ET Is from Birmingham

According to an article in yesterday’s Times newspaper, Birmingham, my hometown, is officially “the weirdest place in the UK.” and rated the “capital of spooky phenomena”. Apparently showers of frogs, gigantic hailstones, miraculous lightning cures, tornados, and mince pies being dripped by UFOs are almost everyday occurrences in the great second city. Well, pretty frequent (although the only dated examples quoted in the article were 1954 and 1980).

Now readers of my earlier post – the Great Divide – will realise that I am a proud Brummie (although I was actually born in Walsall – the most unhappy town in the country) but I am not exactly surprised.

Presumably the Extra Terrestrials are attracted by the aerial views of “Spaghetti Junction” or “the Boob Tube”, or, just come to gawk at the local fashion – white socks are, unfortunately, still very prevalent with your fashion (un) conscious Midland Man.

The plagues and extreme weather phenomena are probably just God’s way of trying to clean the place up a bit. Well, it worked for the Brindley Wharf area (Gas Street Basin as was). Weird it may be, but not as weird as where mu mother-in-law lives. My mother-in-law lives in Royston Vasey.

I Blame Jeremy Kyle

I Blame Jeremy Kyle

Did you see “Pramface Babies” on Channel 4 last night? I was forced to miss Ashes To Ashes for this wonderful piece of ….well, it was hardly the epitome of investigative journalism or of drama-documentary; it was hardly the new “Cathy Come Home”.

“Pramface” is a derogatory term used to refer to underage or young mothers on council estates. See the Urban Dictionary for some more “colourful” explanations. I have seen many a Pramface mom in my time in the Civic Centre of Shameless (see earlier postings). They are hardly inspiring role models for their children. Body-pierced, bleached, tattooed, blue veined, teenage girls pushing and dragging multi-coloured and multi-parented (“parented” is a bit of a misnomer of course – I mean that the children have different sires). They are uneducated, out of work, and foul mouthed. The fathers are, well, elsewhere.

I read one article about the programme referring to the girls as being from a “working class” background. No they are not! “Working class” refers to a class that works. As my wise and wonderful better half, C, informed me, you are working class if your parent (for it could be either or both of mom and dad) came home from work dirty. Labourers, miners, factory workers and the like. But, there was little evidence of jobs amongst this little gaggle or their “partners”. Although, I notice that they were all able to afford state-of-the-art mobile phones.

At least we seem to have lost the “Jason and Kylie” generation. Instead, we seem to have developed a fashion for two-syllable names, spelt phonetically. The girls in question were named “Laura”, “Linzi”, “Kerrie” and “Krista” and their “partners” included “Andy” and “Terry”.

We never actually saw Terry. He was AWOL. Probably wetting the baby’s head with a two-litre bottle of cider and a spliff or a line or two somewhere. Or, maybe getting the baby’s name tattooed on his forehead. We did, however, get a brief insight into the caring nature of Terry with the introduction of the Christmas present that he had given to Laura – an American bulldog (nice) called “Gucci” (aspirational at least) who was happily nesting in the baby’s carry cot. Charming.

We did meet Linzi’s other half, Andy, who was described as being a “terrific dad”. Andy lives with his mom. Terrific. In fact, this was to be Linzi’s second child by Andy. Like the first it was “unexpected”. Unexpected? Well at least they didn’t use the term “accident” or “unplanned” but how on earth could it have been unexpected. Did they miss the pretty obvious lesson in biology of the first baby that they made! Indeed, I thought that it was not without a little irony that this programme was immediately followed by “Big Bang Theory”…..on so many levels.

What is our society coming to? I blame Jeremy Kyle. Judge Alan Berg once described The Jeremy Kyle Show as trash which existed to "titillate bored members of the public with nothing better to do". He went on to say "It seems to me that the purpose of this show is to effect a morbid and depressing display of dysfunctional people whose lives are in turmoil." and added that it was "human bear-baiting".

These kids seem to have nothing better to do than stay at home (provided for by the state); spend their benefit on drink, smokes, and drugs; and, shag. They aspire only to have their problems resolved in full public glare on Jeremy Kyle or Trisha; the deluded aspire to become famous on X Factor or Big Brother Uncut. Maybe we should consider shutting down daytime TV, limiting the payment of child benefit to the first two kids, and making parenting classes compulsory.

Rant over…..for now.

Whatever Happened To The News?

Whatever Happened To The News?

