Countryphile

Hi there readers

First up, I feel I need to proffer up my all too usual apologies for a severe lack of regular posting recently. You wouldn't believe the last two weeks I've had. Although, if you're a long termer you might. I just don't ever seem to get the rub of the green. So far 2010 has been one of the worst yet. Which, if anyone takes the trouble to read 2009's postings, is saying something!

My misadventures with Dippy in Australia were followed by returning home jobless to find the Tories in charge. I was then unceremoniously kicked out of my own home. And if that wasn't bad enough, just when I managed to get myself back up and online, I was burglarized!

I've feel violated :-(

I thought South London was bad enough with its dog and bike thievery, not to mention its legally and positively encouraged by the powers that be Day Light Bloody Fucking Robbery. But I'd not been out in the sticks five minutes before my own domicile had been breached and evacuated of its contents.

On the night of my last post, I signed off the pages of Newsdesk and proceeded in a southerly direction to the local pub. To be totally honest I fancied a crack at the barmaid. Sadly, I didn't really make much progress. I sparked up a conversation fair enough saying that I was new to the area and wouldn't mind finding someone with local knowledge to show me around. I name-checked a few famous people I'd met as a successful writer down in London, names like Pete Andre, Bruno Brooks and Barry McGuigan, but I could tell she didn't really 'get it'.

That's the thing with these country girls, they lack sophistication, imagination and ambition. They end up working behind the bar of their local village pub, getting up the duff with the centre forward of the pub football team and then settling down to a life of domestic abuse, misery and dreams of what might have been.

In many ways that barmaid reminded me of my own poor mother. I still can't believe she's been blinded by Roger Leache. You would have thought she would have learnt her lesson when dad ran off with the lollipop lady. Some people are just born victims.

I can't really remember leaving the pub that night or indeed the long and dark stagger home. I woke up with a splitting headache and dragged myself out of bed only to discover that the front door of Greta's place was wide open and some git had been in and made it away with half my stuff. My laptop (and dongle), mobile phone, wallet, my TV (still boxed from the move), microwave which was brand spanking new - and while not technically mine, per se, was still something I was looking forward to using - my passport and the box set of The Wire!! Still at least they hadn't discovered the six pack of Cobra in the fridge. I had to have one just to settle my nerves.

Once I'd had the police around and spent about two hours going over the previous night's events and the details of the stolen contents, I had to walk all the way to Lincoln because the tealeaf had also nicked the keys to Roger's Ford Focus that he let me borrow for the move. Honestly, judging my his reaction when I got there you'd think cared more about his missing motor than the fact that I could have been murdered in my sleep.

I had to sleep on the sofa that night. IN MY OWN HOME! The indignity of it all!!!!

I did a lot of thinking that night on the sofa. I was going to have to sort my life out. I was going to have to get home. But, well, I was also pretty bloody excited about the World Cup. The thieves had at least not stolen Greta's ancient, but fully functioning telly.

Mum came up to me the following morning when Roger wasn't around and gave me a few quid. Not 'gave', as such though, because I will pay her back, natch. She's a great old girl really my Mum. Although, I think she's lost touch with reality a bit, I doubt she even knows how much a Frey Bentos pie is these days. Fortunately, I know where she keeps her spare credit card. I thought, if England get past the group stages I could be holed up in that cottage until July.

When I got back to the cottage the next day I was in for yet another unpleasant surprise. Roger's son Gary was on the sofa watching TV in his boxer shorts. He barely even diverted his eyes from the set to acknowledge my entrance. "All right Barry mate," he said, "have you got any booze?"

'Cheeky twat,' I thought as walked into the kitchen, 'there's no way I'm letting him get his hands on my Cobra.' "...only I've finished off that flat shit in the fridge and I thought you might have something decent on you.." bellowed Leache.

Even above the din of my internal rage I think I heard him scratching his balls. I went straight to my room, and I'm not afraid to admit it readers, I had myself a little cry.

Later that night Gary shouted up asking me if I wanted to go to the pub, I didn't bother answering, I thought I'd just pretend to be asleep. I heard the door slam a little later and I went down and polished off the contents of Greta's liquor cabinet while watching a documentary about sex tourists in Vietnam. Makes you sick really, hopeless, socially inept, middle aged men picking up girls young enough to be their daughters.

I woke in the night to the sound of rhythmic banging. Leache had clearly been more successful than I had down at the village boozer. Stands to reason really, he's exactly the sort of uneducated Philistine that impresses teenage barmaids. When I got downstairs the following morning both Leache and his companion were nowhere to be seen.

Gary has kept himself to himself since that first night. He turned up the day after England v USA with an XBox and a copy of FIFA 10, and he even bought me a case of Heineken to replace my Cobras. We played a few games and thanks to my management training with Zach Abrahams I didn't disappoint on the virtual pitch.

