Trick or treat?

When I was a nipper, I was never that keen on Halloween. Back in Lincoln me and Steve used to always make a Guy around this time of the year. Mum had some of Dad's old clothes in the loft, so I used sneak up there and help myself to some trousers and a jumper and stuff them with newspaper, then we'd sit outside the paper shop shouting 'penny for the Guy' as people went in and out, then when we had enough spare change we'd go into the shop and buy some air-bomb repeaters.

That wasn't the best bit though, the best bit was on November the 5th, when I used to take the Guy down to whichever of the local bombfires that hadn't already been set alight in the weeks preceding and throw the effigy on the flames. I used to fantasize that Dad was going up in smoke just like the dirty old Catholic Guido Fawkes.

Halloween always seemed a bit like an American invention really. I preferred bonfire night. I suppose in a way Guido Fawkes was the original religious terrorist. I wonder whether if the Americans caught Osama bin Laden that they would have a public execution and then every year on the same day build bonfires, watch fireworks and eat baked potatoes?

The thing is, Halloween isn't an American invention (apart from the Hollywood film series and the heavy metal band musical not to be confused with Helloween the German power metal band). It's a very much a British invention. Like Christmas, Halloween is a pagan religious festival and it predates Bonfire Night by thousands of years.

There are loads of things that at first glance seem American but are actually olde Englishe. The word 'fall' meaning autumn, is very much an English word, the pilgrims took it over and it wasn't until we fell out with America that we started using Frenchisms like autumn. Zeds in words is also English, yet loads of people think it is an Americanism..or maybe that should be Americanizm, to use zeds instead of esses. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Paganism is the religion that Ruled Britannia before the Romans arrived and gave us Christianity. You know Stonehenge? Well, that's like the pagan version of the Vatican. Probably. I say probably because no one truly understands what paganism is. People sometimes use the word pagan as a derogatory word. To imply that the target of the venom is godless. But there is nothing wrong with being a pagan, any more than there is something wrong with being a Christian.

The Romans realized that they'd have a hell of job converting the Britons to Christianity. Since Christianity is a pretty boring religion. So, as a way of making it more fun, they repurposed Christmas. Maybe you don't know this readers, but Jesus Christ wasn't born on 25th of December. Someone (a Roman, possibly Julius Caesar) decided that the pagan winter solstice festival in late December would be a good time to have a Christian festival too. They probably thought, 'look everyone's a bit miffed, cos it's so effin cold, yet here are all the pagans having a wail of time, throwing parties, dancing around bonfires naked, having group sex. They love it. I know, let's tell them that Jesus was born on the 25th and they're use it as an excuse to keep boozin it up, everyone know the Brits love any excuse to get on one'. And thus Christmas was born.

No one knows when Christ was born, there's absolutely no documentary evidence to suggest he was born in December, in fact, there's bugger all evidence that he was born at all. But still, Christmas is great fun, and far be it from me to be a party pooper.

Although, I must admit, I am usually a party pooper about Halloween. Not because I'm anti-pagan. I think I have proven on many occasions to the blogosphere that I am very religiously tolerant. Gill used to complain when we'd sit in on Halloween and I used to refuse to the answer the door when the local kids came knocking. This year though, my flatmate Dan has talked me into going to a party with his friends.

I wasn't going to go, since I know for a fact that Dan is almost certainly a gay, so it might make things a bit awkward at home and in the office. I haven't really decided to come out myself and I think I might still fancy girls a bit. I have no problem with going to a party at a house full of strange homosexuals, but if I'm still straight, I'd probably want a few girls to chance my arm with. But then Dan told me that he'd invited Suzi and some of the other girls from the office. Apparently Suzi us going as a "a sexy zombie" sounds good to me ;-). Anyway, Dan was most insistent. He even got me a costume. So I agreed to go. I'm going as the caped-crusader himself, the dark knight, Batman.

I feel a bit daft readers, I've got the outfit on as I write these words, I think there might be some parts missing, I've got a fake foam six-pack, but the bottoms are just a pair of black lycra leggings. You can easily make out the shape of my packet, so I've got two pairs of pants on just in case and I've bolstered the undercarriage with a sock. I figure if girls can give Mother Nature a helping hand with a Wonderbra, why not fellers with a Wonderpant!

Dan's given me the address and said he'll see me there as he's meeting the boys for a few drinks in Clapham. I've already had a few Cobras for Dutch courage, I think wandering across South London dressed as Batman is asking for trouble. Dan said to not turn up too early though, in fact, he recommended that I wait until at least closing time, which suits me, I can watch X-Factor and Match of the Day.

KK readers, I hope you have a good Halloween. I'll tell you all about the party tomorrow!

see ya

Baz
x

Roger is a Nazi

I knew it, I flippin well KNEW IT! Mum's new squeeze is a bloody Nazi readers, I knew there was something about him. I just thought he was a classic Tory. But, well, I typed Mum's postcode into the Nazi finder website and a certain Mr Roger Leache turned up living at that premises.

I'm not sure whether I should laugh or cry. I knew there was something fishy about him, Mum wouldn't listen though. She never bloody does. I love that woman more than all the cans of Cobra on the planet, but OYG she has such terrible taste in men.

I've not told you about dad yet have I. He never loved me or her, but she stuck by him through thick and thin, and there was a lot more think than thick, if you catch my drift. But I knew there was something fishy about the old scroat, and he finally did one. Mum still wouldn't hear a bad word said against him, and I said a few, I can tell you that for nothing.

But, I tell you what, as little time as I did have for dad, at least he wasn't a fucking Nazi. Not like Roger bloody Leache! Ha! GOTCHA!

I have you now Leache. You walked into my trap. Well, it wasn't really my trap, it's not like I established the BNP then made Roger right-wing. I just happened to stumble across the fact that he is a member by using that clever website gadget. But still, I can't help feeling chuffed with my detective work.

The question, of course, remains. What to do? What to do? As my good friends will testify, I can be quite tempestuous. When I presented Mum with allegations that Roger was a sex-pest and had made unwelcome advances on me, she didn't believe a word of it. She probably thinks the BNP party is like the local Conservative club. In fairness, it probably is.

But she has to see him for what he is. I know Mum's no Nazi, she didn't even like war films when we were growing up. I've been thinking about it all day, and I need to find a way of revealing Roger's true colours.

When Mum finally sees through the nicely tailored suits and the highly polished shoes, when she sees through the slicked back hair and the Ford Mondeo, she'll see him for what he really is. A money grabbing Nazi hell-bent on evil.

I know he brings her happiness, but it's a false happiness. She'll be much happier without him in her life.

I feel like Van Helsing the vampire slayer!

Yours in news

Baz

Nazi hunter

Last Thursday I said I'd like to shoot Nick Griffen, dead.

I would like to use the pages of today's blog to humbly apologise to Nick. I should also apologise to the friends and family of Nick for the careless and terrible way of which I spaketh.

There is no way I would shoot Mr Griffen dead. For starters I do not own a gun, secondly I do not condone murder and third, I don't know where he lives. Or indeed who he is. I have no idea who Nick Griffen is, none whatsoever, the real man, the man inside, the man behind the mask.

In fact, none of us really know who Nick Griffen is, apart from his friends and family, even then we cannot be 100 per cent sure they know.

Nick Griffin, on the other hand, I would like to maim terribly. I won't of course, becasue a) I don't know where he lives and b) I am a coward.

I don't condone violence and I certainly don't condone vigilantism. One only has to cast one's mind back to the attacks by local morons upon the home of a pediatrician who they believed had some alterior treatments in mind for the children in his life.

