And these........

Addendum to previous post......

7.) Shaving - nope, not one bit, not one sliver of metal has touched my face - I think it makes me look distinguished. Someone else said "grizzled".

8.) Drinking - oddly enough I haven't had a drink this week, but the freedom to do so without being "joined" as it were is always nice. Why can't women understand that sometimes you just want to have a quiet drink and watch something mindless. No chat, no cuddling, just you, a glass of wine and a TV.

9.) Showering - filthy pig I hear you cry, but because I have been decorating it seemed a tad pointless to jump in the shower at every opportunity. I've only been out once on Sunday to get some provisions and to play golf yesterday. I had a shower on Sunday, vainly trying to ease the hangover. I had a shower before golf. Other than that I knew I wasn't going to meet anyone so why bother. Most of the week I have smelt like a heady combination of sweat, paint, Nitromors, Mr Muscle, Sugar Soap, dust and coffee.. I call it helping to save the environment.. Tonight I will finish the job and then soak myself in a hot bath, with my radio, and some wine. Fuck it, I might even shave.

10.) Sleeping anywhere in the bed I want with as many pillows as I like. Nuff said.

11.) Reading - every night I have been trying to read a few pages of a book for enjoyment as opposed to study. GMD normally reacts to me doing this with the female stock phrase of ".....well if you've got time to that you've got time to cuddle me/go shopping/do the garden/pick the girls up/drop the girls off/do the dinner/do the ironing/do the cleaning/do the washing...." (delete as applicable)

Later SmellyHairyGrocerjack

Things I can do......

I love my family but this week they have been away on Brownie or Guide camp (can never remember which). Therefore, I have been a man, off work and alone in his domain for 4 days and nights. As much as I love them this has allowed me to do certain things that I wouldn't normally do with them around.

1.) Fart loudly and proudly - everyone farts so don't try kidding anyone. Normally, I politely leave the room and contribute to the greenhouse gas situation, but for this week I have been able to be as load and proud as I like. Ditto for loud and proud bloke belching. Liberating.

2.) Decorate at my own pace - I had a single non-negotiable task from GMD this week - decorate the Utlility Room. GMD now knows I only decorate if her and Teenager and Baby are somewhere else for the week because that way I can take as much or as little time as I need. I can have "tea-breaks" whenever I like, schedule a lunch break in as pleases me. No-one keeps popping in the room to ask me "if I fancy a pub lunch", or "help me in with the shopping" or "can you drop me at MiddleSis's house".. Now with Teenager it's whether the GrocerJack Cab service can take her to Mini-Me's (yes it's still going....grrrrr) or WeirdMate's. All of these requests stop me in my tracks and when completed...well somehow the momentum is lost for the day. I like to choose my start times, schedule and finish times, on my own, with no help. Selfish maybe, but it's the way I work.

3.) Eating shit - not literally you understand,.but my evening meals this week have consisted of Pizza, Kebab and Indian, and my lunches have been Hot Sausage Baguettes with ketchup or HP Sauce. Mens food.

4.) Eating sweets - yep, no fruit this week. I've been eating tons lately, but this week fuck all. Like a lot of blokes I'm a selfish fucker and resent sharing anything with anybody. I don't share my drinks in the pub, I'd rather buy a whole one for somebody than give them a sip. I don't share food and I certainly don't share sweets. We buy the usual family amounts of biccies, sweeties and chocolate but I rarely see any because Teenager swoops on them and gives them to her friends, as does Baby and so invariably when I want them, there's nothing there, the cupboard is bare.. GMD likes to let any visitor have what they want. Me...I paid for it and I want to enjoy it. With them out of the way, I have sampled in glorious "me-only" style 2 bags of Maynards Sours, 2 Cadbury's Dairy Milk with Crunchie bits, a whole bar of Fruit and Nut and a tub of Mars Ice Cream. Quality.

5.) My TV - I have been able to watch what I fucking want every night. Spooks, Footie, Little Britain (outrageously funny), My Good, Bad and Ugly DVD, golf, whatever. At no point has a fucking Soap been seen on my TV. Bliss

6.) Ignoring the phone - I use the phone incessantly at work and I hate the fucking thing going off in the evening. It's rarely ever for me but I'm still expected to answer it if I'm closest. What gives people thr right to think they can disturb me in the evening. Don't they think I have anything better to do? Worst is the "surprise" call from people you haven't spoken to for ages. Me and my mates generally know when we're going to call each other, so it's not a surprise, in fact it's scheduled. And we take seconds...."Hello Mate, pub tonight?" ..."Yeah, normal time"..."Later then"...end of conversation. This week I have been able to blissfully ignore the phone...even unplugging it during The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Relaxing

And so the room is almost complete. A few bits of finishing up and it'll be as good as new. I will be up to speed on all the news thanks to my companion 5Live whilst working. And my stress levels are non existent. Even a good soaking on the golf course yersterday felt relaxing. All thanks to a few days uninterrupted peace and quiet.

It ends today, they're due home in an hour. Buit it was good and appreciated more because of it's rarity.

Later, GrocerJack

So Farewell then.............

John Peel aged 65. It's not been a good few weeks really what with the death of Brian Clough. the under-reported death of Pete McCarthy and now today, learning that John Peel has tragically died at only 65. I listened occasionally to his show over the years and found his hunger for new music a bit too much if I'm honest. But I liked his voice, his dry humour and even though I found some of the music......well beyond me.....his enthusiasm was very obvious. But it was clear he liked his old stuff as well and not many people know it but he championed Syd Barrets Pink Floyd back in the pschedelic days of the later 60's and also a lot of the equally revered/disdained prog rock bands such as Yes and Genesis (when Peter Gabriel was their front man). One of his most famous "Peel Sessions" featured a fledgling band on the verge of breaking through to becoming the biggest rock band ever and a band respected both performance wise and critically on their musical content from all musical quarters. That band was Led Zeppelin. To play a part in promoting so many of the bands we now view as "mainstream" is a truly remarkable career.