It turns out that Gary keeps quite odd hours and is sometimes away for days on end, but he seems to be amazingly successful with the ladies. I had to buy some ear plugs from the chemist just to get a full night's sleep when he's around!

Anyway, he turned up last Friday night and we sat down together to watch England/Algeria. I hate to admit it, but we had quite an entertaining night, despite the fact that he kept calling the Algerians "rag 'eds". Still, he's not really a man of the world like me, I think he's pretty much never moved away from the East Midlands and he certainly didn't go to university.

This morning he turned up at the cottage driving a black Peugeot 206. He was giving me a lift over to Mum's place for Roger's Father's Day meal.

I took a calculated risk, remembering comments that Gary had made to be about his father when we first met, and revealed to him that I knew about Roger being a nazi. It was as risky gambit as I had suspected during the England game that Gary might also being a member of the BNP. But it turns out he hates Roger even more than me. He didn't really have a decent word to say for the man. Gary's racism, it turns out, is not politically motivated, he's just a bit provincial.

Anyway, they're all downstairs as I write this post - I'm using Roger's computer which is set up in Mum's room. That's one in the eye for fascism!

I can hear the laughter and clink of glasses. I know for a fact that Gary has only really turned up to brown nose Greta. He reckons she'll be dead by Christmas and he'll have a third share in the cottage.

I'd best get myself back down there before the pigs in blankets have all gone.

Yours in News

Barry

Evicted

Something terrible has happened readers.

Last night, it seems, Roger's ageing mother Greta had a bit of fall getting into her bath and broke her pelvis. Apparently, she lay in the water for over three hours unable to get out. She had to keep letting water out down the plughole and refilling it from the hot tap to stave off hypothermia. Ingenious really. Mind, she looked like an old prune when she was on dry land, so (your) God only knows what she would have looked like after being submerged for that long!! lol ;-)

Get this though, once she's out of hospital, Roger wants to move her into Mum's place, my house, my bloody room! I'm being kicked out of my bloody inheritance thanks to the incompetent bathing habits of a sour-faced Nazi. Nice one.

I pointed out to Mum that Roger should sell his mother's house and use the funds to put her into a retirement home. She threw a complete eppy. WFT? It makes sense, she's had her crack of the whip, I don't see why I should suffer thanks to that Teutonic tit-willow.

I thought I was a prisoner in my home, turns out I was just the unwanted squatter.

I just stormed off into MY ROOM when I found out about Roger's plans. I've been watching the box set of The Wire this week. God it is brilliant!

After about half an hour or so, Mum came trudging sheepishly in carrying a plate of Spag Bol and a can of Cobra. She was clearly feeling guilty, and rightly so. I took the Cobra and told her I wasn't hungry. I was bloody starving too.

Then she started up: "I would have thought you'd understand Barry. You're a grown man. You should be living your own life, like you were before Christmas. You left behind a perfectly steady job and let that lovely Gill slip through your fingers. You chased off to the other side of the world after some Australian. I thought I'd lost you for good. I've moved on with my life after first your father and then you moved out, and I think you should move on too. You know Roger loves his mother dearly and only wants the best for her. He knows that his mother wants more than anything to leave the house to her grandchildren. I like to think that perhaps when I get a bit unsteady in later years that you'd look after me if anything happened," she said, talking right over a bit when Omar is finally getting his revenge over Stringer Bell.

She knows I hate it when people talk over the top of my dramas. I just picked up the remote and rewound to the beginning of the scene. "You don't need me to look after you," I pointed out, "You've got bloody Roger!"

I whacked up the volume and took a deep pull on my Cobra before pressing play. Sometimes the bitches need to learn the hard way, you feel me?

Baz

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.

Yours

Roger

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!)

BN

Lest we forget

The next phase of Operation Sword of Truth (OST) kicked into gear last night when I met up with Mum and Roger, before they went to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof featuring Darth Vader's James Earl Jones. Roger had got us a theatre meal deal at Cafe des Amis in Hanover Square.

I tell you what readers, they might not wash much and have a penchant for inter-marital liasons, but they can't half cook. My mouth was running faster than Usain Bolt on a promise. The smells and the sounds of Cuisine du Francais c'est magnifique.

Ha! I bet you didn't know I could speak French did you? I've got an O'level. Of course when I was at school we did O'levels, not like these GCSEs, where apparently you just need to turn up and tie your own shoe laces to get an A star. An A star, I mean, seriously whatever next? Kids today have got it so easy. There were no Pro Evo back in Lincoln when I was growing up. I used to have to use my imagination! I'd pretend that I was Luke Skywalker flying his X-Wing, running around Mum's garden re-enacting Star Wars, while Steve spoke into an empty pint glass imitating James Earl Jones! "I have you now!" he'd say, then he'd shoot at me with a spud gun. If I made it twice around the rotary clothes line without getting a piece of spud in my face or falling over I won and we'd swap over.

