Grain Of Truth Publications presents:
Diary of an Ale-Fan - August 2003
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Saturday, 2nd August 2003
Hello, Good Evening and Welcome
Hello and welcome to my humble blog.
Inspired by the likes of Scaryduck and Raised by Chaffinches, I’ve felt the need to put metaphorical pen to paper and let the world in on my life and innermost secrets.
I’ve sent off my application form for the poetic licence, so here goes:
My world as seen through the bottom of a pint-glass.
Why is David Frost such a dickhead ?
Wednesday, 6th August 2003
H
I think most people would agree, that at his best, Diarmuid Gavin (the gardening leprechaun) is a prize dillock !
But one thing that he does, that is well ahead in the irritation stakes, is his pronunciation of the letter H (yes aitch). His use of the initials RHS are guaranteed to make the hairs on the back of one's neck (not to mention the palms of one's hand) stand on end. Worse than squeaky chalk down a blackboard !!!
Here at the Ale-Fan site we celebrate regional and national diversity.
We say yes to geographical based accents, but “Haitch” cannot be defended on any grounds.
H is pronounced aitch, OKAY ?
In a straw poll taken in the bar of the Hammer & Sickle last night, most people were in agreement. Except of course Baz and Daz, first and second generation overspill (respectively). They couldn’t really understand the argument. The consensus of opinion was that horsewhipping, or “orsewhippng” to those that say “haitch”, was the only solution for this foul and despicable crime. There’s no huh in aitch (H), okay ?
Friday, 8th August 2003
Sconny Botland
A weekend away in Scotland, yippee !
I hate flying. I know it’s irrational and it’s one of the safest forms of travel but I can’t help it. Planes defy gravity, and to quote the Bard “The laws of gravity are very, very strict”, occasionally planes abide by the law and fall out of the sky. I sweat buckets whilst flying. All from the palms of my hands.
Anyway apart from a half an hour delay in taking off, the flight, as flights go, was reasonable.
I hadn’t noticed anything unusual when I retrieved my bag from the carousel, but when we finally got to where we were staying I discovered that I had gained an extra padlock. Unfortunately the padlock in question had secured shut a side pocket of my bag.
I bet some baggage handler at Stansted or Prestwick was pissing themselves as they dragged their knuckles along the ground.
The side pocket contained a pair of travel slippers and some tissues. On second thoughts it was probably for my own good. Bastard !
I’m seriously worried about airport security because, not only did this happen, but unaware she was doing so, 'The Lady' travelled with a Swiss army penknife in her handbag.
Oxymoron Nº 1 – American Intelligence.
Oxymoron Nº 2 – An enjoyable flight.
Houston We Have A Problem
We were hot, sticky and in need of a drink. Thankfully The Lady’s cousin had a cunning plan. The Fox & Hounds, home of the Houston Brewing Company.
Just what the doctor ordered !
The Dr had Killellan actually, while I had Peter’s Well. Very nice it was too.
Saturday 9th August 2003
Top Flight Entertainment in Paisley
The next time you find yourself in Paisley, you could do a lot worse than visit Sma’ Shot Cottages.
Paisley has won awards for it’s carpark but don’t be distracted by such modern fripperies !
Sma’ Shot Cottages, a view of life in the days when Paisley was a weaving force to be reckoned with. Worth a look we thought.
“Would you like a guide to show you around ?” Enquired the little old lady, in a very sweet Scot's accent.
“Yes” we replied. Little did we know what we had let ourselves in for.
The tour was pleasant enough. We were shown around by another old lady. It ended at the museum shop. The first retail opportunity. We were put in the care of a third old lady, the selling started. Despite lengthy discussions we managed to extract ourselves from the shop without parting with any money. This was on the assurance that we were heading for the teashop.