However, I stumbled across the sort of website that I should imagine people who do seek vengence against people that do not know would find most useful.

It's a BNP member search facility. Simply type in your post code and the website will kick out the 30 or so members of the BNP that live closest to you.

I have to say, I found the result for my postcode a very scary eye-opener. I live in a fairly well-to-do, yet multi-cultural, part of South London. I have never, ever, seen any evidence of racism in my neighbourhood. It's like John McCartney and Stevie Wonder were thinking about my hood when the penned Ebony & Ivory lol.

I'm colourblind readers. But it's not held me back, it affects between five and eight per cent of the population. Although, here's an interesting fact, a whopping 88 per cent of people in the UK are chatagerised as 'white'. It's quite high, and way way higher than my neighbourhood. So I was shocked that when I put in my postcode to the Nazi hunter site, it threw up six people within a one mile radius who were fully paid up members of the BNP (that's 20 per cent of racists living within a mile of my place), with the other 24 under two miles.

That's pretty scary readers. Six people who I walk past everyday feel so strongly that the BNP is right that they have joined up. (Your) God only knows how many sympathisers they have.

I have to say, when I saw Nick Griffin being ripped apart by the Question Time panel, I felt extremely glad that the Beeb had aired it. I didn't feel for one second that it was a 'witch hunt'.

The man is scum and I thought that's how he came across. Only a moron would believe otherwise. Indeed, during the show a good number of people stated that the British public should be applauded because it would not stand for people like Griffin.

Sorry peeps, you're wrong, if you don't think bigotry and nationalism is alive and well, go to the link above and type in your postcode.

Like I say, I do not condone violence, but what I would suggest is that if you know any one of the people in your neighbourhood that appear on the list, ask them if they deny the holocaust like their chosen leader Griffin and if they say 'yes' tell them that Barry Newsdesk thinks they're a cunt.

Peace out

Barry

Insania

I know what you're thinking readers! You're thinking, 'hang on a minute, I think old Bazlars been doing a few crunchies at the gym'.

lol!!!! Don't be daft, that stud muffin over yonder is none other than my good friend Peter Andre. Yes indeedy, you read that right, it's Peter Andre, or Pete as he likes me to call him.

It's a long story how me and Pete became big buds, but hey, you're not going anywhere right now, not now I've dragged you into my world of intrigue and celebrity....

I've had the craziest weekend in history readers. Flying over to Vegas with Dave the roofer and Gill was a surreal experience fro mstart to finish. Walking arm-in-arm with my heavily pregnant ex into the chapel to give her away, only to hear Dave telling Pastor Elvis: "that's not the first he's taken up the aisle!"

The ceremony itself was actually a fairly moving affair, Gill had the decency not to bother dressing in white, frankly it would have disingenuous, but she did have her hair in a massive beehive, while Dave had gone all out with a white Elvis catsuit. Pastor Elvis did the whole thing using his Elvis voice, but I got talking to him after the service and it turns out he's from Dudley. Small world.

After the ceremony we all 'hit the strip' - and that's where we bumped into Pete! Well, you can imagine what he made of Gill and Dave. Pete was in town having some well earned R&R after all the shit he's been through with Katie. He's amazing though, he doesn't bear a grudge. He's tiny readers, I went for a pee in the casino loos and he caught me looking over, he said: "it might be a maggot, but it's been in a few peaches!" I tell you what readers, he's one of the nicest people you could hope to meet (even if he did nick that line from the bloke out of the Prodigy - as I found out when I read a copy of Q magazine on the flight home! - still, it made me laugh at the time, and not just because he's got a small cock.)

He's proper fair dunkum, or whatever it is the Aussies say. He said he needed to get away from the the paps - he meant papparazzi, they're the guys who killed Lady Di, because he's expecting Christmas to be mega busy.

Speaking of Christmas, he gave me the scoop of the century (well, maybe the scoop of 2009 at the very least). He's just about to launch a new perfume. It's called "Unconditional". I couldn't think of a more appropriate name readers, it sums up Pete.

Pete was telling me that the name of a perfume is very important, it has to capture the mood and essence of the man or woman buying it in Boots or Superdrug. He said Unconditional is "a unique female scent that is best described as 'proactive, sensuous and exciting'."

Proactive? WTF? What does it do? Does it crawl through the air and force itself up the nose of its intended target? I didn't pull Pete up on proactive readers, he's just too flippin lovely.

I think if I was to have a scent launch into the UK retail market, I'd call it "Love Ninja". I really think that sums me up.

I reckon Unconditional would be the ideal gift for those important ladies in your life, girlfriends, Mums, Grandma’s, teachers, nurses or carers to prove your love for them is “Unconditional”.

Pete says the fragrance, with core ingredients such as rose, jasmine, vanilla and musk, has been created by one of the world’s leading fragrance creation companies Robertet. Never heard of them myself, but then I don't really know much about perfume, I once bought Gill a bottle of Oui and she wasn't the least bit impressed. I thought French stuff was fancy! Just goes to show.

After a few beers over by the slots Pete said to me: “I'm so proud of this fragrance Barry; this is the scent that I know smells good on women. I wanted to do a fragrance that would be distinctive and sophisticated when a woman wears it; it is classical and sexy at the same time.”

Now, I probably wouldn't want to think of Mum or Grandma as classical and sexy, not to mention carers or teachers. Nurses maybe ;-)

I told Pete about my blog and he said he'd come and check it out and then maybe give it a mention the next time he was on Jonathan Ross or something, so I said I'd give his new perfume a plug. You'll be able to get Unconditional at The Perfume Shop for £14.99 this year, for that special lady in your life.

Pete said he'd send me a bottle for Mum. But she's not really into all that, I reckon I'll hang on to it and give it to Suzi back in the office, now I know Dan's out of the picture, maybe I can score big at the office Christmas bash! Fingers crossed.

Speaking of the office, my sweepstake band Miss Frank were booted off X-Factor this week. Apparently, John & Edward Grimes are still going strong. I dunno readers, from what I've read about them, they sound terrible, but then being a bloody awful singer didn't do Pete Andre much harm did it?

Maybe one day John & Edward will be bringing out a ladies perfume! They could call it, "Grimes Against Humanity" or "Twin Towers" lol.

Love you zillions
B

A nice day for a white wedding

What I'm about to tell you is amazing.

As long term readers will recall, back in May my estranged girlfriend Gill managed to get herself pregnant. It was an startling development to say the least. Now, I know that people have been getting pregnant for years, so I suppose it wasn't that starlting really, but the startling part was that the baby was not mine, but was (is) in fact that of my good friend Dave the roofer.

Dave is a simple man with simple pleasures. Chelsea FC, booze, birds and roofing. Simple he may be, but he is the salt of the earth and when Gill announced her pregnancy Dave did the decent thing and offered to support Gill financially.

He'd just come into money, thanks to the death of his uncle Dave in Canada and had inheritated the family roofing business under the proviso that he would have to move out to Edmonton, Alberta!

Well readers, with Xmas fast approaching, Gill is now five months pregnant. It seems as though Dave the roofer's paternal instincts have come to the fore. He called me up last night after Chelsea had beaten Atletico Madrid 4-0.

"ear Baz," he said, "You know what? Tonight is the best night of my life."
"Easy Dave," I said, "you've not even made it to the knock-out stages yet."
"No Baz mate," he said, "Not for the first time, you misunderstand."

What Dave then went on to tell me, just about blew my socks off. It seems Dave and Gill have been spending quite a bit of time together of late, I suppose what with me starting my new job and contemplating turning gay like Dan, I hadn't really noticed how close Dave and Gill had become.

