.

Dippy and I stayed up all night playing Guitar Hero with Larson, snorting lines of Charlie from the back sleeve of a copy of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. It feels like my body has returned to Earth, but my mind stayed on the dark side.

I’m grim readers, grim, fidgety and full of self-loathing. The exact opposite of how I felt about 24 hours ago, when I was ready to Rage Against The Simon Cowell. Part of the cause of my funk is the fact that Larson pointed out Rage Against The Machine are signed up to Sony BMG which owns Syco, which is Simon Cowell’s company that owns the rights to the X-Factor. So me and Dippy have inadvertently indirectly added to Cowell’s wealth.

Oh what I’d give for a night off, a nice Fray Bentos and maybe a couple of Cobra, but I can’t have a night off readers, Dippy won’t let me, she is committed to the 12 drugs of Christmas project, adding to the doubt and turmoil is the knowledge that the fourth drug of Christmas is brown readers, golden brown, H, horse, scag, I'm going dancing with Mr Brownstone, I’m talking about HEROIN!

I’ve never done heroin before, not after what it did to Zammo McGuire, I just said “no”. But now I can’t say “no”, not to Dippy.

Dippy is my heroin.

Dippy is my heroine.

Dave the roofer once told me that he chased the dragon and it was like returning to the womb. He said he felt so secure, so safe and protected, so uplifted too as though the world’s troubles had slipped away and he was in heaven itself. Sounds flippin’ great readers, a bit too great, like curry flavoured Frey Bentos.

I’ve seen Trainspotting though and I can tell you for what, even though Dave the roofer thoroughly enjoyed his time as a smackhead, I am not looking forward to the experience. I thought I had better write up today’s blog post as close as possible to the moment when Dippy sticks me in the arm.

She’s cooking up as I write these words readers, a dessert spoon bent over a lighter. I’ve got Larson’s belt around my bicep pulled tight, it’s quite tricky typing with just one hand, but I’m determined to keep on blogging right up to the point the needle goessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

Monday, December 14, 2009

She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie

Word up dudes, foe max-ee-mum eeeeffect with this post, I strongly suggest you click this link and then read it and weep blood.

FUCK YEAH! I am well pumped readers, I tell you for why. Because I'm fully up with the Bruno Brookes, and I'm sticking it to he Man!

How? Yeah, well, I knew you were going to ask me that. You know the X-Factor? It's, well, I hate everything about it. Yep, I know I signed up the office sweep stake, but I've never really liked it, not since that Will Young beat the poor lad with the speech defect. I can't remember his name, oh hang on, Gareth Gates wasn't it? Yeah, I wonder what happened to Gareth? Well, I seem to recall he lost his stutter actually, almost immediately upon coming second, the whole country was conned by the jumped up gimp, then he ended up boffing glamour babe Jordan before disappearing into obscurity. You've got to admire my good friend Pete Andre, he didn't disappear into obscurity after boffing Jordon. He disappeared into absurdity, maybe, but not obscurity.

Anyway, sorry, I got a bit side-tracked there. Dippy and I have spent all day today downloading Rage Against The Machine's Killing In The Name Of. Someone started a Facebook group encouraging people to rail against X-Factor winner geordie Joe McElderry by buying the RATM classic in an attempt to stick it to the corporate scumbag Simon Cowell by pipping his new pipsqueak popstar to the number one spot this Christmas.

It's literally all over the blogosphere and the Twittersphere, and it's probably all over the MySpacesphere, only I'm not on MySpace, because that seems to be for boys who want to be rock stars and girls who want to be porn stars. I'm not sure about the Bebosphere as I'm also not on Bebo, as Dave the roofer told me that the police scan Bebo looking for people who aren't quite what they seem, as Bebo is mainly for kids, and people on there pretending to be someone they're not are almost certainly kiddy fiddlers and the police take a fairly dim view of that sort of thing, so even if you're on there for all the right reasons you still might get a visit form the Paedofinder General.

The RATM idea a great campaign isn't readers? It's people power embracing social media to make a difference. I was a bit miffed when Brookes took issue with me in the Yorkshire Grey, but so what, someone's got to stand up and Rage Against The Simon Cowell Money Making Machine. FUCK YEAH.

Anyway, I've gotta go readers, Dippy's just racked up a couple more white lines.

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me some Colombian Marching Powder! Sing it, YEAH.

