Jethro's Lull

The lull. Christmas is over. New Year's Eve lies menacingly in wait.
'Oh, what shall we do this year Mary?'
'Let's go away Jethro'
'Shall we?'
'Yes. Let's go and stay in a cabin in the Lake District.'
'Okay. I'll have a look on the internet later.'
Jethro does look on the internet later but all the cabins are booked up, apart from a deluxe one. Unfortunately the deluxe ones don't allow dogs, so Mary and Jethro will spend yet another New Year's Eve at home. They'll probably go round the Mickletons to watch Jools Holland and have a small argument on the way home when Jethro will confess, at last, that he's always regretted them buying that bloody dog.

Winter Solstice Sacrifice

I celebrated the shortest day of the year by baking biscuits. Unfortunately the biscuits burnt as I became engrossed in a documentary about a man who swore he could 'see it coming' in Only Fools and Horses when Del Boy fell over at the bar, AND when the other chandelier fell from the ceiling. Fortunately I could palm the burnt biscuits off as offerings to the gods. Paganism truly is the religion for easily distracted cooks.

It's a Cracker

All alone again at my Christmas do. Dave, my imaginary accountant, had been invited but couldn't make it due to:
a) being imaginary
b) having to go to Witney to watch Charlotte, his imaginary niece, in the school nativity play.

Despite my solitary disposition I still receive a cracker and ask the waitress to pull it with me (cue an influx of gags involving 'pulling a cracker'). She wins but is happy to let me have all the contents – the hat that's always just too small, the screwdriver that doubles up as a key ring and, of course, the joke.

But wait - no joke! And I'm not joking here. The first cracker I've ever had without a joke lurking in wait. Not on. However, instead of storming out of the pub in a huff, I view this as a challenge. I spend the whole time waiting for the starter making up my own cracker joke, and I am proud to present it here for the first time:

Q: How would you describe quickly finding a circular object in a cut of meat from Eastern Asia?
A: Like a ball in a China Chop

Exitstationalism

Oxford train station barriers at 18.56. Outgoing. I didn't have a train ticket so joined the queue to purchase one off Paulo Menzies and his portable ticket machine/man bag. The queue was twelve deep. Fronting it were two oriental twins, straight out of a Wes Anderson movie. They were extremely confused as what to get. This was going to be a long wait.

Peering into the station itself, I could see the ticket office had no queue. I plucked up some assertive behaviour, left the queue and approached Deepak Moohasta, the taciturn barrier guard.
'Look, this will take ages. The ticket office hasn't a queue. Could you please let me through and I'll get my ticket there?'
Deepak looked unsure. 'Can I trust you?'
'Totally. I could give you my watch as insurance. It was worn by my grandfather when he escaped from the Isle of Man during the Falklands War.'
'No need. I'll trust you.'

Once let through, 14% of me did actually think of just doing a runner but Deepak had trusted me and surely that's gotta be worth £3? Alas, as I reached the only manned window I was met by the ticket officer, Herman Collinger, turning his sign deftly from OPEN to CLOSED. Herman could obviously read the disappointment on my face but showed little empathy. He was tired. Problems at home. Marital and non-marital.

My 'do a runner' temptations had risen to 40%, however, as I turned there was Deepak Moohasta standing square in front of me. He'd followed. He hadn't trusted me at all. The Shit.
'You'll have to use the self-service ticket machine now' he barked.
'But you can't get a discounted 'Oxford Night Out' ticket from those machines.' I countered.
A neo grimace took hold of Deepak's face, 'Then you'll have to get back in the queue at the barrier and buy off Paulo Menzies, AND the queue's bigger now!'

He ushered me through the barrier to rejoin the queue. He was right too. Another train had obviously arrived and now the queue was double the size. As I sulked to the end of it I passed the girl who was behind me originally. If I had been her I would have offered myself back into the queue ahead of her. But she wasn't me. She was her. And she didn't offer me back into the queue. The Shit.

I took my place at the back of the queue and huffed and puffed a little. Was it really worth the £1.75 saving to wait in this queue? No it wasn't! I contemplated re-approaching Deepak at the barriers to let me back through to use the self-service machine after all.

I didn't do this. No. Instead, I laughed. I laughed out loud. I laughed at the absurdity of life and at it's complex beauty. I laughed at myself and for myself. And for Deepak, Paulo, Herman and the girl in the queue who hadn't let me back in. And in the laughter was born a light. And in this light I shall forever stand. And queueing shall never be the same again.

A Case Of Acute Apprenticitus

The International hit show 'Be Alan's Apprentice' has rubbed off on me (as the Alan said to the Bishop). Flirting with a £60 necklace in 'Oxford Necklaceland' I asked for some assistance from the friendliest looking necklace assistant available.

'Excuse me, how much is this necklace?' The price was attached and in full view.
'£60 for that one Sir.'
'Could you do it for 50?'
'Sorry, we can't do discounts.'
'What if I said I was in "Be Alan's Apprentice", there's a camera crew outside and if you give me a discount I can get you on the telly. Close ups and everything.'
'Well, you could say that, but would it be true?'
'No.'
'Then it's still £60.'
'So you would knock some off if I was in "Be Alan's Apprentice"?'
'Maybe.'
'Can't we just pretend?'
'Can't you just buy it and pretend you got it for £50'
'Would that be a double pretend?'
'No. Just a single. I'm not pretending anything.'
'What? You think life is anything more than just one huge pretend thing?'
'Do you want the necklace Sir?'
'You know, you do remind me of myself when I was young. I admire your spirit. Your tenacity. I do. But I'm afraid there are better necklace assistants in this process. It's a tough one but, with regret, you're Fired'.