On Wednesday night, at Stamford Bridge, Dave the roofer proposed to Gill and she accepted! FUCKING HELL, Gill doesn't even like football.

It doesn't stop there readers, because Dave the roofer was calling me up to ask me to be his best man. Y'know, initially I did think it would be a bit weird being the best man at my best friend and ex-girlfriend's wedding, but then Dave told me he had booked us tickets to fly out to Las Vegas this weekend!

How cool is that? What a top geezer. Dave and Gill are only going to get married by an Elvis impersonator. I tell you what, only in America.

Dave told me that he just thought 'why not'. Well, you know, when I'm sitting on the sofa playing Pro Evo, I sometimes think to myself, 'shall I have another Cobra?' then I think 'why not?' Sometimes, when I'm having a nice cup of tea, I think 'should I have a Chocolate Hobnob?' then I think 'why not?'

What I don't do is get my best friend's ex up the duff, then secretly plan a wedding in Las Vegas. I dunno, maybe I should be more spontaneous, maybe I should live a bit more by the seat of my pants in the spur of the moment.

I really think maybe Dave should have been more thoughtful though, I mean, I've only got 24 hours or so to write a best man speech. Dave knows damn well I'm a perfectionist. So while him and Gill are enoying the movies and Dave's enjoying the free booze, I'll be fretting over my lines. I guess sitting here moaning about it isn't going to help!

Anyway, sorry to moan, I got a bit distracted there, the really amazing thing is, I saw Charlie Boorman today!!!!!!!!! He was trying to get hold of someone on the mobile while standing at a petrol station.

Arguably not as amazing as the story I saw on the news about an ice skating Russian circus bear that went postal and killed its trainer. I never knew bears could ice skate. But they can. As can Apes.

Actually, having watched the YouTube videos, linked above, of animals ice skating, my sympathies certainly go out to the bear. Although, the sympathy doesn't really count for much, since the Russian authorities shot the bear dead.

Speaking of shooting things dead, I'd like to shoot Nick Griffen, leader of the BNP, dead. He's on Question Time tonight. I know that he was elected and everything (by a million or so people apparently), but I can't help thinking he's an absolute cunt.

I dunno, maybe I'm being unfair, perhaps he's nice to grannies (white ones) and does a lot of work for charities (although probably not Oxfam). But even so, he's the leader of a political movement that should be outlawed.

I'm all for outlawing stuff that's bad. The G comes along and outlaws stuff willie-nillie. Talking on a mobile phone while driving a car has been outlawed, riding a bicycle whilst under the influence of alcohol has been outlawed, smoking canabis, outlawed, polygamy, outlawed, driving 35 mph in a built up area, outlawed, carrying a bottle of water through security at an airport, outlawed. The list goes on and on.

Surely it would make much more sense to repeal all of the above and outlaw the BNP?

Anyhoo, I guess I'd better make a start on that speech.

I'm off to Vegas tomorrow, see you next Tuesday.

Barry
x

eX-Factor

Remeber all the way back at the beginning of April when I got my ninth follower, Cathy, I thought that she was good friends with none other than Will Young!

Sadly, it transpired, she was not friends with Will Young at all. The person that was friends with Cathy was someone claiming to be Sam Trong.

The thing is readers, I was watching the X-Factor at the weekend and I saw another chap that looked uncannily like Cathy's friend 'Sam'. It was none other than Rikki Loney.

Click the links above and see for yourself. I'm thinking that either a) Sam changed his name to Rikki because it sounded more like a pop star, or b) Rikki was a would-be pop star and didn't want to be mixed up with Will Young, so claimed to be someone called Sam!

It's convoluted readers I know, but that's showbiz. Well, sadly it didn't work out for Rikki as he was unceremoniously booted off the show. Joining everyone's favourite stripper quartet Kandy Rain on the scrapheape of failure.

My band Miss Frank are still in the running, although, I must confess I saw their performance on the show and they weren't particularly good. In fact, they were rubbish. Not as rubbish as John & Edward Grimes, a pair of objectionable identical twins from Dublin. God only knows how they stayed on the show. Former Boyzone star, fellow Irishman and former pupil of Louis Walsh Stephen Gately must be turning in his grave.

Poor old, or rather young, Stephen Gately passed away in unfortunate circumstances didn't he? I'm not going to cast aspersions about Gately, Daily Mail columnist Jan Moir, did that, and the press complaints commission in the UK received an unprecidented amount of complaints from the public. Still, there's no smoke without fire is there? That said, her piece was pretty damn low, as the Guardian Hack Charlie Brooker explained.

The thing is, I (and I suspect a massive majority of the people who complained to the press complaints commission) would never have read Moir's poison were it not for Brooker's piece. It would be like me attending a Derby County match and complaining that there were too many anti-Notts Forest chants. Not unlike all those Muslims who burned copies of the Satanic Verses without ever reading it or the Christians of America burning copies of Iron Mainden's The Number of the Beast without ever listening to it.

It's a funny old world.

Baz

Freedom of the Newsdesk

As regular readers will know, I set up a Facebook group called The Friends of Barry Newsdesk. It currently stands at 29 members strong.

I'm well chuffed with the success of the Facebook group. Chuffed, but not satisfied. I'm not going to rest on my laurels readers, it's not my style. I'm a go-getter, a self-starter, a fighter, a maverick.

I've opened up the Facebook group readers, I've gievn every single one of the current membership 'admin' status. That means, they can pretty much do whatever they like with the group.

That's what social media is all about.

I can't wait to see what all the members will come up with. They migth post pictures or videos or maybe everyone will play Mafia Wars against each other.

I haven't been this excited about the Internet since I discovered Wikipedia!

Socially yours

Barry

ps. still no news from the scumbag car clamping wankers...

Royal Mail doomed

It's been one week since my motor was clamped and towed, and I'm still no closer to getting my money back.

Here's a quick recap for those of you that didn't read the original post:

• The company that runs our parking permits changed their parking patrol company and sent out new permits in the post
• I never received my new permit (or notification that their was a new patrol company)
• The new patrol company clamped and towed my car and charged me £420
• The management company is denying liability saying that it sent letters
  
• I have lodged an appeal with the towing company

The entire problem hinges on the fact that I never received a notification from the management company and never received new parking permits.

Repeat: I never received the letters or permits!!!!

I put it to you, people of the blogosphere, that I am being fucked up the arse against my will.

The thing is, maybe the management company did send me the letter and a new permit, maybe they're actually telling the truth... difficult to comprehend I appreciate, but maybe it was not they that fucked up, maybe it was The Royal Mail.

Ahhh, the good old Royal Mail. Like the BBC and NHS, the Royal Mail is something that we Brits can be rightly proud of, only right now, it's not...

Generally speaking, I think the Royal Mail do quite a good job, a next day national postal delivery service is an awesome achievement. I can post a letter on Monday morning with a 39p stamp and Mum will get it up in Lincoln the following morning.

Unfortunately for the Royal Mail the internet came along and then next day delivery was deemed too slow by most. Email has rendered the humble letter and envelope combination pretty much obsolete. Snail mail is set to become a thing of the past.

Well, it's pretty much obsolete unless you're a residents association managment company sending our new parking permits, then you rely uppon it entirely, and when it lets you down, the very people who pay for you to manage their accomodation end up getting shafted for £420.

Thanks to the march of progress and technology, the Royal Mail is losing money hand over fist, and as a consequence the powers that be are attempting to 'modernise' the system and working practices. Technology and modernisation are two words that strike fear into the hearts of union men. And when fear strikes, so do union men!