We didn't have A stars readers, we had Death Stars!

That's the power of imagination. I guess that's why I'm such an amazing writer. It's not as though I went to Citizen Journalism school. Back in my day there was no such thing, I went to the School of Hard Knocks and graduated from the University of Life. And Trent Poly. When it was a bloody Poly too and not some jumped up pretend University.

I took Gill to France back in the early days. I'm an old romantic like that. Curiously I also went through a period of being a New Romantic too. I had a proper Flock of Seagulls fringe and a big frilly fronted shirt. It was one of Mum's old blouses. I didn't really have the money to buy a proper one.

I remember the first time Gill let me take her up the Eiffal Tower. Happy days. She didn't know I had the French O'level either, until I showed her my French letters, I could tell she was impressed with my cunning linguistics, she let me lick her front bum. I'm many things readers, but I'm no braggart. I think language just comes naturally, much like Gill did, in the end.

Back in the Cafe des Amis, I ordered chicken and chips. I said chips too, not frites. "Don't slaver them in garlic either monsieur," I told the waiter nice and loud. I was trying like mad to maintain my right wing facade. When the food came, I looked on in envy as bloody Roger was tucking into his moules mariniers.

Apologies for this Mess, but I had to keep our relationship a secret. I really want Mum to be proud of me, if she knew that I wrote this blog and had made friends from all around the world, and Reading, I reckon she might lend me the money to get it published as a book for her at Christmas. But I have to keep it from her. It's for her own good.

We didn't really have much time to talk to be honest, they needed to get to the theatre, so we just mumbled through the usual pleasantries and platitudes. Did they have a nice trip down? Yes. Was I still enjoying my new job? Yes (I lied, it's fucking shit readers, and I can't tell Mum about the take-over - she'd only worry herself sick, chalk up another white lie to Barry!). Was I seeing anyone new? (Fucking Roger asked this the spiteful bastard.) I told him that I was playing the field, I'm a young buck who needs to sow his wild oats - the cheeky twat actually laughed "you're not so young any more my lad" he said "MY fucking LAD" - I told him that I wasn't "his lad" and that I was "Mum's lad and always would be," then Mum said she wished I'd been able to patch it up with Gill, then Roger said she was probably better of in Canada anyway!!!

A weaker man might have crumbled or lashed out, but I saw this as an opening, I said, "well Canada's all right, they've got Her Majesty's face on the money. If they kicked out the frogs, it'd been even better!" Roger then informed me and the surrounding tables that he had a great deal of sympathy for the Québécois. I said they were no better than the bloody IRA. Then I pulled up my jumper's sleeves and revealed my trump card.

Mum's face was aghast. "Barry, what have you done?" she implored. "I'm just patriotic Mum, there's nothing wrong with being patriotic if you're from Quebec or Ireland, and there's nothing wrong with being proud to be English! - isn't that right Roger?" I asked. I had him, he couldn't back out of that one. "Actually Barry, I was born in Edinburgh, my mother was from County Tyrone and my father was Bargoed in the Valleys of South Wales. He was minor and contracted bronchitis so had moved to Scotland for the cleaner air. Technically, I'm a Celt. You're right though, there's nothing wrong with patriotism, I'm just not so sure about the way you're choosing to demonstrate it."

"Celt?" I said "I think you're a couple of letters out." It was a moment of weakness readers, I couldn't help myself. Luckily for me, I don't think he heard it.

I looked down at my new tattoo, it's three lions in a crest, with the date October 25th 1514 inscribed below. "Lest we forget," I said patting my arm, "Agincourt." I had to fight back a tear, I think it looked like I was welling up with patriotic pride, actually it was the tattoo, which stung like absolute fuck.

Mum was shaking her head and Roger had started to smile. 'I've got him,' I thought 'hook, line and stinker.' Roger and I split the bill down the middle, which I thought was a bit bloody rich, but I figured the gold digging old Nazi was in the palm of my hand, I was about to quibble of a few quid.

Before we went our separate ways, Roger took me to one side, 'here we go, Baz you fucking genius,' I flicked on the recording switch of my trusty dictaphone, "I think you might need to do a bit more research," he said. And that was it. How cryptic?

It's a start though isn't it? I went home and got stuck into a few celebratory cans of Cobra. Which, granted, was a bit of a mistake, 'cos I overslept and missed the chance to meet up with Mum and Roger this afternoon. They're off to see Othello tonight. I thought I'd get some culture in myself, rather than veging in front of the X-Factor, I've downloaded a copy of Kenneth Branagh's Henry V - thought I'd get doing that research that Roger was on about!

It takes a thief to catch a thief! (Although, surely if that were the case, we should start hiring ex-cons into the Force?)