Cue the taxi.

Seahorsepower!

Self-promotion. She's an awkward old bedfellow. You've created something and now you've got to promote it, and thereby blow your own bassoon in people's faces. 

I like the idea of the subtle sell whereby one doesn't even mention the product in your publicity. A kind of subliminal guerrilla approach, such as stepping out, in the dead of night, to create a 30 foot mural of a silver brain all over ASDA.

Today, myself and a man (who shall only be known as 'Mr F') hotfooted round the town, in the cold light of day, hanging little seahorses on trees, rails and lampposts. We're not selling seahorses here. No – the seahorse is merely a visual device representing the product we are selling. Hopefully we will generate intrigue, future sales and global happiness.

'Jennifer, have you seen those little seahorses that have cropped up all over town?'
'I have. I love them but what do you think they're publicising Douglas?'
'Dunno, but I love them too and whatever it's publicising I'll buy ten of them.'
'I'll buy twenty!'
'Shall we get married Jennifer?'
'Yes. Let's do it now before we change our minds.'
'Oh Jennifer I've never been so happy.' 

A Beginners Guide To Ebay (Part Two Of A Two Part Blog)

The guy from Guilford didn't buy my Leicester City programmes, or the Doctor Who videos. Most probably because, in the end, I couldn't be arsed to put them up on Ebay. You have to fill in fifteen pages of forms, take and upload photos of the items from every angle, sign in and check progress every half hour, acquire references from teachers and doctors, convert to Catholicism ...

A Beginners Guide To Ebay (Part One Of A Two Part Blog)

A move is on the cards. And with moving comes an excuse for a right royal clear-out. I've recently heard of this internet phenomenon called Ebay. Apparently, you put up stuff you don't want anymore – from Siouxsie and The Banshees albums to books on the history of dry rot – and some guy from Guilford decides whether he wants to buy them.

It's time to say cheerio to my Leicester City programme and Doctor Who video collections. Apparently the guy from Guilford is given seven days to decide whether he wants them, so check back next week to see how they've done.

Live Blogging In The 21st Century

As I pen these words, pint at hand, a huddle of men engage with each other like birds of prey jovially discussing their catch, post-kill and feed. One of them is intrigued by me and approaches closer.

'What are you writing there chap?'
'My blog.'
'What's it about?'
'Anything that happens on a Friday. Could be about this moment.'
'You mean I'll be in your blog?'
'Maybe.'
'What – this very conversation?'
'It's been known.'
'When will you put it up?'
'Not sure. I'm normally a month or two behind.'
'Hey Ian, (he turns towards Ian) I'm gonna be in a blog Ian.'

I have to admit, Ian didn't appear that impressed.

Say Hello Not Goodbye

I wish I could absquatulate. At tonight's party I was feeling a tad jaded. Not really 'on form'. I really could have done with just sloping off into the evening's embers, to the distant cries of, 'Where's Adrian? He was here a moment ago. I bet he's only gone and left without saying bye again.' 

However, if you haven't a reputation for doing this then leaving without saying goodbye will arouse suspicion and fear. 'Shit. Where's Adrian? Oh no, something terrible must have happened. He's probably fallen down a dog or something. Maria, phone the police. Mike and Xavier, get your jodhpurs on – we've got ourselves a man hunt!'

Acquiring a reputation for absquatualtion would take time, but whilst spending three quarters of an hour tonight saying goodbye I come up with a solution. A business card explaining your wishes to be a potential absquatulater and imploring people not to worry if you suddenly disappear later. This could be handed to people at the start of the evening. Perhaps including a picture of Ralph Little on it for no reason whatsoever.

How To Avoid The Agonies Of The Communal Dinner Bill

The old birthday pub communual dinner dilemma. Fifteen odd people. Most people will drink but a few won't. Some will have the house ale. Some will have the £43 Chablis Bulbous Meredith. Some will have starters. Some won't. Some will have the 20 oz steak with alchemy sauce and others will have the leek risotto. Some will have pudding. Some will share pudding. Some will have no pudding.

So when it comes to the bill there's a lot to sort out and there's always the worry that the bill will just be shared equally, which means if you have only had the leek risotto and lime soda you will either grin and bear it or hope somebody else will highlight the injustice, rather than you having to.

It may be controversial to do so but to avoid any of these worries, and to ease the hassles of sorting the bill out, the 'birthdayee' should have little business card size information to slip into their guest's hands on arrival at the venue – bullet point rules for the evening so everyone knows where they stand. Maybe lighten the mood of the card by including a picture of a baby muntjac.

Poetry Guest Spot

A guest spot this week – a poem penned by me old mucker Dr Ben Gurney-Smith, spending his Friday's off work in deepest Norfolk.