We descended the stairs, only to be pounced upon by old lady number four, selling raffle tickets. I always decline the opportunity to take part in any form of gambling, on religious grounds (very tenuous in many respects but not without foundation), so I was ready to refuse a purchase, but it was as if I wasn’t there. I guess it’s that I’m just a humble male. My two lady companions received the hard sell. "Top prize is a karaoke machine" – just what the career lady in her fifties needs. “You just need your phone number on the back “ said the little old lady, tearing off a strip expectantly. They both bought tickets all the same. They had no choice.
We were then ushered in to the tea-room by yet another old lady, who’s USP was that the cakes were home-made. This was repeated several times, by several old ladies, mantra like. I managed to avoid the home-made cakes, probably on account that I was only a man and the only one in the tea-room. I’m strictly a Mr Kipling man myself. The cheese sandwich was okay though.
Monday 11th August 2003
Airport
As I’ve previously said, I hate flying. So hanging around airports is not my idea of a good time. Having said that, whilst waiting to return home, there were some highlights. They included: probably the most disgusting vegetarian fried breakfast you could ever hope to eat. Think of the worst motorway services meal you’ve ever eaten. It was worse than that !
Another highlight was a man wandering about that appeared to be the winner of the Scottish heats of the Ernest Hemmingway look-alike competition. I suspect he was waiting for a plane to take him off to the European finals. We wish him luck.
There is some statistic that suggests that one in three people will be an Elvis impersonator by some such year – I wonder if anyone has extrapolated data for the Ernest Hemingways of this world ?
As soon as the Steve Davis competitions start up off comes my beard and tash !
Nº 3, had a nice drop of Isle of Jura malt, served by a grumpy barmaid. The only grumpy person we came across all weekend.
Tuesday 12th August 2003
Radio 2
Noel Edmonds – why ?
He’s still doing the same material he was peddling back in 1974.
Bring back Stuart Maconie immediately !
That was a public service announcement.
Wednesday 13th August 2003
Bottle Fed
Albert, the landlord of the Hammer & Sickle, refuses to serve drinks to people in the bottle. Quite right too !
This is most acceptable on two counts:
1. – Only twats drink alcohol straight from a bottle.
2. – It helps to maintain a degree of surliness, something that is lacking in landlords and barstaff in general these days.
Bottle drinkers presumably do it because they think it’s in some way cool or fashionable. They are the sort of people that will also have fake tans (or any tan come to think of it), loud voices, dodgy haircuts and be wearing tasteless clothes. Do they not realise what arses they look ?
Those that drink lager (girl’s beer) clearly don’t have any taste anyway. And as for those that drink alco-pops, well they should be bundled outside, where they belong, with a glass of tizer, a straw and a bag of crisps.
Come the revolution they will be dealt with !
Friday 15th August 2003
Teen Terrific !
“Music’s not as exciting as it used to be !”, goes out the cry from the bar at the Hammer & Sickle.
For our sins, a number of us are Radio 2 listeners.
Where’s today’s punk rock ?
We sulk mournfully and sip our pints.
I suppose this is an age-old complaint, but we do seem to be somewhat bereft of good music at the moment.
Like any sane person, I thrill to the ubiquitous White Stripes. The Libertines are a very useful band as well.
But I’ve just discovered Hyper Kinako. Yes !!!!!!!!!!
They recently did a session for John Peel. They said "thank you" after each song.
Nice polite rock-a-boogie people they are.
I’ve just purchased their 3-track mini CD direct from them:
Hyper Kinako are the most fun you can have with your clothes on – Official.
Listening to them in the nude is even better
Monday 18th August 2003
Embarrassed Of Suffolk
I’m in our corner shop, which is actually a garage, but it effectively does the job of a corner shop.
It was a self-service, with a few isles to wander around – there is now a big counter and the ‘public area’ has been reduced to about 12’ x 6’, at the most. There are at least another six fellow shoppers, with me, in this small space.