Use the force!!!!!!!!!!!

Barry Skywalker

Undercover Newsdesk

Well, readers, what an interesting weekend I had. Operation Sword of Truth began in earnest and – I tell you what – I should have been a bloody spook. I’m a natural.

Operation Sword of Truth is the codename I have given to my plan to open my dear Mother’s eyes to the reality that Roger is a fascist maniac, like that bloke from the motor racing who goes with all the prozzies. His dad was the leader of the British Nazis and the apple never falls far from the tree, does it. Well, it did in my case because I’d never leave my wife and child and run off with the lollipop lady – who was nearly twice his age anyway – leaving my child at the mercy of all the other kids who take the piss out of him for his dad running of with the lollipop lady.

Most people look at lollipop ladies and think: "Ah, that's nice, a lollipop lady". It even sounds nice when you say it. Not me, though. I look at lollipop ladies and it's all I can do to stop myself screaming at them for being bow-legged, home-wrecking c*nts. I don't mind lollipop men, though, because I don't think many wives or mothers would run off with a lollipop man. I guess that makes me unusual because most people, if they're honest, look at lollipop men and think: "nonce".

By a bitter twist of fate, Mum ended up being the lollipop lady for a while – we had to make ends meet somehow, and she remains for me the only lollipop lady I've looked on with fondness – and the kids were so cruel to her about dad. That’s why I learned judo, at which I am a black belt, as you know, and not – as my mate Steve maintains – because watching Brian Jacks on Superstars gave me a stiffy. That’s just the kind of stupid shit Steve likes to say. And, as he well knows, I had been thinking about Jane Jarvis from school (she was the first girl to get boobs) while I was watching Superstars and Steve just happened to notice that I had a stiffy and that’s where that silly rumour began. Anyway, he told everyone at school, as if it wasn’t bad enough already, and I made it worse by saying it had nothing to do with Brian Jacks; I’d been thinking about Jane Jarvis’s new boobs. At which point her brother Ian beat me up. The humiliation continued, because Jane Jarvis let all the boys feel her boobs apart from me, and I asked really nicely. Even Ian Jarvis felt them – there was something wrong about that family. Like the Carpenters.

Sometimes I don’t know why I’m still friends with Steve. He did a lot of nasty things to me. Once when I was round his house for Sunday lunch he did a fart that smelled so bad that his Grandma threw up. He then blamed this on me and his mum took me home and told my mum that I was never going round there again with my filthy habits and no wonder my dad ran off with the lollipop lady if that was the kind of thing he had to put up with at home. Steve told everyone at school and nobody would sit near me for a whole term. Apart from Fat Alice, who was in pretty much the same boat as me; although she deserved it and I didn’t. Jesus Christ she fucking stank. Rancid. She did let me feel her boobs, though. They didn’t feel much different from the rest of her to be honest. But, when you’re that age, you take what you can get.

Anyway, I digress. Operation Sword of Truth, to bring any stragglers up to speed, involves me pretending to be a BNP/Fascist sympathiser in order to con Roger – my mother’s Nazi beau – into revealing his true colours so I can get my mum to leave him. He’s pretty sharp at keeping it hidden, I have to say. I guess you get good at keeping things hidden when you’ve got such dark secrets.

When I arrived in Lincoln, Mum said she thought we could all go for a curry in the evening. Here was my chance! “Can’t we have something British?” I said. “Why do we have to have foreign muck?” Here I smiled at Roger. Mum said: “But you love curry, dear.” And Roger said: “Actually Barry, it’s not muck, it’s got an AA Rosette and it’s listed in the top 100 restaurants of Lincoln. The city of Lincoln has become quite cosmopolitan,” he added, “which can only be a good thing.”

Christ, I thought. You’re good.

I could see that I was going to have to play a fairly long game here. Roger wasn’t about to let his gravy train be derailed that easily. So we went for a curry, although I had an omelette, which was bloody awful. I absolutely love curry, so you can see the kind of sacrifices I’m prepared to make so that Mum can be happy. Roger wolfed down his prawn dansak. He had mushroom pilau, and a peshwari nan. It looked magnificent.

I could tell that here was a match for me in every way. I even began to feel a grudging respect for him. He must detest curry, given his Griffinesque politics. It’s interesting that the word “Griffin” has two meanings, according to the Collins English Dictionary. The first is a beast with the head of an eagle and the body of a lion – ie an animal of mixed race – and the second is a person from Western Europe who moves to the Orient – ie an immigrant.

Alanis Morissette would have a field day with that. It’s way more ironic than ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife, which isn’t really ironic, it’s just a cutlery fuck-up.

As Roger and I left the restaurant (mum was inside, settling up. What kind of man is Roger, just letting the woman pay? Unbelievable) there was a woman begging, with a baby. She was clearly foreign. Roger, slick as you like, gave her a pound fifty.

