…..Where a large, saggy, pink and white striped cat named Bragpuss, shows off to all his mates about what an easy life he has sponging off that idiot Emily who doesn’t realise he – and all the other (crap) ‘toys’ are possessed.
Yes, today I spent a fair bit of time today on a train journey and this is how I used my time.
Pray School – where Brian Cant, Floella Benjamin and the gang teach the freak show cuddly toys about the religions of the world, from Judaism to Jedi, from Popes to Pastafarianism. What’s through the round window? Who cares, lets pray. Multi-faith tolerance in action.
Look I could go on….Brew Peter, where John Noakes and Lesley Judd get Peter Purves pissed on a range of West London craft beers made by the local scouts, and then try to get Shep to have a taste.
Grange Hillbillies where the Landan school kids, led by Gripper Stebson, find themselves lost in the Louisiana swamps and are tracked down mercilessly by an interbred extended family of sadistic banjo-playing, Deliverance-style, grit-chomping locals.
Any retro-tv producers reading this, I’m your man.
Talking retro, how about Panini football stickers and hippies?
Tel, the carpenter man next door, has bought a sticker album and a whole box of stickers. I always get an album for the World Cup, and even let the children open (some of) the packets, and look at the stickers before I – yes, I – stick them in. This year I told Mrs Bob I wouldn’t be getting an album and she said ‘of course you won’t, you’re a ‘man’ not a child’.
If Tel has got one then I want one. Imagine Mrs Bob’s delight then when I sneaked in an album and X packets of stickers. Bob Junior (male) is in on the act too. We have swaps already so shout if you need Amr Gamal from Egypt or Thiago Cionek from Poland. Panini rules.
To be fair I was underwhelmed by this year’s World Cup but now I have my Panini sticker album I am well up for it. Come on Panama!
Now I am not anti-hippie per se but they can be annoying. No offence Mike.
There I was last Sunday evening walking the dogs over in the nature reserve. 5pmish, beautiful sunny evening. Meadows full of early summer flowers and the sound of the cows in the next field as we walked up the beautiful tree tunnel path. To our left just ahead I saw a couple on a bench. She was fidgety, standing up, sitting down. Standing up, sitting down. Standing up, sitting down.
You get the picture.
Then she saw us. Whoosh! Up she leapt. On went her knickers. On went her jeans. Up went ‘Mr I have crap hippy dreads’ hemp and mung bean trousers. Ahem.
Now I am worldly-wise, but Ern kept staring and little Max is still in shock.
Talking about doggy bitey creatures – and once more with thanks / apologies to podcast Athletico Mince – do you think Duran Duran are still hungry like a wolf or have they eaten enough by now?
Jon and Vangelis? Did they find their way home? Level 42 and their lessons in love. Did they pass?
As for one hit wonder (and a number 1 to boot) Charlene…… well her song makes you think………
Let us set to one side the fact that she tells us that she’s been undressed by kings as well as having made love to a preacher man (at the same time? how did she meet a king? was the preacher man a guest on Pray School?) and let us think about where she has in fact been to and not dwell on her failure to get to ‘me’.
“Ooh I’ve been to Georgia and California, oh, anywhere I could run
Oh I’ve been to Nice and the isle of Greece
While I sipped champagne on a yacht
I moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed ’em what I’ve got”
I am making the assumption that Charlene means Georgia in Eastern Europe.
If so, and assuming she was on the border, she could run north into Russia and perhaps get as far as Tyrnyaus where she could visit their tungsten mine and processing plant, which whilst it is still standing is sadly no longer in operation. Other running alternatives in the south are Turkey, Armenia and Azerbaijan.
California has more options in my view. If Charlene has her passport with her then San Diego to Tijuana would be my suggestion. It looks like tougher terrain heading inland to the east.
Nice and Greece do not seem to include a running option, possibly because she is quaffing tonnes of champers and is off her doodahs on a big yacht in the Med. In my view she is simply guessing where she may have been as she has been drunk and debauched for weeks and has just said place names that rhyme.
Good friends live in Harlow. The lovely bit. I am not dissing Harlow. Seriously though, I know that Rupert Grint – Ron Weasels in Harry Potter – is from Harlow, but would you want to move like Harlow? In Monte Carlo?
I must surmise that after her initial running, followed by boozing copiously on a yacht and probably eating lots of fatty snack foods, that Charlene added a load of poundage on and required a hoist to be moved so – like Harlow – was a static immovable entity at this juncture. By then I doubt the kings and preachers really wanted to see what Charlene had ‘got’ and she had probably ‘never been to me’ as she was so huge and sunken into the Monte Carlo ground that it would have taken weeks to visit every aspect of her. No offence Charlene.
Who says I have too much time on my hands?
Talking about large structures I saw an ad for a programme on one of those tv channels you never watch yesterday – ‘Abandoned Architecture’. Looks good. Review to follow some time if I remember a) to watch it and b) to review it.
Yahtzee. Never played it. No idea what it is. Just saying.
Can I stop this yet? I started with nothing to say but seem to have dragged nothing out into a dissertation.
Oh but hold on. If Charlene took the advice of the Village People, or even the Pet Shop Boys, she could Go West (like she did before). This would take her into ocean from both California and (most of) Georgia. However going directly west from Monte Carlo could give Charlene a lovely day out in Avignon.
Between 1309 and 1377 seven successive popes resided in Avignon so Charlene, with her love of preachers, will feel right at home. She just needs a king.
Finishing with France, Bob Junior (female) and I are off there on Monday. When learning French at school my favourite word, as it sounded sensuous and mysterious, was ’embouteillage’. Later I would tell friends that my first born with be called Embouteillage, or TJ for short, as this is the French word for traffic jam. Now I think this is funny but someone clearly nicked my idea as years later I heard a comedian say something very similar. I could have been a star.
If you are called Embouteillage and you want to show off about it then ask Bragpuss. He’s full of himself the stupid pink striped lazy get. I hate him but not as much as I hate Jamie Oliver. Cock.