Author Archives: Idle Eye

Idle Eye 42 : The End of the Affair

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So, how y’all coping then? Spent? Deflated? Blaming the Met Office for the traditional wet patch that came just after? Thought so. And to be fair, it is kind of strange right now if you happen to be a Lahndan resident riding out the aftermath of a cultural event that was, against all odds, rather, er… good, actually. Let’s forget about the bill, Boris and the Bonkers song for a bit (and the right royal slagging I gave ‘em a couple of weeks ago), the London 2012 Olympics (can I say that now, LOGOG?) were quite a hoot, no? And despite not having made it to one single event, I managed to bask in the shared vibe a little and, God forbid, I even allowed a tad of sport to beam through the idiot’s lantern indoors: Now that’s progress.

I’m not going to sound off too hard with football comparisons as I’ve done it elsewhere (as has every columnist in the land, it seems), but I do sincerely hope the overpaid muddied oafs learn a few lessons from the last couple of weeks. Excellence, commitment and humility in both defeat and victory, for example. And when it came to the old in-out in-out, apparently rife in the Village, we were spared the potato-faced Neanderthals grovelling publicly to their equally vile WAGS having been caught in flagrante delicto with a couple of headline-hungry models up to their eyeballs in Class A. No, they did it all with style and it felt okay to be patriotic for the first time since God knows when, I don’t recall.

I even managed to coax young Nibs and his good lady out from his warren for the first time in eons for the closing ceremony thing. Not the one in the stadium, mind, that would have been vulgar beyond language and we would have had to watch Brian May and the Spice Girls being shite. No, we caught Blur, the Specials, New Order and the magnificent Bombay Bicycle Club in the throne contender that was Hyde Park, and they delivered. Admittedly, I was six sheets to the wind on corporate lager (£5 a pop) but sometimes you just have to bin your politics and get on with it. And if anyone cares to question the fact that three out of the four fall neatly under DadRock, I would ask you to just try ‘em and see. The Specials in particular: An inspired choice, reflecting all that is good right now (and then) about multicultural Britain and the perfect musical mirror to what was happening further east. I never thought I’d say this but BT, I salute you.

But now the lights are out and curtains closed as the capital wakes to a new dawn of massive forthcoming rail hikes, euro uncertainty and George Osborne. No, the horrors never went away, kids, they just hid for a bit under the rings: Bummer…

 

Idle Eye 41 : The Face-Off

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Anyone who has ever attempted the dark art of writing to a 500 word count will implicitly understand what a taut organ it has to be. One sentence, a word even, can throw the balance of the piece so completely off-kilter it has to be dramatically re-approached, and punctuation (don’t get me started on punctuation) must ripple through the paragraphs like miniscule unseen roadsigns, steering the reader towards the inevitable. So imagine my dismay when I got the call from Idle HQ after I had mentally constructed an hilarious appraisal of our countryside:

Nibs : I know you’ve already done this, but I’m gonna need a big up on Britain’s Favourite Burger this week. Keeps it fresh in their minds.

Me : But I’m doing the country. It’s a corker, trust me.

Nibs : Fine, do the country by all means but just stick in a few words about the burger thing. Why not say I got a bronze? It’s topical & you can put that in the keywords if LOGOG will let you.

Me : You don’t get it. I can’t just bung in stuff about burgers. It doesn’t work.

Nibs : Well, make it work then. Cows come from the country, right? There, you can have that one on me.

Me : It’s not that simple, bro. You can’t just stick in a few words. Writing this blog isn’t just bunging in stuff about burgers. It’s a craft! I think about how it all fits together for days and when I know it’s right, I get it all down. I wouldn’t tell you how to cook one of your specials, would I? Yeah, just bung in a few bits & bobs from the fridge? Jesus H!!! I have my art and you have yours. Now let me get on with it.

Nibs : Stop being a dick. I just want you to say I came third in the burger competition. Bloody hell, get over yourself!

Me : It compromises the whole thing, man! Every piece I write is linear, right? There’s a start, I piddle about with it in the middle and then go in for the kill at the end. And it works like that every week which is why people like it. The comfort of familiarity via comedy of repetition. It’s a tried and tested formula that you can’t screw about with. So if I suddenly bring in burgers it loses its entire thrust. Something would have to give and there’s no fat to fry.