COME ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sunday, December 13, 2009

The 12 drugs of Chritsmas

I'm writing this blog post from Dippy's sofa and the vibe is totally mellow. It's day two of my new soulmate's festive arts projects: the 12 Drugs of Christmas.

I know that traditionally the 12 days of Christmas follow the 25th, but this art man, and besides, Dippy is going back to Oz until the New Year - she's taking part in this really worthy eco-project to help protect the environment of perhaps the most charismatic of all of God's creatures, I use the expression loosely as we all know that the earth's creatures were created via Charles Darwin, although if ever there was a creature to question the validity of Mr Darwin's selection process, it would be the duck-billed platypus.

These harmless freaks of nature are being hemmed in on all sides by Mother Nature's rapist, Mr Mankind. Dippy is using her 12 drugs of Christmas art project to off-set her carbon footprint, as we plan to spend the entire 12 days without electricity in the flat and we'll share bath water, although we do have a small generator in the garden to power the stereo.

Yesterday afternoon I got back from Dubai, I was pretty shattered, but really excited to be seeing Dippy and to be finding out about the project. The 12 drugs os Christmas is piece of satire readers, it likens Man's need for religions as an addiction, but the point of the 12 drugs of Christmas is that we will take a different drug, one each day, in the 12 days running up to Christmas, at the end of which we will go cold turkey on Christmas day (a direct reflection and reaction, juxtoposed against the hot turkey that the majority of so-called Christians will be eating on Christmas day itself), thus breaking the cycle of addiction and religion.

In a paraody of symbolism of the messiah the first drug of Christmas was ecstacy. This drug was first introduced to the world clinically as Adam, so it seemed a particularly appropriate starting point.

We had a selection of pills and even some powdered MDMA. For the purity of the project we have decided that only the day's chosen drug may be used, reflecting the inabililty for the religions of the world to unite and combine. Although, admittedly, I did have a Cobra or two before the effects of the pills made the alcohol taste like crap.

I've had my time on the Gary Abletts readers, so I was ready for the drug's effects. But something about taking it with Dippy was quite magical. I felt euphoric rushes and tingles across my scalp, down my arms and into my finger tips. We were as one in Dippy's room listening to Orbital and Banco de Gaia, I tell you what, I think we broke down a few social boundaries, but in all honesty I can't really remember what they were. Possibly because at midnight Dippy introduced the second drug of Christmas.

The second drug of Christmas was marijuana. It's not my fav drug as all it really tends to do is make me either fall asleep or throw up, I'll tell you that now, but Dippy has plotted this pilgrimage of narcotics carefully, and after the intense highs of ecstacy, we needed the physical depressant effects of the holy smoke itself.

After a while I was sick, then I feel asleep. Woke up this morning with a raging thirst, I really fancied a Cobra, but I've been committed to the cause and so Dippy and smoked a wee bifta or two, then went for a walk in Battersea park. We spent a while meditating underneath the Peace Pagoda overlooking the river. It was well romantic, apart from when some kids on BMXes started pelting us with stones.

I was about to go and sort them out with some judo, but I was too zen, besides, I've heard that sometimes some bigger more serious youths use the kids as provocateurs to a muggery. They get the younger kids to find a likely looking target out in the open, then provoke them into a chase, then when the target runs after them, they lead them a merry dance through the park and right into a trap, where upon the victim is set upon.

I'm many things reader, but I'm no fool. We went to PizzaExpress and I had an Etna - it was a poor move on reflection Dippy's a vegetarian (natch) so went for the Fiorentina. Still, it's early days and she's still keen.

I have no idea what tomorrow's drug is going to be, Dippy is keeping it a secret. But as today has been so ultra mellow, I'm expecting fireworks.

Got to go now, Dippy's run me a bath with scented oils. Can't bloody wait, I'm not counting my chickens, but I'm pretty sure the oily bath is my starter for ten of the main course of rare aromatic Aussie bird and a side order of best stuffing ;-)

Merry (12 drugs of) Christmas everybody!

Friday, December 11, 2009

Fox in a box

It’s been a while since I did any current affairs stuff, what with how crazy my life’s been recently, but my head was turned this week by the outcome of the Meredith Kercher trial in Italy. Does anyone else wish we’d had John Fashanu reporting on this case? Imagine how much more light hearted the whole thing could have been every time he said ‘Perugia’.

