Face Off

mole removed from just below this picture

In various parts of Europe I believe you can sell your kidney for the price of a small Welsh village or in China you may get an Ipad 2 and some magic beans. To date though, even in the excess organs and facial furniture section on Ebay nobody seems to be vaguely interested in buying the mole (cheek, upper, left) that I had removed today. I have just read on a scurrilous website that U N Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon had a pet mole which was the reason he had to leave Albert Square, but even while I am typing this it doesn’t really sound right!

If I am being really trueful, now the localised injection is wearing off I am feel just a little bit weird and currently having a slight out of body experience, but nothing like as bad as John Travolta in Face Off. You know that things are not really right when the microwave keeps telling you to kill and the mice on the mouse organ are singing We will wash it. Hang on, I may have just sat on the TV remote and double clicked onto Bagpuss. This has been very similar to the time I drank hair conditioner thinking it to be home made wine (don’t ask)

Anyway it seems that the Doctor thought that it all was a wonderful success, however I now have a largish sticking plaster on my cheek for 3 days and there after I need to wait for the developing scab to fall off. NICE!

Chelmscote Manor

I am going to guess that Chelmscote Manor’s meagre 7 bedrooms and on-suites would barely offer enough room for a gentleman to swing a catamaran or organise an archery contest! Anyway, as you can see the celebrations were for Gill and Sandie’s big 50th bash, although technically neither of them had actually reached the half century for another few weeks and both solely reliant on Gods goodwill not to strike them down with pestilence or a number 49 bus so they don’t have to return all the presents.

Due to some oversight by my secretary we didn’t actually arrive at the stately pile until late after most of the Pimms had been drunk and social correctness had a hissy fit and been locked in the downstairs loo, and etiquette ‘mooned’ openly from the battlements, so our evening started with a lovely self penned poem from Sandie about friendship, hopes and dreams and responded to by Gill with a limerick which made some reference to Sandie “dropping her drawers” It was an very emotional moment for everyone.

After that, the music was cranked up and I seem to recall Kenny’s, Do the bump being played however by that point I was busy mingling on the crochet lawn which I am hoping, in the cold light of day the gardener and time can repair. During the evening I chatted with a number of old friends from the early Cary Grant tours about how clothes seem much tighter these days, French surrender monkeys and IF Mick Kitson actually still had any fully functional teeth? Crazy times indeed. As the evening progressed the evils of the hooch took over and I was forced into a Britain’s Got Talented blues guitarists style play off with the parties host Lord Clayton Chelmscote, which quickly managed to disperse a number of hangers on to the east wing and the safety of very thick stone walls.

All in all it was a great evening only slightly marred by an overzealous party goer passing out in a locked toilet and another overzealous crossed legged party animal putting his hand through the grade two mullioned toilet glassed window to wake him up.

Live and let die

Last weekend I travelled to Watchet for some sea fishing. During the weekend, and after a particularly heavy ‘tongue loosening’ drinking spree one of my colleagues stated that he had seen a job for a ‘Spy’ advertised in the back of one of the London papers. Intrigued, I soon realised that this wasn’t really for me when he confirmed that there was no mention of an ejector seat company car nor naked silhouetted dancing girls prior to being sent on any jobs! Just to underline the mind numbingly ordinariness of the work one of the other guys chipped in that someone they knew had their offices used by the spooks a couple of years ago as an observation point. Undercover spy guys dressed as BT Engineers had delivered a special video camera disguised as a photocopier which sat next to the window opposite some drug dealing flats. As far as I was concerned that was the final straw because I really know nothing about telecommunications, or look good in a hard hat.


All that said though, this week I had a rather ambiguous job sheet directing me to a public toilet in Newport Pagnell, which was so suitably vague that it instructed me to make contact with a lady from the council prior to travel. It turned out that this little inconvenience was necessary because it was now shut down due to the lack of passing trade! The lady from the council met me next to the cemetery and just beyond the allotments in Tickford Street, which was once home to the legendary Aston Martin, where this unfortunate prime toileting stop off point for visiting dignities now lay unloved and covered in ivy, graffiti and the telephone numbers of girls of easy virtue!

Despite my Council contact having the key and the perseverance of a nail breaking, Battling tops "it's in the wrist action" ladyboy, the lock remained intact until brute force and ignorance ruled the day and I gained access. I instructed the Council official to return to her car some way up the road for the 30 minutes it would take me to de-energise the supply and make safe which she did whilst I got my steps from the van. As I leaned the steps up against the internal wall under the meter the still very efficient spring loaded door returned to its resting place SHUT! As incredibly as it seems, no amount of swearing would open the BASTARD door and I had to plot some kind of other escape. Whilst I love and admire the good people of the United Kingdom for their charity, inventiveness and general goodwill, I will never know why anyone would want to break in to a defunct public toilet and give the council the reason to seal up all the windows?

