What a week. Most of the known world is undergoing catastrophic economic collapse; you know its bad when the Daily Mail is advising people to shop in Aldi, or to forage for autumn nuts and seeds and seasonal fungi. Well, I've had better things to do than worry about this global financial meltdown, frankly. For a start, last weekend I had a wedding to celebrate, in distant North Wales.
The long drive was enlivened by a handful of classic daft rural place names – Feltup Butler was one, Beeples Barton another – and, once Offa's Dyke had been successfully traversed, Welsh road signs helped the miles roll by. For example, I now know that 'Araf!' means 'slow', 'Gwasanaethau' is a motorway service station, and – pleasingly – 'Alan' is Welsh for 'Car Park'. The wedding itself starred two old friends of mine from university days. It was sumptuous and very jolly. Almost all of my friends from that era now have young children; in many ways I feel they now view me as just another errant child to be looked after, which is quite nice. The actual children generally remain too young to appreciate the importance of a solid forward-defensive, which is where I am hoping Uncle Spim will one day come into his own. Instead, I made it my mission to teach advanced combat techniques to as many of them as possible. This backfired, though, when one of the little blighters administered first an accurate volley of pine cones, then a bone-jarring rugby tackle, and finally a perfectly executed People's Elbow to the sternum.
Things got nasty while waiting for the canapés
The next day I returned to the wedding venue – an impressive Georgian mansion – to do a spot of birding in the extensive grounds. Please don't judge me. Without going into too much detail it was a success, with the pick of the avifauna being a Lesser Spotted Woodpecker. These are tricky little fuckers to see at the best of times, and I've tried and failed on a number of previous occasions. The most recent attempt took place a few months ago, when I went for a romantic Sunday afternoon stroll with a friend to a little patch of woodland near my house which, when I was a lad, was reputed to hold a pair. As we wandered further into the sun-dappled copse, it soon became apparent that I'd accidentally taken this poor girl into a surprisingly well-populated gay dogging area.
We saw no woodpeckers.
Undaunted, a few weeks later I thought I'd bring out the big guns and take her batting. No, not a trip to the local cricket nets, but a stroll around a nearby park at sunset with my trusty bat detector – a treat indeed. The first sign that events were drifting out of my control was the appearance of a police helicopter, which hovered into view just before dusk; rather than zooming away, it, err, followed us. Next, a police car pulled up. The copper inside told me that we had to leave, immediately. Why? Because an escaped convict was on the loose and he was hiding out in the park somewhere. You couldn't make it up.
No wonder I'm single.
This week's celebrity spots
Just the two, and both are utterly feeble - first, Grange Hill and The Bill's René Zagger yet again, this time getting on the tube at Leytonstone. Zagger has remarkably hairy hands. Too much wanking, I'd say. And secondly, Martin Fowler's stalker from Eastenders in HMV Oxford Street, looking crumpled. To actually recognise this obscure woman is both a blessing and a curse.
Not up to scratch, I know. Even regular correspondent Julie from Leighton Buzzard has struggled a bit this week, with a sighting in Soho Square of 'that bloke who used to be in This Life' failing to cut the celebrity mustard. However, Julie rallied strongly with another sighting of Lenny Henry on friday, successfully fighting off the attentions of one of the charity muggers that carpet the streets of Soho. To be fair, Henry really has done his bit for charity over the years. Certainly enough to quite legitimately tell one of these irritating twats to fuck off. And there's more; Cornish Julie has chipped in to report Mrs Henry herself, Dawn French, stroking her dog (which had apparently just rolled in something nasty) in a field in rural east Cornwall a little while back. However, the garlands of victory this week go to Kieren from Bristol. Kieren was visiting the lighthouse at Start Point, Devon, when he and his wife were surprised to find 'Red' Ken Livingstone admiring the sea views beside them. Livingstone was wearing what appeared to be some sort of dog collar underneath a tweed jacket.
Livingstone: shafted by New Labour again.
Recommendations
Its too early to really recognise anything more than underlying trends for the season to come, but isn't the Premiership table joyful at the moment? Hull City are soaring and pulled off the result of the decade in beating Arsenal at The Emirates, Stoke and West Brom are holding their own, while Tottenham are lucky to be as high as 20th, so weak have they been thus far. You had to laugh when they sold three of the best strikers in the league – Keane, Defoe and Berbatov – but hung onto the hopelessly average yet breathtakingly overpriced Darren Bent. And now they're wondering why they don't score any goals, and why they keep losing. Joining them in the basement are Newcastle, now a genuine laughing stock, who really are deep in the shit. Join me in making merry at the geordies' discomfort and pile onto the extremely generous 4/1 offered by Totesport for the Magpies to be doomed to life in the second tier come May.
The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry to win the Man Booker prize (3/1, Paddy Power). Turgid, clunking and difficult to read – judging panels love this sort of trash. Disgracefully, The Birds of Essex didn't make this year's longlist.