There were two options open to me here. Option one was to lead with the: “There weren’t any homeless in Berlin in 1939. Whatever you think about Hitler, you can’t argue with that” line. This a bona fide racist opener, a fact I can vouch for because it was said to me by a black cab driver in London once. (I should point out for my overseas readers that the driver was white; it was the cab that was black. You don’t get a lot of black people musing on the impressive social achievements of Adolf Hitler. You don’t get a lot of black black cab drivers, either. Institutional racism is alive and well and it gets round town in a taxi.).

Option two would see me raise the problem of British homelessness. We’ve got a lot of homeless people here, and Griffin likes to say that we should look after our own, before we start giving handouts to bloody foreigners. I went with option two. Roger said: “She’s a young mother with a baby, Barry. It’s our duty to help her. How can you be so callous.”

I tried to change the subject. I said: “There’s never a bloody bin when you need one, is there. And you know why? Because of the Irish; that’s why. The litter on our streets is down to the Irish. No surrender, eh Roger?”

“There’s a bin right there, Barry.” Said Roger, pointing to a bin that I hadn’t seen. “What do you need to throw away?”

He had me here, and I had nothing to throw away. Out of desperation and in a moment of panic I said: “This watch. I’m sick of it.” And then I took off my watch and threw it in the bin. It was a lovely watch, Gill gave it to me for my birthday a few years back. But I couldn’t risk blowing my cover.

"That looked like a very expensive watch, Barry," said Roger. "Why did you throw it away?"

I said the only thing I could say:

"Bloody foreign, that's why." Roger looked me in the eye for a long time, while neither of us said anything. I thought we were about to get a breakthrough, but then Mum came out of the restaurant and we went home.

So now I’ve got to buy a new watch. Maybe when all this is over and the scales have fallen from Mum's eyes she'll be so grateful she'll buy me a really expensive one.

Peace

ND

Roger, over and out

It was Winston Churchill who famously said, "keep your friends close, but your enemies closer". Wise words indeed, and something of an irony that I will be using them to fight my own personal war on terror.

As regular readers will recall, I discovered that Mum has been hoodwinked into a relationship with a bone fide nazi, Roger Leache. Since discovering the truth about Roger, I have been trying to think of a way that I could use the information to my benefit.

When Mum, whom my love for is beyond compare, first fell for the elusive charms of Roger, I was aghast. In my haste to get Roger out of our lives, I told Mum that Roger had actually made advances in my direction.

Amazingly, Mum took his word over mine. Unbelievable really, but there you go, they say that love is blind. And, although it sickens me to the pit of my stomach, Dad did leave us both an awful long time ago, so I suppose when someone came along and bombarded her with amorous desire, it is little wonder that she was blinded by the truth, and chose his word over mine.

That said, he never actually did make any movements in my direction, but even if he had, she still would have believed him over me, and I think that's the point. It's a matter of principle. Anyway, when I discovered that Roger is a nazi using the the BNP nazi finder website. I thought to myself, "hold up Bazza boy, you're going to have to be a bit canny here." After all Mum's political views are stuck in the 1950s at best.

Indeed, much to my eternal shame, but I feel I can admit the truth here on the blog, my middle name is actually Enoch. There, I've said it, Barrington Enoch Newsdesk. I'm not proud readers, but then again, he did have a point in his infamous Rivers of Blood Speech. Immigration has been something of a headache. Not that I for one am a nazi.

In the comments section of the post where I announced that Roger is a nazi, my excellent follower (who refuses to add the follower widget) The Vegetable Assasin said: "I think whenever you're next forced to acknowledge him, instead of a terse "Hello." or "Good night" you should greet him with a spirited "ACHTUNG!" and see how he reacts. If he goose steps around the living room like Basil Fawlty on Ritalin, you've truly sussed him. If he doesn't react at all you've still sussed him because that means he's familiar with the greeting. Maybe instead of "Achtung!" you could yell "HEIL ROGER!" but then he might take it as a compliment..."

Clearly, something of a jokey suggestion readers, but you know what, sometimes playing a little curveball is the best move.

I'm off up to Lincoln this weekend and instead of being openly anti-Roger, I have decided to win his confidence by pretending to be a nazi! It's fucking genius isn't it? I'll be like a double-agent in a John Le Carre novel.

It's a long game readers, I'll win his confidence and then using one of the dictafones that I 'borrowed' off the editorial desk, I'll get him to reveal his true colours!

When Mum hears with her own ears how evil and twisted Roger is, she'll surely (jack)boot him out for good!

auf weidersen
Baz

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

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

1939

It's an immotive number readers. Not when you read it as one thousand nine hundred and thirty nine, but when you read it as nineteen thirty nine. If Harry Patch RIP were around today, I bet he'd have a thing or two to say about it. As indeed would Grandad Newsdesk RIP.