My, but it’s a tough one, isn’t it, readers. On the one hand, and I don’t want to perpetuate any tired national stereotypes here, but the Italians are bent as a nine bob note, aren’t they? You only need to look at their football team to know that! All that diving and praying to the referee for leniency, with their Alice bands and their long, shiny hair. They do have the best kit, though, according to Dan. He likes the three-quarter length sleeves, because it shows off their forearms.

I read a book about an Italian detective once and he had grappa for breakfast every day and had to bribe someone to get pretty much anything done, even to get a telephone line installed. It’s just how they operate out there. Whaddayagonnado?

On the other hand, the Americans are just so bloody sanctimonious. Foxy Knoxy’s parents are clearly in denial and they attribute her pre-interrogation cartwheels to youthful exuberance and energy. Now I’m not so old that I don’t remember having youthful exuberance and I tell you what: if I’d been about to be interrogated by Italian coppers who’d been on the grappa all day over the brutal murder of my flatmate, I’d have been bloody shitting it; innocent or not. In fact I’d probably have been shitting it worse if I was innocent, what with their reputation for corruption. You wouldn’t want to go down for something you didn’t do, right?

Not Knoxy, though. Cool as you like, upon learning that her flatmate’s throat had been slit in a macabre sex game, she throws a few shapes. Not exactly broken up about it, was she. How about a little respect, eh?

So her folks have described the judgement as shameful for the whole of Italy, which is a bit strong. Do they include the Pope in that? Or the Pizza? Silvio Berlusconi? (He’s been pretty quiet about the whole thing. He was probably the one spinning the bottle back at the flat!! Lol!!!) No, they’re way out of line. In fact, Knox’s parents are forgetting rule one of crime investigation: There’s no smoke without fire.

Fuck it, she’s guilty as sin; you can see it just by looking at her. It’s the eyes. But you wait and see: the Yanks are going to call in the big guns and, before too long, she’ll be free as a bird and signing a book deal about her ‘ordeal’ in a ‘backward European Jail’. She’ll probably get her own chat show, a fact that makes me sick. After all, old Teddy Kennedy, who passed away this year, was universally loved. Back in the day, though, he got pissed, drowned a young woman and then went home and didn’t tell anyone until the next day. Did he get chokey? Did he bollocks. They love posh killers out there.

The US is full of nice people but they don’t half throw their weight around on the international stage. And then we go and send them Gary McKinnon, the disabled hacker. Now, I don’t think he’s actually disabled, I just heard the newsreader on BBC radio describe him that way. I think he might have the Aspergers Syndrome, which is where you moan and hug strangers but you’re really good at counting, like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man (fine, maybe he deserved the Oscar. For my money, though Tootsie was a much better film). Apparently Aspergers also makes your wee smell funny; the human body is a weird and wonderful thing, readers.

Or, in McKinnon’s case, rather than being good at counting, you’re good at sitting around in your pants all day smoking weed and playing on your computer. Harmless enough, of course, but Uncle Sam wants to throw the book at him, because Uncle Sam likes throwing books at people because no-motherfucker-fucks-with-the-goddam-USofA-don’t-you-eyeball-me-now-boy-are-you-eyeballing-me-mayo?-Mayonaaaaaaiiiise-sir-yes-sir-objection-your-honour-move-to-strike-objection-overrulled-you-want-the-truth?-you-can’t-handle-the-truth-oh-oh-say-can-you-see-by-the-dawn’s-early-light-watching-every-motion-in-this-foolish-lover’s-game-haunted-by-the-notion- somewhere-there's-a-love-in-flames-plead-the-fifth-from-my-cold-dead-hands-the-world’s-greatest-democracy-almost-forty-percent-of-Americans-are-clinically-obese-and-most-of-the-rest-are-plain-old-overweight-shoulder-to-shoulder-we-stand-you-guys-would-all-be-German-now-if-we-hadn’t-saved-your-limey-asses.

Thank God I had Super Mario Kart, that’s all I can say, otherwise maybe I’d be off to get water-boarded as well.

That’s the problem with the Septics. It’s one rule for us and another one for them. So I’m with the Blackshirts on this one (and you won’t hear me say that very often). They’ve got Knox bang to rights and she’s lucky she is in Italy and not back home in the US of A, otherwise she’d probably be on death row, waiting for her last taste of cherry pie like mom used to make.

‘Mom’, Jesus. ‘Mum’ is a perfectly good word. What do they need ‘Mom’ for?
Did you know that the tune for the American National Anthem was actually written by a church organist from Norwich? A nice, British tune, that.