Who on earth thinks that is a good idea to have "Dancing" Bill Turnbull front the BBC Breakfast News? He is hardly a classic news anchor, though he does rhyme with one. He is so smug, so smarmy, so uninspiring, so un-serious, so un-witty, so un-fashionable, and, so, so boring. His favourite hobbies are bee keeping and ballroom dancing for chrissake!

He lowers the tone with his un-naturally plucked eyebrows that hint at a grooming regime that is far more stringent than that of his glamorous colleagues (especially Louise Minchin who often looks as if she has just made it in after a very harrowing trip into the office). He lowers the tone with his boring suits and offensive ties. He lowers the tone when attempting, unsuccessfully to conjure witty links between the news stories (I use that term loosely), the weather, the sports report, and those humorous (not) articles they put on about such things as Dancing Dogs at Crufts and the like, or the all-to-frequent blatant advertisements for the BBC’s own programming – Celebrity Strictly Come Dancing, the Apprentice and so on.

Increasingly, they seem to forget to report the news or do so only fleetingly. We are fighting two wars, there is genocide in Darfur, and we are inundated by stories of children pretending to be news reporters, how to make a pancake, obese cats, and Chris Mullin (the sports presenter who is frequently linked with rumours of off-camera nookie with Carol Kirkwood, the weather presenter) in a rather unattractive all-in-one body suit used by Olympic swimmers.

The whole programme would be an absolute nightmare and waste of time if it hadn’t been for the constant distraction of his side-kicks. Like Dr Who, Turnbull comes with his own companion, who is usually an intelligent, easy-on-the-eye, foxy if not sexy female presenter.

The list is extensive, but, I will include it here for no other reason than it will dramatically increase the hits I get, especially from those very sad souls that somehow always find my posts on Cheshire Swingers, or Sleeping With Julia Roberts (see my post on Strange Visitors by way of explanation) with their very obscure search terms.

Sophie Raworth, Natasha Kaplinski (far too much make-up), sporty Kate Silverton, Mishal Husain, and, of course, the dynamic duo which get most men of a certain age going in the morning; the epitome of pint-sized foxiness Susanna Reid (often misspelt in search engines) and Sian Williams. And, not forgetting the glamorous weather girls with which our Bill flirts so furiously: Carol Kirkwood, Helen Willetts, and Louise Lear. Boy, this is going to be my best day ever!

Bill’s colleagues are all smart and professional. They fill in the serious bits when Bill isn’t reminding us that he too appeared in Celebrity Strictly Come Dancing. Presumably he was attracted by the make-up and the flouncy dresses.

Please BBC, Kill Bill! Kick him into touch. Put him out to grass. If it were not for Sian and Susanna it would be nigh on impossible to drag myself out of the bed in the morning. Sometimes it is a relief when I am in a hurry and have to dash to my car and the serious news reporting of the Today programme on Radio 4 John Humphrys is a god! At least they seem to take the news seriously and in depth. What a contrast.

Cooking Up A Storm!

Cooking Up A Storm!

Did anyone else out there witness the demise of Delia Smith last night on her new BBC 2 Programme? Quite possibly I think that dementia might be kicking in. That or the booze.

Now don’t get me wrong, I have a lot to thank Delia for. You don’t get an OBE at the age of 66 and sell 18 million cookery books (and, therefore, outselling Nigel Slater, Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay), without being successful. Her recipes have rescued many a Christmas dinner in our household and her “How To Cook” taught at least two of my sister-in-laws the joy of cooking and eating as well as increasing the sale of eggs by 10% overnight and causing most shops to see-out of omelette pans.

I even quite fancied her when she was on “Multi-Coloured Swapshop”, being the first female chef on children’s TV, before I gave my heart away to Emma Forbes. And, having seen her, Delia that is, modelling bathing costumes in this week’s Radio Times, I can easily see why I did.

Even the rather camp Nigel Slater (who is a chef I admire greatly) seemed to have a soft spot for ol’ Delia, talking at one point about receiving “permission from Headmistress”. I wouldn’t have put him down as being into S&M. It takes all sorts.

However, I am now beginning to believe that the drink-fuelled rant at a Norwich City football game may not have been a one off. She must have been boozed up when she made last night’s show, surely. For, as far as I can tell, it had next to nothing to do with proper cooking or even cheating at cooking as she claimed. How many of us put quails eggs in our fish pies? How many of us have capers, cornichons and walnuts on our shelves? How many put potato into our chocolate cakes? How many of us would pour a sauce that looked like cat sick over spiced potato wedges, boiled eggs, and olives?

