Listen up folks because I’m going to give you a sure fire tip this week on how to make money. Guaranteed!
But first, say what you like about the X Factor, and I frequently do, it does turn kids on to great songs they would otherwise know nothing about. I’ve just walked in on my sixteen year old daughter downloading Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse Of The Heart. The last time Bonnie was fashionable Moses was giving swimming lessons in the Red Sea, and I guess modern poseurs would rather own up to downloading naked photos of Alan Tichmarsh than her tunes.
But thanks To the X Factor, according to my kids their dad’s record collection is hip again, apart from my Stars On 45 albums which will have to wait a few years yet – say till hell freezes over or Simon Cowell shops in Primark.
On X Factor in the past two weeks they’ve been singing Bonnie’s songs alongside Bob Dylan’s stuff as done by Adele, and even some tunes by Kim Wilde. I’ve never met Bob Dylan, though I have met Adele, Bonnie Tyler and Kim Wilde, so whenever an oldie becomes fashionable again my kids ask if I have a personal anecdote about the singer they can take in to school. I’m their own Google for embarrassing stories.
I wasn’t sure whether to share with them the true story of meeting Bonnie Tyler in a busy club where she greeted me by lifting up her T shirt up to show the bare chest she was so proud of. I later discovered she did this a lot as her party trick. I wondered whether to tell them about Kim Wilde believing in flying saucers, or that Adele told me the songs she wrote after her last big album were so bad she won’t ever let anyone hear them? In the end I made up some harmless stories and my kids went away happy.
I’m pleased that they seem to have a healthy distrust of celebrity hype and know a PR stunt when they see one. This week I overheard one of them expressing surprise at all the publicity surrounding Prince William and Kate Middleton’s engagement. To them it’s just a balding bloke marrying posh totty, and they genuinely can’t understand why it makes the newspapers. Sure, they were excited when Cheryl Cole said recently that she’d passed her tests at school, but they’re also cynical enough to say it was probably eye tests.
So, when we all get that public holiday for the new royal wedding, my youngsters, and I guess millions more, will be ignoring the marriage of the pretend pilot and the unemployed girl with the long hair and instead spend the day downloading songs.
Which is fine, but I’d rather they were out earning money. And this brings me to where we started. A cast iron way of earning money.
William and Kate are getting married in a hurry because they’ve been told London cannot cope with a third major event in 2012 as we already have the Olympics and also The Queens Diamond Jubilee to contend with. And here’s another thing, there’s going to be a real shortage of something. Is it public transport? Police? Security barriers? No. It’s mobile toilets.
Seriously, London does not have enough toilet facilities to cope with the tourists who will flock to see the Games and the Jubilee in two years’ time.
So, if you want to make money, buy up every single Portaloo you can find, or start making some in your back garden now. Maybe Blue Peter can do a piece on how to make one out of washing up bottles and doilies. In two years time you will be able to charge whatever you want for them and make a fortune.
Mind you I’m not sure what we do with a mountain of portable toilets after the festivities. Perhaps a belated wedding present for the happy couple? That’s a lot of thrones to sit on.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Drop The Pilot
It may be my age but my wife now believes I’m more Slipperman than Superman. However, for those of you sensible souls who believe the latter, you may want to cover your eyes and avoid disappointment as I have something momentous to share. The news is it suddenly struck me this week that I won’t live forever.
I know. A life without Paul Coia wittering on each week would be unthinkable but, dear friends, as sure as night follows day and chavs follow Jeremy Kyle, the time will come.
The revelation hit me at about thirty thousand feet up in the air on a British Airways flight to Switzerland last Monday when a bit of turbulence turned in to a very frightening rollercoaster as my body plummeted quickly to twenty five thousand feet while my stomach stayed miles above. I fly more often than Clark Kent but it was the first time I’d seen the calm, normally reassuring, air crew look as if a blind dentist was approaching them with a power drill from the Argos catalogue.
I first flew when I was seventeen and I guess over the years I have collected more air miles than a flock of migrating swallows, but even I had never been this scared in a plane before, at least not since a bald steward passed me his ‘phone number hidden in a clotted cream tea. I smiled and got extra cream back then but there was no hope of even a tea biscuit this time as everything was locked down – apart from my stomach.
I won’t say my life flashed before me but I did feel tearfully grateful after we landed, but then reflective and pensive, and this sad melancholy and realisation of the transience of life was fed later in the week by a couple of further events.
Firstly I cleared out an untidy box I keep in my office. The box was full of old cheque books and pens but also some fun memorabilia like my cloakroom ticket from 10 Downing Street and a hand rolled cigarette given to me by Peter Cook. The carton was also filled with obsolete currencies from countries I’d visited years ago and photos of a slim me before I swallowed a baby elephant. Also there, however, were about a dozen cards sent by friends and relatives following the deaths of my aunts, uncles and old friends.
I found it incredibly sad reading through them all and remembering those who have gone before, but I am pleased I hung on to them as it’s important to keep these things to remind ourselves that we are the sum of all these people who have influenced us one way or another.