Nibs : You just said it, right there. No fat to fry! Now stick that in the blog & stop being so bloody precious! Jeez, anyone would think I was employing Coren.

Me : Ok bro, we’ll play it your way, shall we? Not a problem! Right, let’s kick off with the classic urban take on our impoverished rural cousins. Except they’re not, are they? Impoverished, that is. Down in that Chipping Norton they’re all stinking, right? Enjoying BRITAIN’S THIRD FAVOURITE BURGER while Rebekah gets her

Idle Eye 40 : The Shady Side of Forty

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Some of you may have noticed that I got a bit carried away of late, what with that Wimbledon, the Diamond Jubilee and the Olympics. It’s understandable, (I need to vent the ole spleen from time to time), but it’s not exactly what Nibs shells out for on a weekly basis. So, in the interests of fair play, I have decided to big up his little boozer in the style of another cultural phenomenon currently doing the rounds. Strap yourselves in, literature lovers, this week the Eye gets down and dirty with the unspeakable smut known in smart circles as ‘Pubby Porn’ (those of you of a weaker disposition may prefer to click away here):

Innocent Young Barmaid : Oooh, Mr Nibs! I’ve never worked in a pub before. And I’m so young and innocent, maybe you could show me how you pull that massive pump of yours so I can give all of your loyal customers the satisfaction they so rightly deserve.

Nibs : Yes, it is a magnificent beast, to be sure. And I am a masterful landlord, strong, handsome and yet curiously aloof. But just this once I shall assist you in your endeavours after which you’re on your own, love. Now, grasp the shaft with all those tiny, innocent fingers and pull down slowly until all that lovely frothy stuff comes out into the glass.

IYB : Oh my! As a young, innocent woman I can honestly say that your masterful teaching has unleashed my inner goddess. Never have I felt so vulnerable and yet so empowered. And still young and innocent.

Nibs : Hold up, I haven’t shown you how to unload the dishwasher yet.

IYB : Mr Nibs! No-one has ever taken me to such places. It’s making me go all funny down there.

Nibs : Ok, we’ll do the cellar next if you want. Now, we get most of our deliveries in through the rear. Is that something you’re familiar with?

IYB : Well, not exactly, but I’d be more than happy to learn. What with me being so young and innocent, like.

Nibs : Excellent. Most of the staff get the hang of it within a couple of days.

IYB : But I worry so, Mr Nibs! How does it all get inside?

Nibs : Don’t worry your pretty innocent head about that. It’s like the bloody Tardis in there, I should coco.

IYB : Now you mention it, it does all seem to fit in. Just perfectly.

Nibs : Oh, and have I told you about our magnificent burgers? Somehow we’ve managed to squeeze them into the nation’s top five?

IYB : Oh pleeeease! Tell me more! Every time you squeeze a burger a little piece of me melts inside.

Nibs : Think you’ll find that’s the cheese.

IYB : Oh, Mr Nibs, take me now! Hard, rough and up the M40!!!

Nibs : Yes, we need to do a run to Costco, you’re right. Is there anything else you’d like to slip in?

IYB : Sixty Kettle chips and a bag of night-lites?

Nibs : Thanks for coming in.

Idle Eye 39 : The Lon*** 2**2 Ol**pi*s™

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Alright now, that’s enough. ENOUGH! The sinister orgy of branding masquerading as the Lon*** 2**2 Ol**pi*s™ has slapped me in the face one too many times and I have just hit my Michael Douglas in Falling Down moment. I tried to be good, I really did. Over the past few months I have learned to shore up my chakras when it came to vile mascots We**ock™ and Ma***ville™, to shrug off the utter chaos on the roads, to smile encouragingly at hapless joggers bouncing their way towards an early grave, even casting an inquisitive glance at the bizarre structures rising up around the Mall and St James’ Park which I pass every day. The risible logo no longer reminds me of Lisa Simpson giving head and I drew some not inconsiderable mirth from the G4S fiasco. All in all I have been coping pretty well. Thanks for asking.

