And so this is Christmas, and what have you done, another year over and a new one (almost) just begun. I hope you are having the kind of Christmas you hoped for and that you get time to relax.
So, was 2007 good for you? In case you’ve forgotten everything that happened, here’s my idiot’s guide to the history of the fading year.
January – Jade Goody and some WAG from Scouse Land hit the headlines with Bollywood actress Shilpa Shetty on television’s Celebrity Big Brother. The nation’s protest was picked up all over the world and, eventually, Channel Four backed down and agreed, unreservedly, that all three were not celebrities.
February – Helen Mirren won an Oscar for her role as Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth in a new British movie called The Queen. BBC news then carefully edited her acceptance speech so she took exception to the host, threw off her tiara and flounced off in a huff.
March – Ian Paisley and Gerry Adams agreed to share power in a new Northern Ireland government and promised a more mature leadership for the province. A day later things looked shaky when Paisley accused Adams of sticking his tongue out and Adams replied that Paisley was a bed wetter.
April – Iran finally released 15 British sailors who then sold their stories to the tabloids and became overnight celebrities. The money making finally stopped after Faye Turney, the only woman in the crew, was turned down by Fat Dykes in Dungarees for their Page 3 feature.
May – General Sir Richard Dannatt reveals that Prince Harry will not serve his country in Iraq after all. Instead he will be served in Bijous nightclub until he recovers from injuries sustained after drunkenly wandering Sloane Square with his girlfriend and later getting stuck in Chelsy.
June – Paris Hilton ends her prison term by saying she will now strive to be a good role model for kids. She also says she’s off to have dinner with Elvis and Mother Teresa, that she’s proud to be a virgin and that Gordon Brown will make a good Prime Minister.
July – Home Secretary Jacqui Smith is hounded by the tabloids after she admits to smoking cannabis whilst at Oxford. Her former boss at McDonalds in Oxford refuses to comment.
August – Rolling Stones legend Keith Richards denies stories that he has been living the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle and has been snorting his father’s ashes. Instead he proudly keeps them in an empty pile cream tub next to his old hip beside the Stannah stair lift.
September – Gordon Brown invites Lady Thatcher to tea. The now crumbling and mumbling, incoherent, gaga, old, wandering and forgetful politician is grateful that she accepted.
October – England lose at cricket, lose out again in the rugby World Cup Final and then suffer Lewis Hamilton failing to win the Formula One title in his debut season. Scotland proclaims a public holiday.
November – Heather Mills says she gets worse Press than a paedophile when, in fact, all she ever does is charity work to help others. After The Brothers Grimm protest about copyright protection, Mills is taken off the Best Fiction list of the year.
December – After failing to qualify for the European Championships next year, England manager Steve McClaren is sacked. His Press agent advises him to speak out, as attack is the best form of defence. McClaren asks for a dictionary.
Not a bad year, and who knows what the year ahead will bring. Here’s to a great 2008 for you and yours. I wish you the healthiest, and happiest, of times.
(The blog will be back on January 8th.)
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Shut Up And Drive
I’ve always thought of speed cameras as a bit like a Diana inquest – annoying, expensive, never ending, and largely ignored by the public. Unlike the princess, however, it looks like they’ll be with us for a long time to come.
I’ve enjoyed a clean licence for twenty years but, recently, I received points for exceeding the limit by four miles per hour. I paid the fine and did the time – in this case three points over three years – and then a few weeks back found myself limping along at twenty miles per week behind a lorry at three in the morning. I was signalled by the driver that the road was clear and I should overtake and, as I accelerated, there was a flash and I was caught on camera.
Feeling about as lucky as Sharon Osborne’s seat cushion I waited for the inevitable admonishing letter, but when it came I was offered the chance to miss out on a further three points if I took a Speed Awareness course. Could this be a bit of common sense? Happy Days! So, on Wednesday, I set off for the classroom. Of course I soon ended up running late and needing to speed.
In Richmond Park some old Miss Marple lookalike was treating the twenty mile speed limit as some ridiculously fast pace dreamed up by NASA engineers to escape gravity and obviously imagined a man with a red flag and a limp walking in front. I swear I missed at least one Christmas sitting behind her.
When I did escape, I then had to stop at a level crossing featuring the slowest train in the world, teasing us as it crawled along with the stoker obviously running out of coal and throwing on bakelite instead - with his arm in a sling.
