Further evidence of my glorious acting career


My recent tour

Hello again!
Been out and about an awful lot recently. It’s a ‘staycation’ which is an admission that you can’t afford a proper holiday. So we went about merry England in it’s usual heavy downpours. There is something quite comforting about eating a picnic with the rain falling into your tea however. The noise of a kagool as you munch on a soggy pie.
I’ve become a dedicated foodie over the past few weeks which at least free’s me from the dire quality of food served up across the land. It seems that the UK has decided to stop attempting to make any attempt at decent food and instead is hell bent on serving up awful, expensive rubbish instead.
Whilst at the Blackpool Sandcastle (an indoor waterpark) the stench of vegetable oil made me nauseous. The theme park of Alton Towers is already stomach churning in a nice way, however the smell of pre-packaged food being warmed up haunted my nostrils. It’s a good job I have a moustache to block out the rest of the whiffs.
I can’t understand why the British public puts up with poor quality food. The bookstores are filled with cookery books, chefs are celebrities and one can’t watch TV without an ad showing the latest gourmet dishes available to try.
My son has seen the light however and refuses to eat any form of fast-food as he prefers my cooking.

Keep on singing/cooking/baking/etc etc

Sometimes I surprise myself. Despite the fact that approximately 97.4% of my life at the moment could be described as “complete shite” I remain fleetingly happy.

My Sunday Lunch was triumphant, I am mastering the fine art of baking and able to sing loudly whilst wearing my headphones, much to the annoyance of other members of the household.

I don’t know why I should remain cheerful but I just can’t help it!

Keeping relatively sane with cooking

When I was a mere schoolboy I used to love ‘home economics’. I was disuaded from taking the exams in the subject as my ‘girlfriend’ at the time thought it was a thing only ‘poofs’ do. Given that I was 14 years old, that was enough to discourage me from pursuing anything that wasn’t remotely manly!

What nonsense that soon turned out to be, Julie ended up finishing with me and I ended up having to study Geography instead.

I have yet to develop a love of geography but I do have a love of food.

Recently I have been heavily involved in a steamy relationship with my kitchen. I’ve been baking, and cooking and stewing to my hearts content. I’ve found myself waking up thinking about food, what to make, what flavours will work and how much it will cost to get the ingredients.

This has been a wonderful distraction for me whilst I have been sat on my arse for the past few months.

I have to say, but my word I’m very bloody good at it. The wife is now banished from the kitchen and seems reasonably pleased with my efforts.

I’m proud to say, I’ve become a born-again foodie.

It’s a beautiful world

I watched the Shawshank redemption the other night, sadly it was on very late and perhaps even worse it was on commercial TV. This means that just as the film turns a corner, an ad break comes on for aproximately 7 minutes.

I dislike advertisements. Actually, I hate them. I really hate them.

I hate everything about them, hate hate hate hate.

I despise mindless consumerism anyway. I’m suspicious of most technology as it seems to only want to take your money off you.

However, what I particularly despise is the ‘vie-faux’ of the adverts on TV.

Everybody is a model, they all live in large houses, everybody smiles all the time, they’re all up to fabulous things such as attending parties with tigers, or dancing in a Mediterranean palace with svelt nymphs feeding on fresh grapes and Belgian chocolates.  Car adverts show deserted roads that lead to mysterious destinations.

Of course it’s all sales. Selling a life of carefree, sexy and eternal youth with whatever the latest product is; alcohol or mobile phones seem to be the ones whom make the most expensive adverts.

However, the picture on the left of this screen shows you the local shopping precinct in Hindley. In the stores here you can place a bet on a horse or a dog, you can buy magazines that feature anorexic looking models living in fabulous houses and pretend that actually your life isn’t so completely shit for a while


How to get ahead in ‘modern’ Britain.



One could look at the UK recently and feel a sort of sense of whimsy, perhaps a twinge of nostalgia, some folks even reported that they felt a sense of pride recently.

We’ve had the Jubilee, the football team is playing at the moment allowing brief moments of jingoism to eek their way into the press, the Olympics is coming along,complete with village greens, cricket games and scenes of rural idyll.

Indeed, it would seem to the outside world that all is well in Englands green and pleasant land.

However, modern Britain is more akin to Orwells 1984 than the powers that be would have the world acknowledge.

In 1984, Orwell describes a society whereby the majority of the people live quite happily. The Proles are kept amused with football, a national lottery, pop music, sensationalised press coverage of war and caricatures on which to project their hatred. It is the middle class whom seem to be the unhappiest, the party members whose job it is to re-engineer the truth or delete references to history. Social mobility is unheard of in Orwells Britain (aka landing strip 13) and it seems that social mobility is also moribund today.

The major professions in the UK are run by the old boy network, banking, law, politics and medicine are held together by the tiny percentage of the privately educated.

State education has left so many young people so utterly incapable of taking up paid employment that companies are now spending money to give people basic skills in written English and maths.