But, at the time of going to press, 1939 is the exact number of hits on the old Barry Newsdesk blog. Amazing really, although if you're reading this moments after I post this, it'll be 1940, or possibly '41. Who knows, you might even miss out on the war years altogether - something bloody Roger managed apparently. Technically, he's probably a bit to young to have served King and Country of course. But even if he was old enough, I bet he would have been a conscientious objector.

Now, I'm a pacifist, as regular readers will know, but if I got the call to serve against the rising tide of fascism, I'd concede that giving 'peace a chance' just wouldn't be an option. For many people in this country, Tony Blair was out of order when he lied to us all and sent us to war under false pretense, but sometimes a little white lie is all that's required to stamp out tyranny.

I've been doing a lot of thinking during my week away from the office. And I have come to the conclusion that I think I might have to put a spanner in the works of Mum and Roger's impending nuptials. I might have to tell Mum a little white lie. Like all good lies, it will have elements of the truth. I'm going to tell Mum that Roger went behind her back and called me and threatened me, and then I going to tell her that he's a paedophile.

It sounds extreme I know, but if Tony Blair hadn't lied to us, Saddam Hussein would still be lording up and gassing the Kurds.

Yours in propaganda

Barry

ps. If anyone's off to the Big Chill, I'll see you there!

New Dad

I've just had one of the worst weekends of my life.

No, scratch that.

I've just had the worst weekend of my life. Period. (I wonder why Americans only ever pronounce the full stop? I remember back at school me and Peter Bloor decided that we'd spend the physics lesson pronouncing all the grammar in our sentences, but instead of the grammar we substituted in different words. I think we used the word 'powersupply' for a comma, not sure why and I can't remember the rest, but I think we'd seen Monty Python for the first time and we thought it was hilariously surreal - our teacher, Mr Salt, put up with the tomfoolery for about half an hour and then sent us into the corridor).

Anyway, this weekend, I decided to go up and see Mum in Lincoln. I got a Funfare on the National Express. Funfare! What a misnomer, I've had more fun scraping the dog shit out of my trainers. Still, I'd do anything for Mum. Even scrape dog shit out of trainers. Regular readers will know that I love my Mum. She is more precious to me than life itself and all I really want is for her to die happy.

I went up to see her because this weekend it was Father's Day. Which is not called Fathering Sunday, unlike Mother's Day. That's to say Mother's Day is called Mothering Sunday, unlike Father's Day. Which is just called Father's Day.

Mum usually gets a little bit down on Father's Day. She tried to top herself once, not long after he left us. I don't tell many people that, because she told me in confidence herself. There's no love lost between me and my long lost father. I've not really told you about my dad have I readers? There's just so much to tell, but it'll have to wait until another time.

I let myself into Mum's place with the key that she keeps under the flowerpot by the door. There was no sign of life, so I went into the kitchen and got myself a cuppa. I flicked on the TV. She's got satellite these days. Satellite, it costs a bloody fortune, but apparently Roger is a big golf fan.

I flicked it onto Dave and sat down to watch a repeat of Top Gear. I can't make up my mind over whether Jeremy Clarkson is a genius or a complete cock. I think that's part of his universal charm.

Anyway, after about a quarter of an hour or so, I heard some noises, bumping around upstairs, I bet Mum's having an afternoon snooze, I thought. I turned the sound up, I didn't want to startle her and I quite fancied some dinner. After a short while I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and in walks bloody Roger, bold as brass, wearing a satin sleeping gown.

"Hello Barry," he said, "we weren't expecting you until later."

We!!!!!!!!!! We!!!!!!!!!!! WFT!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was dumbstruck. Things got worse, Mum turned up a few minutes later, her hair was slightly disheveled and I swear blind, on (your) God's earth she'd been smoking. AT HER AGE!

Things went from bad to worse, I had to sit there while the two of them mucked about like teenagers. Giggling, she was, AT HER AGE!

I actually felt sick. In the end, I went around to see my old school chum Steve. His wife suggested that we go down the pub instead of sitting around the house. I get the impression that she doesn't really like me, readers. I know, it's difficult to believe. I think she's just jealous that me and Steve have a shared history that she can't compete with.

In fairness, it was a pretty dull night, I don't think we've really got that much in common after all. We ended up playing darts and I was back home by 10. No sign of Mum or Roger. The next thing I know I'm being woken up at about 2am by the The Thing That Should Not Be. There are certain things a son should never hear. I won't go into details, it was too ghastly for words.

I got to sleep in the end, but my dreams were f*cked up readers. I dreamt that I'd invented a new sandwich spread made from Marmite and marmalade, it was called Marmalite and I was trying to sell it to Alan Sugar, but then he turned into my dad and told me I was fired. When I finally got up in the morning, it felt as though I'd done five rounds with Barry McGuigan.

