Wossit all abaht, Alfie?

I love the idea of pint-sized pater Alfie Patten being 'distraught' at the thought of two other randy rotters getting their leg over Chantelle.

And golly, that Chantelle, eh? She may look like a District Nurse but phwoar! she's clearly a bit of a goer.

I'm wondering what her parents' reaction was to all these rival lovers emerging (literally) from the shrubbery to claim a share of the loot.

And look at that baby face - so cute and lost.

How can a lad be 'distraught' when he doesn't even know the word 'financial'? And ya know what? I can't even picture the mite making with the 2-backed beast with Jezebel 'Hippo' Charlene.

Follow the money: Interesting that the 'press watchdog' is looking into 'allegations that the Sun and the People paid for the Patten story.'

Never even knew this practice 'breaches editors' code, unless it can be shown to be in the public interest.'

Surely the Sun or People or rags of that filth follow no code except their own and the trail of money?

ΠΥΞΙΔΑ!

My favourite friendly energetic efficient bar manager is Mr T.

Actually, I am very jealous of him.

Mr T has this unique talent for telling attractive ladies to stay away at which they paw and fondle him even more. Honestly!

One day I had my camera so I took a photo of the very foxy Ms A. But she was too shy and covered her face.

A friend saw the photos and was horrified:

"Oh my God! That is so cruel.

You took a photo just when that bad boy told his girlfriend she was dumped.

That is soo cruel. Sadist! Look how she is crying!"

LOL!

But I will have my revenge.

I am making a sign for the bar that orders NO KISSING.

I am also using it for a T-shirt design - ONLY FOR ME - so that when I come in the bar and the pretty ladies see that I am a kiss-free zone, they will immediately leave Mr T.

Miss A and Miss N and the gorgeous Ms G will be all over me.

I have also written about my favourite bar in a magazine - coming out late February - where I say:

"Compass-Rose wi-fi internet café/bar – I earlier plugged Kondokali’s Telesilla Hotel new bakery.

It’s now added the very relaxing Compass-Rose cafeterie/bar.

Heading north, take the right lane after Gouvia Bay and look for the large Telesilla sign atop the building.

Bouncy busy manager Tomas sets the tone with his infectious enthusiasm and energetic efficiency to serve. Check it out."

Can't go on; can't stop reading

David Sexton has long been a writer/reviewer I've admired and by whose name my eye is always flagged.

In Jan 26th's Evening Standard he reviews Stefan Zweig's The Post Office Girl, which is neither here nor there because what caused me to sit back in awe was his writing about Simon Gray's reaction to Zweig's Beware of Pity:

"Gray begins reading the novel and finds it so compelling that it makes him forget "the cancer and the prognosis" for hours at a time.

'The great thing is that if I turn to Stefan Zweig's 'Beware of Pity' I can escape for as long as I'm reading it, which is why I've been going so slowly.

Also, it's too good to read except with the closest attention, and so painful that I have to put it down constantly.'

"It's a telling description of what it feels like for anybody to read this great book, about a young Austrian cavalry officer who, at his first grand party, mistakenly asks the host's daughter to dance, not realising she is crippled. He is overcome with guilt and shame — and these feelings lead him into a relationship with her and ultimately disaster. Zweig presents every moment of feeling and sensation so vividly that, just as Gray describes, you can hardly bear to go on at the same time that you can't stop for a moment."

Not just a telling description of reading this great book, but any book that moves us, and Sexton absolutely nails it in one.

With so many of today's mediocre books being assessed by equally mediocre and tongue-tied reviewers, it's a real pleasure to hitch one's books-page reading to a thoughtful, articulate judge.

Alas, Fleet Street being in the throes of self-destruction and the arts pages the first to be pruned, I'm not fooling myself that talent like Sexton's will be around much longer.

With oligarch gazillionaire Александр Евгеньевич Лебедев having just bought Sexton's Standard, I expect Lebedev will be out to Tempest Isle in his floating vodka palace, in which case I shall cadge my usual invite to rub hip bones with those unsmiling leggy Natashas and test Alexi out on his artistic sensibilities.

BURN BRENDAN

Facebook vigilantes call for torture of Oz arsonist.

Ugh - a bit extreme - torture??