Ode to Diss

I don't dismiss this place I'm in
It's distal to diss way and that,
And while things are as they are
It's got a distance left to run

It's where I spend my Fridays
In cafes and swimming pools
And disseminating my bad poetry
disconnected from my working tools

Friday is market day and all discounted goods are here,
It's 'ten for this and dis for that'
It's bargain time my dear.

It's tempting to get all 'diss and dat'
Like the other rapper dissy rascal and his bad dyslexic rhyme
His USP is to slag people off
And get their shirty backs up.
But I'm more 'diss charming man'
And for now I'm doing fine.

The Wrong David

Met an estate agent today called David. What a coincidence! I have recently written a new song entitled, 'David – he's gonna takin' me to the party' and there I was meeting an actual David. As we shook hands I felt a strong urge to break out into song – straight in at the chorus – but of course I didn't go through with it.

He was about to show us round a house – not take me to a party. If I had called the song, 'David – he's gonna showin' us round a house' then it would have been fine to sing it, but I didn't call the song that. I called it 'David – he's gonna takin' me to the party'. Never mind. I suppose there's plenty more David's in the sea.

Name Change Decision

After a week of restless nights and days I have decided against changing my business name to 'Poodles Need Greater Understanding'. It's just too risky and could alienate potential clients so, on that basis, I am sticking with 'Adrian Lancini Designs'.

Name Change Proposal

I'm thinking of changing my business name from 'Adrian Lancini Designs' to 'Poodle's Need Greater Understanding'. It's risky. It could backfire big time, but as Alan Sugar once mightily said, 'No risks. No biscuits.'

A Tolerance Of Below-par Dining Conditions

Have you ever been to the Hungry Trout in New Quay? The New Quay in Wales that is – not the smurf resort in Cornwall.

If you are planning an outdoor lunch at the Trout between one thirty and two o'clock in the afternoon then you may want to reconsider and eat inside. Every day between these times a line marking truck turns up directly outside, making an awful racket and pumping out a right smoky stench before crawling down the road to deposit road lines.

In the early hours of each day a man called Fletcher Baines drives over these lines with a road marking eraser machine to warrant the road marking machine's daily return to relay the lines.

Apparently this has been going on here for eighteen years but, as yet, no one has ever complained. We didn't complain today either. We just held our hands over our noses and ate our fish'n'chips in silence.

And they say human beings are an intolerant race.

'Would you like a side salad with that Sir'

On The Game

I lost it today. The Game that is. I lost 'The Game'. I can't tell you what 'The Game' is, or indeed, how I lost 'The Game' because that's part of 'The Game'. If I was to lose 'The Game' in your presence, then and only then, could I reveal to you the rules of 'The Game'. Intrigued?

No? Thought not. As you were then.

Revelation: Art Is In The Eyes Of The Beholder

Gazing thoughtfully at a painting by Jenny Saville, I am struck by the thought that in some parallel universe the subject of the painting, a girl, could be gazing thoughtfully at a painting of me.

It's these kind of astounding and ground breaking thoughts I have viewing art that keep me coming back to galleries. It's not the art itself. No, not the art. It's about my interpretations and the thought processes I have which are merely stimulated by the art. 

When are these artists going to realise it's all about me?

The Joys Of Tax

Today I went with Ben to pick up his new car tax disc. I didn't have to, but I had offered and he had accepted. It's the sort of thing one would normally do alone but, being a Friday, I had a bit of time to kill. Moreover, since getting rid of my Punto I've missed the many joys of car tax purchasing.

I was really looking forward to discussing with Ben whether he was going to go for six or twelve months tax. Alas, he had already made that decision when I met him - pre-ticking the six month box, which, incidentally, would have been the box I'd have recommended.

At least I would have the pleasure of seeing how Ben approached communicating with the post office cashier.

Options are: 
a) Approach window and announce 'I'd like to pay for my car tax please' whilst passing the relevant papers through. It feels quite an unnatural and formal approach and one that is not particularly popular in West Oxfordshire.
b) Approach window, say a simple 'hello' whilst passing papers through. My usual tactic.
c) Approach window, pass the papers through and mutter 'There you go'. An arrogant method.
d) Approach window with a broad smile and a quip such as 'Oo It's that time of year again' before passing papers through.
e) Approach window and whilst passing papers through deliver an awful gag such as 'If I slip you seventy quid under the window and you slip a tax disc back then I'll have a slipped disc. DO YOU HEAR ME AT THE BACK OF THE QUEUE, I SAID I'D HAVE A SLIPPED DISC.'

Sadly as we entered the post office I received a phone call from O2 and subsequently missed Ben's cashier exchange.

Ah well, I still had the pleasure of discovering which colour the new tax disc was going to be. But, would you believe it, at the very moment when he walked towards me with his new disc I was struck down with colour blindness. Inexplicably, Ben contracted lock jaw at the very same moment and thus was unable to tell me what colour it was.

The whole outing had become a bit of a damp squid. My only consolation is at least Ben went for the six month option. Otherwise I'd have to wait a full year for another chance to experience the joys of car tax purchasing.

Prank Blanks

Whilst on a countryside jaunt I called up two friends, one a singer/songwriter, one a photographer, and left voice messages pretending to be an American agent called Lionel Fuckface.