Perhaps the most disappointing thing about last night was her constant use of frozen mashed potato. Why didn’t she just show her audience how to make perfectly good mash? It takes just 25 minutes to peel, boil, and mash a potato and with a little butter, milk and seasoning it is quite delicious. The frozen monstrosities that Delia was hawking took 40 minutes to cook. Where is the sense in that?

Maybe it is the lowly position of Norwich that has got her down. Maybe it is the realisation that she has been usurped in many male eyes by the beauty of Nigella Lawson (admittedly fading), and Tana Ramsay (Gordon’s much easier on the eye wife), or, for our American cousins, Giada de Laurentiis and Rachel Ray.

How the mighty have fallen.

What Is The World coming To?

What Is The World Coming To?

What is the world coming to? For one, the weather has gone crazy. There has been a recent earthquake in the UK and today the weather is reminiscent of the final Judgement Day. I know that it was nigh on impossible to see anything much through the spray on the M6 this morning but I could have sworn I was overtaken by the four Riders of the Apocalypse. Perhaps I should stop listening to the Doors on my iPod while I’m driving.

It is not just the weather either. Sporting results have gone mad too. Just look at the FA Cup results over the weekend. Who would have thought it, Portsmouth, Barnsley, Cardiff and West Brom through to the quarter finals. I wish I had been a gambling man…..

And can you believe it, staff working at ACAS (the Advisory, Conciliation and Arbitration Service) have voted to go on strike. These are the very people who are supposed to help other organisations to mediate and avoid strike action. And then you only have to look at the latest Eurovision entries from the UK and Ireland to realise that the world has gone slightly mad.

Conspiracy theorists must be having a heyday too. Just type “conspiracy theory” into Google and you will be entertained well into the next millennium. 9/11 was deliberately orchestrated by the US, or Israel, or Iraq; the US never did land on the moon, while Nazis Germany had a base there as early as 1942; the US and Indian militaries deliberately caused the Indian Ocean tsunamis by setting off an electromagnetic pulse bomb; and, humanity is actually under the control of dinosauroid-like aliens who must consume human blood to maintain their human appearance. Presumably, Deirdre off Coronation Street is the exception that proves the rule. What is going on with that neck of hers?

I must admit that I too quite like to dabble in conspiracy. My favourite is the old Jesus thing – that he was actually a political leader rather than a religious one (that being his brother James), that he was married to Mary Magdalen (a la “Holy Blood, Holy Grail” and the “Da Vinci Code”) and they had a child who founded the Merovingian dynasty in France, with Christ’s descendants going on to include the likes of Leonardo da Vinci, Robert Boyle, Isaac Newton, Victor Hugo and David Icke. Actually I did make up the David Icke connection. And, so did he.

But, I have been to Rennes-le-Chateau and Masada so I know what I know! Similarly, my good lady C predicted the demise of Princess Diana even before Mohamed Al Fayed. Neither of us think the future looks too rosy for Barack Obama either, unfortunately. And, do you know, there are people out there that think that Cliff Richards is actually gay………surely not.

In truth, nothing can be quite as mad as the real world which gave us President George W Bush and the prospect of Boris Johnson as the Mayor of London. Dick Wittington must be turning in his grave. And, I know that Dana is not entirely happy either!

But, if any of you out there have any good conspiracies that you would like to share, just let me know.

Close Call!

Close Call!

For once I am glad to be at my desk, in my little bunker, in darkest Walsall. This morning the sun is shining and reflecting off the yellow hard hats of the street workers midst the myriad roadworks, and, it is beautiful. For I have just survived a near death experience. An accident on the M6, around junction 15.

It was just last week that I was bemoaning my commute to work and the terrible driving that I had witnessed. Well, today was a shave too close for my liking. The last two mornings have been a little dodgy due in part, I believe, to the cold, icy mornings, and the bright sunshine. The winter sun is very low in the sky and there are certain stretches on the motorway where it catches drivers unaware. They are suddenly dazzled, blinded and yank on their brakes. Consequently the motorway goes from the national speed limit (or above) to zero in the briefest of moments.

Consequently, I do try and leave a sensible gap between me and the car that I am following. I also hope that the car behind me will attempt to do likewise.

Well, this morning I was tootling along in the outside lane (I am advised by the more politically correct members of the office that we shouldn’t refer to it as the “fast lane”) when, all of a sudden, the traffic in the middle lane slowed significantly. Without warning and without signalling a white panel van pulled out in front of me, and a Vauxhall Vectra pulled out behind me. The panel van had been travelling at a slower speed than I was and he immediately hit his brakes. I reacted instinctively and jammed my brakes on, making an emergency stop just as the white van ploughed into the car in front of it.