And then, and I know you’ll think I made this up, three police motorcyclists slowed me down to a complete stop as I had to wait for a manky old Range Rover to pass by surrounded by outriders. In it, unless I’m a bad judge of hairstyles, was either Princess Anne or Amy Winehouse’s granny.
The perfect end to this story would be that, as I was late, I got done for speeding on my way to the course, but fate didn’t write that punch line and I arrived very rushed with all parking places gone, and having to drive around for ten minutes to find a space.
Eventually I checked in and wandered through to the lecture room where I had my first surprise. I expected the place to be full of young hoodies caught showing off for their smackhead mates but instead I was faced with what looked like a Led Zeppelin audience; row after row of London citizens who made Bruce Forsyth look alive. The Stena Stair Lift may have taken them up their Stairway to Heaven but they can still, obviously, cut up rough.
Our instructor welcomed us and then asked if we knew what determines the positioning of speed cameras. Some smug, attention seeking, Scotsman spoiled the whole serious tone by shouting out "Revenue". As the room laughed I knew I’d said the right thing. We were off to a flyer.
I was then distracted by one man constantly talking to his mate along my row but discovered he was his translator, putting the instructor’s words in to Chinese for the old man. Now, call me Enoch Powell, but how on earth did this man ever pass his UK driving test? By the time his translator had put the examiner’s "Emergency Stop" in to Mandarin you get the feeling the moment might have passed.
I was thinking this over when it all started to get a bit serious. We had to look at videos and guess speeds, distance, hazards, likely outcomes and so on with each of us getting a personalised print out of how we had done. I had expected Road Rage but my report said "AveRage" instead.
After a short break we ploughed through statistics and I found that three quarters of people killed in motorway accidents die standing on the hard shoulder, that at 30 mph 80% of pedestrians survive an accident and at 40mph that falls to 10%.
We were shown photos of accident scenes and I was beginning to see the purpose of the day at last. Our lecturer went for the matey approach and got his message across effectively, though he was perhaps a bit too matey when he tried telling a joke and said "I missed my punchline. Bastard!"
He asked when I felt the need to speed and I admitted that tailgaters who drove up my bum made me speed up to get away from them. He told me in future to just keep steady, let them worry about it, and never lose my temper. Apparently my anger was simply due to me imagining other drivers’ aggressive thoughts but the reality was they are very nice people just going about their business, placidly.
Sounded like good advice, and I was able to put it in to practise almost immediately. On the way home a red BMW drove right up to my bumper and sat there whilst I stuck to the speed limit. He eventually overtook me and, mindful of the instructor’s advice, I smiled as he went past. The driver looked at me, smiled back -and gave me the finger.
I’ve enjoyed a clean licence for twenty years but, recently, I received points for exceeding the limit by four miles per hour. I paid the fine and did the time – in this case three points over three years – and then a few weeks back found myself limping along at twenty miles per week behind a lorry at three in the morning. I was signalled by the driver that the road was clear and I should overtake and, as I accelerated, there was a flash and I was caught on camera.
Feeling about as lucky as Sharon Osborne’s seat cushion I waited for the inevitable admonishing letter, but when it came I was offered the chance to miss out on a further three points if I took a Speed Awareness course. Could this be a bit of common sense? Happy Days! So, on Wednesday, I set off for the classroom. Of course I soon ended up running late and needing to speed.
In Richmond Park some old Miss Marple lookalike was treating the twenty mile speed limit as some ridiculously fast pace dreamed up by NASA engineers to escape gravity and obviously imagined a man with a red flag and a limp walking in front. I swear I missed at least one Christmas sitting behind her.
When I did escape, I then had to stop at a level crossing featuring the slowest train in the world, teasing us as it crawled along with the stoker obviously running out of coal and throwing on bakelite instead - with his arm in a sling.
And then, and I know you’ll think I made this up, three police motorcyclists slowed me down to a complete stop as I had to wait for a manky old Range Rover to pass by surrounded by outriders. In it, unless I’m a bad judge of hairstyles, was either Princess Anne or Amy Winehouse’s granny.
The perfect end to this story would be that, as I was late, I got done for speeding on my way to the course, but fate didn’t write that punch line and I arrived very rushed with all parking places gone, and having to drive around for ten minutes to find a space.
Eventually I checked in and wandered through to the lecture room where I had my first surprise. I expected the place to be full of young hoodies caught showing off for their smackhead mates but instead I was faced with what looked like a Led Zeppelin audience; row after row of London citizens who made Bruce Forsyth look alive. The Stena Stair Lift may have taken them up their Stairway to Heaven but they can still, obviously, cut up rough.