Thursday, December 10, 2009

Arab strap

OYG readers, Dubai is AWESOME and AWFUL both at the same time. A bit like Cheryl Cole. (Only kidding Mess, lol.)

Today, I visited the world’s largest mall, then I went to see the world’s tallest man-made structure, then I went skiing on the longest indoor ski slope (which looms up from the back end of one of Dubai’s several gigantic shopping centres, gleaming in the blistering Arabian sun), then I went to see one out of two of the only seven star hotels in the world and then went to look at the world’s largest indoor aquarium, built in hotel, built on an artificial sand-bank shaped like a giant palm stretching out into the Gulf that supposedly you can see from space, then I had a Sex on the Beach with Dan!

Not the same type of coastal-based rumpo that saw Michelle Palmer and Vince Acors hauled before the local beak, not siree, as Dubai is an emirate in a Muslim state, so shagging out of wedlock is strictly condemned, especially if it’s al fresco nookie (even if it is in the dark and no one is around, and the only way people can see it is if they’re looking specifically for it using special night-vision cameras).

Thankfully, the people in charge of Dubai have waived the usual Muslim laws against booze, hence Dan I were able to indulge in the cocktails. Christ only knows what the authorities would make of two men having an actual sex on the beach ! lol.

We’re going to see the real Dubai tomorrow, so that means going off to the gold and diamond souks, Dan says he’s going totally bling! It’s well cool, we hired a Humvee on the corporate card, honestly I think with the impending merger, Dan doesn’t really give a fig anymore.

After visiting the souks, Dan reckons we can spend the afternoon dune-buggying, and then maybe put in a round of golf on the perfectly manicured and luscious links – it doesn’t matter if the dune buggying over runs, Dan says, as the entire 18 holes are floodlit. A floodlit golf course, mental, I don’t even like golf!

I can’t help but think there must be something a bit wrong with Dubai. I dunno, all this excess can’t be good can it? It’s like that film the Black Button, where the protagonist is offered $10m if he presses a black button, but he also knows that pressing the black button will kill a stranger. It’s a proper dilemma isn’t it? I mean, the guy isn’t told who will die, will it be someone old who’s nearly dead, will it be someone who’s only just been born, maybe it’d be someone famous, funny, evil, boring?

We were driving home last night and saw bus upon bus of Asian men all off to do night shifts working on the skyscrapers. I saw a documentary about Dubai a while back, apparently all these workers come over from India and Sri Lanka and they have to pay their own way, and end up in debt to the construction companies, who keep hold of their passports so they can’t leave, so they’re kept like slaves.

It’s not unlike how the Egyptians knocked up the Pyramids really. Maybe it’s all that sun and sand that encourages excessive construction projects and slavery. It reminds me of the infamous Family Fortunes incident: name a dangerous race? The arabs.

Maybe in thousands of years archaeologists will uncover and discover the lost treasures of Dubai. They won’t find the mummies of the pharaohs though, they’ll probably dig up diamond encrusted Bentleys and massive water parks.

One thing they won’t find is Barry Newsdesk. I’m off back to blighty flying through the night on Friday to see Dippy on Sats and get cracking on the arts project she’s got lined up. She won’t tell me what it is though, I can’t wait, I’ve booked the rest of December off to participate.

Sleep easy


Monday, December 7, 2009

Deeply Dippy

Ella, alla, wau and peace be with you my friends.

First up, soz for the lack of posts. I've been discovering myself, or rather re-discovering my true inner self.

Last week was a proper mind scraper readers. I've become a slave to the corporate machine of late. It's Christmas party season and I was (I thought) cutting lose and getting festive. Last Thursday I went to get my hair done at Mr Toppers - £6. You get one chance to ask for a style, the hairdresser usually pretends to listen, then gets the clippers out and gives you a short back and sides.

But last Wednesday, I really connected with my stylist. She was a gorgeous, passionate, Australian environmentalist, taking a year out traveling the world. She as working in Mr Toppers to save up for EasyJet trips throughout Europe. She really listened to what I was saying when I described what hair cut I wanted, I said I didn't want clippers, so she gave me something she called a "feather cut" she said she was taught it by a First Nations she'd met in Praha. Wtf?

I tell you what though, she didn't use the clippers, just danced her way around my head, with the scissors flicking at ten to the dozen. She leaned right over me to do the fringe, I was glad to be wearing the gown, because Little Barry put in a surprise appearance - I had to think about Mrs Bradley to make him go away.