I didn't think things could get worse, but there I was expecting a Mum special fry-up on Sunday morning and then she announced that we were all going out for lunch at the Harvester to meet Roger's children and so she didn't think we should have a fried breakfast because Roger's got high f*cking cholesterol. I can't believe I'd gone all that way to see Mum and now she was taking me to a Harvester.

Roger Leache, it transpires, is a widower. He has three children. Michael is the eldest (about 45), he's a property surveyor and is married to Kate (slightly younger than Michael I'd say, she was clearly something of a yummy mummy once, but I reckon she's let herself go a bit), they have three daughters (I can't remember their names, I think one was called Emily). The middle child is Alan (early 40s) an architect and single (quite possibly gay - but then if I hadn't heard what I'd heard, I would have assumed Roger was gay. I won't rule it out, Mum could just be a cover - maybe he's bi-curious?). Then there's Gary (late 30s). He didn't say what he does for a living, he muttered something about helping out with local bands - I think he might be in the music business or a drug dealer.

What a torturous three hours that was. Three bloody hours, Gary slopped off before the end of lunch saying something about a soundcheck and Roger announced that Mum and Kate shouldn't' have to pay, then bloody Michael parps up that it's Father's Day and 'Dad' (Roger) shouldn't have to put his hand in his pocket. He flippin' well split the bill three ways and I was expected to cough up. He's not even my dad. Jesus, I'm not tight or anything, but sometimes you've got to stand your ground. I was standing it too, then Mum slipped me a couple of twenties, so I caved in. I'm pretty sure Roger saw too, but he didn't say anything. He just looked at me, face like he was chewing a lemon.

I made my excuses and left. I said I had to run to catch my bus, but in truth it wasn't for another hour and half, so I nipped into the pub near the station. Who should I see propping up the bar? Gary bloody Leache. He was chatting to this right n'ere do well. I kept my distance, but he spotted me after a while and made his way over.

"Your Mum's got a few bob," he said, as he sat down next to me. You can imagine my reaction.
"What my Mum's got is hers," I said.
"Aye, 'ers 'til she cops it. Eh?" He said and he winked. He winked, readers, like some character out of a Charles Dickens novel.

Oh readers, how I've struggled to drop that disgusting East Midlands twang. The dropped aitches and gees, a fake friendliness with the underlying thuggery of the market town inhabitant. 'TAKE ME BACK TO THE METROPOLIS,' I was screaming inside.

"Don't worry mate, it's not me yo after worry about," he said, "I'm not the crook in our family."

He slurped down his pint, patted me on the shoulder and made for the door.

It was the longest coach journey back down south I've ever spent.

Newsdesk out.

Inspiration for da nation

I've just read an excellent blog post. It was written by none other than my favourite French follower Mess. On his new blog, Tangled Up. Mess is tangling with that age old dilemma, love. He's got a soft spot for Girls Aloud star Cheryl Cole.

To be honest though Mess, you shouldn't spend too much time waiting for the 'perfect' girl to turn up. I'm not sure that she'll be leaving Ashley any time soon and if she did, I dare say she'd probably be knocking on Christiano Ronaldo's door.

I've posted much about the subject of love. But, what can I say? If love wasn't so damn confusing, it wouldn't be so much fun! ;-)

Take me and Gill. Jeesh, first it's off then, well, I think it might on again readers. When I cast our relationship adrift, I thought Amber and I had a future. How wrong I was. OYG, how wrong I was. I should have seen the signs. Turns out she was dating Leigh all along and playing me for the fool.

She used me readers. I feel violated. I actually got Leigh sacked from Blockbusters, because I wanted to get sacked with Amber...jeesh, the irony. All along she was taking from the til and letting Leigh take the rap. Well, when I told Richard at Blockbusters that I thought it was Amber and not Leigh who was stealing, he told me shut and stop worrying about a few quid here and there - she's got him wrapped around her little finger, the weak willed cretin. There a word for girls like Amber.

Meanwhile, Gill's been up in Lincoln all this time looking after Mum. But Mum sent her home because Roger "can take care of things". ROGER!!! I saw Gill last night, she finally took me up on that Pizza Express offer. She told me about Dave, the roofer, it was a one-off she said. She started going on about how he made her feel "wanted". I felt a bit sick in the pit of my stomach. what a fool I've been.

Seeing Gill and just having a nice time made me think about my friend Steve's humdrum family life in Lincoln, maybe settling down isn't so bad after all.

I know, check me out, I'm having a life affirming moment.

I think I probably have this blog and trusty followers like Mess and Mr Coleman to thank for their support during the dark times.