Non-UK residents are probably blissfully unaware that there have been a series of Royal Mail strikes in recent times. So it's not inconceivable that my letters and permits have gone astray along with millions of other letters as a direct result of the strikes. Even when the Royal Mail isn't on strike it is still prone to the odd lapse. So, in face of my missing permits and more pointedly my missing £420, my sympathy for the striking mail workers is wearing thin.

Even so, news that the Royal Mail says it will hire 30,000 temporary workers to break the strike fills my heart with dread. One might expect this of a privately held company, but the Royal Mail is state-owned.

Repeat: The Labour party is going to crush a strike action by hiring in scabs.

If Arthur Scargill was dead, he'd be turning in his grave.

As regular readers will know, I am a socialist at heart, so the idea that a Labour government is hoping to smash a strike being held by the workers of a state-owned company is abhorant. That said, £420 is a lot of money to me, and if these new workers can help get the Royal Mail get back on track, then all the better.

Ordinarily, I would think it inconceivable that the Royal Mail, or anyone else for that matter, could just hire 30,000 people at the drop of a hat. Fortunately, though, thanks to the credit crunch, unemployment figures are rising fast and there's a hungry workforce waiting in the wings.

I really don't know where to stand on this one readers. They say history repeats itself. In the 1970s, the Labour government, under Heath, was brought to its knees by the unions, ushering in Margaret Thatcher. She saw the unions as a threat, and so when the miners went on strike in '84, she sat it out, destroying the coal industy and thousands of lives in the process. Crucially, though, with the trades union movement stymied, she and later Tory governments stayed in power until 1997.

Fast forward 12 years, the country is up shit creek again and the unions are kicking off. If Brown et al crush the mail workers' strike, will that save us all from David Cameron? It's doubtful, let's be honest,but it could pave the way for one Barry Newsdesk esq to reclaim his missing £420.

A little bit of politics.

Barrington Newsdeskington over and out

Happy Diwali everybody

Weeeee.....wish you a merry Diwali
We wish you a merry Diwali
We wish you a merry Diwali
....and a happy Halloween

As old skool Bazlar Newsdeskittes will know, I am a practising Buddhist. As such today is a special day for me and not just for me, but from my good friend Ajay at the Taj. Because today is Diwali, which is like Christmas Day for both Buddhists and Hindus.

What's a Hindu? You might ask, lay eggs! ;-)) Sorry all you Hindus in the House of Newsdesk, that was not intended as a racislistical slur on your fine religion. It was a joke that my good friend Dave the roofer always cracks.

Other jokes Dave always cracks are:

Q: What's a Greek urn?
A: Five bob a week

Q: How'd you make a Swiss roll?
A: Push him down the hill

Q: How do you make a Maltese Cross?
A: Punch him on the nose

Q: How do you make a Venetian blind
A: Poke him in the eye

The thing is, it's gentle humour, not racism, Dave the roofer has no problem with Greeks, the Swiss, Malta or the people of Venice.

But it's this kind of humour that the dear old Beeb has decided to outlaw - they've introduced a whole new set of rules about comedy. It can no longer be rude, humiliating or offensive. I think it's possibly political correctness gone mad.

Mind, if we didn't introduce rules like this, the likes of Jim Davidson would still be doing the rounds with his characterisation of a hapless West Indian called Chalkie.

Back in Lincoln, the centre forward of my local boys football club was black and everyone called him Chalkie. The manager told us that we weren't to call him Chalkie, that it was racist and bad. But we didn't know, all we saw was Jim Davidson's 'harmless fun'.

So, actually, now I come to think of it, maybe Dave's Hindu gag is a bit out of order. So please accept my apologies my Hindu friends.

I'm pretty sure the Hindus will accept my apology, Gandhi was a Hindu, they're basically the original hippies (although, I suppose the Christians might argue otherwise - still that's religion for you).

So, if you're out and about, if you see an Indian, go and wish him a merry Diwali.

Peace out

Barry
x

White supremacist

As regular readers will know, my quest for a greater blog followership is an on-going cause of great frustration. I have the occassional burst of success, but so far, nothing stratospheric.

At present my Facebook group, the Friends of Barry Newsdesk, stands at 29 members (inc me, so 28 really - which is just two more than my blog followers). The Facebook group did bump me back up to 26 followers, after a brief slip down to 24. But it's been at 26 for a fair bit now and going nowhere fast.

Mr London Street suggested that I start commenting on other people's blogs. Networking he called it. But it's not my style. I'm a maverick. I'd prefer to plough my own furrow, to sow my own seeds - and I have been doing so with metronomic regularity ever since Gill left me! lol ;-)

Every so often though, I stumble accross a blog that sums up my dreams: rampant, easy, success ending in an amazing book deal. Today, I was reading the Guardian and I stumbled across just such a blog.

It's called Stuff White People Like. Like that other blogosphere sensation Fuck You, Penguin, it is a bit of a one trick pony. It's basically a list that pokes fun at white middle class Americans.

Talk about an easy target!

I've read through the list of 'Stuff White People Like' and I can concur that a lot of the stuff on the list is stuff I like. Even though I'm not American. Since the author is a white person, the blog is clearly using biographical self-deprecating humour so it is not viewed as racism.

The one entry the blogger has missed off his list so far is, Guilt-Laden Self-Deprecating Online Confessionals. White people love blogging and they love blogging about how rubbish they are. I cannot believe how successful this blog is though, and that the Guardian of all papers is lording it up!

I've read the blog readers, and I've read between the lines....here's A VIEW FROM THE NEWSDESK.

I don't care that the author is white and I don't care that some of what he says is true, it is racism, pure and simple....and not only is it racist, its success is racist...I did a quick Google search and discovered that the blog Stuff Black People Like, which was created (like the blog SWPL) at the beginning of 2008, is massively unsuccesful. At the time of writing, SBPL has 15 entries, suffice to say, SWPL has considerably more - and nearly 63 million hits.

Just goes to show you readers, white people like more stuff than black people. I guess the years of subjugation have probably ruined things a bit for the black people. Taken the sheen off life, so to speak. They must be having a good old giggle now though thanks to this blog at all the Stuff the White People Like. 'Hahahahaha, look at the stupid white people, with their weath and poor taste. We might be poor, but at least we look cool without trying.'

Only it's not like that is it? The blog Stuff White People Like is not racist against white people, it is racist against black people. It's reminding black people that they have been and continue to be treated as second class citizens, and it's reminding them with an apologetic nod to the fact that white people aren't cool, that they are still at the bottom of the pile.

I once worked with a bloke whose girlfriend was black, and he used to tell racist jokes in the office, 'it's OK, my girlfriend's black' he'd say with a nod and wink. Fucking cock.

The author of SBPL is not actually black, therefore the comments that his blog attracts are not massively forgiving, while SWPL's author is white, and so he's been getting rave reviews, rave reviews that are, no doubt, penned (in the main) by guilt-laden self-deprecating white people.

I did another Google search and discovered Stuff Christians Like, Stuff Chinese People Like, Stuff Asian People Like, Stuff Straight People Like, Stuff Unemployed People Like, Stuff Fly People Like, Stuff Gay Guys Like and Stuff Queer People Like. Also gone are Stuff White People Don't Like and Stuff Black People Don't Like.

So, you see, it's a formulaic franchise, I'm sure there are plenty more besides, but if you want to get in on the action now, here are a few blog titles up for grabs:

• Stuff tall people like
• Stuff fat people like
• Stuff bald people like, and
• Stuff grumpy people like

'Stuff Barry Newsdesk Likes' is also available, although like the blog Stuff Black People Like, it would be woefully short - and just as un-funny:

• Cobra
• Notts Forest
• Mr C, Mess, Tennyson and all his other followers
• Fray Bentos pies

I'm a man of simple tastes.