I gave her a tenner and told her to take for eight. I decided there and then that I wouldn't be waiting the customary ten weeks between cuts until the next time I'd pop in to Mr Toppers.

Later on that day I went out with everyone from work for the Xmas booze up. Some shitty West End wine bar, with a set meal of dry roast turkey and rock hard stuffing. The only upside to the whole depressing affair was the fact that the bar served Cobra.

Well, you know me readers, I don't need asking twice. I got stuck right in. There was little I could do to lighten my mood though, I couldn't stop thinking about the girl in Mr Toppers. I made a half-pissed, half-arsed attempt to chat up Suzi, but she wasn't really into me, I think she might have a thing going on with Dan. She must have something, because she hasn't sold an ad for seven months. She seems unsackable.

At one point my sales nemesis Mark Baker decided that he'd latch on, I couldn't shake him, he was a bit maudlin readers, I think he's been a long time without the love of a good woman. He didn't half go on about his Mum. Now, I think it's great that he loves his Mum like that, but really, it's a bit weird when the only point of reference for womankind that a middle aged man keeps making is his own mother. Weird readers, and a bit sad. The straw that broke the party's back though, was when Baker told me about the time he'd been to Vietnam and shot a buffalo with a rocket launcher.

"I'm not proud of what I did Barry," he said, "But I'd split up with my missus and I just wanted to know how it felt."

I told him I was off to the loo, but I just walked out vowing to jack it all in on Monday. I was making my way to the station and heard a familiar voice shouting my name from the other side of the street. It was Larson, a Kiwi temp from our place that I told you about a few weeks ago. I asked him if he'd been the work party and he told me that as a temp, HR had told him he couldn't go. I said that it was a bit rubbish, but then he said that technically he wasn't really a temp anyway, that he'd actually been sacked, but was doing shifts for his pal, also (confusingly but conveniently) called Larson, so he hadn't really wanted to argue the toss with HR.

We struck up quite a lively conversation about work, seems Larsen's been around the office a few times, he had an interesting tale to tell about Suzi. We nipped into a boozer for a pint or two, then he invited me a house party he was going to in Stoke Newington. It was the complete opposite direction to the one I was heading, but I thought what the hell. You're only young once.

(Your) God readers, when I walked in it took me right back to a squat party I'd been to with Dave the roofer back in 1999. The music was banging. Here I was ten years later, it was really invigorating to know that I was still able to move with comfort in the subculture. I can't be pinned down readers. Try it. See, you can't.

Check out this link of Larson's pal Barusha69, he is AWESOME. He was DJing at the party. Pretty soon I was immersed in the vibe, I did feel a bit out of place in my suit, but Larson knew everyone, and I mean EVERYONE. He handed me some monkey bullets. I think he did a treble drop readers. A treble drop!

I did a double and I was flying, I don't mind telling you. (Your)God the people at party were so much more welcoming than the wankers at my office, Dan, Suzi, Mark, they're so fake, so plastic, so bought into the bloody rat race.

I got dancing with with really gorgeous girl, long brown hair and luminous face paint, it wasn't sexual though readers, not like a boozey West End nitespot. We had a trust. Not sexual, but we connected, in harmony we were, like crazy dancing moths to the techno flame.

Then it dawned on me, I knew this girl, I knew I knew her, I said "I know you," but she just kept smiling, smiling and dancing. Arms in the air, hair flying everywhere. I was transfixed. It was the girl from Mr Toppers, "you gave me this," I shouted pointed at my hair "the feather cut. You gave me a stiffy," I shouted, but she couldn't hear. She just leant and and shouted, "Ah, mate, it's you isn't it?" "Yeah," I said, "it's me."

Well, to quote the one of the greats, we danced all night under electric candlelights. Although, the Mr Toppers girls wasn't a transvestite. I'd seen down her top at Mr Toppers, she had the kind of breasts that don't really need a bra. You know, small ones.

As the light started making its way into the Hackney skies, the party died down. I'd taken the precaution, like a good number of my colleagues, to book Friday off to sleep off my hangover, not that I felt like sleeping now. I was buzzing.

We all piled into a cab and went back to Larson's place in Shepherd's Bush. The cab ride over was like gliding on a flying carpet, a claret Ford Focus with a man from Lagos at the controls. London minicab drivers always play Magic FM and their gear changing is the stuff of majesty. If you could bottle their gear shifting skills, you could use it lubricate shifting tectonic plates. Fuck me, readers, no more earthquakes. Think about it.