Although sad, it is worth noting that this man had his perfect job, a solid and very loving relationship with his wife, the same fears and aspirations for his children, with the same pride for their achievements as any of us, and that's why he appealed. He was like a mate that you knew. And that is perhaps the reason this news has so patently affected so many people across such a spread of generations. People my age are increasingly aware of our own mortality and when someone like this dies it is just another chip chiselled out of our veneer of bravado about growing older. We may not show it, we may not talk about it. Life will carry on regardless, but every single event like this stops us in our tracks for a few seconds more each time, and makes us think a little more each time about how the inevitablility is catching up bit by bit. More days behind you than in front of you. It happened to me when I heard of Caron Keating's death from cancer, I grew up with Brian Clough featuring on post match TV interviews and being brutally honest and his death was another shock. I read Pete McCarthy's books lying by a pool in France, sipping a beer and thinking ..."this blokes spot on"... and then he dies very suddenly. Perhaps I'm going into my SAD period as Winter finally dawns. Perhaps I've been listening to too much Roger Waters.


Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say

Later, GrocerJack

Should we re-live Band Aid?

A lively debate has ensued at Casino Avenue on the Band Aid single “Do They Know It’s Christmas” being re-issued. Well, in my humble opinion this re-release is a good thing, especially as it seems to be restricted to some decent bands and not the pretty boy band/girl band impostors that did Band Aid II.

I was there in 1984 when Band Aid was released, 23 years old and still in my “wild” phase. I bought the song and paid out more during the Live Aid concert in that halcyon summer of ’85. In fact, the more we got pissed that day, the more we pledged from my local. The Governor even kept the pub open all day…it was party atmosphere. Whether you like it or not, Band Aid/Live Aid did change attitudes and views, and genuinely good things happened at a time when the “greed is good” mantra could have been held up as a slogan for a Thatcher government and a society duped into believing that “there is no such thing as society” – (Thatcher’s words not mine). People of my age came together and instead of just whinging about how shit things were via our smart-arse “alternative” comedy, we put our hands in our pockets and assuaged our guilt by putting our money where our mouth was. Would we have done it without the Geldof Project? No, we wouldn’t and the reason was we didn’t watch the news, or current affairs programmes, we were the party generation, drowning our ignorance of the Thatcher years in a haze of dope and lager. We were out most nights, and when we weren’t we probably at someone’s house, gambling or shagging.

What Geldof did was put this tragedy right in our faces using the tool most likely to get the attention of the young – our false idolatry of wealth, fame and celebrity manifested in the music stars of the time. And it worked, whoever you were you couldn’t ignore what was going on, you couldn’t forget Geldof having a pop at Maggie, or swearing in his passionate plea to “give us your fucking money”. For fucks sake it even got Led Zeppelin back on stage for the only time since Bonhams death. Whatever music you liked or didn’t like, there was someone involved that appealed. Even that crusty old misery Neil Young performed in the States. None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for one tortured, miserable, passionate, scruffy Irishman and his “never to have a number 1 single” Scottish mate. It was in it’s own way not only a master tactic, but a mini revolution.

Are you seriously telling me that we, or at least the youngsters of today, don’t need something similar today to shake off the creeping malaise of ignorance we live under now?

There is one bad element to Band Aid III and that is the fact that The Sun (specifically Knobber hack Dominic Mohan) seems to be claiming the credit for it. The Sun acting in any way altruistically is a bit like Branson doing something without mentioning Virgin – it just doesn’t happen. But I can take their “sponsorship” of it if the cause is right because like Geldof I would use it as a means to an end and not get caught up in a game of “right-on” political dogma with bleeding hearts spouting on about the whole thing being tainted because of it’s association with The Sun. Fuck The Sun! Bollocks to their little game of “Aren’t we the gracious ones” – most sensible people aren’t suddenly going to become Sun readers because of their association with the record because we have brains and intellect and can choose rationally for ourselves. The Sun is an irrelevance in all this now because Midge Ure and Geldof’s little project is now up and running again under their control. If the Sun wants to try and claim then nothing’s going to stop that, as reprehensible as that may be.

As you can tell I am a little dismayed at the cynicism that Band Aid III is being greeted with. One particularly piss poor view seems to be that because the idea was conceived in the 1980’s then somehow it is bad to resurrect it in the enlightened (sic) Millennium years. This ties in with the whole “new is good, old is bad” culture that pervades our society. It’s just another inverted form of snobbery emanating from smart-arse know-nothing shit necks barely out of nappies trying to show how clever they are with their pseudo-intellectual ramblings. My message to them is “fuck off back to University and get a degree in Real Life”. Then come back and comment on stuff you currently know nothing about.

Let’s put the new vs old argument to the test.

New Music “good” vs. Old Music “bad”

Look a lot of New Music (Goldie Lookin’ Chain anyone?) is shite, as is a lot of Old Music (who could forget Brotherhood of Man), but whether music is good or bad is fuck all to do with its age. It’s about the skill and care the artist has taken in writing, producing and performing it, added to the subjective perception and personal taste of the audience. It’s not better if it’s “cult” or enjoyed by a minority either. Just because something is popular with masses doesn’t instantly make it shite. People who think this are as bad as that cultural cripple Brian Sewell.

New Art vs. Old Art

In my periodic series of Art pictures in this blog I have included works from classical artists as well as modern art. It is subjective again to some point, but honestly will anyone be raving about Tracy Emin’s soiled bed in 200 years time, or a light switch going on and off in a room? That’s not breaking boundaries, its conning people.

New food vs. Old food

Nothing to do with the age of the food and the merits of not eating mouldy food, rather the bollocks industry around restaurants. When I go out for a meal I sometimes want something simple, wholesome and I want enough on my plate to make me feel fully contented. I am their to be fed, and to have a drink and enjoy the company. I do not need an “experience” when re-fuelling. I do not want Art on a plate. I do not want 3 “baby” vegetables drizzled in “jus”. If “old food” is so bad why are we living longer? I’d rather eat in roadside café than in The fucking Ivy.