ND signing off
x

User 64

When I was a nipper I used to get comic books, innocent comic books they were, full of tales of daring do and adventure.

The comic books I read carried mimimal adverts as I recall, although they usually featured a page or two of classifieds containing a bunch of smaller ads. One of the most intriguing adverts to a young Newsdesk, lurking furtively on the edge of sexual awakening, was the advert for X-Ray Specs.

I used to look at the ad and my mind would boggle at the possibilities. I remember watching that scene in Superman where Lois asks Superman to prove that he has x-ray vision and he mumbles something about lead lining bloking the view, and even at that early age, I thought to myself that it would be brilliant to see through ladies' under garments.

I wonder if it is? I wonder if Superman wanders through life and everyone looks naked, or whether he has to invoke a special perv muscle in his eyes. One of the top tips for people giving presentations is to imagine that everyone you're speaking to is naked, I bet Superman is a bloody excellent public speaker.

Of course, even at that young age, I was aware that the x-ray specs for sale in the back of the comic books were fake. They just kind of made your fingers look a bit red, as I recall users were instructed to hold the subject of their scrutiny against a strong light, and when viewed it the skin kind of disappeared, only not really. They certainly weren't much cop for looking through ladies' under garments.

Well, good news perverts everywhere, eggheads and boffins have invented an actual x-ray scanner that enables users to view, at the touch of a button, fully dressed people in their birthday suit. Get this though, all you people with a keen eye on civil liberties, they're going to start using the scanners at airports!

Woooooooah, talk about prying eyes. It's bad enough as it is passing through security, without the dread of knowing that the gloating, job's worth with the peaked cap is having a good long look at your down belows.

Not to mention the children readers, I mean, I wonder how many of the so-called security guards are using the shield of anti-terrorism to protect their paedophilia?

And don't tell me that this sort of thing doesn't go on. I once got into a conversation with a man whose dad used to work at Manchester Airport and he told me about a curious case of CCTV misadventure.

Now, I don't know if you're aware of this, but CCTV users in commercial premises, like shopping centres, are given different codes and different levels of authority. This chap told me that each store in Manchester airport had access to the CCTV cameras that covered its premisis, then the terminal security firm had a level of security above that, so it could take control of any camera at any time, while the local constabulary had a security number and clearance and authority that supersceded the lot, or so they thought.

The head of security at the airport noticed that every so often he would lose control of the CCTV cameras for a short while. He contacted the police who had the highest level of clearance, but they said they were not accessing the cameras at the times stated.

The head of security decided to review the full list of user codes. He discovered that, buried in the system, was a code number User 64.

He started monitoring whenever User 64 came live and whenever it shut down. But there was no apparent pattern. The cameras would suddenly click on, following inocuous parts of the terminal building for seemingly random periods of time, then click off.

This happended over a period of a number of weeks. There was absolutely no pattern. No one shop was being monitored more than the others, no time of day was more popular, no time limit more prevalent. Nothing.

So, the head of security called in the head of IT and they worked together to work out a way of tapping the CCTV recordings of User 64. Every time User 64 clicked into life, a separate tape recorder captured the moment for posterity.

Posterity, being a more than appropriate word too readers, because what they discovered when they came to review the entire film of a week's worth of automated video capture, was a three hour epic motion picture featuring a stream of close up foottage of ladies' backsides!

I'm talking arse, literally.

It seemed that some junior IT bloke at the airport had managed to hack into CCTV system and create a User 64 account, then use that account to take over the airport security CCTV in order to please his own voyeuristic ends.

Now, just imagine what would happen if that same pervert managed to tap into Manchester airport's new x-ray scanner machine. Well, he'd pretty much have a continual stream of unwitting porn movie stars.

Talk about a surviellance society!

And don't get me started on this story about a CCTV 'game' that is encouraging the people of Britain to start spying on each other.

It's like East Germany and 1984 all over again.

I know the old arguments about how, if you've got nothing to hide, it's not a problem. Well, I'm afraid that simply doesn't wash.

Yours in News

Barry

A family newspaper?

I was told the other day that Lewis Hamilton, reigning world champion Formula One driver for McLaren, is gay. Despite being repeatedly photographed with his ‘girlfriend’ Pussycat Doll Nicole Sherzinger, who’s nearly 40, apparently he likes boys. Nothing wrong with that, of course. The person who told me has a relative who works at McLaren, who says the Sherzinger thing’s a sham to put the media off the scent.

I mentioned this to a friend I have who works for the Daily Mail, and she said that it was common knowledge. So much for the scoop.

But I don’t think the media are so easily put off by Hamilton’s relationship of convenience. Look at Stephen Gately, the recently deceased boy band singer. Years ago, family newspaper The Sun found out he was gay and told him they were going to out him. There were two weeks’ of negotiations and then The Sun ran a story saying that Gately had asked it to help him tell the world about the love that (ordinarily) dares not speak its name.

(“The love that dare not speak its name” ought to be a film about clandestine man love in a Trappist monastery. I bet all sorts goes on in those places. The strength of their beer combined with the silence and loneliness would push anyone over the edge, I reckon. If one of them propositioned you, you wouldn’t even be allowed to say “no”.)

I once had dinner with a man who was a journalist on the Sun. He was the boyfriend of a friend of Gill’s. He wasn’t very civilised; he ate like a hyena. Anyway, he had a few stories. He told me that the Sun had a massive file on Gary Lineker’s many infidelities (this was before Lineker divorced his wife and took up with that fancy new bit of fluff) and that they got the exclusive on Lineker’s kid having Leukaemia in exchange for not telling the world he was a bit of a swordsman. Now Lineker’s almost a national treasure, so I guess the Sun wouldn’t have a pop.

This chap also told me that the Sun got a call from a hotel chambermaid years ago saying that snooker legend Steve ‘The Nugget’ Davis was staying at her hotel. She said she would seduce him if they wanted to film it and pay her. The Sun, being a family paper, said it wouldn’t film Steve ‘The Prowler’ Davis having sex with a hotel chambermaid behind his wife’s back. However, they were prepared to pay her for the film if she made it herself. Which she did.

So this bloke, while we were eating dinner, told us that he had watched the film of Steve ‘The Ginger Magician’ Davis having sex with a hotel chambermaid and that quite a few people in his office had watched it too. The video was locked in a safe, waiting for Steve 'Romford Slim' Davis to slip up in some way so the Sun could slay him on the front page.

It saddens me that there are hotel chambermaids out there who would seduce a living legend like Sports Personality of the Year 1988 Steve Davis for money, and it’s even worse that near-rabid tabloid journalists like this bloke I had dinner with have sat around watching the footage. It makes you wonder if watching six-time world snooker champion Steve Davis OBE having sex with a chambermaid gave them a stiffy. Or maybe just a semi. Who knows.

I can only hope that no such video exists of lovely Willie Thorne. That would be a step too far. The man’s the uncle we all wish we had. In fact I would have liked Willie Thorn to be my dad. I haven’t told you about my dad, have I. One day I will. This might surprise you, but Willie is only three years older than Steve.

I was a bit disgusted by this conversation. Journalism shouldn’t be about making life difficult for someone who I think we’d all agree had one of the most natural cuing actions the professional game has ever seen. A player who dominated the modern era more than any other. Forget your O’Sullivans and your Hendrys. Just look at the stats. The man bestrode the game like a colossus.

So I said to him: “Do you actually like working at the Sun?”