She told me her name, Serendipity, "but people call me Dippy," she said with a smile. I was in love, I don't mind telling you. LOVE. When we got back to Larson's, a three bed flat above a pub he shares with a nine other antipodeans, he popped a pill into my mouth. I didn't want more, But I've done my time on the disco biscuits so not much phases me.

The pill was a slow burner, but pretty soon my head was spinning, Larson was insisted on playing Guitar Hero with the sound down and some crazy jungle music in the background. Fairly soon I was totally unable to move my fingers, and my vision was coming in and out of focus. Dippy knocked over a bottle of chocolate Yop, "don't cry over spilt milk," I said. "But it's a yogurt drink," she said.

So I lay on the floor with my face next to the edge of the Yop puddle and lapped it up out of the side of my mouth. Dippy put on Macy Gray's I Try on rotation. I think we must have listened to it a dozen or more sides, just sound of Macy and my tongue lapping up the fluids.

Larson had disappeared, where I didn't know, me and Dippy found a space on the sofa, and well, British reserve stops me from saying exactly what happened next time. Although, thanks to what I suspect were strong quantities of speed in the pills, Little Barry was living up to his name a little bit too much when I went to the loo for a piss, so I kept my pants on and fingered her instead.

The rest of Friday and Saturday were spent drinking it up a bit. Smoking a few doobies with yet more Aussies, Kiwis and South Africans. Nothing hardcore. Then on Sunday me, Dippy and her pals went and did the Blue Wave march against Climate Change , which was really empowering. I felt alive readers, more alive than I've felt for years.

Sometimes you've got to stand up (and march somewhere) for what you believe in. I hadn't actually gone on the Stop the War march, but then when the war went ahead, I thought to myself, maybe if I'd gone on the march and maybe if thousands like me had gone on it, then the needless wars in Iraq and Afghanistan might never have happened. I certainly like to think if the governments of the world see the footage of me and Dippy marching on Whitehall dressed as Smurfs, then maybe they'll try all that bit harder to put a halt to environmental meltdown.

It wouldn't take much effort. Maybe cycle to work, make sure you recycle your empty cans of Cobra, turn the telly off instead of leaving it on stand-by, all that sort of thing. The sorts of simple things that everyone can do really easily, that all added together can make a big difference. We're borrowing the Earth from our children!

Unfortunately, I had to go to work today, mind you they're sending me to a conference in Dubai the day after tomorrow. Fuckin A! Should get myself a bit of winter sun. Sadly, Dippy can't come with me, as she's got to put in some extra shifts at Mr Toppers for special festive art project that she's invited yours truly to be part of! COOL eh?!

Anyway, gotta fly readers, I promised myself an early night. Got some serious zeds to catch up with.


Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Bad date

Dammit, readers, I’ve had quite a day. It started with a huge surprise; a letter from Roger! I’ve typed it in below, see what you make of it:

Dear Barry,

Your behaviour recently has been quite… well, I suppose you’d call it ‘interesting’. I have to admit, though, that I’m a bit confused. From what your dear, dear mother has told me you have always been, what’s the phrase… ‘right on’. Something of a hippy, I suppose. But, after our last few meetings, I’m beginning to wonder if your political views don’t in fact lie a little to the right. A little to the right of Genghis Kahn! (Forgive my little joke.)

Do you know what I say, Barry? I say: each to his own. That’s my motto; each to his own in every way.

But it has become quite clear to me that your behaviour has been upsetting your darling mother, a woman for whom – it must be clear to you – I care a great deal. I simply will not have her upset in this way, Barry, do I make myself clear? She has cosseted you your whole life, Barry. She still feels that she is somehow to blame for your father’s departure, and that is why she continues to coddle you so, despite your age.

Now, I understand that you are coming to visit at Christmas. This is as it should be; after all, Christmas is a time for families. My own dear children, alas, will not be able to join us. But my mother will be, like you, a guest in the house. There we shall be; two fine lads and our dear mothers. I expect you to respect the occasion, Barry, and not to behave in such a way as to give your mother cause for sadness.

She finds your views disturbing, so I ask you to keep them from surfacing in her presence. And I feel duty bound to point out, if you haven’t already noticed, that your tattoo is somewhat inaccurate.