The two friendly gents, that normally serve people with a smile, have been replaced by a very stern looking woman. I am in the middle of all the shoppers. The stern woman shouts “Who’s next ?” whilst looking directly at me. I take this to be a signal that, I am indeed, ‘next’.
I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out !
Almost at the same time as I realise that I’ve lost the power of speech, I let rip with the loudest fart in all of Christendom.
The walls vibrate.
I want the ground to open up.
Everyone is looking at me. What am I going to do ?
I wake in a sweat. Whew !
That was a close one.
Why do we dream what we dream ?
Is it a way of purging the soul, or is there another purpose for them ?
Perhaps it’s just serendipity. Random thoughts cut and pasted together like some early David Bowie lyrics.
I was discussing these possibilities, along with several other theories, with Nobby, in the Hammer & Sickle over the weekend.
“My wife’s got a book that tells you all about dreams”, he said, “it probably means you’re worried about getting a hard-on or something. Sexual anxiety or some such nonsense. If you ask me, the bloke what wrote it is a bit of a wanker !”
We agreed that this was probably the case in more ways than one.
“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas” sung Albert (our genial host).
Oh how we laughed. I laughed ‘til I shat. Well almost.
The general consensus seemed to be that cheese and pickles for supper (I’ll be discussing supper at a later date) was the best catalyst for the most bizarre of dreams. Particularly after a few swift halves. Good for farting as well !
Anal & Retentive
Tuesday 19th August 2003
Anniversary
According to my Boys Book of Interesting Dates & Useless Information, James Watt, engineer, died on this day in 1819.
Was it old-age or did he just run out of steam ?
Anyone fancy a cuppa ?
Wednesday 20th August 2003
Talking Crap
Healthy eating – a well balanced diet.
I think that most people would agree, it’s important to eat properly. It’s particularly important to eat your greens.
I rather enjoy broccoli et al.
I’m not sure that all the people I work with would necessarily subscribe to this ‘norm’.
Where I work is quite a small company in terms of the workforce. There’s about 20 of us. As a result the luxury (there’s no g in luxury by the way) toilet facilities are in the singular rather than plural or en masse.
It’s usually an horrendous smell that greets you as you wander into the toilet. But today, lying in wait, skulking at the bottom of the lavvy pan, was a 6” nail !
Ironmongery as a dietary supplement – now there’s an interesting concept. I’m sure that something from the chemist would present a much healthier prospect than iron in such a rich and extreme form.
I suppose thinking about it, it’s not that surprising, that at least one of my co-workers is on such a peculiar diet (or is it me that’s out of step ?). The smells that often emanate from the gents can only be experienced to be believed !
I dread to think what visitors must think. They are the sort of smells that could stun a bull-elephant at a 100 Metres. Grey mist can often be seen seeping under the door. Paint peels from the walls. You could slice the air with a knife and put it into your sandwiches.
I don’t know why people can’t do their business at home before they get to work. But some people, you know who you are, seem to relish inflicting their habits on other people !
More boiled eggs I think.
Tuesday 26th August 2003
Lé Weekend
We've just come back from a few days in Abingdon/Oxford, and enjoyable
it was, very.
There were a number of highlights including: Pop Idol, Bill the custodian
and a pub called the W**** *****.
Saturday
I've never watched Pop Idol before, but the friends we were staying with have
two teenage daughters, who seem to consider it essential viewing. So we
all watched.
It appears to be a latter day replacement for the Roman Gladiatorial Tournaments, only no one gets killed – the fate is worse !
Not only do we, the audience, as well as the contestants have to watch the panel of has-beens and nobodies ‘in action’ but we also have to suffer the annoyingly smug shitheads that are Ant & Dec !!!
Clearly there’s a lot of suffering going on, and I suppose it’s cruel to mock the afflicted, but I suppose they’ve all volunteered and Pete Watershed and crew are getting paid, so what the hell, we all had a laugh. I laughed ‘til I shat. If you didn’t laugh you’d cry.