And he said:

“It’s the best fucking paper I’ve ever worked on. I worked on the Mirror, the Mail and the Star, and the London Review of Books and The Sun is the best fucking paper of them all.”

So I said: “But people look down on it because it does things like buy videos of snooker players having sex with chambermaids. They say it’s an immoral paper.”

And he said, no word of a lie, on my Mum’s life:

“People don’t realise how much good we do.”

I nearly choked. I realised, at this point, that it wasn’t worth me trying to talk to him any more. It’s hardly surprising that people don’t realise how much good the Sun does when it’s busy buying videos of Steve Davis, author of the 1988 book Mathroom Snooker and 1995’s Steve Davis Plays Chess, "just trying to choose between the easy pink and the tight brown”!*

There was just no point in trying to explain.

Peace

ND

* Just to give you context, this is the payoff line from an old joke about Welsh Wizard Terry Griffiths visiting a prostitute. The joke works because Terry Griffiths was a famously slow snooker player, often taking a very long time deciding on which shot to play. In the joke the prostitute is on the bed on all fours while Terry walks around the bed bending down here and there and checking her from all angles. After a while she says: “Come on then, are we going to do it or not?” And he replies with the line above. It is an absolute classic. Although a bit blue for, say, a wedding. It’s not the bluest joke I’ve heard, though. There’s one that goes: “Jack and Jill are playing in the garden. Jill says to Jack: ‘let’s play hide and seek. If you find me you can lick my cunt and fuck me up the arse. And if you can’t find me, I’ll be in the shed’.” That’s quite a blue one. There are worse, but this is a family blog.

Clamp it up

I wish I was writing a nice little piece about how I went up to Lincoln to visit my dear old Mum this weekend. Sadly, however, this weekend turned into the a Kafkaesque nightmare.

After a long hard week at work I rose early on Saturday with the intention of stealing a march on the other weekend travellers. I'd had a less than restful night thanks to Dan and his 'friend' coming in late and banging around. But even so, I was looking forward to a nice drive up north.

I opened my curtains and surveyed the car park, a little bleary-eyed I was, but even so, there was definitely a car shaped gap where my trusty wagon should have been sitting.

'Oh flip', I thought, 'the local ne-er do wells have had it away'. I actually let a small smile creep across my face, I know full well it's insured above it's actual value. I made my way into the carpark, my be-slippered feet trudging through the dew and had a quick peer up and down the street.

No car. Gone. Best give Mum a ring I suppose, but before that I called the police (not 999 of course, just the local station), they asked me whether I'd called Trace - I've never heard of Trace, but it seems if your car gets nicked the first people you're supposed to call up are a global database for stolen property.

And that, I feel, is symbolic of the New Labour approach to crime. Stolen goods have been outsourced. In my day, back in Lincoln, I'd go and tells Steve's dad (a copper) and he'd go down the pub, have a few words, with a few people he knew, and the stolen good would likely turn up good as new.

Anyway, I told the policestation my car's reg. Then, she said 'Oh no, it's not been stolen, it was towed on Friday. No permit.'

I was flabbergasted, I've lived here for years, always had a permit, never been towed. So I called the number of the towing coming ZCSUK.Ltd and it rang, and it rang, but no one picked up. 'Ah well, it's early,' I thought. There has obviously been some sort of mix-up.'

I left it a while, until after 9:00 and called again. Nothing.

Then at 9:30 and then at 10:00.

Then I just kept pressing redial. Nothing.

I thought I'd better go and see Mrs Bradly, she's part of the neighbourhood watch sceheme, to see if she had a number to call. She did. In fact, she was able to throw new light on the matter.

Our block, it seems, has been taken over by a new management company and the new company had supplied new permits. Only, I hadn't received a permit.

Ahhh, a mix-up, no doubt my permit was missing in the post. I would call up on Monday and the whole affair would be over. They'd get my car back to me.

I called up the management company this morning and they said they had sent out a new permit. Indeed, they claimed to have sent out three letters to me.

Three letters, no of which I had responded to. Why send three letters? Surely, if they had sent three letters, I would have seen one?!

Thing is, I didn't get any of them.

They swear blind they sent them, I swear blind I never received them.

The lady on the phone said I need to call up the car pound and settle the debt. I called up the pound, the current bill is over £400. They say they clamped it on Thursday (£120) then towed it on Friday (£140) and are charging £40 a day storage (and that they were in all weekend, as they're open on Saturdays - open it seems, but not answering the number on their noticeboards - and since they do not give out their address, because "of the nature of the business" I was unable to even track them down physically).

The pound has agreed to put the storage costs on hold (very kind) but I need to pick it up and since they're shut in the evening, I need to leave work early, then get a train to Kent and give them a ring, they'll pick me up and take me to the car.

Apparently, I can appeal the towing (I've got seven days to lodge an appeal). Although I somehow don't think I'll win.

The towing company have acted within the law, they have rocked up and towed away a car without a permit, an open and shut case, so I'll need to appeal to the management company, I'm guessing that in this nightmare, they'll say, 'well, if you didn't agree with the fine, why did you pay it? there's nothing we can do retrospectively'.

So, I find myself down over 400 large, massively inconvenienced over the weekend, and having to work through lunch so I can leave early to go to Kent, then drive all the way back along the South Circular, and STILL not be able to park in my own parking space.

WHERE IS THE JUSTICE???????????????

The grey army

I was wrong about the weather readers, today was much more miserable than yesterday, although it did pick up for yours truly when I logged on to Facebook and read this wonderful email from Mr Coleman.

"Sorry I have not been commenting on your blogs over the last 3 weeks, but recovering from the heart op has used up much of my energy. This doesn't mean I have not been following your blogs with zeal - on the contrary, they have kept me motivated (even though laughing out loud - as your blogs tend to make me do - hurts like ****!) I'm feeling just great now and have already made plans to be back at school in January. Best of luck with the "Read My Blog" campaign - I'm following your progress with great interest - even thinking of running a book on it! If ever a blog deserves to be read, it's yours!" Cheers - MrC

It's so good to hear from him again. (Although, and I asked Mr C this question. Is it grammatically correct to say I heard from him, when the communication was in writing? (Answers on a comment below!)

More great news on Facebook is that the Friends of Barry Newsdesk currently stands at 27 members (so, minus me, that's the same number of followers following the blog). Amazing, I think my good friend Mess helped drive the number up, he emailed a whole bunch of his mates and urged them to join!)

And this piece of brilliant news on Facebook was followed by the news that David Cameron et al might have just shot themselves in the foot. They've suggested that if they come to power they'll up the age of retirement to 66 and save themselves a massive wedge on pensions.

I happen to think it's an outrage, a lot of pensioners fought and died in the wars for people like David Cameron, the toffy nosed twat, to come along and take away their basic human rights.

I don't know the exact figures readers, and I can't really be chuffed with visiting Wikipedia to find out, but you've got to expect a good proportion of the blue coffin dodgers won't like that news one bit. If they switch sides, we might just see David Cameron miss out on the title! I should imagine there could be some sort of uprising. And I'm not talking about the kind of uprising bloody Roger gets on his Viagra!

OH - that reminds me, following my return to form and Mr C's return to good health, I decided to take up my fav teacher's advice and patch things up with Mum. Now, for you newer readers who have yet to make your way through the back catalogue, I'll give you a quick truncated recap .
I love my Mum, more perhaps than all the Cobra and Fray Bentos that money could buy. She's more than mother, she's like an aging best friend, sure she's not with it when it comes to the zeitgeist, she doesen't really share my eclectic tastes in music, indeed, we're talking about a woman here who owns the entire back catalogue of Chris de Burgh. But she's always been there there for me, through thick and thin. Until, that is, she met Roger.