Well, there you go, readers. It’s pretty clear to me that what Roger is saying is that he sympathises with my (pretend) views (ie, he’s a Nazi) but that I should, like him, keep them from Mum. ‘Each to his own’? That can only be Roger coming out in favour of forced repatriation, can’t it? What a monster!

Anyway, I took this as evidence that I’m breaking him down. I’m getting through.

There was one problem, though: The tattoo. I’m not sure how this happened, well I’ve got a good idea, but – anyway – my new tattoo, the one I selflessly burned into my own skin for the sake of exposing a facist bully, like when Donal Macintyre went after the football hooligans, contains a glaring error.

As you’ll remember, the tattoo is a rendering of the three lions of England’s football shirt with a significant historical date underneath. 1514, the Battle of Agincourt. Except, as I just found out through Wikipedia, the Battle of Agincourt was in 1415, not 1514. What a nightmare!

Here’s how I think it happened:

To get my tattoo last week, I went to the local tattooists, which is called Inky Pete’s, and asked him for something a bit racist. We had the following conversation:

IP: What do you mean you want something a ‘bit racist’?
BN: I want something a bit racist, but not a lot racist. Can you do that?
IP: Are you a copper?
BN: No, but I am under cover.
IP: I want a lawyer.
BN: What for?
IP: I’m not saying anything without a lawyer.
BN: I just want a tattoo of something a bit racist.
IP: Listen, pal. You’re not much good at this, are you. You’ve just told me you’re under cover.
BN: Yeah, but not now. Now I’m just me.
IP: So you’re just you and you want a racist tattoo?
BN: Yeah, except I’m not racist, not at all. My mum’s going out with this bloke and he’s racist but he’s pretending that he’s not racist and I’m trying to gain his confidence so that he comes out and admits it and then my mum will dump him. That’s why I need the tattoo.
IP: So you’re a non-racist pretending to be a racist in an attempt to out a racist who’s pretending to be a non-racist, right?
BN: Right
IP: It’s like that bloody Scorsese film. And that’s why you want a tattoo?
BN: Exactly, that’s exactly right. So, what can you do?
IP: Have you escaped from somewhere, pal? ‘Cause you’re too fucking stupid to be a copper, and that’s saying something.
BN: Look, I’ve explained what I want, just give it to me, will you?

At this point Inky Pete looked at me for a long time, before asking me if I had any money on me. I showed him the wad of tenners in my pocket. He stood up, produced the biggest spliff I’ve ever seen and sparked it up.

IP: Right, I’ll get me special book.

Pete went out the back of the shop for five minutes before coming back with a book of tattoo designs. Remarkably, the whole spliff had nearly gone. He sat down on his stool, and opened it up.

IP: Right, before you look at these, I’m just a tattooist, right? That’s all I do. I’m not a political man, I’ll tattoo you whatever colour you are in whatever colour you want. They’re just pictures to me, ok? I take a professional pride in the detail, but I don’t want to know who you are, or what you do, I just want the cash and a quiet life. I don’t need no-one coming round here shoving their nose in, ok? Because I have another little concern, that’s not strictly above board. I’ll tell you because you look like you’re harmless enough: I do shift a few mind altering substances here and there, if you’re ever in the market. I’m not a pusher, though, I’m a dealer. It’s like the song says, mate.
BN: Right.
IP: Now, how about this for a start?
BN: How’s a swastika a ‘bit racist’? A swastika’s very racist.
IP: This?
BN: Is that a flaming cross? What’s this, Deep South London?!
IP: This one?
BN: Hmmm, I like the Union Flag. But I’m not sure about the words “I’m all white, Jack”.
IP: Well these are my racist tattoos, mate. I don’t have a lot of designs in this category, to be honest. I’ve got a few nationalist ones, if you’d prefer?
BN: Alright, let’s have a look at those.
IP: How about this one?
BN: Oh now, that’s perfect. The three lions – it’s like football. And what’s this number? 1415? What’s that all about?
IP: That, my friend, is the date of the Battle of Agincourt. We stuffed the French.
BN: Oh, I’ve got a French friend, though. Why were we fighting?
IP: I don’t fucking know, pal, it was nearly 600 years ago. Look, I think this is your best bet. It’s definitely nationalist, because it’s got the three lions, and it’s definitely a little bit racist, because it’s about a war with the French. But it’s not that bad because the war was 600 years ago, and because having a pop at the French is like the acceptable face of racism, isn’t it. It’s very much your entry-level racist tattoo. It’s perfect. And, I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you smoke some of this weed I’ve got to help with the pain. And how’s about a little bit of Mr Daniels’ finest to go along with it?”