Me being totally out of step with the panel, and presumably the pre-pubescent record buying public, I enjoyed the stuff that they hated. I'm rather partial to a bit of off-key singing, I also thought the apprentice Morrisey looked alright (the panel didn't – no taste), the loonies were also right up my street. In fact anyone that didn’t look and sound like they came out of one of the many crass-boy/girl-product-bands was okay by me. I’m the man that can take any amount of Eilert Pilarm.
All in all I enjoyed the experience, but I don’t think I’ll be watching again. You can have too much of a good thing after all !
Sunday
After meeting a very pleasant gentleman, Bill the Custodian, who seemed to frequent all the gates at Christ Church in Oxford. We went off in search of the pub that time forgot. Low and behold we found it. At about three thirty.
Actually it’s more like the pub that time by-passed. It’s crumbling exterior hides an equally crumbling interior. The regulars, who also appear to be in various stages of crumbliness, mostly resembled extras from the X Files. A loan diner, who seemed to have brought his lunch with him, produced food out of an array of plastic bags strewn across the floor, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, whilst he mumbled in what I can only assume was venucian. Another poor chap, seemingly desperate for drink, was going around topping up his glass with the dregs from abandoned glasses. Mine host, who I’m sure is a pillar of the community, gave the impression that he was operating from within a parallel universe.
The dust on the hi-fi, I’m sure, was Victorian, but the glasses were clean and the beer was excellent. The cider, consumed by The Lady and her friend, was Day-Glo orange but I was assured tasted really nice.
I loved it !
I want a pub and I want it now !
Please.
Wednesday 27th August 2003
Laureate d’amour
I lost my arm in the army,
I lost my leg in the navy,
I lost me cock in the butcher’s shop
and found it in the gravy. .
If you need cheap electrical goods, heavily discounted WW2 gas masks,
contraband fags or some dodgy booze, Roger's your man. He’s not quite Del Boy, but with a bit more practice, he’d come a close second.
Now Roger has decided to become a poet !
He’s positive that it’s the way to attract the ladies.
Why has he come to this conclusion I hear you ask. He’s been reading.
Sharp intake of breath.
Roger reckons that, “given both Dylan Thomas and Philip Larkin, were as ugly as sin but still managed to attract more than their fair share of women, there must be more to this poetry lark than meets the eye !”.
By all accounts they were both dipping their respective wicks at every opportunity.
As it is obvious that looks were not the secret of their success, Roger has come to the conclusion, that it must have been something else: Poetry.
He’s convinced that it must be a sure-fire “totty magnet”, and he’s decided he’s “going to get a piece of the action”.
Optimism and plagiarism are his watchwords, as you can see from his effort above.
He thinks it’s going to loosen elastic. A number of us feel that he could end up with more than he bargained for being loosened.
All hail the bard of B.S.E.
latest
Thursday 28th August 2003
Make Tea Not War
“It’s a god-awful small affair, to the girl with the mousy hair.”
But to the rest of us it should be a big deal.
The neighbours are popping over, should we invite them in for tea ?
“Mars and Earth are about to pass closer together than at any time in almost 60,000 years.
Calculations suggest that the last time they were this close together was
when Neanderthals roamed the planet, on September 12, 57,617 BC.” BBC Website.
The only thing that's changed is that Albert's sandwiches were fresh then.
There's still Neanderthals roaming the planet - they read the sun, drink lager, drag their knuckles along the ground, and watch football.
We staggered out of the Hammer & Sickle last night, in search of Big Red.
Nobby thought he heard the voice of the Mysterons, but it was Baz breaking wind. Although, I distinctly heard a cat squeal.
We gawped, and we gawped again. Nothing !
“We know you’re up there you blighter, come on out”
Roger thought he’d seen it, but it was a splash Guinness on his glasses.
We returned to the pub, disillusioned, seeking consolation in one more libation.
Happy stargazing peeps.
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