Acting as Lionel, I offered the singer/songwriter a Festival headline slot on a Scottish island and the photographer a one-day exhibition at a top San Francisco gallery. Both fictitious offers were for the 25th of December (Christmas day) and both involved them being paid a shed load of money and crack-cocaine on tap. As much as they wanted of both money and crack-cocaine.

Neither friend replied. Lionel will be taking his offers elsewhere in the future.

Turn And Face The Stranger

Festivals change lives. It was a festival that changed the life of the female lady woman massaging me today at Wildnerness Festival. In between my awful puns she tells me she was at a festival (Glade) when she decided (thought process resulting in action) to jack in (give up) her job (corporate something or other) and become a masseuse.

Similarly, it was after a festival (Glastonbury) that I decided (thought process resulting in action) to take Fridays off work (graphic design - 12% off for nice people) and write a book (Man Friday - unpublished) about it.

However, why I've decided (thought process resulting in action) to suddenly overuse brackets (marks of punctuation used to interject text within other text) is a real mystery (something unexplainable that Inspector Morse/Batman/Scooby Doo tries to sort out).

The Art Of Storytelling

Outdoors at night, in a wood, by a roaring fire. The perfect situation for a bit of storytelling. But what to tell? I don't really know any stories, apart from the one about the couple that break down on a shady lane and get into a whole load of shit with a mental man.

Instead I make one up as I go along about a Lincolnshire Penguin who bunks off work and convinces his seal friend to cancel a day with the in-laws to accompany him on a road trip to the Norfolk coast where they end up spontaneously swimming to Holland. There's a hilarious bit where they stop off at Peterborough services and, without telling each other, the seal buys a Penguin chocolate bar and the penguin buys a CD by Seal.

I'm thinking of doing a sequel tomorrow night where they hitch back on a boat owned by Rick Wakeman. Rick doesn't feature. He just happens to own the boat but I think it will definitely give the narrative added interest.

The Olympic Coverage Avoidance Gold Medalist 2012

A phone call from Geoff.
'You watching the opening ceremony tonight?'
'What ... the one for the Olympics?'
'No, for the new brand of Lucozade Toblerone. Yes, of course for the Olympics.'
'Is that tonight then?'
'Yes. Paul McCartney, Kenneth Branagh and Mr Bean, with David Beckham on a speedboat.'
'I'm a bit busy tonight.'
'Why, what you doing?'
'Trimming my beard.'
'All night?'
'Haven't you seen how long it's got?'
'No, I don't buy the Guardian. Why don't you trim it tomorrow.'
'Can't. Too busy tomorrow.'
'Doing what?'
'Clipping my nails.'
'All day?'
'Haven't you seen how long they've got?'
'You just don't want to watch it do you Adrian.'
'No I don't.'
'And you're making excuses because you somehow feel anti-social and a killjoy for not wanting to watch it.'
'Yes, that's right.'
'Fair enough. Bye Adrian.'
'Ta-ra Geoff.'

The Olympics - He's not into it either

Port Eliot Festival – A Religious Experience

Church. It was packed to the rafters. I don't even know what rafters are but if there are rafters in a church - it was packed to 'em. And there wasn't a wedding/funeral/christening/harvest festival/recording of a Sunday night ITV drama in sight. It's Port Eliot Festival and this wonderful festival has its own church as a music stage.

A blue-grass band were cutting bluegrass up at the alter whilst we lounged in the pews supping on plastic pints of ale. We were having a rare old time when ... DISASTERIA STRUCK!

David dropped his full pint all over the floor. God's floor. I felt sorry for David because:
a) He was really embarrassed
b) The poor lad was out of beer

What would God do I thought. He'd tell David to pick up his empty glass and then he'd pour half of his own pint into it. So that is exactly what I did, but then ... DOUBLE DISASTERIA!

David's glass now had a large crack in the bottom and my half pint went right through it to join David's pint on the church floor.

We laughed. Oh, how we laughed! We laughed like naughty school kids playing hooky behind the bike sheds, with our ties ripped off and massive reefers hanging out of out gormless little mouths.

That is until we noticed what was happening on the floor. Our combined spillage had formed into a pattern resembling Jesus – dressed as a referee, holding up two yellow cards. I looked at David, we held out our hands apologetically to the wet floor, hung our heads in shame, muttered a few words and turned back sheepishly to face the bluegrass band.

To be honest, though I thought it harsh at the time, in hindsight, we were very lucky not to get red cards. It just goes to prove that Jesus is indeed a good man and a damn fair referee to boot.

Don't Believe Everything You Read

It's the local beer festival tomorrow. I thought about not drinking beer for a few days before it. I read in Men's Health, or whatever it was, that you should have two consecutive days off booze every week. But sod that. Surely it is more healthy for Men to drink steadily throughout the week rather than suddenly shocking the system by stopping and starting again. The 'system' won't know where it stands. Common sense surely? Last time I read Men's Health, or whatever it was, I tell thee.

Can The Winner Take All?

I've often wondered whether one could make a living on the back of winning competitions. Obviously you would have to win cash prizes to pay for your accommodation – unless you were relentlessly winning holidays that conveniently butted up with each other.

For all the other stuff – food, drink, clothes, ornaments and stationery – it seems a viable option, especially now we have the internet at our disposal. It's a game of percentages. Enter a thousand competitions a day and surely you'll win something, even if it only happens to be a years supply of elastic bands. Every Little Helps.