The second history lesson that fed my wistful mood this week was when a friend emailed me some photos from my last day on a TV show called Pebble Mill At One. The friend, who I remember as a cheerful, barking mad, woman has now had a change of career and is a vicar. I bet she’s great at it too.
Looking at the photos and remembering all the old faces (none older than mine) made me initially hanker for those times to come back. I can’t remember then having any worries at all. I was a happy idiot blundering through life and taking no responsibility because I lived life as if it was a comedy show. But what happened to all those bright faces in the photos? Did they accomplish what they dreamed of? Did life treat them well? Did I treat them well?
So, it’s been a week of reflection for me and perhaps a bit depressing, but those who know me know I don’t do depressing. I’m always up. So, what can I take away that’s positive?
Rededicate myself to making the most of every day, look after family and friends, and contact old mates who I’ve lost touch with? Most definitely. But it’s more than that. I think I’ve also learned never to eat a fried breakfast before flying again.
I know. A life without Paul Coia wittering on each week would be unthinkable but, dear friends, as sure as night follows day and chavs follow Jeremy Kyle, the time will come.
The revelation hit me at about thirty thousand feet up in the air on a British Airways flight to Switzerland last Monday when a bit of turbulence turned in to a very frightening rollercoaster as my body plummeted quickly to twenty five thousand feet while my stomach stayed miles above. I fly more often than Clark Kent but it was the first time I’d seen the calm, normally reassuring, air crew look as if a blind dentist was approaching them with a power drill from the Argos catalogue.
I first flew when I was seventeen and I guess over the years I have collected more air miles than a flock of migrating swallows, but even I had never been this scared in a plane before, at least not since a bald steward passed me his ‘phone number hidden in a clotted cream tea. I smiled and got extra cream back then but there was no hope of even a tea biscuit this time as everything was locked down – apart from my stomach.
I won’t say my life flashed before me but I did feel tearfully grateful after we landed, but then reflective and pensive, and this sad melancholy and realisation of the transience of life was fed later in the week by a couple of further events.
Firstly I cleared out an untidy box I keep in my office. The box was full of old cheque books and pens but also some fun memorabilia like my cloakroom ticket from 10 Downing Street and a hand rolled cigarette given to me by Peter Cook. The carton was also filled with obsolete currencies from countries I’d visited years ago and photos of a slim me before I swallowed a baby elephant. Also there, however, were about a dozen cards sent by friends and relatives following the deaths of my aunts, uncles and old friends.
I found it incredibly sad reading through them all and remembering those who have gone before, but I am pleased I hung on to them as it’s important to keep these things to remind ourselves that we are the sum of all these people who have influenced us one way or another.
The second history lesson that fed my wistful mood this week was when a friend emailed me some photos from my last day on a TV show called Pebble Mill At One. The friend, who I remember as a cheerful, barking mad, woman has now had a change of career and is a vicar. I bet she’s great at it too.
Looking at the photos and remembering all the old faces (none older than mine) made me initially hanker for those times to come back. I can’t remember then having any worries at all. I was a happy idiot blundering through life and taking no responsibility because I lived life as if it was a comedy show. But what happened to all those bright faces in the photos? Did they accomplish what they dreamed of? Did life treat them well? Did I treat them well?
So, it’s been a week of reflection for me and perhaps a bit depressing, but those who know me know I don’t do depressing. I’m always up. So, what can I take away that’s positive?
Rededicate myself to making the most of every day, look after family and friends, and contact old mates who I’ve lost touch with? Most definitely. But it’s more than that. I think I’ve also learned never to eat a fried breakfast before flying again.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Here Comes The Sun
I’m just back from a week at the small tumbledown shack we own in Portugal.
I had hoped for a few late Autumn rays of sunshine but we actually had seven days of blistering sunshine, with temperatures around 28 degrees in the shade. For any garlic avoiders out there who stick resolutely to buying wine by the pint and weighing themselves in stones because going metric means they’ll be forced to turn French, 28 degrees Celcius is around 82 degrees Fahrenheit. In. The. Shade!
I learned a lot this week in Portugal. For instance I now know that if you want to burgle a house you should grab a flight to Ireland as soon as possible as no one is there; they’re all on holiday in the Algarve.
Looking along the lines of beach residents with their mops of red hair and carcasses framed by milky skin steadily being chickenpoxed by ever more pushy freckles, I found myself whistling Enya hits and hoping for a fiddle player to come out of the water playing Riverdance tunes. I understand all of his countrymen wanting to escape Bono, but all at the same time?
The plane from Gatwick was populated with, how shall I say this tactfully, fat people. Somewhere in Essex there is a doctor who encourages men to grow their beer bellies until they reach a certain massive size, and they are then rewarded on prizegiving night with a Chelsea shirt, one earring, and a Thompson’s holiday voucher. They were all very friendly and I feel I know all their children very well, at least by name, as I enjoyed choruses of “Madison, stop that”, or “Tequila, leave Britney alone”, or “where’s Dwaine and Dakota?” My favourite was “Rihanna leave Shaneesha’s fags alone.” It was like a roll call on the X Factor.
