On X Factor last night…

Well quite frankly I’m gutted that poor John & Edward were booted off X Factor last night thus destroying in one fell swoop my conviction that anyone, I mean anyone, talent or no talent, can have a UK Singles Chart Number One over christmas.

I quote Rolf Harris, Benny Hill, Mr Blobby, Little Jimmy Osmond and Winifred Atwell and rest my case.

My family are also gutted that I now have no object of support left on the show and instead will revert to my normal X Factor mode of derision, withering pointed criticism of the gaggle of remaining no-marks who would have to consider themselves lucky to be handed the mic for one song at The Wise Owl Talent Contest night, a talent contest that was dominated by a well-known cousin of mine and his mate Pouch demonstrating their knowledge of at least two Shadows tunes, and a drunk old lad doing Popeye impressions.

There is no doubt that one of the remaining X Factor finalists will have the number one UK single at christmas, in the same way that there is no doubt that the same person will never be heard from again, having disappeared into the Syco Pop Star Machine and being spat out into the skip marked “also ran”.

And then there was Susan Boyle…

My god, I never thought I’d live to witness the day when someone could take a classic Rolling Stones song, cover it, and make it sound so bad that I wouldn’t actually recognise what it was until the performer was halfway through – it takes some impressive talent to be able to do that, I’m not sure what you could do with a talent to destroy songs like that, maybe a summer season in Skegness, but still, impressive anyway, “Wild Horses” who would have thought it eh ?

The only fun thing left for me now is to vote for Katie Price to do another Bush Tucker Trial, I don’t think that woman has done enough work in that camp yet, its costing a fortune for me to keep voting for her on Suzannes mobile phone, and shes starting to wonder where that £10 credit that she put on it on Friday has gone, I do hope she tops it up today…

Sunday muddy Sunday…

You see the good thing about NOT playing sunday league football is that you got to the pub at one minute before opening time instead of 30 minutes after opening time like the ones who DID play sunday league football.

Life was very simple in the mid-1970s, regimented almost, licensing hours for pub openings on a sunday lunchtime were as strict as you can imagine, two hours only, 12 noon until 2pm is what you got, at 2pm prompt the pub shut and the landlord went for his sunday lunch and the bar stayed closed until 7pm – that was the law.

In The Fox the letter of the law was obeyed to the, erm, last letter, mainly because Norman the landlord loved his sunday lunch and his wife had his on the table at 2.15pm prompt every sunday – last orders were called at 1.50pm, glasses collected at 2.10pm, “Have you no homes to go to “? called at 2.12pm, everyone out of the door and locked up by 2.15pm – thus was it writ, every sunday.

Video Saturday – Little Feat

Selected by Tim and thanks to him for reminding me of a band that I heard a little of in the 70s, and yes, Lowell George the lead singer does look remarkably like George Best from that era

Collecting the parents…

It was a regular topic of conversation in the bungalow circa 1978-ish

“Dad, can I use your car tonight ?”

and without fail the answer was “Yes, if you’ll pick us up from the club later”

You see, in 1978 my father had left his employ in a large national company and set up on his own, and one of the first things that he did was to buy himself a very fast car, a Toyota Celica to be exact, in bright yellow, a two seater sports car that in those pre-turbo days accelerated by use of pure grunt rather than technical prowess, or to use the turn of phrase that my father preferred, “like shit off a shovel”, and no, I’m not quite sure of the similarly either.

If you haven’t already done so, sign this.

No questions, no sentiments, if you are  a British citizen just click the link below and sign the petition to have memorial headstones exempt from VAT, its currently crippling The Joseph Salmon Trust and means that almost 20% of the money that is donated to their just cause by the likes of me and you is going to the chancellor instead of the grieving parents that the charity are trying desperately to help.