Today I decided I would give it a go. The plan was the enter around 50 online competitions. However, I soon got sidetracked by a wasp and by the time I'd stopped chatting with him I was starving so had to venture to the Co-op where one thing lead to another and before I knew it I was sitting in the pub thinking what a damn stupid idea it was.

On The Disappointments of Browsing

Bookshops are a waste of space. They add nothing. They need shooting. The lot of 'em.

Obviously, I'm messing about here. Toying with your deep-set J R Hartley related emotions. Obviously I do like bookshops. I enjoy browsing. But there is always disappointment. It's like fish'n'chips. The idea of browsing is better than the actual act. Mushy peas or no mushy peas.

I always get hot. I always start to get back ache. I never find a book that engrosses me beyond belief. I get agitated by the superfluous 'tat' shelf selling cuddly Gruffalo key rings and J K Rowling tea cosies. I get wound up seeing Alex James's face everywhere. And I always end up browsing through books I already have (Today it was Sum by David Eagleman).

I also selfishly bemoan the fact that the unpublished book I've written wouldn't fall comfortably into any particular section. There's never a 'NINE PERCENT FICTITIOUS DIARIES OF THIRTY SOMETHINGS ON THEIR DAY OFF' category.

But as with fisn'n'chips these disappointments will never stop me coming back for more. I'll leave you in the more than capable hands of Samuel Johnson:
'Disappointment, when it involves neither shame nor loss, is as good as success; for it supplies as many images to the mind, and as many topics to the tongue."

Observations From a Parked Automobile – Mid-Summer Downtown Leamington Spa (co-ordinates CV31 1EU)

A Windscreen Theatre
Showing Windblown Street
Bitterly cold
Sky seal grey
Leaves wave sarcastically
Parked cars line the pavements
Like temporary gravestones
An empty space:
DO NOT PARK IN FRONT OF THIS GATE
(in Fuck You Red)
The crash and clatter of the lonely workman feeding a trailer
He thinks to himself:
Feels like the last day of Autumn
I might have stew tonight
With dumplings
And a warming glass of red 
The wind howls in triumph

Post Repetitive Euro 2012 Syndrome

England come from behind to beat Sweden in a pub. At the end we all celebrate by spontaneously singing the theme from the A-Team. In their next match England will either win, lose or draw. If they win we will probably sing the theme from the A-Team again. That is the very nature of human beings.

Urinal Protest

In the court of Excessive Lavatorial Humour, I'm guilty as charged your honour. Most of us are. It's funny to us because it's based on the hidden away stuff. Hidden, unless of course you are a man amongst other men in urinals. Why are men forced together to urinate? Here's a protest verse I penned on the 17.15 London Paddington train:

I freeze at urinals 

when I'm beside you
why the hell is it men have no privacy
unless they want to poo?

Foraging In The 21st Century

"Jason?"

"Och aye, it's Jason here, but, ooh da noo, you would know that cuz you called me on my mobile so who else could it be laddie?"

"Scottish Jason?"

"Aye."

"You free today?"

"Is Billy Connolly the pope? Does Haggis shit in the woods? Aye. Of course I'm free."

"Great. How would you feel about a day walking around Oxfordshire countryside, stopping at every opportunity to meticulously pick wild food - nettles, dandelion leaves, that kind of thing - with the intention of using them for a feast later, only to decide on our return that getting fish'n'chips is less hassle and chuck everything we've gathered down a ditch?"

"Aye. Sounds bonny. I'll bring the ketchup."

Tastier than doc leaves

Do You Believe In Four Horses?

All my ears are full of olive oil. I've been pouring it down them all week. It's not some new aural fetish - I have blocked ears and it's doctor orders. I've been having awful dreams all week too - nightmares on wax WHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

I decide my predicament lends itself perfectly to a morning of bird watching in the garden. Binoculars at hand, I spend half an hour gawping at tits before I become entranced by creatures of an altogether different nature - horses in the field behind. Four of them. Huddled together. Motionless. Serene.

I focus the binoculars and become entranced by the beauty of their stillness. It may occur odd to be scrutinising with binoculars animals we can normally get up close to but somehow, without their awareness of our presence, they seem different. Wild, in fact. Alien, moreover. God like, even. Could god actually be four still horses instead of a bearded man in a cloak? Is this an Equine Prophecy I am receiving? Is my doctor actually an angel who intentionally advised me to block my ears for this moment to occur? Come to think of it I recall seeing a harp in his room once and you never actually see his back.

God

Shopping With The Missus

Sounds like a working title screenplay for a WKD ad. The men, all shopping with their girlfriends/wives, text a plan to slip away and meet in a chrome-clad bar to fart and drink football. However, on this particular shopping excursion , myself and the missus are engaged in an interesting debate with the clothes shop assistant. While the missus was trying on a skimpy high-cut cardigan I noticed a dress made from the same material. The dress was double the price. "Why?" I asked the assistant.

"Well, it's double the material," she replied.

I then found an extra large version of the dress and compared it to the small one. "Look, almost double the material but it's the same price as the small dress. Why?"

"It doesn't work like that Sir."