So, if you want to get ahead in Britain then I would suggest buying yourself an old school tie, developing an RP accent and refer to all potential employers with a ridiculous sounding nick-name.


Bring back the peacock!


Recently, I decided that I needed a new pair of shoes. This isn’t a particuarly exciting piece of news is it? Ah, but it lead me to note that actually it is nigh on impossible to buy ‘good’ shoes on the modern high street.

Good shoes are made from leather, they last for years and can stand a good polishing so that eventually the sun’s rays will cause sparks to fly when wearing them. I also like shoes that can be repaired. I don’t think that this is so extraordinary, I am not looking to have a pair of Panda skin shoes or stitched with gold linen.

So I set off to find good pair of black Oxfords, ideally with a leather sole.

Firstly, it is worth noting that when entering a shoe shop the staff tend to dress in polo shirts and some god awful thing called ‘cargo’ trousers. This is surely a sign of the forthcoming apocalypse. Also, when I asked to see the Oxfords, they didn’t know what I meant.

They showed me shoes that would be best worn by a Libyan mini-cab driver instead. Why the hell would a grown man wear slip-on’s?

It’s the same with trousers and ties, shirts etc. It is nigh on impossible to buy a ‘drab’ tie these days. Ties tend to be either of the seizure producing variety or ‘comedic’ style. As for a bow-tie, then the only stock they carry are suitable for bouncers.

Try asking for a pair of grey flannel trousers in GAP!

No. Instead we have once again settled for second best. As a nation we have given up with customer service, knowledgeable staff and good quality goods. Even Saville Row has now the ugly face of modern capitalism on it with the opening of an Abercrombie and Finch store on its legendary promenade.

This is why I would like a return to proper men’s clothing stores. Staffed with people like Captain Peacock. Where button-holes are available, the trouser press is an attainable item, cuff-links and cravats shown on display.

Staff that are articulate and clear in their annunciation rather than the unshaven rabble who sound as though they are chewing marbles when they open their filthy mouths.

It is with some sadness that I shall once again buy my shoes on-line. It’s such a vacuum of discourse whereas an oak paneled haberdashery seem the height of civilization.


Beware the claw

At the ripe old age of 39, I have hair growing from my ears, the hair that should be on my head long since departed. If the weather is too warm I am stricken with hay fever. Too cold and my joints ache.

Now, to cheer myself up no end I have arthritis in my wrist. My good wrist too, the one I use to point at things or chop onions.

The weather has changed too. This is not to be unexpected in England but once again the fact that it is raining makes front page news for some of the major newspapers in this country.

Given that the past week has seen the jubilee celebration take up all the available news space in the UK, it would appear that nothing else has happened in the world. The British subjects were subjected (get it?) to a 4 hour televised bore-fest of boats chugging their way up the Thames.  Then we had a ‘pop’ concert were aged songsters, attempted to show how good they were 30 years ago. This frankly did not work. Never mind the Queen, I was not amused.

Elton John seems to have developed late onset Downs Syndrome since he decided to wear his bizarre barnet. Cliff Richards has the aesthetic appeal of a zombie and as for ‘Sir’ Paul McCartney, I wish he would just ‘let it be’.

If anything, the jubilee reminded the world that Britain is quite a crap place. It’s not as bad as other countries, we don’t have earthquakes, dictatorships or pestilential plagues, but it’s just not very good at much. Other than spending lots of taxpayers money on ridiculous schemes.

My miserly world view coincides with the bout of arthritis and I can only therefore conclude that I am a cursed pariah.


The vanishing muse

Okay, I apologise.

I’ve been absent from the blog for a few weeks now. Thing is, the sad thing is, is that frankly I’ve been terribly bored.

I could of course be accused of being hypocritical here given that I’ve celebrated boredom before. This time it’s been somewhat different.

I’ve had flashes of inspiration, indeed I have some posts that I’ve been working on somewhat hap-hazzardly that remain in my ‘drafts’ folder.

Life has been rather shabby of late, what with being suspended from my job, funerals, lack of funds and what not. I suppose that has meant that my sense of fun has somewhat dissipated.

Oh well, it’s an explanation of sorts.

I shall return forthwith, this I promise.

Theres another one gone

Murdered to Death has ended.

I’ve sent the Colonel off to the tropics for the next few months. Thoroughly enjoyable time in my life, rehearsals went swimmingly and the performances were an absolute hoot. The audiences were raucous and we pretty much sold out the whole run.

I was terribly nervous the day the play started, and more so on the day before. I kept thinking “Well, over 2000 people are going to see this, what if I balls up?”. Needless to say, this sort of negative thinking doesn’t do one much good.

Thing is, once I got to the theatre, stuck on the costume and make-up I was fine. So, hopefully lesson learned from that.

I’ll be back to ranting soon enough, but right now I’m afflicted with hay fever. It doesn’t help I live next door to a meadow. Hmm