"Members of the networking site, Facebook, have created groups calling for 39-year-old Brendan Sokaluk to be "burnt at the stake" after he was charged with arson causing death.

The Facebook groups contain photographs of Sokaluk, which is in breach of a suppression order."

Well, I only know his name from the news reports, so they too ought to be a little more discreet with their info'.

Sokaluk, eh? Not a name that'll camouflage too well in the bush, eh mate?

The Abo' trackers should tie this kangaroo down in no time.

What's yer take on this, Rolf? Sounds 'foreign' to me.

Reckon first there'll be a whippin' , then there'll be a scorchin' - then we'll crack some frosties and get the shrimp on the old barbie.

Online Times takes a different tack.

MISSING FLIGHT

More to come. i have a story about this sort of situation.

MISSING GERRY

Rafferty goes walkabout - or worse.

Make it back to safety, pal - right down the line

Gerry OK: According to the NME - and there's a name from my past - GR is ok, just hiding out.

"CAN YOU DIG IT?"

That's what the black 'messiah' leader says at the pow-wow gathering of the gangs to kick off the cultish Warriors movie.

Then the saviour gets shot: pandemonium, the sneaky whitey assassin points to the Warriors - "It wuz dem, it wuzza warriors".

(Actually, everyone pronounces it more like Woyers, which I found cool at the time.)

Same as I totally envied top Woyer Michael Beck's arrow-head nose, mine being such a shapeless squishy protuberance that I was convinced no babe could fancy me (cf Beckers over there with a hot honey clinging on for dear life).

But I digress (BID, hereon).

So, suddenly Les Ws have to step lively back to Coney Island with all these freakish murderous other gangs on their trail.

Reason I'm yammering on about this old movie is that no sooner do I comment on my phone call to Sir Jeffrey of Bezos Studios with my brill idea for "Warriors vs Joker Redux" (luncheon included) than one of my devoted readers sends me a nostalgic link to the movie.

1979. I was 33 and yet I remember being excited by it like a 14-yr-old.

For god's sake, I was a Titan PR hack of the UK book biz: Saul Bellow, Gunther Grass, Vidal, Piers Read, Tom Sharpe, the Clay-flooring Henry Cooper, all under my belt.

Member of all the clubs, habitué of Muriel's, drinking mate of Francis Bacon and Tom 'Doc Who' Baker (remind me to tell my Bacon/Baker story) ... what was I doing thrilling to *this* kind of flick?

I found the white-faced Baseball Clubbies the most sinister, the Lizzies totally hot and sexy - and all that running  - dude! - I think I quit the Gauloises for a whole three days after that, just in case I had to hotfoot my way out of a jam. Whew!

I have a terror of being attacked by someone with a baseball bat or axe handle.

Dept of BID: When my American pal Alex Baggio (outta Pittsburgh PA) came to stay with me - big guy, used to do his katas each morning - we were drinking once over in Balham and three locals decided to pick a fight over the weird accent he was stuck with, that and the fact that he was wearing some rattle-snake skin bracelet.

Goaded too far, he suggested we move inside at which the trio rose from their seats and one of them produced a knuckle-duster.

Al had been complaining about the loose leg on his chair that kept pitching him sideways. As he got up, he picked up the chair and broke it over the table to get the leg, then he pitched into them, whacking and kicking and head-buttiing and then whacking again when they made to get up. Every move economical and very very hard

The guv'nor came whizzing out and told the three known trouble-makers to fuck the fuck off.

Then he turned to Al: "'n you can piss the piss off ahter here."

Al didn't look too phased, all inna day's heat.

"What?" he asked.

The publican looked at him - I mean, 3 agin 1, what was he going to say?

"You. Out!"

Al looked round at me with exaggerated shrug. We were in the biergarten, how much outer could we be?

"Finish your drinks and fuck the fuck off. We don't like troublemakers round here."

One of the regulars started to say that it'd been them that started it and there were three but the guv'nor gave him a 'look'.

Left there and then.

'Fuck, Al', I said as we walked away.

"What? Don't you guys know how to pick a fight in this country?"

And he was the gentlest bloke I knew. I guess the mean streets of Pittsburgh are a bit like South Dakota. BID.

I must watch the movie again - and no, I won't comment on the tight-curled Robertson coiffures on some of the valiant warriors.