"But why not? It's more material for the extra large dress just as it's more material for the small dress compared to the skimpy cardigan."

The missus then points out that it would be sizest to charge more of someone who is extra-large.

"Surely that would be an incentive for the extra-largers to lose weight," I counter.

I feel a letter to Cosmopolitan coming on.

If You're Happy And You Know It Raise Your Glass

Country pubs don't really go in for Happy Hours. I haven't read the stats but maybe country dwellers are happy enough and it's only City dwellers who need cheering up.

ROLL UP, ROLL UP - GET OUT OF THE SMOG AT FIVE O'CLOCK AND HAVE A PINT OF FOSTERS FOR £1.50. TWO PINTS FOR £3 OR THREE PINTS FOR A FIVER. GUARANTEED SMILES.  BY SIX IT'S BACK TO £3 A PINT, BUT YOU WON'T CARE SO MUCH COS YOU'LL BE WELL AND TRULY HAMMERED. 

The country pub is still a great place to be at 5 o'clock on a Friday afternoon. There's a buzz and people stand at the bar. Despite working hard all week, people have renewed energy and bring communal cheer. It's Happy Hour without the deals. Golden ales instead of Fosters. Vanilla shag instead of Malboro Lights. Tony cackling hysterically about his wife's cooking rather than 'piped through' Rihanna. A cheer when someone enters instead of an indifferent glance. And all followed by a short stroll home through leafy lanes instead of the hectic tube/bus/ferry ride.

I may be sounding a tad smug about country living here but it is Happy Hour so a-happy I shall be.

Get the oven on Joanna, I feel a home-baked cake coming on.

Bank Holiday Alert!

I have a friend. He’ll remain nameless. He doesn’t like his life being put up all over the internet. For the sake of the narrative though let’s call him Kieran. He’s an extremely talented artist (www.kieranstiles.com) and as such leads an unorthodox working routine. Despite this, I’ve always found it baffling that he never has a clue when Bank Holiday’s fall. I deride him for this. Surely, even if you operate outside the perimeters of the nine to five, one must still have some vague notion of when they are? Always two around Easter, first and last Monday of May, end of August. It’s textbook.

But today, for the first time in my life, it happened to me. I had become ‘Bank Holiday’ ignorant. Popping in to drop something off at a client, I mentioned I’d pop in again on Monday (I like to ‘pop in’). The client responded with, “Well, you can try but no one will be here. It’s a Bank Holiday you bloody idiot.”

So there you have it. The dragon has bitten the back of the donkey’s tale (or whatever the phrase is). Four years of freelancing and I’m losing my grip on the nation’s paltry pre-determined holiday allowance.

I don’t get paid for Bank Holidays anymore but I still enjoy the communal vibe and all the Tolberone it brings.

I had to ‘pop in’ to the Londis on that way home for Monster Munch. There, I announced to a fellow shopper I’d just found out it was a Bank Holiday weekend. “I’ve just found out too. You would think I should have known” he replied. “Why’s that then?” I enquired. “I work in a bank!” he chuckled.

You just couldn’t write it.

Age Detection In The 21st Century

How do you find out if a Co-op shop assistant is over 18? Easy. Put a bottle of booze (any booze) in your basket. Before they put it through the till, if they hold it up and call out towards a colleague, “Alcohol, Martin” and wait for either a "that’s fine", a "yep" or a simple and authorative nod then safely assume said assistant is under 18 years of age.

A Serious Note On Gravy Granules

Archivists and weather freaks will remember this day last year was an absolute scorcher. Today, however, was a typical April’s day. Showers, sun, cloud, hail, wind, quacking ducks, ambient Brain Eno followed by a 25-piece-orchestra-full on-symphony-horror-soundtrack, a broken daffodil, lamb song.

This all meant one thing – a pie and mash supper. But there is always a quandary with a pie and mash supper – the gravy.

There will be no meat juices to siphon off, so it’s either the stock cube/flour/wine method or gravy granules. I kicked Bisto in to touch five years ago. I was never a heavy user – more of a social granuler. The turning point came when I poisoned myself with Bisto Turkey granules. It tasted like French cat food. Never again. "Bisto be gone and do not darken my plate again."

For tonight, I had purchased something new – Marigold Vegetarian Organic Gravy Powder. It’s actually not too bad. Good even. Here’s a link to their website: www.marigoldhealthfoods.com

No funny punchline today. Just a handy recommendation for gravy granules. A useful blog rather than me just yaking on about shit. Bon appetit.

Here Horror Here

Friday the 13th. Don't think I've ever actually seen the film. Is that the one about a guy with no face called Jason? Or is that 'Halloween'?

I've never seen 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre' either. Or 'Titanic'. Or any of the Harry Potter films.

However, I have seen 'Withnail and I' 83 times.

I've also seen 'The Wickerman' 14 times, 'Spinal Tap' at least 10 times, 'The Big Lebowski' 7 times, 'Sleepy Hollow' 5 times and the first hour of 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang'.

Legume Fundamentalism

I've lost my allotment. Must have fell out my pocket or something. Most displeased. I loved it.

Despite this major setback I have decided to 'carry on regardless' (starring Sid James and Alan Titmarsh) and germinate my seeds as usual. Perhaps by taking this positive approach I will be rewarded by fate dealing me a new allotment in the coming months. An administrative error, pushing me to the top of the waiting list, over Dorothy Taylor-Baxter and Barry Academis.