Roger is basically a canny old gold digger that managed to get his hooks into my inheritance, unbelievable really. Anyway, when push came to shove, I asked Mum to make the choice that no son hopes he'll ever have to make. It was a case of me or him.

I was forced into divorcing Mum and vowing never to speak to her again. Well, plenty of water has passed under the bridge, and Mr C's close shave with the Grim Reaper, combined with the news that pensioners would have one more year to wait until they could cash in their chips and sponge of the state, encouraged me to give her a ring this evening.

I can't say it was easy, but - and it's a small step at this stage - I think I will be able to see it in my heart to forgive her. Forgive, I might add, but not forget.

This change of heart doesn't mean for one second that I'm prepared to get on with Roger, but I will tolerate him, for now.

Anyway, Mum invited me up to Lincoln this weekend, and I've got to admit, the thought of her roast beef and Yorkshires is going to be with me all the way up the A1.

Also, I'm looking forward to quizzing Roger about Cameron's pledge. Can't wait to see the look on his face!! lol!

All the best

Barry

Look South

Good evening and welcome to Look South. On tonight's show, I'll be taking a look into the curious issue of Dan Bantam's sexuality, the form and function of my office sweepstake X-Factor pick, Miss Frank, as well as looking ahead to tonight's big Pro Evolution Soccer matches and tomorrow's weather.

But before I do that, I'd just like to have a quick recap on the status of a certain Facebook group. I'm talking about The Friends of Barry Newsdesk of course. Just five days ago, I took the online law of friendship into my own hands.

I had become frustrated at my inability to drive up the blog's followership and having tried emotionally blackmailing a small group of Facebook friends, using nothing more than a six sided die and a threat of de-friending my quest for greater uptake had come to naught. Enraged I decided to widen my threat, I set up a group called the Friends of Barry Newsdesk, then invited every single on of my Facebook friends to join. A failure to join up would mean you'd be put on the hit list and, like Beatriz Carvahlo, be de-friended.

To be honest, I didn't think anyone would bother joining really. However, I was wrong, my main French pal Mess joined up. Then my fav Californian babe also joined up, Jennifer Walker Shannen, saying: "Sorry I was late to the party. You know you're my favorite, though, right?"

How cool is that? But it gets even better, ace blogger Mr London Street also signed up, using his real name, which I will not reveal here, in case he prefers to blog in cognito. He said: "Barry = legend."

LEGEND! Like Bob Marley.

Then, globe trotting around the world, my fav kiwi follower Megan Rose signed up saying: "Ooo, I love this. I get to be both a rogue stalker and a legitimate fan all at the same time. Good work Barry Newsdesk."

Well, I was bowled over with joy. At the time of writing, the Friends of Barry Newsdesk has 24 members (but that includes me....so 23 really).

The really great news though, is my blog followershipness has bounced back from 24 to 26 again!

That, my friends, is the POWER of social media.

Anyway, the rampant success of the Friends of Barry Newsdesk has caused me to have a serious long look at the blog, and I've decided to get back to some Citizen Journalism. Which is why I started writing today's post in the style of a regional news show. I know this re-focus will certainly please Tennyson ee Hemingway, as he commented not so long ago: "Well Baz, hopefully this will get you back to doing the Citizen Journalism we love. I've missed that part of your blog lately."

Have you noticed what I've been doing readers? I've been using quotes. That's something proper journalists do to pad out their stories.

I'm also hoping that my re-focus will bring back Mr C, whose comments I have missed. Maybe he's sulking because I haven't thrown the welcome back party? Don't worry Mr C, I will, I really will. I just want to make sure things are back on the straight and narrow first.

BACK TO THE NEWS

I'm starting to think that Dan Bantam might be on the verge of telling me that he prefers boys to girls. As older readers of the blog will know, Mr Bantam (my boss) became Dan (my flatmate) when not so long ago he split up with his wife Clare. I had always thought he was a big hit with the ladies, he certainly takes care of his appearance, professes to be a wizard in the kitchen and almost all his friends are girls.

The thing is readers, I'm not stupid, I'm a man of the world. And, when the other night at an office karaoke party, Dan did a cracking Lola, I realised the score. It's a mixed up muddled up world readers. Each to his own and all that. But I have to admit, I do feel a little bit uncomfortable walking around the flat in my pants these days. Dan has made several disparaging remarks. More than Gill ever used to make.

Then, after his customary night out in Clapham at the weekend I heard more than one voice in his room. It was clear that he and A.N.Other were a bit merry, pretty soon I heard his stereo fire up Lady Gaga's insufferable new album and there was the unmistakable noise of the beast with two backs.

Don't get me wrong, I'm certainly not a homophobic, but under my roof?! I think I'm going to have to ask Dan to respect my wishes and not bring fellers back to the flat readers. I think it's only fair, particularly as I've not had much luck lately in that department. Not the fellers department readers, I don't bat for that side.

Sometimes though, when I see how happy Dan is these days I wish I was a bit gay. Maybe a bisexual or something. The best of both worlds. It would up my potential target market by 50 per cent. Although, I wouldn't want anyone too big. I think it would be intimidating. I've heard that Indian men have got small willies, so it might be an ego boost to get one.

Anyway, since I'm exploring fresh new avenues of sexuality, I decided to take part in the office X-Factor sweepstake. I've got Miss Frank. They're a band, so Louis Walsh has got em, and they're unusual in that they all got to Boot Camp as solo artists, but weren't good enough to make it on their own so were clumped together by the judges.

Listen to me readers, I sound like a natural. But I got all this info by listing to Suzi and Dan chatting about last night's show, during which the judges chose the Final 12. I won't bore you shitless with a description of the rest of the show's entrants. Although, I have to confess the red blooded male part of me would have rather had Kandy Rain - another band composed entirely of ex-strippers. They're a bit more pleasing on the eye than Miss Frank. If you don't believe me, check out the everyone's fav newspaper, the Current Bun.

Actually, The Sun isn't everyone's fav rag, really, it's read by illiterate morons. But it is full of tits and as Dave the roofer says, you can't put a price on tits. I'm going to go off-piste here readers, but the Sun recently came out in favour of David Cameron. A famously right-wing rag in the 80s, the Sun switched its political allegiances and, if it's own PR is to be believed, almost single handedly convinced the British public to give New Labour's Tony Blair a chance.

They're not driving the political agenda of this country readers, they're bandwagon jumping mercenaries who prey on the 'minds' senseless tit-lovers. I know that David Cameron will get in readers, but I'm a socialist at heart, always have been and it'll be a dark day indeed.

The Sun's sudden switch back to the Tories seems a tad desperate. It would be like me pretending to me a Man Utd fan last season and then deciding that I'd follow Chelsea this year.

Speaking of football (and seamlessly getting the show back on track), tonight will see Newsdesk Utd, my Pro Evolution Football team take to the field for the first time in ages. I have to confess, I've been looking at adverts for Fifa 10 by EA Sport. I've been a Konami Pro Evo man ever since I flogged my Megadrive and bought a Playstation. But I suppose if I can consider a life of homosexuality, and if the Sun can switch political party, then I can try out the Pro Evo rival.

It looks absolutely mint I must say. Until now I've resisted the urge to buy a Playstation 3 and have soldiered on with the PS2. But it's getting to the stage now where the difference in quality is like comparing the EA Sports Fifa 95 on the Megadrive with the PES5 I play. Things have moved on, and maybe it's time for me to move on. But not before I finish just one more championship winning campaign with the old boys Newsdesk Utd.