However, (and here’s the rub), I draw a line at ‘restricted words’. Actually, screw it, I draw a line at the insane paranoia the big four ****ors™ have created, protecting their already saturated global coverage from small butchers shops in Dorset that presumed to arrange a string of sausages in the shape of the Ol**pi*c™ ri*gs™. And when it comes to the biggest of the lot, M*Dona**s™, you have to ask yourselves what exactly they so badly need protection from. It sure ain’t the public, because around every corner you turn, there invariably lurks a statistically obese brand fan squelching down on yet another B*g™ Ma*™ in flagrant denial of their forthcoming trip to the nearest NHS ticker unit. Perhaps, just perhaps, the brutal truth lies somewhere in the exclusion of competition:

If we just get rid of all the other players, maybe the gullible public will actually think our burgers are halfway decent. Because, God forbid, if they cottoned onto the fact that there are thousands of less corporate ways of enjoying wholesome food, (Mondays at the Idle Hour, for instance) they might, actually, stop buying ours. And we can’t have that.

The Lon*** 2**2 Ol**pi*cs™ will be ring-fenced alright, but not to keep out the suicide bombers, the ‘quiet loners’, the snipers, the deranged clerics or Black September. Not this time. Neither will it give much credence to the athletes who will have waited all their lives for those glorious few seconds of competition. Oh no. These gam*s™ are all about keeping the suits happy at the not inconsiderable expense of the general public. And no amount of monocular furry mascots can detract from that. Yes, it would be wonderful to have a level playing field where we could all choose what we ate and drank as we cheered on our respective nations. But dream on, my friends, dream on. And welcome to Britain, 2**2™…

Idle Eye 38 : The Treat You Can Eat Between Meals

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I have an old school chum, Dicky Woollard, who used to be a crisp wunderkind. He was the man behind all those flavours that, once they hit your tongue, you would instinctively purr ‘Oooh! Sausage and Beans!’ to a select tasting committee responsible for sourcing and funding exciting new avenues in the potato chip arena. This he achieved by pioneering an extraordinarily cost-effective method of seasoning the naked crisp as it emerged from the frier, gasping and pathetically porous, by squirting it with a powerful concentrate that clung to its quarry like a Murdoch to News International. This did away with the necessity to enhance pre-dunk, which unfortunately nuked off many of those MSGs so vital to one’s cognitive responses, and thereby required quantity to Dicky’s quality. In short, he was the Thomas Edison of snacks and, to my mind, one of the unsung culinary heroes of our time.

There’s not much not to like about the humble crisp. For starters, there’s very little actual substance in a bag of ‘em, truly making it the treat you can eat between meals. Furthermore, never before in the history of food has simplicity been made so ruthlessly efficient. Within seconds you can be enjoying a full English breakfast, a Thai jungle curry or an exotic hint of the Orient, all of which have been made possible by a swollen tuber that spends the best part of its useful months underground. A bit like Rocky 2 without the violence or monosyllabic dialogue.

Publicans have long courted the allure of our coated cousins because a), they cost next to nothing and b), the salt count is so astronomically high that it is not physically possible not to order more drinks after a bag or two. Inexpensive business acumen, just ask Nibs. And whilst they face fierce competition from the likes of the nut and, new kid on the block, the savory popcorn, these babies have stood the test of time and have no intention whatsoever of being consigned to the dustbin of yesteryear. Find me a boozer that shuns the crisp and I will show you a liar.

Anyway, I think we’re missing a trick here, and by this I do not mean to tinker in any way with the Godlike precedent set by young Dicky back in the day. No siree. It’s just, well, it’s just the bloody names, innit? If we are living through a time in which a potato can become pretty much anything you like, why draw a halt at cheese and onion or BBQ beef? Dare to be different, people! Let’s have Despair flavour. Naïve Optimism flavour. Kierkegaard’n’Chive. Taxplan’n’Tuna. Or how about New Olympic flavour (as used by Chris Hoy) in an empty packet? See? Teen Spirit. Hospital Corners. John Prescott Scratchings. There are no boundaries other than the walls of your imagination. Now, do your bit: I look forward to further suggestions in the comments section…