But isn't that funny? An off-hand comment, throwaway name drop, and next thing you know a memory out of left field. God bless the Warrrior-wide Web.

Fight for your life: Fun Limpbiz Kit pré with all the best scenes.

Thanks for reminding me - Tom Baker in The Colony Room Club with Francis doing his generous thing and going round with the champagne offering it to stranger spongers. Muriel's had a TV hanging from the ceiling, volume down, no distraction. One day it was showing a Dr Who episode and there was Tom, en-coiled by trademark scarf, so we paused our drinking to mock and jeer and take the piss.

Francis - "That looks like you"

Tom - "It is me you c**t"

FB: "What are you  doing up there?"

TB: "See that? Twenty million people watch it world-wide.

I bet twenty-five thousand people wouldn't know a fucking Francis Bacon if you shoved one up their arse".

Obit

London Times

Round-robin just in.

A bit cringey but what the hell, I'm here to serve.

"Today we mourn the passing of a belovèd old friend, Common Sense who has been with us for many years.

No one knows for sure how old he was, his birth records long lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

Knowing when to come in out of the rain

Why the early bird gets the worm

Life isn't always fair

Maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health deteriorated rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

It declined further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an Aspirin to a student, but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as churches became businesses and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his four stepbrothers;

I know my rights

I Want it Now

Someone else is to Blame

I'm a victim"

Bob 'n' Mick

Like a Roller

Total chaos.

Lousy balance

Guitar-heavy but *great* guitar

Look at the way Keef rips back on that first chord

How they know what they want from mic placement

Mick cavorting and great harp

His solicitous gaze on Dylan, making sure the maestro has everything  he needs to make it go nice

Cool shot of Keith and Ron in snappy convo' with The Man - what they checking with him?

He wrote that for the Stones? Never knew that: Wells-sahib will have the truth. Sounds most unlikely to me. Since when did the Mountain compose for Mohammed?

Feel the energy

BEST OF BILL

Feb 24 2009

GOOD NIGHT, BUSH

Bit late in the day to keep dissing Bush but I have a particular fondness for Margaret Wise Brown's original, which I only discovered when I got to the USA and started a family. My own  childhood was spent in complete ignorance of this fine story.

V sentimental: my gals grew up with me reading their mom 's edition of the real thing. I got quite hooked on the illustrations and the way darkness subtly falls.

It must be one of the most iconic book jackets going - whatever iconic means in this context.

HAPPY VALENTINE ... SUCKERS

I think it was the Mountain Man who used to tack 'suckers' onto his pronouncements from Mount PERLion.

Always liked that: kept the peons on our toes, made us feel there was a hidden catch.

Yes, well, eek, yikes - it's Valentine's Day tomorrow as ever is and I've sent no  cards, no prezzies, not even the electronic kind and it's Friday the Thirteenth today so I'm not venturing out.

I rather like the idea of that himote bunch.

Oh go on. Make me feel good. Tell me that animated gif across there is the crudest rudest crotch-bulging pulsing pack of heart-shaped Victor's Secret Y-fronts to grace a family blog. (Yayy, I got the VS link in)

It is exaactly like a mandrake root straining at every Fruit of the Loom fibre.

Throb ~ Pulse ~ Puisse ~ Surge.

Oh pshaw, don't be such prudes. It's only once a year and then I go back to demure mode.

Speaking of Vickie's Secret, I used to take Cost Centre #2 - The Spitfire - up to Kitsap Mall where I'd hand over a pittance of pocket money and watch her vanish into the fray, her pert derrière going tick-tock the way young things' do when they've got the loot and the Agèd P has at last been mall-trained to siddown, drink the Kool-Aid 'n' shaddup. (Do you know, I swear I read somewhere that it wasn't actually Kool-Aid that Jones doled out. If that's true, what a wogging PR disaster to be landed with).

But back to The Spitfire, a gal who knew how to play her dad. She should write a book.

I'd take out a crumpled $20 she'd go "That's fine, dad, dad that's fine!" to which of course I'd add the crumpled $10 I'd been palming. "Dad! That's fine!"

"Sweetie, $30 is nothing." Toss of the pony-tail, off she'd strut.

Thirty minutes later, back she'd be, cruelly encumbered by caskets and creels and shiny bags and whatever.