The guy who looks after our little place in the sun is called Herman, a Dutch man of around seventy who has travelled the world in the merchant navy, but despite his love of other countries, and his mastery of several languages, he has never forgiven the Germans for one particular aggressive act during the war. Was it the invasion of Poland? Mocking the Treaty of Versailles? The invention of the doodlebug? No. They stole his bike.
Our gardener, Frank, however, is from Munich and thus you can imagine how they get on together. Frank is a bit of a hippy with a bandana and a ponytail which flutters behind him as he rides the hills on his prized Harley Davidson. I expect to hear any day that Herman has nicked it in revenge.
I knew that Frank had been a successful businessman in Germany and had given the rat race up to live at a more modest pace in the Portuguese sunshine, but I discovered this week for the first time that he very nearly became a world champion at martial arts. He made the final a few years ago and, in front of global TV coverage, lasted all of five seconds. “It was unfortunate. My opponent kicked me in the balls”.
Frank then retired from competition nursing a couple of grudges and taught ladies of the oldest profession how to defend themselves, until their pimps offered him money to stop.
So you see just a week in Portugal is like a year anywhere else. From airport to holiday home and back the people are colourful and interesting, and you get more sunshine than a decade of UK summers.
It’s time to start planning the next visit. Just so long as Shaneesha and her sister are sitting on another plane. You can get too much of a good thing
................................................
The great Glasgow actor Gerard Kelly died this week. Gerard was known for his roles as Jimmy in Eastenders, camp producer Bunny in the Ricky Gervais’ comedy Extras and, following years of his TV comedy hit City Lights, he became the prince of panto every winter in Glasgow.
Two months ago I compered a charity show in a packed Glasgow theatre that saw Gerard bring the house down with his brand of comedy. He was always polite and generous with his public, constantly smiling and genuinely seeming to have a ball. When I asked him that night how things were going he replied that he was “still getting away with it”, which is the mark of a humble man.
He will be missed.
I had hoped for a few late Autumn rays of sunshine but we actually had seven days of blistering sunshine, with temperatures around 28 degrees in the shade. For any garlic avoiders out there who stick resolutely to buying wine by the pint and weighing themselves in stones because going metric means they’ll be forced to turn French, 28 degrees Celcius is around 82 degrees Fahrenheit. In. The. Shade!
I learned a lot this week in Portugal. For instance I now know that if you want to burgle a house you should grab a flight to Ireland as soon as possible as no one is there; they’re all on holiday in the Algarve.
Looking along the lines of beach residents with their mops of red hair and carcasses framed by milky skin steadily being chickenpoxed by ever more pushy freckles, I found myself whistling Enya hits and hoping for a fiddle player to come out of the water playing Riverdance tunes. I understand all of his countrymen wanting to escape Bono, but all at the same time?
The plane from Gatwick was populated with, how shall I say this tactfully, fat people. Somewhere in Essex there is a doctor who encourages men to grow their beer bellies until they reach a certain massive size, and they are then rewarded on prizegiving night with a Chelsea shirt, one earring, and a Thompson’s holiday voucher. They were all very friendly and I feel I know all their children very well, at least by name, as I enjoyed choruses of “Madison, stop that”, or “Tequila, leave Britney alone”, or “where’s Dwaine and Dakota?” My favourite was “Rihanna leave Shaneesha’s fags alone.” It was like a roll call on the X Factor.
The guy who looks after our little place in the sun is called Herman, a Dutch man of around seventy who has travelled the world in the merchant navy, but despite his love of other countries, and his mastery of several languages, he has never forgiven the Germans for one particular aggressive act during the war. Was it the invasion of Poland? Mocking the Treaty of Versailles? The invention of the doodlebug? No. They stole his bike.
Our gardener, Frank, however, is from Munich and thus you can imagine how they get on together. Frank is a bit of a hippy with a bandana and a ponytail which flutters behind him as he rides the hills on his prized Harley Davidson. I expect to hear any day that Herman has nicked it in revenge.
I knew that Frank had been a successful businessman in Germany and had given the rat race up to live at a more modest pace in the Portuguese sunshine, but I discovered this week for the first time that he very nearly became a world champion at martial arts. He made the final a few years ago and, in front of global TV coverage, lasted all of five seconds. “It was unfortunate. My opponent kicked me in the balls”.
Frank then retired from competition nursing a couple of grudges and taught ladies of the oldest profession how to defend themselves, until their pimps offered him money to stop.
So you see just a week in Portugal is like a year anywhere else. From airport to holiday home and back the people are colourful and interesting, and you get more sunshine than a decade of UK summers.
It’s time to start planning the next visit. Just so long as Shaneesha and her sister are sitting on another plane. You can get too much of a good thing
................................................
The great Glasgow actor Gerard Kelly died this week. Gerard was known for his roles as Jimmy in Eastenders, camp producer Bunny in the Ricky Gervais’ comedy Extras and, following years of his TV comedy hit City Lights, he became the prince of panto every winter in Glasgow.
Two months ago I compered a charity show in a packed Glasgow theatre that saw Gerard bring the house down with his brand of comedy. He was always polite and generous with his public, constantly smiling and genuinely seeming to have a ball. When I asked him that night how things were going he replied that he was “still getting away with it”, which is the mark of a humble man.
He will be missed.
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