New fashion vs. Old fashion

Fashion is a shitehole industry anyway pampering to skinny arse airheads and aging queens. But it is trendy to snigger at the 80’s fashions now isn’t it. Oh how ridiculous the hair styles were, the clothes, the music. It’s the decade that taste forgot! They said the same in the 80’s about the 60’s and 70’s, but as you get older you realise that it was of it’s time. It may look silly now, but it will recycle and at some point in the future, the yoof will be wearing pixie boots, leg warmers, ra-ra skirts (which was a top fashion idea in my view!) puffball shirts and men will wear makeup and the Mullet will return.!

So stop knocking the 80’s and start looking at what it contributed to our society and culture. Its influences are everywhere from politics (it heralded the death knell for the Tories), to music to fashion to technology. Frankly I’d live the 80’s again given the chance…even if it was just to rectify some of my ….ahem…regrets.

Later, GrocerJack

Some brief thoughts........

I have a free moment so I thought I'd share a thought or two.....

As you might have gather I was no fan of Lynda Lee Potter or the nasty rag she wrote for, so I thought a brief poem in the style of EJ Thribb would be sufficient comment on her demise. Even writing shit poetry is hard. I wish the Daily Facist would go the same way because then I'd be really inspired to write a death poem. However, not wanting to plagiarise another blogger I decided to try the poetry bit, but for a succinctlly written piece that sums up how I really feel about her please check out the fantastic Casino Avenue written by a master blogger ( take a bow Inspector Sands).

Honda - yes that's right Honda - seen the "hate Something, Change Something " advert on TV yet? Talk about breaking the mould. Whilst BMW , Vauxhall etc all roll out the usual funky songs, trendy youngsters, along come Honda with a fantastic animated piece of pschedelic film complete with horribly catchy ditty. No open empty roads, no dynamic young couples.....just sheer originality. Don't tell me this wasn't conceived after a Magic Mushroom breakfast! Visit the web site and see it yourself.

Boris Johnson - bumbling upper class wanker - stick to Have I Got News For You. Can you believe this got so much coverage? Must be a fucking slow news week.

Adrian Mutu - cocky, lazy, unfit but undoubtedly a rare football talent. He has demons in his head and perhaps his intellect (he has a degree) causes him to "think" about life more than most of the more monosyllabic characters in the game. I hope Chelsea give him the support to be rehabilated and the chance to redeem himself and show what a great footballer he can be. Blimey....would I have said that about any other player in any other team. Don't be daft......everyone knows the rules change when your team is affected!

Geoff Hoon - arrogant wanker.

Chelsea FC - I slept like a baby last night for the first time in a week, all thanks to you. Because you won and now have a maximum 9 points from 9 in the Champions and Almost Champions League? Nah, because you bored the absolute arse off me. I still love you, but honestly behave yourself. What you did last night was slowly strangle the life from CSKA Moscow and with it the game of football.

Robert Kilroy-Silk - orange skinned, big mouthed, egotistical dumb wanker

Spooks - it might be called silly, unlikely, flashy but in my view it is completely unmissable. It's oh-so-fucking trendy to have the water cooler conversation about US TV programmes like 24, The Sopranos, West Wing or Six Feet Under but when the fantastic and ever improving BBC hammer yet another nail into the coffin of ShiteTV by producing a series with strangely believable storylines (especially for conspiracy theorists like me), with warm and vulnerable characters (Keeley Hawes anyone?...well I would.....) we seem to enjoy the process of bringing it down via bile stained and vitriolic criticism from media whore knobber journo's with the intellectual capacity of a lobotomised amoeba. Spooks is every bit as good as any of the US stuff being shown here at the moment, and it's pace, production values and quality is by far the best of any current British TV series. Check it out.....it's not just for boys.

Please checkout some new blogs on my sidebar. New ones are the Chelsea Blog (strictly for Chelsea fans only), Alexa - a sort of Belle de Jour from the US.....but more real and less.....arty-farty in my view, the marvellous Jack Shian....someone with a levle of cynicism far exceeding mine - I reckon he would be a perfect drinking partner for an evening, Gert with her mad musings and Suzy Snow with her Apperceptive Journey.

Later comrades, Agent GrocerJack

So Farewell Then….Lynda Lee Potter

You had no sense of humour

You propagated vicious rumour

Vicious and uncaring

You died of a brain tumour

You were a hypocrite and moaner

Bigoted, poisonous and vile

In any other life you’d have been a loner

Never thought of with a smile

You spent your life with the Daily Mail

Supporting the paparazzi trail

Slagging off the worthy and kind

Proving the emptiness of your mind

So farewell then Lynda Lee Potter

Overall, I thought you were a mad old rotter.

(with apologies to EJ Thribb)

Regrets……I’ve had a few….

You know how it is when people are interviewed and they’re asked if they regret anything in their life, or if they would have done things differently. Almost inevitably every single last one of them trots out the line

“….no…I’ve no regrets…I’d have done exactly the same again……”

Why is that? Surely they must think something could have been better, or that some decision was wrong or regrettable. I know I have plenty of regrets, some of which may have altered where I am now. It’s not that I’m unhappy with things the way they are, but I’m intrigued by the prospect of what might have been. I often wonder what would have happened if the premise of the film Sliding Doors had occurred, or the song Different Corner by George Michael. So here goes……… key things I regret ……..

Not staying on to do A-levels and then going to University: I was educated in the 60’s/70’s and Uni was very much a minority option for those really bright academic types. I was quite bright and could have done A levels and gone to Uni (well according to my teachers I was), but all my mates were leaving school and getting jobs. They ended up driving round my house in their Vauxhall Victor’s or Cortina MkII’s or riding their Suzuki GT250’s acting like Loadsamoney, waving their wedge in my face before going to the pub, getting drunk and/or getting off with someone. Very hard, if not impossible to resist.