Luckily, someone had already confounded me and prised open a small one foot square window at the side, which meant that should I have the dexterity of a Russian gymnast or immediate anorexia I would be able to escape. Somewhere between the two I managed to slip through, and over the lovely ragged rugged windowsill leaving only the best bits of my back in place for all to see.

Chic Shed

Today I visited the Royal Train Shed at Wolverton which now professes to be a trendy home for stylish living. Unfortunately due to the demise of the old style railway refurb, Wolverton these days doesn’t have a lot to offer, and the £300k price tag on a 2 bed apartment ensures that virtually all remain unsold. Luckily I was there today to add some glamour and reduce their electricity costs which may help the sales in the future but due to the limited distribution of my blog may all just be in my head.   

Earlier this week I unfortunately had reason to visit Milton Keynes Hospital to have an investigative treatment on a mole on my cheek (face, upper left) It was decided that in a scene similar to 'Face Off’ that Mr Moley would be best off dug out later this month and given to John Travolta. Traumatic as this is, it pales to nothing when you see signs like this.

Yes, Way Out Gynaecology, which I believe they do with hand puppets and to the sounds of Frank Zappa music.

Finally, I had another trip to Princess Marina Hospital this week for the opening of some of the finest Pikey art this side of the washing machine / three piece suite statement in a lay-by just outside Stoke Hammond.

History of Horror

Anyone who missed last week’s first episode of the History of Horror would do well to check out the next instalment of this brilliant show with Mark Gatiss tonight. Like Mark I lived for and lapped up all the fantastic Hammer movies that I possibly shouldn’t have stayed up for during the 70.s when young and impressionable. So it is no surprise that I still love this genre for all its sleaze, campness and unadulterated gore today. Aside for the fact that most original ideas have been executed brilliantly a number of times and the ones that are left are often no more than just exploitation or titillation, this is definitely still a great show to watch!

Michael Caine

Of course everybody (and me) loves Michael Caine. So to come across him on the Chris Evans breakfast show this morning was a real treat and bonus for a dreary Friday morning. The old boy was promoting the second part of his autobiography ‘The Elephant to Hollywood’ and spinning some great stories about tinsel town and his rise to greatness. All good, but the interview was just a little bit top heavy with name dropping of the “Of course that was done by my great friend ... Blah Blah” type, So not too surprisingly the the real gem of the piece was a Henry Winkler (Fonz) quote of “ By the time I realised my father was right, I had a son that thought I was wrong”


That’s stuff you cannot argue with!

You won't like me when I'm green

Not satisfied with having a bit of a rant on here about stuff, I also sometimes bother our local rag, the Milton Keynes Citizen. Up until earlier this year my published percentages were quite high, but unfortunately the last two missives were a little lightweight and were overlooked in favour of some serious letters about doggy doo or the cost of train tickets for the mentally unhinged... or something! This week though I really got the bit between my teeth and had a go at the council for once again wasting OUR money on bids for non essential ‘City Status’ whilst two teenagers were gunned down on the Fishermead Estate in addition to another 3 other murders there over the last year. (See below)


I suppose the moral of the story is to KEEP WRITING and don’t let b*stards who make bad decisions off the hook!

Supersize Grime?

Imagine my surprise as I sat down last night in amongst my pizza boxes, beer cans and other affluent effluent to watch Chanel 5’s Supersize Grime documentary on the Human Condition and other shit, to be bloody preached to by my own cousin! Yes, during this intense ‘holier than thou’ 45 minute rant it was suggested that we shouldn’t discard our dead skin on aircrafts, drink and eat too much at stadiums, allow tar into our gardens or tolerate Water-ware in rivers or streams. Tim’s gripe seems to be based around the latter and the fact that we should never allow small boats or trees the freedom to roam about in other peoples culverts?

Obviously I am proud that a member of our family has made it on to Chanel 5, but this kind of dictatorship seems nothing short of Hitler’s Mien Kampf and puts into question some of Charlie Dimmock’s basic Water feature fundamentals.

Discuss?

Tim Cheshire's got hi-vis braces!   

The case for the talent sieve;

There is no justice in this world, where ‘Something about Mary’ hair flouncers, Jedward get to draw another breath unpunished and any person found listening to Alesha Dixons ‘The boy does nothing’ isn’t beheaded for their own good. This is all because we now have an age where some people’s musical expectations are so diminished and flaky that they want nothing to do with talent.

The reason for this impassioned rage is because when I just come across a version of Mr Costello’s ‘Upon a veil of midnight blue’ by Mary Coughlan which is absolutely beautiful but only has just over 130 hits on Youtube so I am getting to thinking that there is something seriously wrong with this world!

The strange case of.....