Unfortunately there was not any time for my life to flash before my eyes as I braced for the impact ahead and behind. I do remember thinking that it was rather sad that one of my very last images could be the words “Please clean Me” finger-painted on the van’s rear doors as my head made rapid progress towards the windscreen. I had a brief memory of an article that I had read during some driving awareness course or other which described the last thirty seconds of someone’s life as they were involved in a fatal car crash. It hurts apparently.

But there was a minor miracle. Praise be the engineers at Audi. In particular, those in charge of brakes on the TT. I was able to stop with millimetres to spare. I was able to keep the car in a straight line. The car behind me had swerved back into the middle lane to avoid hitting me.

The panel van had ripped the back end off the car which it had hit, pushing it into the middle lane. But somehow the driver of the car was sufficiently unhurt or so high on adrenalin that he was able to leap from the wreckage and drag the white van man out of his seat for a bout of fisticuffs, until he was dragged off him by the driver’s three other mates. Road rage, but understandable given the circumstances.

How I was not hit and how I stopped in time I will not know. My guardian angel was truly alert this morning. Fortunately, the hour long queue between junctions 11 and 10 gave me sufficient time to calm down and count my blessings. The coffee is beginning to kick in now, so all is well.

Drive carefully out there!

Eurovision

EuroVision

Recently there has been one helluva fuss in the UK about whether or not we should hold a referendum on the European Union’s Lisbon Treaty. The argument is all to do with a so-called election pledge by the Blair/Brown Government to hold a referendum on the EU Constitution. Those in favour of a referendum claim that the Lisbon Treaty is in fact the old Constitution under another name. The Government claims that this is ridiculous. It is ridiculous despite the fact that it differs from the Constitution by just 4% of words. I haven’t read it myself but presumably the 4% of words that are different are pretty important. Words like “not”, “never”, “speak German”, “eat snails” and “Gordon Brown” (in the signature box at the end).

Actually, I do not feel bad at not having read it. By all accounts it is a voluminous tome and, to be frank, I struggle with your average Harry Potter. However, it seems patently clear that few of our politicians have read the damn thing either. Presumably they are all too busy fiddling filling in their expense claims. Whether they have read it or not, they seem to be getting rather heated under the collar about the whole affair. The Lib Dems walked out of the Commons after one of their number refused to sit down when ordered to do so by the Speaker in a scene not un-reminiscent of your average kindergarten.

Then, last week, some activist group or other “balloted” a few thousand people who read the (Torygraph) Telegraph, were over the age of seventy, who shout at foreigners to make themselves understood, and, who still feel strongly that the Germans did rather too nicely out of the war settlement than they should have done. Not surprisingly, some 88% “voted” in favour of a referendum. The remaining 12% were presumably having a nap, busy organising some Women’s Institute event, or had mislaid their reading glasses.

To be honest, the prospect of your average “man on the London omnibus” being let loose to decide on anything of any importance strikes fear to my very core. Haven’t these people watched Jeremy Kyle or seen the front cover of the Sun Comic/ Newspaper? Your average British Joe can hardly spell their own name, wouldn’t be able to point to Lisbon on a map. In fact, they probably couldn’t point to London on a map! They probably couldn’t spell “map”!!


Look what happens when you give the British public a vote. Andy bloody Abraham gets voted in as the UK’s Eurovision contestant. For chrissake!! We have one of the most vibrant and successful music industries in the world and Andy from the X Factor is the best that we can come up with. He didn’t even win X Factor. Mind you, there wasn’t much of a choice. There was a couple of failed Pop Idol contestants, an anorexic Swede, a Romanian chick on acid, some builder who failed in his bid to become Joseph, and Michele Gayle out of work wannabee and former child star of Grange Hill and Eastenders.

I think Gayle should have won it. At least she is more pleasing to the eye and I think the lyrics to her song could have cut it with our Eastern European friends. She sang a song called “Woo” with the chorus of “Oooh Yeah Woo” which reminded me of the fake orgasm scene in “When Harry Met Sally”.

I don’t know why I even watched the programme. Well, actually I do. There was only Ant and Dec on the other side and Carrie Grant (one of the judges) and Claudia Winkelman (one of the hosts) are absolute babes.

So the great British voter has in the last three years sent a white rap artist with strippers dressed like schoolgirls (Daz Sampson), strippers dressed as Air Stewardesses (Scooch), and now Andy to represent our great nation in Europe. Our only hope is that they beat the Irish entry – Dustin the Turkey – but I wouldn’t bet on it.

And these people want a referendum on the Lisbon treaty. Please, no!