Another thing was that no-one, not the Teachers, not the laughably titled Careers Officer with his standard quote

“….there’s no money in being a DJ/footballer/singer/writer…get yourself a proper career in banking/accountancy/electronics….”

ever sat you down and told you that University wasn’t like school, and that you’d be quite likely drinking, smoking a bit of grass, going to the odd party and potentially shagging loads of intelligent women, whilst learning at the same time! Why not tell it as it was? Now that’s what I call a hard sell. So yes, knowing what I do now, I regret not staying on and going to University. Verdict: Weak Jack

KM: Too painful to talk about Verdict : Sad and stupid Jack

Selling my dead parents house: I was young and had had enough of trying to run a house and be somehow responsible for 2 younger brothers – a failed task because that’s too big a job for someone of 18. Sold the house, took the money and spent it on a deposit for a flat. If I’d kept the house for just 3 more years it would have doubled in price. Verdict: Poorly advised Jack

Not turfing my mate PT out of the flat one night: Me and my mate PT took two girls, K & L, back to the flat. We knew them quite well and yes, they were both nice, but as it turned out we did not know them as well as we thought. We were 22. PT really fancied K whereas I just wanted one night stand, no strings sex and wasn’t really fussy. The main qualification for a girl to be eligible in them days was the possession of a pulse. Anyway they both wanted sex. With me………..and each other!!!! They let me know covertly that this was threesome time and that I should get rid of PT. In a show of unbelievably stupid and naive loyalty I refused. K eventually bowed out. PT took the hint and went on his way. L stayed and yes, we had a rare old time…but in the back of my mind I knew the chance was gone. 2 weeks later GM (another mate) got the lucky option and saw it through. Yep, I’ve lived with that spectacular own goal ever since. Verdict: Idiotic Jack

Leaving the Southern Electricity Board to work for Lambeth Council: Indirectly if I hadn’t done this then I wouldn’t be where I am now. But this was all because I had a personality clash with Finch and Merwood when working at the SEB, two of the biggest Wankers it has ever been my misfortune to have worked for. Merwood worked for Finch, I worked for Merwood. Finch was a balding, mockney twat with his backbone removed. Merwood was a twat who ran the department in an environment of fear. His backbone had evaporated years before. Both of them fucking shafted me so I left for more money/status and ended up working for the corrupt and politically strangled Lambeth Council, where black and white people and equal size chips on each shoulder. I fucking hated working for Lambeth right from day one, but no way could I get back to the old place. I’d gone from being well paid and living 6 miles from work via a road with no traffic lights or roundabouts on, to travelling 80 miles each way, either via the torture of Network South-East and London Fucking Transport, or driving for 90 minutes each way and dealing with the Wandsworth hell that is the one way system, street parking in Brixton and the A3 in general. Lambeth was like a 3 year prison sentence in Broadmoor, full of absolute mentalists and knobbers. Merwood has since had several heart attacks and Finch was unceremoniously booted out. Proof, indeed, that you reap what you sew………Verdict: Impatient Jack

Negotiating with the idiot outside the Nonna Rosa in Uxbridge: New Years Eve in 1984. We decide as a group of couples to go out for a meal to the Nonna Rosa, an Italian restaurant in Uxbridge. As the disco started at around 11pm one of our party had got very drunk and popped a few tabs (I’ve no idea what because E hadn’t been invented then I don’t think, but my suspicion is LSD). He started a fight with another group that spilled outside. I stood in front of the main protagonist from the other group trying to calm him down, but all he kept doing was yelling abuse at me. I considered my options; he was 6 inches from me. I could nut him and put him down, or keep negotiating and calming him. I took the second option, his mates who were holding him back let go, he hit me and with one single punch I was out cold. He couldn’t have done better if he’d held a mallet and hit me. As I came round, lying in the gutter in the pouring rain, new leather jacket scuffed, watch strap broken from the impact of hitting the deck, rage replaced reason, my lip and nose were swollen badly and I just wanted to kill there and then. That’s when his mates decided to hold me back and reason with me, whilst he jumped into a cab and fucked off. Wrong decision Glass Jaw Jack – as Skank said to me the next day. Hit first, ask questions later………Verdict : Naive Jack

More later, GrocerJack

Fly on the wall documentary….Inside Jack’s brain….

Scene One: Jacks’ bedroom, Monday morning 05:55, 1 minute after alarm goes off…Jack lies there listening in semi-conscious state to “Wake up to Money”…….the dulcet tones of Guy Ruddell and Mickey Clarke waft across the room. Jack has no idea what they’re talking about, but they sound friendly and he has reached the age where he wants to wake with people talking to him rather than some talentless, witless, fucking smiley DJ playing the “greatest hits of the 80’s 90’ and today” …like the 60’s and 70’s never existed musically.

Deep inside the Cranium, the lights are dimly illuminated. A group of dishevelled organisms sit at the front of a large console. These are the Numbskulls, for readers of The Beezer it was well known that these were the pilots and engineers for all human beings. For anyone who never read The Beezer…well that’s your problem. It was a comic from the 70’s, that in my life anyway, vied for position of King Comic with The Topper…until I discovered Tiger (incorporating Scorcher), which was always going to win with a cast of Roy of The Rovers, Hot-Shot Hamish, Billys Boots and Johnny Cougar!

A conversation is taking place after the handover from the Dark Side Numbskulls …. A frequently cruel and vindictive bunch who run the night shift inside Jacks brain, often creating visions of huge wealth, or fantastic superpowers, or great sexual conquests and replaying them to Jack whilst asleep, whilst always scheduling the finest moment for 1 second past the point of the alarm going off, and then not handing over the tape to the “day shift” for any chance of any resumption during the pre-ignition state (or dozing as I call it). Because of them, I’ll never actually get to shag Kylie…they just won’t finish the movie. Bastards nearly let me have Davina Fuckalltalent once though….Occasionally they are also tripped out on Numbskull recreational drugs, for that can be the only reason for the utterly fucked up collage of complete twisted bollocks they sometimes play back.