I feel so proud that Mess suggests on his own blog that it was yours truly that inspired him to start blogging. Proud but at the same time I sense a tell-tale tingle of jealousy. I've got to admit, Mess's blog is excellent, a little too good! ;0)

It's a bit like the moment that a father realises his son can beat him in a fight. Maybe that's why Dad left us. Becasue he was jealous of me and Mum and scared that one day I'd be the one throwing my weight about.

Who's laughing now?

Newsdesk Out

Mixed messages

Hello readers. I’ll cut to the chase straight away, I’m not feeling very happy today.

Lots of things seem to have come together at the same time to make this the case. Mum’s got her voice back, which is great, but the first thing she used it for was to tell me about what a lovely time she’d had with Gill while she was up there.

Mum and Gill always got along really well but now I feel like it’s them against me. I mean, I know Gill’s mum’s dead, and that’s part of the reason why her and my Mum get along so well, but she is my Mum and I need her more than Gill does, really.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel bad for Gill about her mum. But jeez, readers, accidents happen, right? And everyone knows that, statistically speaking, hang gliding is one of the most dangerous pastimes there is. And if you’re going to go hang gliding – and I’ve never been – but if you’re going to go, you want to avoid pylons, right? It’s not bloody rocket science.

But Mum said they went out for a night together and they ended up in bloody nightclub. My Mum, in a nightclub! She’s my Mum, she’s not some pikey old granny, the kind that Wayne Rooney has a thing for. Is it just me, or does anyone one else think that Wayne Rooney has the look of a simpleton about him? Like he’s always got his tongue out and he looks like he dribbles a lot. Next door to my gran there was a couple who had a simpleton boy and he lived with them until he was into his fifties. He loved listening to music on his headphones, and he loved the snooker.

Anyway, Mum told me that all the blokes in the club were trying it on with Gill and that they both had a really good time. Also, my Mum met a ‘gentleman’ earlier in the evening, while they were having dinner, called Roger, who offered to drive her out into the country for lunch one day next week. And she’s going to go!!!

Now I love my Mum, but if there’s one thing that worries me about her it’s that she’s a bit of an easy touch. It’s like people take advantage of her and I just can’t abide that. I’m sure ‘Roger’ came across nice as pie, I can well imagine it. But I bet he’s just after the money; shit I hope she didn’t tell him how much she’s got. She mustn’t tell people that. And the thing about Mum is that when she’s had a couple of sherries, well, she gets a bit suggestible.

That’s all. So I think I’m going to have to go up there and meet Roger for myself, because I don’t think he can be trusted. And then I was feeling funny about Gill getting all the attention that Mum was talking about. I have to say, she is looking great at the moment, the last time I saw her I did feel a few of the old stirrings that I used to get. She’s obviously been out and got a load of new clothese and stuff. Because when I saw her, she said: “Jesus, Barry, you’re not still wearing that bloody Ned’s Atomic Dustbin T-shirt are you?”

Also, I went on a date, you know I’m doing that online dating thing, right? Well I went on a date and, not to put too fine a point on it, it was an absolute bloody disaster. I had a bit of stubble on the go, because I think the ladies like that, and I did some press ups before I went out, although not many. And I put my black trousers on, although I think they’ve shrunk a bit in the wash.

Anyway we arranged to meet at a pub I know in town, which is great and it’s a Sam Smiths pub, which means you can get a pint for not much more than two quid. Gill and I used to meet there. So when this girl – Susie – turned up I thought, “easy Bazza old son, she’s a bit of a cracker”. But she didn’t like the pub. Wtf? She wanted to go for cocktails, so we went to this place and the doorman looked me up and down and glared at me but chatted to Susie. Apparently she’d been here before. She told me what she wanted and it was TEN QUID! For ONE DRINK!

I only had £40 with me, figuring that we probably wouldn’t have more than ten drinks each in the pub on a first date but now a quarter of it was done for. So I had a water. Then she spent 15 minutes chatting to the doorman, while I sat at the bar with my water. She came back and asked for another drink, which I got, and then she said she didn’t think we had much in common, so let’s just chalk it up to experience. So I asked her for the money to cover the drinks and she just laughed at me. So I asked her again, and then the doorman came over and grabbed me and threw me out. And everyone in there was laughing.

It was an awful place, the kind of place that Gill and I would never go into when we were together, because we thought it was up its own arse. Which it was. I thought I’d call Gill for old times sake, but when she answered it sounded like she was at a party and she said she couldn’t talk. So I went back to the pub and got a drink, and, well, that’s about all I remember. Woke up at home with all my clothes on.

Checked my phone and I had a text message from Amber. It said: “Please stop texting me.”

So I looked at my sent messages and I’d sent her seven texts saying about how I thought we’d be great together, and I really like her and she’s hot and all this nonsense.

I’d also sent Gill 15 text messages, all saying the same thing: “Baby, what went wrong. Still think about you all the time.”

She hadn’t replied at all.

Shit, things are a bit messed up.