Idle Eye 37 : The Climbdown

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It takes a brave man to admit he is wrong in these litigious times, but tonight I must be that brave man. Ok, I was wrong about Murray. Despite last posts’ right royal slagging, the boy put in a performance worthy of my humiliation, and despite being Scotch and ginger and bad-tempered and obscenely young, I have to admit I warmed to our great pretender, particularly at the end there when he did that blubbing thing for the telly. No kidding, I was welling up myself, my eyes filling with national pride as my heart burst. True, I had consumed three Babychams (in original glass) which I had been saving for occasions such as this, but the emotions were bona fide. Yes, they were.

I do, however, have a couple of reservations. Of course I do: It’s what I get paid for. The first being that Boris Becker on commentary. We forgave him back in the day for being the kind of boy you would have enjoyed bullying at school if you enjoyed bullying boys at school because he was quite good at hitting the balls. However, if it were me talking about other boys hitting the balls out of the school environment and actually on live television at one of the most prestigious sporting events of the year, I may well have avoided the Arnie impersonations. Just a thought, Boris. When you are catching your breath following those mesmerising dropshots conjured up from nowhere at championship point, the last thing you need is the aural equivalent of HASTA LA VISTA BABY coming atcha through surround-sound speakers or YOU SON OF A BITCH at each contested line call. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my reportage marinaded in barley water. As I say, just a thought.

Secondly, and possibly more disturbingly, I need to express some concern here as to the mental health of my brother. I had been made aware that he was holding a Wimbledon Retro party at the Idle Hour on Sunday which involved dressing up, boozing and unremitting carousal. No change there then. I almost consigned this to the dustbin of history until I discovered that he compered this apparently splendid evening DRESSED AS VENUS WILLIAMS. Not Andy Williams, which I would have considered the more appropriate approach despite Andy’s continued failure to dent the world of tennis. Not Andy, not Robbie, not Tennessee (although this I would have paid good money to see) and not RM. No, my brother, my own flesh and blood, in his infinite wisdom decided to host his big event attempting to mimic a strapping Amazonian American lady who could eat him whole before a game and has probably never heard of the Black and White Minstrel Show. What could possibly go wrong? Astonishingly nothing did, and the pub did record business for a Wimbledon final. We’ve come a long way, baby.

That’s it. You’ve had your pound of flesh, now move on please: Nothing more to read here…

Idle Eye 36 : The Certainty of Chance

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I know what’s going on. I think I’ve figured it out now. But before I let you in on it, I need to get you up to speed. It’s not going to be a plain sail, so strap yourselves in and let the ole grey matter do the rest. Oh, and feel free to bail out any time you like: I would if I were you.

Ok, let’s start by examining the shape of the world and how we all got to where we are now. Nice easy one to kick off with. Now, according to the laws of chaos, the state of being is seismically affected by and sensitive to its inaugural conditions. In essence, this means that the most miniscule of deviations from an initial source can and does result in monumental disparity at the other end. This becomes increasingly dramatic over a longer passage of time, suggesting that it is almost impossible for a single entity to reproduce itself exactly at any point on the arc of our complex evolution. The chance ratio is mind-boggling, akin to attempting to compute the speed of time or the distances between planets.

There are, however, two notable exceptions to the above. They fly in the face of science, mock the concept of religious zeal and defy all laws of logic. I am, of course, referring to England’s dogged refusal to win at the football or the tennis. EVERY BLOODY TIME! It is utterly exhausting in its sheer inevitability, the outcome of which has no bearing whatsoever on the relative strength of the opposition. We could be playing against eleven veteran garden gnomes, all gaffer-taped together and drenched in baby oil and still suffer humiliating defeat. Perhaps Tim, or Andy, or whoever the next hapless ball-basher we adopt happens to be, invigorated by an adoring mass on the mound and the prospect of washing powder sponsorship, will tease us all the way to the quarter-finals, where he will splay himself over the court in a orgy of grunting, farting and swearing. And lose, quickly, in the grand tradition of his esteemed forebears.