Captain Jack Luc Picard: Number One……… Check Brain and Memory System……..

Number One: Now working at near normal levels Captain…..full recovery on schedule for later today. Delay between thinking and acting will be elevated today as extra protection from making complete arse of himself again…..

Capt JLP: Main engine status?

Number One: Pulsing at around 62 per minute, pressure slightly elevated, but that’s falling as we remove the remnants effect of Alcohol Storm Kylie….

Capt JLP: Check Mechanical Physical Systems and hydraulics………

Head of Engineering: usual general all over dull ache Captain, but unable to determine whether or not this is Guinness/Scotch related or just normal age related wear and tear. Joint clicking noise mechanism at full volume Sir, and nerve ends left in over-sensitive mode in order to protect from any more abuse today

Capt JLP: Check liver function………..

Number One: Surprisingly, It seems OK Captain. It has been working at full capacity for most of the weekend though, as have the Kidneys although this did mean elevated temperature levels across the whole chassis….

Capt JLP: So no permanent damage from Friday night?........

Number One: It would appear not Sir.

Capt JLP: Amazing, OK check digestive system……..

Fuel Systems Chief: Ability to choose and consume and retain solids restored, …er ….waste disposal system well and truly cleared out Sir and seemingly in constant production all weekend…..full waste liquidiser facility was activated in order to ensure no repeat sessions like Friday were likely….

Capt JLP: Was the emergency fuel and waste evacuation system used?

Waste Disposal Manager: Yes, several times on Saturday, I believe the Oral Cleaning team have just completed the final removal of the carpet from the tongue and have soothed the vomitary acid burns in the throat area. Some work has been done to reduce the toxic fumes in that area.

Capt JLP :They really are very good those maintenance guys….Visual circuits?

Navigation Engineer: now able to focus without pain, although clear focus has been restricted because of age related lack of elasticity in the port side visual portal. A known situation thought sir…..

Capt JLP: Ok, ensure that he wears the vision rectification systems – the tortoiseshell ones would be rather fetching today. How’s the scalp protection system?

Security and Looks Engineer: At Grade 5 and looking completely shite. Rapidly approaching Pom-pom status. Greying status still not active

Capt JLP: Ok get him to book a maintenance session on the Scalp Protection System. Recommend Grade 3. Status of nasal and noise sensor systems?

Navigation Engineer: Noise sensor systems have slight ringing caused by loud singing and hefty doses of Rock music during early hours of Friday…… Severe blockage in left input/output system, partial blockage in right input/output system. Full discharge system now activated, brace yourselves.

Jack sneezes and farts………simultaneously

Capt JLP: A bit more notice next time please Mr Engineer……….and can you please try and co-ordinate your discharge system to avoid coinciding with bulk exhaust discharges.

Navigation Engineer: Sorry sir………(sniggering)

Capt JLP: OK , we’re in a good enough state for this weeks missions…Number One …..set course for bathroom and start early morning cleaning program ….he might be old, but he’s ours…lets see what’s out there

Number One: Affirmative sir….Should we also activate the early morning refuelling program as well…..

Capt JLP: Yes, set to low fat, healthy but tasteless level…..Make it so Number One…make it so…..

More later, GrocerJack

A name for this day......

Ok, so yesterday was a tough day. Post exam I seemed to have the worst nights sleep for a long time and when I got up...well everything was kind of wrong. It was downright fucking weird because from the moment I forced my overweight, creaking stiff body out of bed it was like I was always a few seconds behind my mind. Almost immediately I dropped the can of Diet Vanilla Coke I keep by the side of the bed to quench my mid sleep thirst,. This is a sad admission but I find myself regularly waking at 3 in the morning needing to have a piss. It doesn't matter that I had one just milliseconds before finally going to sleep. I'm wondering if we grow a reserve bladder as we get older that only works when you're asleep. Let that be a lesson to all you under 40's - this is the sort of shit thats waiting down the runway of life, just for you. Of course if one is to go to the loo then one might as well have a few swigs of something to remove the fur lining thats grown in the mouth, for any number of reasons...central heating, Indian for dinner, oral sex, 10 pints of Guinness mouldy toothbrush...... So, the half full can deposits its belongings all over the floor.

"Shit" I whispered in my mind...but actually said out loud
"Urghhhhhhhh...wot" says GMD
"Shutup and go back to sleep" I say, ever the romantic

Into the shower then, turn on the shower let the hot water through and quickly have a shave. No...the shavers flat, fuck it I'll go in with a George Michael growth....and I don't mean a hard on because Eltons walked in the room!. Into the shower where Teenager has kindly left the shower gel and shampoo on the floor. Inevitably I kick them and they fly into the glass side with a loud bang.

"Fuck it,,that fucking hurt...stupid teenage kid" says I, ever the compassionate and balanced person

Turn on 5Live on the shower radio and step inside . Errr..the waters a bit too hot and I have to jump out as bits of skin start to bubble

"FUCK" I shout
"Shutup you noisy bastard" shouts GMD
Touche...thinks I. Anyway water is adjusted and shower is completed. Then...simply the most irritating thing in the world.....Teenager has used my towel the previous night and dumped it on the floor in a crinkled pile about 10% of its normal size thus preserving the wet from her shower, but allowing it to dry just enough to bring on the delightful stagnant water smell. By now my blood pressure is 400 over 200. I am a nuclear reactor on the verge of meltdown. Just call me Jack Chernobyl.