"Goodness!" I'd exclaim, "Did all that fit into the thirty? Clever you."

"Of course not, dad. I got change" and out comes all these notes ... talk about the shopping of the 5,000 and turning water into a double-decaff latte.

So one day I said, "OK darlin', leave this stuff here and go back and spend the change and here's another tenner." Glint in her eye - yayy suckah!

So off she goes and I fancy a walk around so there I am meandering and draped with bags from *all* the right shops, as I can tell from the discerning glances by passing chicks of the spitfeuer 's age.

One of the bags is the distinctive pink of Victoria's Secret. I don't think anything of it except that I'd've expected that store alone to gobble up the 30 smackers.

Suddenly towards me comes a couple - ordinary podgy husband and exceptionally podgy wife - and she's pointing right at the VS bag.

"See? He buys his wife stuff from there ...."

The man looks daggers at me as if "Traitor! Do you have to be walkin' around blowing it for the rest of us." She gives me a benevolent smile as if, "Thanks, hon - right on cue."

I suddenly think, "Yeh! Yeh! - right on! I'm still in trim, I *am* the sorta guy to have a hot honey at home who'd look good in that sexeh skimperie ... gimme a private showing - nudge wink, know what I mean, squire?

So I strut around, keeping the pinko bag on the outside for all to see. (Yo! Dudes! Who else has a li'l chickadee at home - purty face, chantilly lace? You, suh? How's about you, bubba?)

My rêverie suddenly shattered by appearance of la tigresse:

"Daaad!! How long you been walking around like that? Why didn't you hide it, put it in another bag so no-one sees it? Oh my gahd, all my friends come here, they coulda seen you. Give them here, and walk back there and don't talk to me." Frozen mask features, loping stride not looking back. Silent drive back until we reach DQ when she has to soften if she wants a good ol' junk food lunch.

Later I'm telling S about it and she asks, "And you took it? You allowed her to bully you like that?"

Erm, don't you? I mean, she's got this killer sulk.

"Not with me, she hasn't. Anyway, what about this martinet atmosphere she chafes under? She comes back looking glum and persecuted and talks about how strict you are ..."

I'll tell you how she comes back - laden down with goodies that indulgent pa pays for.

"Well, I give her money, too."

You do? Ack ptui! I've been so impressed at her shopping on an impossible budget, I even reward her with even more wampum.

"Listen to me. Sweetie? Don't ever become a parent - you're not cut out for it. With your luck you'd sire some ... some ..."

Some Spitfire?

"Precisely."

Aaarrrggghhhh! Mercy!!
There is no God!!!

"Buffoon. But look after yourself.

I might dump her on you next Wednesday, so why not take her to the Music Project? She likes seeing you do your monster raving loony Dave Lee Roth act."

Eddie van Halen.

"Whudever"

Troubadour Talent

~ Guerilla Buskerine ~

Well now, 'pon my soul. Shock horror, even.

Ms Kerry Leatham is actually good at what she does.

Take it from me, I am a curmudgeon and minstrelsy snob who rarely gives the time of day (let alone money) to the half-baked plunkers, scrapers and crooners I see around town.

Kerry has caught me out and I must prepare to eat my words.

Still on the subject of freelance entertainers, don't you sometimes get the feeling that most of those al fresco 'musicians' scraping a living in the gutter are down there because that's the exalted height their 'talent' and sales sans-savvy has taken them? I know I do.

Not La Leatham, who seems frighteningly high-powered, mobile and organised for a busker.

Goodness, all I managed in my day was playing free for every police ball and CID charity (so's to keep the boys in blue sweet, you understand); oodles of private and office parties (ditto senior Fuzz).

The fresh air stuff was St Johns Wood/Baker St/Swiss Cottage/Clapham during weekdays and that sprawling Hyde Park/Marble Arch arondissement during weekends.

Inspired by KL, I'll be adding to this post by way of:

Pompous comments

Withering critiques

Tips on display material

Float and currencies

Positioning of collecting box

How long to stay when 'suggested' to move on

Give-aways and incentives

Repertoire

Diction

Dress code

Courtesy and eye-contact

But KL is streets (pun) above the average entertainer's calibre and marketing know-not.