Dan from Allthatcomeswithit writes about it far more eloquently right here, but I prefer the direct approach, so…

 

Its insidious, immoral and just plain unfair, I’ll assume that Brown and Darling have made a genuine error on this one, please sign it because I sure as fook aren’t happy that 24 of the miles that I will be peddling on next years Hadrians Bike Ride will be going directly to The Revenue.

The Gag Boooks

There was a time, long, long ago, when a Saturday and a Sunday night were not complete unless you had sat in a large room with a lot of other people, drunk some beer (lager and lime for the ladies), and been entertained by “the turn” on the small stage at the front of the room.

I speak of the Working Mens Club institution, and my father was a devotee.

Every district had its Working Mans Club, some had several, some areas of this city had huge Working Mens Clubs and the Working Mens Clubs were far, far busier than the pubs that stood alongside them as the beer in the Working Mens Clubs was heavily subsidised by the non-profit nature of the member-owned clubs, as was the entertainment on a weekend.

The one thing that my father could never comprehend and which would produce a criticising comment from his lips every time he visited my dwelling place in the North East was that up there it was commonplace to pay a cover charge on the concert room door on a Saturday and Sunday in order to pay for “the turn” whereas in Yorkshire such a thing was unheard of, we are talking about a cover charge of twenty pence or similar here…

Follow him home

click it, it gets bigger

Not sure if this is finished yet, its at the stage called “leave it for a few days then look at it again”

“Follow him home” its going to be called, the tale of an old lad about to set off back home after a skinfull in the Black Bull.

Ten brownie points to those who spotted that its the top of Haworth Main Street and that the Black Bull in question is the very same Black Bull that Branwell Bronte, unfortunate brother of the Bronte sisters, spent most of his waking hours in, that and the apothecary directly opposite that supplied him with his laudanum (opium), what fine times he must have had ‘twixt beer and opium, so much so that no-one noticed that he also had tuberculosis, not until he collapsed in the street and died, his sisters Emily and Ann dying of tb the following year.

The old guy in this painting does not have any of Branwell’s chemical addictions and only uses the apothecary for the headache tablets he’ll need in the morning, fortunately he’s brought his dog out with him to guide him home safely.

Acrylic on canvas, 40cmx30cm

We need humour…

So I’m doing some research on Ken Goodwin, master comedian of my youth, here’s a Ken Goodwin joke…

A man goes into a Hardware Shop, says to the man behind the counter “I want to buy some nails”
“Yes Sir” says the hardware shop man, “How long would you like them ?”
“I want to keep them”

Harrrumph, I suppose you had to be there.

The X Factor, 40 years ago

…and so another also-ran fairly average singer who was never a star but thought he might be, leaves X Factor and its like we’re watching a small pond drain away week by week and as we peer through the slime on the surface we are starting to realise that, actually, there are no big fish in there this year.

We’re also starting to realise, although some of us have held the opinion for several years, that messrs Cowell and Walsh know lots about providing a mulch of pseudo-glamour entertainment to pre-pubescent girls, but are clueless when it comes to spotting a singer who can stand still on a stage sans distractions caused by choirs, dancing and fireworks, and just hold an audience by use of their vocal chords.

Charles Darwin and how I proved his theory

Now here’s a thing I bet you didn’t know, Charles Darwin is 200 years old this year, and his book “The Origin of Species” is 150 years old next week, you’re impressed aren’t you, some of the rubbish I read, I can tell, you’re impressed.

150 years ago on 22nd November 1859, Charles Darwin and another bloke who’s name has been lost in the confusion of time published their much criticised theory of evolution, a theory that is still criticised today by people who prefer the theory that there lives in the sky a big old man with a white beard who points earthwards from time to time and wreaks havoc on our lives, playing us all like pieces on a chess board – I have to admit that the nutters who prefer that theory (and one of them was boss of the USA until recently) tell better stories than Darwin, but ultimately I believe Darwin and I don’t believe the old grey man followers.

Why ?

Because I’ve seen the evidence that Darwin alludes to.