I struggle out of the bathroom into the bedroom where find Baby has left her towel in the same state on the floor. Eventually I find a reasonable towel...it's a bit rough but it smells of nothing. Breakfast - I decide on Mini Shredded Wheat or WheatBrillo as I call it. I put some grapes in just to add some flavour. I go to the fridge and when I open it....well itn hasn't been shut properly the night before so everything is now at room temperature, including the milk. Revolting. I struggle through that and listen to 5Live and then go to get dressed. I pour the milk into GMD's tea but underestimate the flow and by the time I realise it, she now has a warm cup of milk that has been threatened by a tea bag. I take it up and go to clean my teeth, and yep, the battery on the toothbrush runs out after 30 seconds. Bollocks , I''ll finish with some mouthwash.. I go to the spare room where I dress so as not to wake up GMD who can sleep in a quarry. Yeah, so why do I bother? Have I got a shirt ironed...no...because I was too fucking lazy to do it the night before! I find a semi-respectable shirt and take it downstairs. The first bit of steam from the iron then chucks out a ton of shit onto the shirt, almost like the fucking thing farted and followed through. Now I'm just weary and I've been out of bed for just 40 minutes. So what else could happen? In a nutshell this.......

Reverse the car off the drive and cause another car to swerve because I forgot to look, missing me by inches, causing them to hit the horn, making the postman look at me and the barking mad fuckwit next door walking his dog to look at me and...yes he was tutting.

Drive to work, selecting the wrong gear twice and stalling at the roundabout. I'm sure I heard derisory laughter from the other drivers.

Get to the door fo the office - forgotten my pass, can't get in without it. Trek back to car and realise I have reversed into space....more precisely exactly halfway across two spaces. Friendly colleague walks past and says "I've seen women park better than that" Mysogynist wanker.

Go into office. Get coffee in Chelsea mug, trip on shoelace walking to desk, spill half of coffee over hand and shirtcuff. "I don't think you wanted to do that" says another friendly work colleague for whom I have no suitable nickname. Perhaps Bald Headed Twat will do for now.

Go to loo, realise flies have been undone, presumably since getting dressed.

Things got better when Priceless treated me to a coffee in our Cafe (yes we have a proper one in the office, with proper coffee!)

At around midday everything seemed to be back in synch. Then in the afternoon I walk to meeting in another building and the heavens opened on me. I was the wettest in the meeting and that amused some people. Not me though. Walking back from the meeting I walk down a grassy bank...yes this was tempting fate...and yes I did slip, luckily only managing to get my hand covered in wet mud. I suppose with the way this day was going I should be thankful a dog hadn't decided to have a shit in that exact spot.. And that was pretty much it...the rest of the day I was so cautious and slow even Fate couldn't trip me up again. What I want to know is if there is a name for this type of day.? Discordant Day? Unsynchronised Day? OutofSortsitis day? Shouldhavestayedinfuckingbed day?

And why was today such a seamless and smooth operation ?

Later, Grocerjack

What I did in my exam.......and thanks to Mr LeatherySkin Foulmouth

Yes folks, the exam was today and the course is finally out of the way. Frankly I'm not sure what the evenings hold for me now. My improvised study was the spare room because our own proper study had a shite small desk and no door to provide the requisite level of silence needed to concentrate. But it had also become my bolthole, my "den", my sanctuary from Teenagers incessant Avril Lavigne and 50 Cent music thumping all night, or the constant sound of her mobile playing a stupid irritating tune when her friends constantly texted her all night long, or the constant phone ringing from her friends and Mini-Me (yep...still on the scene!), or from Baby's extra loud playback of our full collection of Friends DVD's, or GMD's occasional shouts up the stairs for someone to do something, or me to fix something. Now I have no reason to come here, no studying, no revising. The study now has a big new desk with loads of room to work on but I have no reason other than net surfing to go in there, or to post entries to this blog. I now do this from home because the wankers at work have applied default monitoring to all our PC's, and even my old team haven't cracked how to bypass this...yet! However, the study is still a bit too public for me, so if anyone can think of reasons for me to hide up here until the next course starts then please feel free to do so.

The exam was held at Portsmouth FC, a stadium of such crapness and grime it has it's own strange charm. A dilapedated old ground with one new stand, it sits proudly in amongst the wasteland of the railway sidings and the long rows of terraced houses bordering on it. New Premiership this is most definitely not. It's a dump, but oddly quaint and sinister at the same time. As I walked to the exam the rain was pouring down. I had got there early so that I could have one quick read of everything I had revised to ensure it was drilled in enough.

I was wearing my Chelsea FC shirt outside my black jeans, with trainers and topped off with my £250 leather jacket. Yep, I was the model fashion victim. Middle aged man trying to look cool and trendy but just looking like a "nothing fits me Joe". No matter what I buy to wear it always looks like I've nicked it.

From someone thinner than me.

A wet Tuesday morning meant that the ground was hardly a hive of activity, but perhaps it's like that anyway. A bloke stood outside the main gates. He was leathery and wizened, drawing heavily on his roll up and looked as if he'd stood there in the wind and rain for about 20 years. He smiled (or at least I thought so), so I smiled back knowing that my pre-match tension would subside just by that act alone

"Here for the exam?" I said cheerily
"Fuck off" came the sneering reply....er....so it wasn't a smile then
"You what " said I , more than slightly surprised at this response
"Fuck off Chelsea " he said

Penny dropping noises could be heard at this point. I had thrown the shirt on without thinking about where I was going and he'd obviously taken offence at this brazen display of support for my team. But I wasn't doing anything illegal, slightly dumb maybe but not illegal.

"Fuck you too" I said "I'll wear what I want"....I wasn't thinking but was a bit annoyed that my cheery greeting had been responded to like this......it also felt good because this was getting the argumentative juices flowing before the exam

"Cunt.....support your local fucking team" said Mr Leathery Skin as he drew again on his dampening lung torpedo

"This is my local fucking team" said I pointing to my shirt, as if I was defending it's dignity and honour....which I suppose I was...I was also aware that this might spiral out of control and that might not be good before the exam, especially if I was likely to be wounded " I was born in London, raised in West London and have supported them for 33 fucking years and I ain't gonna change now".....I've no idea why I started to become American at this point.

Beat that Mr Leathery Skin I thought.