And if all of this isn’t enough, the managers/trainers/players get endlessly wheeled out to dissect every pitiful performance on Sky Sports and the like, thereby justifying their monstrous fees and keeping us glued to the lantern in the fervent hope that ‘we’ shall learn from our mistakes. Which can never happen, right? Because, as we learned earlier, it is impossible. That one flap of the butterfly’s wing could alter history, forever. And we can’t have that. The quiet comfort we have embraced as a nation hangs on the certainty that, come Hell or high water, come rain or shine, we will always be bollocks at football and tennis. Or, as the ad-folk would put it, ‘reassuringly disappointing’.

So then, one down, one to go. Any guesses?

Idle Eye 35 : The Language Lab

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I have a Spanish chum who, bizarrely, is using this ‘ere blog to teach herself the idiosyncrasies of English, both written and spoken. Yes, I know, I know. But in a few short weeks she will take an exam, after which she will be expected to be able to brush up her Shakespeare whilst talking down and dirty at her local hostelry. A tall order if ever I heard one. So, in the interests of pan-European conviviality, I thought it might be a bit of fun to deconstruct last weeks’ post, pile of steaming turd that it was, using the vagaries of our mother tongue as we go and thereby completing two tasks for the price of one. Soraya, this one’s for you:

Firstly & foremost, the brief I have to fulfill every week is this: Write approximately 500 words that engage the reader using whatever skills I have to hand. Keep it light, preferably funny, preferably topical, but no matter what, shoehorn The Idle Hour into the piece at some point. Inevitably this happens, but, to be honest, there’s only a certain amount you can say every seven days without getting, well, a bit samey. Consequently I am forced to rely on my admittedly magnificent sense of the absurd. Let’s look at last week:

It’s the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. Every writer/columnist/talking head in every paper/blog/satire vehicle has already said what I was already thinking so I had to come up with an alternative, one which fitted my suffocating outline for which I am receiving remuneration. So I settled for Michael Ryan, the bloke who broke into HRH’s bedroom in the ’80’s, a cheap but quick fix in the face of the actual insanity going on around me in real time. Now, all I had to do was tie that in with Nib’s slick operation round Barnes way and Bob’s your uncle. Except…

Well, look at it. It’s a bag of spanners, no? For starters, my handle on the Queens’ English is at best contrived, and at worst, feeble. Weak jokes based on the received knowledge that she says ‘one’ every five minutes, has no grasp of the entertainment put on in her honour, and a rather unpalatable presumption that she conforms to a class stereotype. And let’s take a closer look at how I managed that contractual obligation:

After a series of ‘Carry On’ capers, Her Maj makes an implausible quantum leap with the assumption that Nibs is there behind the curtain. Why? Utter, utter crap, for which I apologise. To you, to HM, to Nibs, to the Idle Hour and all who work within an establishment that has strived tirelessly to provide a service to which I have not done adequate justice. And lastly to Soraya. You must feel discombobulated. But please don’t think me floccinaucinihilipilificatious, for the last thing I want is for you to develop hippopotomonstrosequipeddaliophobia, that being the nadir of all lingual dexterity. And do let us know how you get on…

Idle Eye 34 : The Rough Diamond

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So I broke into the Palace
With a sponge and a rusty spanner
She said ‘Eh, I know you and you cannot sing’
I said ‘That’s nothing
You should hear me play piano’

The Smiths, 1986

 

Her Maj:   One is ready for bed. Are we all locked in?

Security:  We certainly are, Ma’am. Will there be anything else?

Her Maj:   Neo, not today. Has that ghastly racket stopped yet?

Security:  Not for a while, I’m afraid. Some of them are playing from the roof, apparently.

Her Maj:   What a frightful bore. Don’t they have homes to go to?

Security:  Most of them do, Ma’am, but not as good as yours.

Her Maj :  No, of course not. Run along then, quickly now.

Security:  G’night, Ma’am.

Her Maj:   Yes, yes! (shuts door, slips into Liberty-print nightie and turns on radio)

‘…and what a glittering spectacle of an evening it has been. A firmament of stars, raising their voices in unison to celebrate the Queen’s 60 years of unwavering devotion to her nation…’

Her Maj:  Balls! Wretched little man. Hasn’t got a clue.