The rest of the afternoon’s a complete haze. I remember Inky Pete had to stop quite often because he was laughing so much. I woke up the next day feeling like shite. We must have had an entire bottle of JD. And that weed was fucking nuclear. Clearly Pete lost the plot a bit and got the four and the five round the wrong way! A professional interest in the detail my arse! Never let a drunk man give you a tattoo, that’s my advice.

It gets worse, readers. After I read Roger’s letter I went onto Wikipedia to find out if anything interesting happened in 1514. Oh, the irony! In July 1514, according to the online information source: “Peace is declared between England and France”! I’m not kidding.

I’ve got a tattoo that celebrates the beginning of a phase of cordial relations between the English and the French. So Roger thinks I’m either stupid, or a Gallic sympathiser. I can’t have him thinking the latter so, as if it’s not hard enough pretending to be racist, I’ve now got to pretend to be stupid as well.

This is really going to test my acting skills.

Peace (and I mean it; I’ve got the fucking tattoo!)


Monday, November 30, 2009

Sorry, must dash

It's the 30th of November today, not ordinarily a particularly auspicious date. But for me it marks the end of a journey.

In many ways it was not unlike taking the A46 from Lincoln to Cleethropes. It started out in very familiar territory, the early stages were not uncommon either, but quite soon the landscape changed, there were twists and turns, and unexpected (usually unpleasant) surprises along the way. Ultimately, it arrived at a destination that, while I knew roughly what I'd be getting at the outset, was nevertheless something of a disappointment.

I've been growing a moustache readers. Not because I've turned homosexual. No. I've been growing a moustache for Movember!

Movember is a charity event. I believe its roots are down under. I'm talking about Australia readers where men are men and the sheep are scared. The whole idea is that men grow a moustache during the month of November in order to raise money for and awareness of prostate cancer. That, in a nutshell, is bum cancer to you and me.

Bum cancer is the biggest unnecessary killer of men over 50. It's not that difficult to treat if caught early on, but it doesn't tend to get caught early on because men are almost always too embarrassed by the symptoms which generally seem to revolve around cock malfunctional issues and detection involves what in the trade is known as a digital rectal inspection - that's a finger up nature's pocket to you and me!

Apart from the 10 per cent of us who are gay, the other 90 per cent of us categorically do not like dabbling with the chocolate starfish. As such the vast majority to men who get prostate cancer are not practitioners of uphill gardening. So, it's highly appropriate that the emblem of this terrible affliction is the moustache.

I suppose it tells us all, not just the lucky 10 per centers, but the slightly perturbed and analophobic 90 per centers, that having a good old root around the sheriff's rusty badge is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it is actually something to be proud of.

That said, you might to make sure the bathroom door is locked if you're examining yourself and your gay flatmate walks in on you naked wanting to take a shower. It could lead to an uncomfortable silence over the cornflakes. And that, perhaps unbelievably, is not a euphemism.

I'm glad that I grew the moustache readers, even if it does make me look like a pervert. Not that there is anything perverse about buggery between two consenting adults. But there's something about a moustache these days that looks all wrong.

I don't know when the 'tache passed from being perfectly acceptable manly face furniture to being the preserve of the completely weird. I think it might have been the mid-80s. Probably around about the same time that the entire world woke up and realised that Freddie Mercury (your God RIP) was not just in Queen, but he was the Queen. I certainly remember the moustache being popular with Scousers for a lot longer than the rest of us, much in the same way that it is still very popular with Turks.

Glad I may be that I took part in this campaign, but I shall be gladder still tomorrow when the whiskers are removed. Mum wasn't particularly impressed with the moustache, I suggested to her that it made me look like Clark Gable, but she said it made me look like Dad. Although, Roger's got a little grey moustache too, and he doesn't look anything like Dad. Actually, on reflection, he does look a bit like Clark Gable.

I would have told you about the moustache earlier in the month, so that you could sponsor me. But as no one bothered sponsoring the 150 mile charity bike ride I did not to long ago, I didn't see the point, especially as growing a moustache is a lot easier than cycling 150 miles.

Right, well, I'm off to spend just one more night with a furry upper lip.

Yours, no longer in pursuit of the hirsute,

Barry 'I am the walrus' Newsdesk