"Well fuck off back up there then....we don't need your sort down here" and with that that he turned on his heel and walked into the ground. I swear he had a smile on his face. And 20 years it has taken for someone to finally say that to me. It made me feel like I really do belong down here. Was he an employee, just a fan? Was he employed to just stand there and abuse Open University students on their way in? I can imagine a normally dressed student greeting him and getting the response of

"Fuck off smartarse...think your clever doing a degree ...."

Who knows but now I can see why Portsmouth is one of the most unwelcoming grounds in England. Still, they'll be relegated soon so who fucking cares. When they are I might go back and see if Mr Leathery Skin is outside the ground just so I can lob some abuse at him and gloat.

It did serve a purpose though because for the next 10 minutes I was laughing inside myself at the whole weird encounter, which meant I wasn't winding myself up about the exam. Come the call to take our seats I felt quite alive, and all because of Mr Leathery Skins' abuse. The exam itself went quickly. We had to answer three questions from 12, in six pairs. I wrote nearly 11 sides of A4 in that time so hopefully the required 40% will be easily met.

On a final note. I walked into pub on Friday night to the usual greeting of "Dwarf" being bellowed across the bar. It was the usual greeting from Medallion Man. Yes, thats his name for me because as I've said before I am not exactly Basketball player material. Anyway he asked for a word with me. I thought it was going to be a conversation about another of his conquests in the world of women, or to tell me about another great or crap round of golf he had. They're usually good though because this boy can play, and whenever I play with him it actually seems to force my game to a higher level. Anyway he had found this site. I thought the conversation might be tense , especially over my name for him. But he was fine, in fact he called it "quality", which round this way is a very big compliment indeed. He made one good point though. I wear more jewellery than him, so for me to call him Medallion Man seems a bit strong. In light of this he will now be referred to by the name we all know him as ....Tosser.....er no...just joking mate...... I mean Shotts! The cast list is hereby updated.

Later, GrocerJack

Just what the hell is happening?

Apparently today the remains of a woman, Gladys Hammond who died aged 86 have been stolen from a grave in a village called Yoxall. The perpetrators of this crime are alleged to be animal rights activists and have targeted this woman’s family because they breed Guinea Pigs for the express purpose of selling them to a laboratory specialising in medical research. It is thought that the grave robbers now intend to dismember the remains and send them back to the family bit by bit. Nice huh? Really classy! Or how about just plain old sick, demented and depraved.

Let’s get something straight here, these aren’t activists, they are terrorists. They may not be beheading people or kidnapping them, but they’re not too fucking far from doing this and surely it’s only a matter of time before someone is kidnapped, tortured and maybe even killed in the name of animal rights. This leaves a bad taste in the mouth less than a week after Ken Bigley was brutally murdered by extremists in Iraq, and for a large part of the population an act of barbarism which touched them in some small way or another. Also in a week where a young girl, Danielle Beccan was brutally shot in Nottingham aged 14 it seems that somehow or another the UK is going to Hell in a Handcart. Far be it from me to start walking down Bigotry Avenue to Littlejohn Mansions but in some respects I agree with the knobber journo from The Scum that things are badly wrong in UK Village and that perhaps the exercise of freedom can be taken too far. What with drive by shootings, grave robbers and dead horses being dumped outside the Labour Conference I think it’s all too easy and increasingly acceptable for people to use extremes to make their points, whether it’s a political cause or an inter-gangland rivalry ( I think the girl was shot as part of a gang initiation ceremony)…the rule of law is breaking down.

For my own view I don’t think animals do have rights. Rights can only be granted by beings that can rationalise, form concepts of justice, right, wrong, good and evil. As far as I know there are no animals that have awareness of such concepts. Our most treasured rights are also enshrined in law, laws are something that only humans can make and comply with or break. Rights in the philosophical sense imply moral duties and obligations and so animals, which have no notion of any of these, do not have rights. They may be aware of their suffering but they are not aware of any violation of rights. However, I do believe that we as rational beings have a duty of responsibility towards animals, without assuming they have human traits. I believe that unwarranted cruelty is morally wrong and that as humans we should not be able to apply cruel methods to animals, whether that be in sport (fox hunting covered off then) or food production (factory farming…products of which I avoid if at all possible) and research for non-medical purposes (i.e cosmetics testing). But we should e able to eat meat that is garnered humanely, and control pests via efficient and humane methods. I do believe that if medical research can use animals to discover cures for disease in humans then yes that is OK. If someone I loved could be cured by a treatment first discovered by using animals then I have no moral qualm about that whatsoever. I feel the same way about the use of Embryonic Human Stem Cells as championed by the late Christopher Reeve, someone who was truly brave of heart.

I think the people who protest against animal cruelty have a noble cause, at least to them, but the method to choose is via legal protest, awareness campaigns and the fucking ballot box. Anything like what has been done today is terrorism. And there are no “degrees of terrorism” , just plain old using peoples fears to intimidate them. The terrorist is a simpleton, a person who sees their cause as good and anyone not with them is against them. Therefore anybody is fair game and is on the side of “bad”. They then demonise the other side so that there is no compromise solution or anything good about them at all. They are demented and perhaps society has a duty to eradicate them. The minute you become a terrorist is the minute you forfeit any human right at all.

Personally I hope they find these sick fuckers and put them in a grave, unmarked and silent.

More later, GrocerJack

Pub Night....

I know, it's only a small pleasure but as I've said before an increasingly important one in the fight against stress and dull nights in front of the TV trying to work out who the fuck thought David Jason would make a convincing copper. I workded from home today, which means I got quite a bit if revising done, and I will do another hour in order to justify to my conscience that the visit to the pub is not my lower irrational self giving in to some genetic male hedonistic trait thereby affecting my degree of positive liberty.....oh my god it's creeping into my writing now. Mission tonight is to drink enough Guinness to quell any of this "Philosophyitis" showing in the pub. Unfortunately the truth is it usually just fuels the disease as we all slowly become Amateur Philosophers for the night with, covering the whole gamut of male conversation from Football to Sex to War to Sex to Sport to Sex to Politics to Sex ...can you see a pattern here?