Shudder ~ there's a ton of busker clips on Youtube, mostly deplorable. KL is the breath-of-fresh-air exception - plus she is extremely attractive and personable, which usually helps with the punters.

It'll be fun to write about my old trade and repay back in genial pointers some of the more tangible wealth street strumming has brought me.

Joker Enshrined

Oh boy, oh boy - I foresee weird stuff going down here.

Some hard core fans of Heath Ledger's excellently sinister playing of the Joker want the role withdrawn from further portrayal. Rather like that black basketball player whose jersey was taken off the menu and just  like the tribute owed to the very white Larry Bird's Celtics shirt if it hasn't already been placed behind glass, or whatever they do - hang 'em high?.

I tell you, I bet there are some awesomely weirdo fans out there who sat stunned through the Batman movie thinking

"Oh. My. God. That is like totally meee ",

before stumbling home in a dream and proceeded to build the whole gear, make-up 'n' all.

And what if the studios *don't* withdraw it? I see trouble on the picket lines - no I don't, I foresee an hilarious cavalcade of Jokers in full drag waving and shouting and generally giving the 'impostor' movie tip-top publicity.

Of course the actor who has the temerity to accept the role will have his house fire-bombed, his wife n kids jostled in the supermarket, burnings in effigy (and in Clapham, and in Hong Kong), all sorts of Facebook hate clubs, etc etc.

Speaking of Facebook, it's interesting to see the opposing comments of people who have gone to the trouble of posting pleas to keep real.

But I do see a little spookiness about this whole thing - just as when Stephen King got knocked down by a car.

I bet the driver was hugely relieved he hadn't actually performed his duty to literature and slain the scribbler. Just kidding, but seriously, the sort of fans Mr King has? I would NOT like to be responsible for he premature stemming of their staple reading, lest they wreak a revenge straight out of the pages of The Master.

Ok, that's all I wanted to say on that topic. No it isn't: I didn't actually want to say anything - I just wanted an excuse to shove up photos of the widow, the divine Michelle Williams. Mission Accomplished.

Blog 'orreur

One of the unsung horrors of subbing to Google Alert - Prospero, or just cruising for scheriad references, is the naff naive blogs one pulls up that cause one to shudder with rictus laughter, sending the java tumbling and the Robertson's golli-toast whirling down to the Axminster.

Right off, let me exclude sprightly non-pareil  Democracy Street that should be in all your Favourites.

And that goes, too, for a bizarre and tangled jumble from a certain Dr Awesome. Oddly, this site was snagged in my Google Alert for Scheria - oh I know what happened - it belongs to coverage of our American namesake. That's it - I thought it was oddly clunky and un-Greeky.

Right, duty done.

These local scribblings are a painful laugh (albeit endearingly sincere) and it's hard to keep a straight face when I meet the authors, which I do at all too many wannabe 'literary' gatherings around the isle.

Naturally, I invite along some prettiest poetess princess as distraction so as to ensure I'm ignored as mere skirt-chasing losah lumpen  swain.

Latest guffaw is mr Cheap's (sic) dissing of two favourites, of which the Pink Palace I happened to be visiting in time to print out and brandish mockingly before the marketing honcho Cheapo's cheapo accusation of infamy. That soured his vermout'.

The dulcet Kavosian Atlantis I know less well, only venturing there in the company of holidaying Hong Kong pals mildly interested in road-testing certain techniques away from the peace-loving gaze of sensei.

(Do click on the Atlantis/Kavos link; some of the comments are hilarious in their downright truthfulness)

Quoth mr Cheap:

"One of the places to find a party is in Greece.

Visitors flock to the country for its amazing weather, beautiful beaches, warm waters, and great parties.

Two wonderful islands to party on are Ios and Corfu.

Corfu is located in western Greece. There are regular beach parties outside of the infamous (my itals) Atlantis nightclub and party goers all seem to stay at the infamous (ditto) Pink Palace.

Blah blah ..."

Not nearly as polite as alltravel.com's World Partay Island which settles for dubbing the Pink Palace as beckoningly 'crazy' and keeps wise schtum over the bacchanalian Atlantis.

I knew some ass would get kicked if I dropped a quiet hint to Management.

I mean, bloody hell - it's going to be an infamously tough enough tourist-lite summer as it is without these internet johnnies frightening our visitors off before they've even msade up their minds.