I've got some Cobra chilling in the fridge and I've been looking forward to this all day. Dan's out at pilates so I've got the place to myself.

Before I go though. I thought I would have a crack at forecasting the weather. They always do the weather last on the news. The thing is, I'm not convinced that they really know much about forecasting weather at the met office any more than someone simply guessing tomorrow's weather based on the what it was like today.

So, today it was a little bit chilly, quite grey and overcast, with fairly persistent drizzle. I think tomorrow, will be slightly drier, and maybe a little bit windier.

And that's THE NEWS.

Baz

Ollie Onion’s Peculiar Pickle

Regular readers will recall that I entered a Secret Seed Society writing competition not so long ago, with not one but two entries. Sadly, I didn't win with either entry, however, the CEO - one Peter Parsnip - did write me a lovely comment.

It was Peter's lovely comment that made me think it would be worth while entering the SSS's latest writing competition. To write a 12 chapter, 700 word piece about a personified onion.

Without further ado, here's my entry....I can almost smell the £700 prize money.

Ollie Onion’s Peculiar Pickle

Ollie Onion loved living in Seed City. There was something magical about the town. He wasn’t sure he could put his finger on what it was, the beautiful parks and gardens, the theatre district and buzzing nightlife or maybe the sheer diversity of personified vegetables. You didn’t find any these things back in Onionton.

The only drawback of living in such an amazing place was the fact that so many other vegetables were of the same opinion. The feeling of claustrophobia was quite intense for a young onion like Ollie, the trains and the streets were teaming with vegetables, all pushing and pulling, competing for air and competing for jobs.

Yes it was true, finding work in Seed City was quite a challenge. It wasn’t like being up in Onionton, where a young onion could live at home with his parents until it was time for the Market. No, in Seed City finding gainful employment could be extremely difficult, particularly in a recession. Making matters worse, the rents were sky high.

Ollie Onion had run out of his savings long ago, indeed he was heading rapidly towards his over draught limit. The rent was due and there was the very real possibility that he would be cast into the streets, worse still he might have to return to Onionton and face the mockery of his peers.

Ollie had attended countless job interviews with little success. He’d left school with no qualifications and was caught in the Catch 22 situation of having no experience, unable to get a job to take him on and give him experience he required. He was, therefore, excited and worried at the prospect of his latest opportunity, an interview that very morning.

He had risen early and ironed his one good shirt. After breakfast Ollie was ready for the world. But he’d forgotten to shave, so ran to the bathroom and lathered up his face. Quickly and inexpertly he pulled the razor this way and that, alas in his haste his aim was off and he cut himself several times.

He didn’t have time to stem the bleeding as he was now running late. So he ran to the station, upon arriving he found the ticket queue was massive, then one by one the vegetables in front of him started to buckle and wheel away in tears, Ollie was at the front in no time.

It was same story on the train. Ordinarily at rush hour, Ollie would have to wait for several trains to come and go before being able to board one. Not so this morning, the other vegetables on the platform were forced into giving Ollie a wide berth, his freshly sliced flesh causing all about him to run for cover.

Thanks to the nicks on his face, Ollie made it to his interview in the nick of time. He was understandably nervous about the impeding interview. “Ahh, good morning Mr Onion, thankyou…ohh, excuse me I feel a tear in my eye, thank you for coming in, oh dear boo-hoo, sniffle, snort, I’m afraid I need to have a cry.”

Ollie stood up and made to go for the door. “Ooh, sit down my boy, sniffle sob, don’t you realise what this means?” Ollie looked on non-plussed. “I’m Lord Alan Sugarbeat, TV entrepreneur and government enterprise tsar. I haven’t cried for 50 years. These tears will do my reputation the power of good, vegetables everywhere will now think I have a heart. You’re hired!”

Without a second thought Ollie seized upon the contract hastily cobbled together by Lord Alan’s legal team and signed on the dotted line. He was now an employee of Sugarbeat Enterprises. It only upon closer inspection of the contract that Ollie realised exactly what would be required of him.

From that day forth Ollie Onion would have to shadow Lord Alan wherever he went. Self-harming on cue to engender tears of sorrow in the face of his employer as he ruthlessly fired his way through the workforce of whichever failing business he happened to be presiding.

The Friends of Barry Newsdesk

I just took the Facebook law into my own hands readers.

I've started my own Facebook group and it's called the Friends of Barry Newsdesk. I'm extremely pleased to announce that the one and only Mess dude became my first fan!!!

THANKS MESS, YOU ROCK.

I also just had a good Facebook chat with Mohamed Mamdoh who is a Facebook friend of mine all the way from Egypt. He was on a mobile, but promised to visit the blog another time.

Ooops, for some reasons everything I write is coming out underlined! I can't turn it off....oh well.

So, anywho, I've started the group on Facebook and I have invited every single one of my 'friends' to become a member and to start following my blog.

I guess only time will tell. But for those who do not become a follower, I will defriend. It's truly make or break time.

Peace out.

Baz
x

ps. guess what?!?? I submitted my blog to that Blog Distributor company, they have vetted my blog and I am good to go, a genuine Blog Distributor Contributor - could it be, I finally see some financial reward for all this hard work?

pps. Here's what Blog Distributor said to me:

Hi Barry Newsdesk,

We have tested your blog (http://barrynewsdesk.blogspot.com) and have found that it matches our criteria for a blog that we feel comfortable sending jobs to. Congratulations, your blog has been Certified!

Please view the table below to see which Topic/Sub-Topics your blog has been certified for, if any. As soon as we receive orders for blog postings that match your blog's certified Topic/Sub-Topics below, if any, we will send you an email notification.

Your Blog’s Topics/Sub-Topics:
Selected By	Certified?	Topic	Sub-Topic	# of Postings per Sub-Topic
You	Yes	Arts	Journalism	5
You	No	History	Religion	4
Categorizer	No	News	Current Events	1
Categorizer	No	News	Hot Topics	2
You	Yes	News	Investigative Journalism	5
You	Yes	News	Journalism	5
You	Yes	Recreation	Humor	5
Categorizer	No	Society	Behavior	2
Categorizer	No	Sports	Cycling	1

• By reading through your blog, our "categorizers" (the staff people who analyze your blog) have found additional Topic/Sub-Topics that your postings focus on. These additional Topic/Sub-Topics enable you to make more money with Blog Distributor.
• In order to be certified for a Topic/Sub-Topic, your blog must contain a minimum of at least five blog postings that focus on that particular Topic/Sub-Topic. If you have less than five postings for a particular Topic/Sub-Topic, you may add more postings to your blog and then resubmit it to us. (Follow the "Re-Submission Instructions" below.)
• Your blog can only be certified for a maximum of five Topic/Sub-Topics per blog. If you have been certified for less than five Topic/Sub-Topics, you can get certified for more Topic/Sub-Topics by creating enough new blog postings to bring the number of postings that focus on each Topic/Sub-Topic up to five. Then, re-submit your blog to us again by following the "Re-Submission Instructions" below.

Re-Submission Instructions: (You can only re-submit your blog a maximum of three times in any 12-month period.)
1. Go to www.blogdistributor.com
2. Login with your username and password.
3. Go to the "My blog(s)" page on our website.
4. Click on the Resubmit blog checkbox in the row of the blog that you wish to re-submit.
5. Our staff/system will re-test your blog. If it follows our guidelines, and there are no further problems with your blog, then it will be Certified to receive New Jobs from Blog Distributor!

If you have other blogs, we suggest that you submit them for Certification too!
We look forward to working with you.

Blog Distributor