Try A Place to Bury Strangers. A bit like The Cure, a bit like AC/DC, if you can imagine that.
The long drive was enlivened by a handful of classic daft rural place names – Feltup Butler was one, Beeples Barton another – and, once Offa's Dyke had been successfully traversed, Welsh road signs helped the miles roll by. For example, I now know that 'Araf!' means 'slow', 'Gwasanaethau' is a motorway service station, and – pleasingly – 'Alan' is Welsh for 'Car Park'. The wedding itself starred two old friends of mine from university days. It was sumptuous and very jolly. Almost all of my friends from that era now have young children; in many ways I feel they now view me as just another errant child to be looked after, which is quite nice. The actual children generally remain too young to appreciate the importance of a solid forward-defensive, which is where I am hoping Uncle Spim will one day come into his own. Instead, I made it my mission to teach advanced combat techniques to as many of them as possible. This backfired, though, when one of the little blighters administered first an accurate volley of pine cones, then a bone-jarring rugby tackle, and finally a perfectly executed People's Elbow to the sternum.
Things got nasty while waiting for the canapés
The next day I returned to the wedding venue – an impressive Georgian mansion – to do a spot of birding in the extensive grounds. Please don't judge me. Without going into too much detail it was a success, with the pick of the avifauna being a Lesser Spotted Woodpecker. These are tricky little fuckers to see at the best of times, and I've tried and failed on a number of previous occasions. The most recent attempt took place a few months ago, when I went for a romantic Sunday afternoon stroll with a friend to a little patch of woodland near my house which, when I was a lad, was reputed to hold a pair. As we wandered further into the sun-dappled copse, it soon became apparent that I'd accidentally taken this poor girl into a surprisingly well-populated gay dogging area.
We saw no woodpeckers.
Undaunted, a few weeks later I thought I'd bring out the big guns and take her batting. No, not a trip to the local cricket nets, but a stroll around a nearby park at sunset with my trusty bat detector – a treat indeed. The first sign that events were drifting out of my control was the appearance of a police helicopter, which hovered into view just before dusk; rather than zooming away, it, err, followed us. Next, a police car pulled up. The copper inside told me that we had to leave, immediately. Why? Because an escaped convict was on the loose and he was hiding out in the park somewhere. You couldn't make it up.
No wonder I'm single.
This week's celebrity spots
Just the two, and both are utterly feeble - first, Grange Hill and The Bill's René Zagger yet again, this time getting on the tube at Leytonstone. Zagger has remarkably hairy hands. Too much wanking, I'd say. And secondly, Martin Fowler's stalker from Eastenders in HMV Oxford Street, looking crumpled. To actually recognise this obscure woman is both a blessing and a curse.
Not up to scratch, I know. Even regular correspondent Julie from Leighton Buzzard has struggled a bit this week, with a sighting in Soho Square of 'that bloke who used to be in This Life' failing to cut the celebrity mustard. However, Julie rallied strongly with another sighting of Lenny Henry on friday, successfully fighting off the attentions of one of the charity muggers that carpet the streets of Soho. To be fair, Henry really has done his bit for charity over the years. Certainly enough to quite legitimately tell one of these irritating twats to fuck off. And there's more; Cornish Julie has chipped in to report Mrs Henry herself, Dawn French, stroking her dog (which had apparently just rolled in something nasty) in a field in rural east Cornwall a little while back. However, the garlands of victory this week go to Kieren from Bristol. Kieren was visiting the lighthouse at Start Point, Devon, when he and his wife were surprised to find 'Red' Ken Livingstone admiring the sea views beside them. Livingstone was wearing what appeared to be some sort of dog collar underneath a tweed jacket.
Livingstone: shafted by New Labour again.
Recommendations
Its too early to really recognise anything more than underlying trends for the season to come, but isn't the Premiership table joyful at the moment? Hull City are soaring and pulled off the result of the decade in beating Arsenal at The Emirates, Stoke and West Brom are holding their own, while Tottenham are lucky to be as high as 20th, so weak have they been thus far. You had to laugh when they sold three of the best strikers in the league – Keane, Defoe and Berbatov – but hung onto the hopelessly average yet breathtakingly overpriced Darren Bent. And now they're wondering why they don't score any goals, and why they keep losing. Joining them in the basement are Newcastle, now a genuine laughing stock, who really are deep in the shit. Join me in making merry at the geordies' discomfort and pile onto the extremely generous 4/1 offered by Totesport for the Magpies to be doomed to life in the second tier come May.
The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry to win the Man Booker prize (3/1, Paddy Power). Turgid, clunking and difficult to read – judging panels love this sort of trash. Disgracefully, The Birds of Essex didn't make this year's longlist.
Try A Place to Bury Strangers. A bit like The Cure, a bit like AC/DC, if you can imagine that.
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