Our instructor welcomed us and then asked if we knew what determines the positioning of speed cameras. Some smug, attention seeking, Scotsman spoiled the whole serious tone by shouting out "Revenue". As the room laughed I knew I’d said the right thing. We were off to a flyer.
I was then distracted by one man constantly talking to his mate along my row but discovered he was his translator, putting the instructor’s words in to Chinese for the old man. Now, call me Enoch Powell, but how on earth did this man ever pass his UK driving test? By the time his translator had put the examiner’s "Emergency Stop" in to Mandarin you get the feeling the moment might have passed.
I was thinking this over when it all started to get a bit serious. We had to look at videos and guess speeds, distance, hazards, likely outcomes and so on with each of us getting a personalised print out of how we had done. I had expected Road Rage but my report said "AveRage" instead.
After a short break we ploughed through statistics and I found that three quarters of people killed in motorway accidents die standing on the hard shoulder, that at 30 mph 80% of pedestrians survive an accident and at 40mph that falls to 10%.
We were shown photos of accident scenes and I was beginning to see the purpose of the day at last. Our lecturer went for the matey approach and got his message across effectively, though he was perhaps a bit too matey when he tried telling a joke and said "I missed my punchline. Bastard!"
He asked when I felt the need to speed and I admitted that tailgaters who drove up my bum made me speed up to get away from them. He told me in future to just keep steady, let them worry about it, and never lose my temper. Apparently my anger was simply due to me imagining other drivers’ aggressive thoughts but the reality was they are very nice people just going about their business, placidly.
Sounded like good advice, and I was able to put it in to practise almost immediately. On the way home a red BMW drove right up to my bumper and sat there whilst I stuck to the speed limit. He eventually overtook me and, mindful of the instructor’s advice, I smiled as he went past. The driver looked at me, smiled back -and gave me the finger.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The Living Dead
You’ve got to feel some sympathy for John Darwin, the old bloke who pretended to disappear in his canoe and has now returned years later, up the Panama Creek without a paddle, to enjoy a large life insurance payoff with his missus. Learning that really bad mistakes have to be paid for, he’s now living to regret his heinous, outrageous crime of marrying her in the first place.
I know just how he feels as I am a world renowned expert in pretend memory loss. I practise every time I’m asked to "do a Tesco" or empty our dishwasher, and believe me I know it’s not easy to carry off. I am not, of course, saying that disappearing for six years, breaking the law and convincing the police, insurance company and your sons that you are dead is comparable to me having selective memory at home. Of course not. Convincing Debbie is infinitely more difficult.
But Darwin the Dumpling made me think of how useful proper, kosher, memory loss could be. I’m not just thinking of short term memory loss like Team England forgetting how to play football, or Gaby Logan’s hairdresser forgetting every style other than the "Jimmy Savile". I mean really, really forgetting everything that’s happened since 2001 when John disappeared. What a great asset that would be.
There’d be no 9/11, no Tsunami, New Orleans flooding or British soldiers getting Talibanned, and on the poor, defenceless animal front, no Dolly the sheep, no Foot and Mouth and no Jade Goody.
Angus Deayton and John Leslie would still have jobs and we’d believe George Harrison was still with us along with Barry White, Ray Charles, Luther Vandross and The Who bassist John Entwhistle who I had an al fresco dinner with once in Jamaica. He was a very lovely, humble man, but deafer than a deaf post with tinnitus.
I would linger ecstatically over Krispy Crème doughnuts for the first time all over again, become delirious rather than blasé about Thornton’s Alpini chocolates and experience the full, life affirming knowledge that I’m not the most porked up, flabby, uncoordinated git in the world when seeing Dr Fox’s debut on Dancing On Ice.
However, it strikes me there could be a downside to this memory loss too as we wouldn’t have had the enjoyment of television’s Life On Mars, the revival of Doctor Who, the hilarity of John Prescott or the unmitigated fun of Jeffrey Archer going to prison.
I must remember to think about this a bit more.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another day, another survey, this one claiming to know how long, on average, people take from first meeting to actually er, how shall I put this, getting intimate and jiggy with it.
Sadly we don’t know how long it takes for regret to set in afterwards but we do know that it now takes 777 hours and 17 minutes - roughly 32 days – after first bumping in to your charming prince or princess to then get the kit off, play away and hit the back of the net. I think the odd seventeen minutes is spent texting your friends to boast about it.