If not, I could just give my seedlings away to human beings with garden space or, even better, plant them out on public land - a kind of vegetable terrorism. Fuck the system, I'm gonna plant this anyway. Watch your backs next time you're on Nine Acre's Park - there may well be an explosion of lamb's lettuce leaves when you least expect it.

Cairn Today Cairn Tomorrow?

The Cairn I'd first built over two years ago was in need of some TLC. In fact, it required a complete rebuild. Its fourth incarnation since I first put stone on stone, one spontaneous Friday afternoon. 

It's become a little like the regeneration of Dr Who. Each one similar but different in character. Ironically, however, they all appear more like Daleks in their physicality.

Why the cairn never stays standing is a mystery. It is only a metre form a public path so one can only assume, if not caused by bad weather, that it must be irate farmer/bullish dog/reticent rambler/bored teenager interference.

I like to think it's a young greyhound who always tries to get one more stone on top, Jenga style, but misjudges to send most of it tumbling down.

If it was the bored teenager/sabotage option then I'd expect to see the whole thing flattened, whereas, every collapse thus far has been of a gradual persuasion.

I spent three hours today on the rebuild, in which time not one human being passes me by. I take the customary photograph and vow to return in three days time to check on it's well-being.

Today

Three Days Later

How To Get To Chadlington Without A Car

R.I.P my Fiat Punto. The wipers were starting to wear a bit, so I thought it a good excuse to get rid. I scrapped it to a bloke I never met, in exchange for three piss-ups.

From now on, if I need fresh mint I'm going to have to use other means of transportation to obtain it.

I phoned Chadlington Quality Stores in Chadlington:
"Hello. Do you have any fresh mint in?"
"Ooh. You're in luck. Just got a few bunches in for another customer."
"Great. See you in half an hour." 

My only quandary then was how to get there?

Walk? I love walking? But no, that would take more than half an hour. I said I'd be half an hour!

Run? Shit no - my running shorts were in the wash.

Cycle? Good idea, but that would only take 15 minutes. I said I'd be half an hour!

Then it came to me. Star jump it! All the way there! This would also nicely double up as an eccentric anecdote to tell people in the pub later.
"What d'you get up to today then Man Friday?"
"Oh, I star jumped to Chadlington to get some fresh mint."

That would surely raise the eyebrows of eavesdropping bar-dwellers.

The Museum Of British Hangovers

London 2012AD. An afternoon at the British Museum for two British gentlemen, myself and Mr King. We spend the entire time ambling aimlessly around statues and mummies like two zombies. Idea for a great film! 

Mummies Versus Zombies, starring Matt Dillon, Britt Ekland and that actor with the face, who played Sherlock on the iPlayer. Maybe a cameo role for Larry Blackmon, the lead singer from Cameo. It will be an almighty battle but the Mummies will ultimately be victorious, winning 10-8 on penalties.

Despite our hangovers, myself and Mr King have our own personal missions here. I'm looking for a mummy-themed greeting card to send to my mother as a hilarious Mothers Day Card, and Mr King wants to see two girls walking round, hand in hand. He says you always see girls holding hands in museums.

We fail in both our tasks but, on the bright side, I've now got a cracking screenplay to write.

Life's A Gas

I'm not ashamed to be work-shy of a Friday. I promote the benefits with sweet relish. However, when forced to spend three hours with someone who is working then my relish does tend to sour slightly. I'm not arrogant enough to start rubbing noses in it. Or, indeed, any part of someone's body.

The plumber is here to fix the gas boiler. I greeted him at the door still adorning my pyjamas and ruffled hair (it was still A.M after all). I made him a cup of tea and offered him some crumpets. He began work on the boiler and I nestled into my computer and pretended to work.

Thing is, I pretended for a while but then empathy got the better of me and I started to work for real. A full two hours! I even had a cup of tea too, and, instead of just nodding politely when the plumber started talking plumbing technicalities, I actually showed a real interest in the subject, asking relevant questions.

When his work was done, we played Scrabble and drank smoothies all afternoon. I put way too much mango in them but he didn't complain. Not once.

Moon In The Bathroom

You wait 41 years for a moon calendar and then three turn up at once. Actually, I only received two for Christmas but the bus analogy doesn't quite work with two so, for the bus analogy's sake, let's say I received three.

I've always thought it would be nice to know what the moon's up to on a daily basis and this very morning I decided to put one of them up in a high profile position – next to the bathroom mirror. This will give further value to the act of teeth brushing. Have healthy gums AND be aware of tomorrow's waxing Gibbous moon, all in one go.

After a successful erection, I scanned the calendar for significant dates of the year - festivals, holidays, bin days, World Goth Day. I was disheartened to discover these dates coincided with very little moon action – the odd waning crescent but not even a half moon to enjoy. It got me thinking. Will I miss the sudden joy of a full moon surprising me as I walk out of a misty wood or The Works Discount Book Store? Can full knowledge of the moon's cycle actually remove some of its mystique and charm?