From my blogging room window through the trees I can see the small path that runs along beside a brook which during the daytime is a haven for dog walkers, joggers and ducks. Last night during the lull between the Britain’s got Talent final and the results show I was busy putting the final words to an important blog expose on the retail giant Asda and my shoddy and quite frankly traumatic treatment at the hands of one of their mechanical cashiers. While I mulled over the use of the word pate I spied a shadowy figure standing in the long grass loitering (without a tent) next to the brook, with a step ladder, a large sheet of polythene and a long pole. The woman then proceeded to place the top of the ladder in the water and throw on top the sheet of plastic. This she repeated a couple of times while moving along the bank and then finally placing the large pole down into the water. As it rose back up there was a largish bird silhouetted on the end of it which she then attempted to place on a branch in a tree.


It really made me feel humble to realise that this woman had been prepared to give up her last chance to call Britain’s got talent and line Simon Cowells pockets in favour of teaching possibly a young and inexperienced pelican type bird to balance on the end of stick.

Life in the fast lane

Asda have a service where you can build your own pizza. It is a bit like Build-A-Bear but with more choice and generally less fur. You can easily spot the highly skilled pizza technicians due their tightly woven hairnets that keep their oversized brains in place. I usually get a woman who makes Jack Dee at a funeral look happy, or her mate who is best described as something like Mr T’s sister, who’s no nonsense “Quit your jibber jabber fool, and tell what toppings u need” customer service makes every visit a pleasure. If this wasn’t stressful enough, I then have to run the gauntlet of those self service tills which today was the premiere Fast Lane (about 20 items or less) special. Ahead of me a colourful character who was sharing the Asda shopping experience with a friend via her mobile phone, giving a blow by blow account of all the wondrous goodies that made up this week’s shop which I would guess was just shy of about fifty items or less. After her, a baldy bloke whose pate was so polished that head lice could only skate on it stepped up to plate and after a few moments of scanning and button pushing summoned the assistant who walked off and eventually came back with a till roll. As she opened the front of the machine a vital piece of metal immediately fell out and blind panic ensued as Fast Lane operatives sprung into action looking intently at the small metallic object and taking it in turns to guess its origin. Eventually as I admired my newly grown ‘fast lane’ beard in the bloke in front’s shiny head it was decided that it couldn’t serve any real purpose and should be placed on top of the machine. With that, the front was slammed shut and normal service was resumed.


Asda, Chosen by me? MY ARSE!

Thought for the day

Imagine that you had won the following prize in a contest:


Each morning your bank would deposit £86,400 in your private bank account for your own use. However, this prize has rules, just as any game has certain rules..


The first set of rules would be:


1) Everything that you didn't spend during each day would be taken away from you.


2) You may not simply transfer money into some other account. You may only spend it.


3) Each morning upon awakening, the bank opens your account with another £86,400.00 for that day.


The second set of rules:


1) The bank can end the game without warning; at any time it can say,"It's over, the game is over!"


2) It can close the account in an instant and you will not receive a new one.

What would you personally do? You would buy anything and everything you wanted, right? Not only for yourself, but for all the people in your life, right? Maybe even for people you don't know, because you couldn't possibly spend it all on yourself and the people in your life, right? You would try to spend every single cent, and use it all up every day, right?


Actually, this game is a reality, but not with money!


Each of us is in possession of such a bank. We just don't see it.


The BANK is TIME!


Each morning we awaken and receive 86,400 seconds as a gift of life, and when the day is done, any remaining time is gone and NOT credited to us. What we haven't lived up to that day is lost forever. Yesterday is forever gone..

Each morning the account is refilled, but the magical bank can dissolve our account at any time....WITHOUT WARNING.


SO, what will YOU do with your 86,400 seconds? Think about that, and always think of this: Enjoy every second of your life, because time races by so much quicker than we think. Take good care of yourself, and enjoy life. Live each day to the fullest, be kind to one another, and be forgiving. Harbor a positive attitude and always be the first to smile.

Here's wishing you a wonderful, beautiful day, each and every day!!!

ALL 86,400 SECONDS OF IT.

...................................................................................................................

A good friend sent me this lovely thought the other day, which got me thinking that I need to spend time wisely and not waste a second of it so since then I have been planning meticulously a raid on my local bank!

Pole to pole

I was more nervous than a professional German salad spinner this week, when I was sent to the top floor flats of Northampton’s Fire Brigade HQ. This soon became annoyance though when it was explained that the derelict flats fireman’s lift was out and I was going to have to walk the 8 flights of stairs with a toolbox and other H & S paraphernalia in a ‘Its a knockout’ style. In fact I could almost hear Stuart Hall chuckling over Herb Albert and his bloody Tijuana brass theme tune as I sweated my way up to the top. Once at the top there is a caged walkway not dissimilar to the type you have in prisons, which I presume was there to stop over enthusiastic fire people diving off the top floor to get a good seat in the engine when a ‘shout’ went up. This jumping option in my opinion was definitely not as much fun as the correct procedure of taking the pole down. Yes, (I kid you not) on each floor there were two lift shaft type structures which apparently have poles in to slide down to the ground floor. I say ‘apparently’ because the entrances had been bricked up, due to possibly misuse by the new potential residents of exotic dancers and batman and robin lookalikes!