It does strike me, however, that thirty two days seems a very long time till congress in our supposedly promiscuous times until you remember that this survey takes in every type of singleton, from the abstinence promoting Anne Widdicombe and Morrisey at one end of the chastity spectrum through to Jodie Marsh at the other. A recent, make believe, survey in my head said no one would be surprised if Marsh admitted to 777 lovers in 17 minutes every day for the last 32 days.
Apparently her gynaecologist has just retired through exhaustion and burn out. He’s twenty three.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was filming on Monday and the TV station’s editor in chief was anxious for us to finish early; not because the light was fading but because, lucky sod, he had a ticket to see Led Zeppelin’s reunion gig.
Everyone seems to be getting back together and making loads of money. Take That, The Police, Boyzone, Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys are just some who are getting wealthy all over again, so I’ve hit on an idea to make us all some money. But I need some backers.
I thought I’d trawl the best of bands who haven’t yet got back together, put them on tour, and clean up. Already I’ve had promises from The Wurzels, Renee and Renato, Black Lace, The Scaffold and St Winifred’s School Choir. I’ve even talked Bobby Crush in to compering the show.
I think I’ll clear up. Want to invest?
I know just how he feels as I am a world renowned expert in pretend memory loss. I practise every time I’m asked to "do a Tesco" or empty our dishwasher, and believe me I know it’s not easy to carry off. I am not, of course, saying that disappearing for six years, breaking the law and convincing the police, insurance company and your sons that you are dead is comparable to me having selective memory at home. Of course not. Convincing Debbie is infinitely more difficult.
But Darwin the Dumpling made me think of how useful proper, kosher, memory loss could be. I’m not just thinking of short term memory loss like Team England forgetting how to play football, or Gaby Logan’s hairdresser forgetting every style other than the "Jimmy Savile". I mean really, really forgetting everything that’s happened since 2001 when John disappeared. What a great asset that would be.
There’d be no 9/11, no Tsunami, New Orleans flooding or British soldiers getting Talibanned, and on the poor, defenceless animal front, no Dolly the sheep, no Foot and Mouth and no Jade Goody.
Angus Deayton and John Leslie would still have jobs and we’d believe George Harrison was still with us along with Barry White, Ray Charles, Luther Vandross and The Who bassist John Entwhistle who I had an al fresco dinner with once in Jamaica. He was a very lovely, humble man, but deafer than a deaf post with tinnitus.
I would linger ecstatically over Krispy Crème doughnuts for the first time all over again, become delirious rather than blasé about Thornton’s Alpini chocolates and experience the full, life affirming knowledge that I’m not the most porked up, flabby, uncoordinated git in the world when seeing Dr Fox’s debut on Dancing On Ice.
However, it strikes me there could be a downside to this memory loss too as we wouldn’t have had the enjoyment of television’s Life On Mars, the revival of Doctor Who, the hilarity of John Prescott or the unmitigated fun of Jeffrey Archer going to prison.
I must remember to think about this a bit more.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another day, another survey, this one claiming to know how long, on average, people take from first meeting to actually er, how shall I put this, getting intimate and jiggy with it.
Sadly we don’t know how long it takes for regret to set in afterwards but we do know that it now takes 777 hours and 17 minutes - roughly 32 days – after first bumping in to your charming prince or princess to then get the kit off, play away and hit the back of the net. I think the odd seventeen minutes is spent texting your friends to boast about it.
It does strike me, however, that thirty two days seems a very long time till congress in our supposedly promiscuous times until you remember that this survey takes in every type of singleton, from the abstinence promoting Anne Widdicombe and Morrisey at one end of the chastity spectrum through to Jodie Marsh at the other. A recent, make believe, survey in my head said no one would be surprised if Marsh admitted to 777 lovers in 17 minutes every day for the last 32 days.
Apparently her gynaecologist has just retired through exhaustion and burn out. He’s twenty three.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was filming on Monday and the TV station’s editor in chief was anxious for us to finish early; not because the light was fading but because, lucky sod, he had a ticket to see Led Zeppelin’s reunion gig.
Everyone seems to be getting back together and making loads of money. Take That, The Police, Boyzone, Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys are just some who are getting wealthy all over again, so I’ve hit on an idea to make us all some money. But I need some backers.
I thought I’d trawl the best of bands who haven’t yet got back together, put them on tour, and clean up. Already I’ve had promises from The Wurzels, Renee and Renato, Black Lace, The Scaffold and St Winifred’s School Choir. I’ve even talked Bobby Crush in to compering the show.
I think I’ll clear up. Want to invest?
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