I suppose I don't have to scrutinise the calendar. Take the odd peak here and there – become semi-aware of it's movements. Perhaps cover up every other month with toothpaste cartons. I happen to have three empty ones in the bathroom cupboard and, let's face it, Friday afternoon's were just made for moon chart partial covering activity.

Obsessive Compulsive Texting Disorder

Thank the Lord I turned my phone off before I went to Nodsville last night. On turning it on this morning I was greeted with eighteen text messages, sent during the night. Eighteen! All from the same hetrotextual.

I am currently engaged in a frenzied menage-a-trois of text tennis. Our challenge is to think up hypothetical tribute band names. This morning's eighteen attempts ranged from the very good (Supergraft) to the desperately poor (Quornashop).

Between us we have already accumulated over 350 names. We hope to release the list in pamphlet form, sometime later in the year.

Soduko This For A Game Of Soldiers

The 6.15 Waterloo service to Norwich. The lady next to me is playing Soduko. I have never ventured to find out it's rules, or indeed, what people get from it. I decide now is the moment.

"Excuse me fellow passenger, what are the rules and what do you get from playing it?"
She patiently explains the rules (which I forget within 10 seconds of being told) and tells me what she gets from it:
"It helps keep the brain ticking over."
I ask if she's ever played the dice game, Yahtzee, or been to the Scilly Isles.
"Have you ever played the dice game Yahtzee?"
"No, can't say I have."
"Have you ever been to the Scilly Isles?"
"No, I haven't."
"Well, I recommend you go to the Scilly Isles and play Yahtzee while you're there."

She laughs out loud at my suggestion, tells me I'm funny and then returns to her Soduko. I recline, sip on my tin of Adnam's Best Bitter and all is well with the world.

The Great Google Doodle Challenge

A friend once complained, "It so annoys me when Google change their logo for the day." As you will be aware they do this to commemorate certain events or anniversaries. They are called Google Doodles. I can't say it annoys me. In fact, I like how it breaks away from the stringent, corporate rules of most logos.

Today, being a Friday, I had a bit of spare time on my hands so came up with my own Google doodle. It would be to commemorate the creation of the game 'hangman'. And could handily double up as a viral anti-ecstasy campaign.

The 2012 Comedian Handouts Act

A stand-up comedy night in a curry house. I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere.

Post-stand-up comedy night conversations generally go like so:

"How was the comedy night?"
"Brilliant. Some great gags."
"Tell us one then?"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Forgotten them all." 

"Every one?"

"Yep."
"Oh Well. Pint?"
"Pint."

The problem is there's always so many gags that, despite spending most the evening spitting out under-par lager in over-the-top hysterics, one cannot for the life of one remember any of them.

Therefore, comedians should be forced, by law, to present us with handouts of their gags at the end of the show, in order that we can be more entertaining and erudite with our post-stand-up comedy conversations.

Anyway back to tonight and I couldn't resist a heckle:
"Gheesus! My nan could right better jokes than these. If I were you mate I'd make a balti for the door and let the next comedian cumin."

Pinchpenny Adrian

One of my favourite books as a wee young lad was 'Pinchpenny Mouse'. A beautifully illustrated tale of a miserly mouse. He never spent any of his money and would while away his time counting up pennies in his ramshackle home, while all the other mice pissed their money up a wall.

Whenever I'm skint and resort to counting up the pennies – from the ubiquitous penny jar – I always imagine I'm Pinchpenny Mouse. Even at age 41. I also try and make the whole experience a pleasurable one. Candle light, joss sticks, Canadian psychedelic dance rock, tiffin and fresh ginger and lemon tea.

It's 5.44 and the result is now in:

£85.61 

You beauty! 

All I need now is to go find an attractive wall to piss it up.

The Larynx Effect

An afternoon vocal lesson with the muti-talented singer songwriter and all-round diamond sheezer, Bev Lee Harling.

I'm only too aware that my personal musical ethos is not concerned with musical perfection or virtuosic performance. Due perhaps to my lack of natural talent, when it comes to instrumentation (including ones voice), I instead frequent the path of 'what the hell. I'll do it anyway'. What I may lack in talent I try to compensate for with a liberation of the creative soul, be that melodic or mentally insane. At least that's what I'd say if I was being interviewed by Caitlin Foxmonk for 'The Observer Music Magazine'.

But, if Bev can help me sing more like Nelly Furtado then I just reckon the world will be a better place for it.

Weightwatcher Fridays

For the first time in my life I weigh more than my father.

Now, there are two possible conclusions to this statement.

Conclusion 1 – Turn it into a gag 
'He only weighs his oranges but I've started weighing all my fruit and veg.'

Conclusion 2 – Have a serious thought 
I need to think about my diet (cut down on the Tikka Pathias, Co-op tiffin, ale juice etc...) and start taking much more vigorous exercise on a regular basis.

Needless to say I opted for Conclusion 1.

Bass Solos - How Low Can You Go?

Wrote and recorded a bass solo today. I'm not particularly proud of that. The bass guitar should know it's place. Maybe the odd note cascading to the fore once in a while or the occasional nifty riff, but a whole 45 second solo? I'm sure even Sting wouldn't contemplate such behaviour.

Ideally I would have a French Horn for the solo part but French Horn session musicians cost a hell of a lot of Euros. I've only got a £30 budget for the entire album and most of that's already gone on pitta bread and dips.