‘…as the Palace is transformed into an everyday street with a magnificent light show, and Madness perform ‘Our House’ from the rooftops. Incredible!’

Her Maj:  And what, pray, is the point of that? If one wanted to live in a street, one would bloody well have bought one.

(switches off radio. there is a cough from behind the curtain)

Is that you, Philip? I’m afraid the singers are still on, dear, you’ll have to go back to the Edward VII. Tell them your pee’s red again.

(another cough)

Who’s there? Come on out, damn you!

(silence)

Nuy look here! One is getting a little fed up with this nonsense. Are you one of those oiks from the roof? If so, you can get your Cor Blimey trousers on and scram. There’s nothing for you here. Nothing, one tells you.

(silence)

It’s not you, is it, Michael? I’m afraid there’s no wine left after the last time and we sent your shoes back in 1984. And all that grubbing about in the papers, really! I thought we had an agreement?

(silence)

Are you from the Idle Hour? Well, are you? Now listen, the jubilee burgers were perfectly adequate and we settled the bill in full. We’d be grateful if you would consider seating us away from the traps next time and perhaps we just might tip more substantially. Is that what this is about? Come on, Mr Nibs, show yourself, man!

(moves closer to the curtain and throws it back to reveal….)

Her Maj:   Elton!!!

Sir Elton:  It’s Sir Elton, Ma’am. Remember?

Her Maj:   Wawrt are you doing here?

Sir Elton:   I’m just teaching that Morrissey a lesson. Think he’ll find not only can I sing but also tickle them ivories a treat. And where’s he for your big day then?

Her Maj:   Isn’t he on the roof?

Sir Elton:  That’s Madness, Ma’am.

Her Maj:   Not arf!

(drum roll)

Idle Eye 33 : The Turgid Miasma of Existence

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The eagle-eyed reader may have spotted that I’ve been off-piste of late. The only plausible explanation I can offer as an apology is that I have been suffering from what I like to think of as the turgid miasma of existence, and what everyone else refers to as everyday life. This somewhat disturbing development was almost certainly the result of a self-imposed complete alcohol ban on school nights, the oral equivalent of Michael Schumacher slamming on the handbrake in the last lap of the Monaco Grand Prix. For those of you who haven’t tried it yet (there must be a couple of you, own up), let me tell you this: It’s not great, and if you can bear with me as I reluctantly come to terms with the appalling lucidity I am currently experiencing, I shall attempt to tell you why.

The body is a delicate bit of kit. It’s also a bit dim, despite what you may have read in weightier tomes than this. From cradle to the grave it reacts to the various stimuli we hurl at it throughout the duration, but not all that quickly. So, when we bung in that first bottle of cider consumed in a field somewhere at the age of eleven, it rather smartly puts its foot down. So we try again with Captain Morgan and his chums, smiling enticingly at us from his Trinidadian retreat, only to regurgitate them all as quickly as they went in. And so the pattern continues until, eventually, it goes ‘Oh, I see what you’re trying to do here’ and concedes that this could actually be a bit of a laugh.

Education being the key, we continue to train the bag of bones we carry around with us for many, many years to come, as did Pavlov and his half-witted dog, until we come through the cloud layer and reach a perfect plateau of contentment, usually in ones’ mid-30’s. It takes a while but we get there in the end. Now, just imagine for one moment the seismic shock to the system if this process is suddenly reversed, and at a time when the body is getting its metaphorical slippers’n’pipe combo sorted. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Exactly. Feel my pain.

So go on then, enjoy yourselves, why don’t you? Help Her Maj get through her big day by necking the good stuff until you can’t fit in no more, safe in the knowledge that the alternative is far, far worse. And for those of you down at the Idle Hour party this Saturday, watching them saucy singers Verity and Violet shaking their stuff and manhandling a massive pint of Nibs’s speciality Pimms, spare a thought for one less fortunate. A once good man trapped in the turgid miasma of his own existence, doing combat with his insubordinate innards with a glass of tap water and a stale bun. God bless you, Ma’am!