Anyway the answer to the quix, for which I got a completely underwhelming response was...

Flowers on the Wall by The Slater Brothers and it featured in the film Pulp Fiction, at one of the best scenes where Bruce Willis (Butch the boxer) is driving back from his flat, having killed John Travolta playing the character Vincent Vega on the pan and having retrieved his fathers heirloom watch, presented to him by Christopher Walken, which his father had hidden from the Vietcong for 5 years by hiding it his arse, culiminating in Butch running over the gangster Marcellus Wallace (played by the fantastic Ving Rhames) who had paid Butch to throw the fight, and was crossing the road at a set of traffic lights having just been to a MacDonalds to get a takeaway breakfast and who had senthis henchman Vincent Vega to Butch's flat in order to find him and make him pay for the deceit. OK? Clear? Good.

Back to the reading...tonight I will be mostly reading about Faith, Destiny and Purpose before common sense prevails and I go and get pissed because it is big and it is fucking clever!

Later, mon amis, GrocerJacques-Jacques Livereau

Pass the Gun....

Once again I have eaten the stale mouldy bread of revision, 2 hours so far tonight, incessant hand writing of notes previously typed in - all in the vain hope that if I write enough shit down, some might actually stick. If I was revising the history of Chelsea, or Pink Floyd or maybe revising the various advantages of Denise Van Outen over talentless knobber bitch Davina McCall then maybe I'd be a bit more enthused, but no....tonight its all about Radical Darwinism (gene machines etc) and Cartesian Dualism. I like Philosophy and undoubtedly it's helped my argument technique in the pub/at a party no end, but revising it is as dull as a John Major speech. It's akin to the ironing...frankly I'd rather watch the suicidedepressionfest of Eastenders (even really depressed Londoners are more cheerful and less stupid than this lot), or re-runs of Up the Elephant and Round the Castle starring serial altruist and all round racial champion Jim Davidson than wade through the course again. Anything would be better than this. I have this incessant song going round and round my brain...altogether now ....

"Counting Flowers on the Wall, that don't bother me at all.....Playing Solitaire til dawn with a deck of 51....Smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo...now don't tell me...theres nothing to do"

Which sets the scene for this weeks quiz question ( a new feature ) ...what is the song and what well known film did it feature in? The prize.......a three hour DVD of Davina FuckallBrains greatest TV moments (side one includes her shouting at the camera for effect, side two contains........errr....footage of her shouting loudly at the camera) . Isn't that the sort of thing you might give a barking mad knobber of a neighbour who spies on you, but won't talk to you?

Not as much later as I thought, GrocerJacques-Jacques Livereau

A Brief Moment of your time

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog because I'm tired of the built in one provided by Blogger. I gave it a fair old go but frankly I think the fact that it requires a login, even if anonymous puts people off. They see the requester box and think "fuck it I can't be arsed"...either that or they think "boring twat ..ain't reading this again". Also it seems to me that Blogger have added certain....ahem...enhancements which have detracted from its original purity. Why do people have to fiddle and then pass it off as an improvement? In fact, I think Blogger did market this as New and Improved....which always makes me think when I see that on food or other stuff like washing powder that the original product must have been sub-standard in some way, or had been released onto the public in a lesser state than it could have been in order to release the better stuff later on. Cynical...moi? Still Microsoft have got away with that for years now.

Anyway the downside is that all previous comments appear lost, which is a shame unless someone knows how to retrieve them.

And yes...I am revising...and yes..it is dull...it is unpalatable....like eating regurgitated food.....I needed a break so decided to piss around with the blog.....OK? Right, so I'll just dash off back to the revising, await the "socially relaxed" return of GMD and I'll see you all later.

Much later, GrocerJack

Time for a break.....

My exam is next Tuesday and I've done fuck all about revising, so posts will be few and far between or non-existent until then. Please bear with me and wish me luck.......

Later, GrocerJack

Frustration or resentment?

Everything Teenager does or says winds me up. Her life seems to consist of acting thick, as if that's somehow trendy, answering questions or statements with a sarky "Yeah) or "Whatever" or "If you say so". I hate her music, the infatuation with boys, the rising hemlines on her skirts, the constant texting, the phone calls after Ten from Mini-Me or Mini-Me's mate....and just the general....sarcastic attitude. Aren't Dads supposed to be their daughters favourites? Was I ever like this?

Why do I feel like this, why have my conversations with her become one liners along the lines of "don't do this, or don't do that"?

Someone tell me its just normal Teenager/parent tension, or just frustration at different interests. Please don't let it be my subconscious resentment at not being that young and carefree anymore.

Later, GrocerJack

The Mighty Blues continue.....






The hero of the hour - the fantastic Joe Cole who seems to get better with each game. Why this bloke isn't in the England team more often escapes me but today against Liverpool he came on for the injured Drogba and was superb, scoring the winning goal with a deft touch from Lampards cleverly worked free kick. It seems that Sven Fuckwit just doesn't like players with creativity and flair unless they're called Wayne Rooney! Personally I think Joe on the left for England in front of Ashley Cole would be superb, especially as Wayne Bridge is injured. It was important for Chelsea to win today or otherwise the Arse would have opened a 5 point gap and even this early in the season that would be a big ask to make that up, especially in light of how bloody hot the Arse are at the moment. We are merely economical and functional, but we are getting the results and one goal conceded in 8 games with no defeats speaks for itself. At some point though, we are going to thrash someone and then it really starts. On my now defunct Sports and Chelsea related blog I likened this seasons competition between the big 3 of Chelsea, Arsenal and Manchester United as a re-run of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, with Fergie being the Ugly for obvious reasons, Wenger being The Bad (the suave older man) and Jose Mourinho being The Good (the young, cool, steely eyed gunslinger). It'll be interesting to see how close this analogy becomes. Later, Grocerjack