Tag Archives: Stephen Thorp

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!

Idle Eye 32 : The Right Royal Charley Horses

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Oh God, it’s happening. It’s the beginning of the end, and coming at me faster than Usain Bolts’ departure from the Virgin Media ads. With every week that passes, a new and unfamiliar ailment jumps to the head of the queue and blots out the severity of the previous, leaving precious little time to acclimatise or, dare I say it, learn the niceties of co-existence. Here, have a taste:

First it’s the kidneys, kicking off at the rigorous programme I’ve been putting them through of late and behaving like the Greece of the lower back. Then it’s the gums, truculent and bloody, demanding I treat them to a darn good sonic seeing-to with a new brush that cost more than my bicycle did in 1977. Next up it’s the calf muscles, miserable cowards that they are, waking me up regularly at stupid’o’clock with a muscle spasm known to our friends over the pond as Charley Horse. CHARLEY HORSE? It’s cramp, for Christ’s sake, not the Campdown Races. And if all these weren’t enough, the ears now want in on the act. Yep, just to spice things up a little they’ve chucked in a dose of tinnitus for good measure. So now my entire conscious world is soundtracked to the exact same monotonous whine that accompanied the test card when the fat controllers wanted you to go to bed.

But one has to be fatalistic, no? The alternative is a slow morph into Mrs Brady Old Lady, bemoaning every malady to a captive Saturday morning Post Office queue that understandably only wishes a few more on her. So instead, let’s think of it this way: Someone up there does not want me to be an Olympian, that’s clear, and this brutal truth frees me up to be a magnificent spectator. Now I can enjoy the success of others vicariously from the comfort of a hostelry of choice, without all that unpleasant sweating and grunting. This ain’t no handicap, folks, this is an open door. When the great unwashed are jostling for position along the Mall to cop a glance at her maj, I shall be enjoying the easy access lavatories on ground level at the Idle Hour, a pint of Harveys in one hand and a festive menu in the other. And, as the Thames Pageant glides down the Thames in all its splendour, I’ll be hearing all about it, third hand, from some bloke who once met that other bloke who broke into the Queens bedroom for a right royal chat. Top geezer, apparently.

So my advice, for what it’s worth, is this: We’re all a bit broken, can’t change that, but don’t let that put you off. Celebrate the flaws, and if you so happen to be an SW13 resident, watch this space for further Royal/Olympic updates to your favourite local. Nibs told me to put them in here but I’m blowed if I can remember what they are…

Idle Eye 31 : The Third Best of All Possible Burgers

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I know what you’re thinking: He’s slipped a day, either Bank Holiday excess or Morris dancing. Well, this time it’s neither, and I refer the discerning reader to last weeks entry for clues. Yes, my good ole ISP surpassed itself this weekend, giving me speeds of 0.01mb/s which rendered the internet unusable for the duration. So, let’s waste no more time & get on with the naming & shaming. It’s Virgin Media. That’s VIRGIN MEDIA. Please, if you’re out there & can help yet another screwed-over punter, pop your advice in the comments section (including ultra-violent stuff, don’t spare the rod) and I will buy you a beer. I mean it. Rant over.

Deep breath…

Now, as some of you may already know, Nibs’s award-winning burgers won another award last week. EBLEX, or, to the acronym-phobic the English Beef and Lamb Executive, dole out annual gongs to anyone with the balls to compete against the mighty purveyors of sport-inducing fast food. It is a fiercely contested event with several thousand entries but once again the IH (sorry, Idle Hour) knocked them all into a cocked hat. All but two, that is. So that’s a big bronze for SW13 (South West Thirteen) and diddly squit for the rest of London. Telling, seeing as we are swamped with sleb chefs and the like, and all the more weird for you to have this news delivered by a vegetarian. Them’s the breaks.

I did have visions of being invited (in a reportage capacity, natch) to an opulent, velvet-lined ceremony, a sort of low-rent Oscars perhaps, somewhere in Piccadilly where penguin men and their peacock other halves would chat sotto voce about the state of farming in the UK and the latest must-have ingredient that’s simply divine. I saw Nibs shaking hands with Wossy and, after a short, heartfelt speech during which he fought unsuccessfully to choke back tears, he clasped a 3x actual-size engraved bronze hamburger to his chest with one hand and punched the sky with the other. All to rapturous applause and a 1970’s sound library string section. And as he made his way through the crowd to the bosom of his loved ones, Terry Wogan took the mic from Jonathan and made a shit joke about cows, methane and the third best of all possible burgers. Like he would.

Sadly, this star-spangled fantasy was exactly that. I never got to wear the suit, to weep in the aisles, to shoulder up vicariously to the movers and shakers in the world of burgers. However, as I shimmied into IH Barnes on Sunday with a group of friends clearly impressed by the Bloody Marys, I did feel the need to point out a certain certificate, resplendent in its faux-mahogany frame, and bask in an element of reflected glory. Life is a cabaret, old chum. And I love a cabaret.

Idle Eye 30 : The Olden Days

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Hard though it may be to believe as you plough your way through the weekly helping of cattle’s business in front of you now, but on the odd occasion I need to indulge in a spot of research. This is usually achieved with a decanter of ‘2 for £10’ industrial-strength red (min 13.5%, Old World), and a go on my massive ‘style over content’ computer which helps me access topical websites, news stories and films. Ahem. However, the last few weeks have seen my super-speedy 30MB broadband service shrivel to a Coalition-stylee standstill and it has remained thus ever since.

Not being made of the sterner stuff mandatory for a Customer Services face-off, I decided to go the Help & Support Forum route, traditionally populated by angry, semi-literate Neanderthals that use emoticons and swear a lot. Which it was. Only this time they were joined by a teeming throng of bitter, desperate regular folk caught in a quagmire of corporate indifference, their cries disparate but the crux being the same: GET ME OUT OF HERE! Not a good sign. Page after page of anguish read like an online script of Hieronymus Bosch’s Hell and I was right there at the top: Hell’s Hell.

Pessimistically, I posted a newbie complaint and shortly I was visited by Stevetaylor and DannyB01, lamenting my predicament whilst nurturing their own. And as I basked in self-pity I watched it demoted from prime position as even newer sufferers were added. Within minutes I had become a veteran, like Christopher Lee at the end of Taste the Blood of Dracula. Old ladies, students, even web professionals were getting sucked down into the vortex in real time. What chance did I have? Would I ever see iPlayer again? Or even an email? Religion suddenly became a viable concern as all hope slipped away.

And then I thought of Nibs, as one does in a crisis. He is the Elite Republican Guard evangelist of failed services: Dropped a delivery? SEE YOU IN COURT! Shabby marketing? SEE YOU IN COURT! Thread count a bit low on them T-shirts? SEE YOU IN COURT! NO-ONE SCREWS WITH ME!!! SEE YOU IN COURT! AND I WILL WIN!!! I kid you not, this is his mantra and it works. Because now this is what you have to become in order to get what was standard in the Olden Days. Remember them? The Olden Days? When we didn’t have Customer Services because it just happened off the bat, without question? When a little man in overalls would turn up and fix the internet after a cup of builders tea and you’d pop a couple of bob into his top pocket after? Of course you don’t. Because that particular nirvana has been systematically eroded from our consciousness, leaving only the flotsam and jetsam of crud in its wake. So don’t ask me how I managed to post this. Please don’t. Or I’ll see you in court.

Idle Eye 29 : The Step

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Health and Safety fans out there will no doubt be amused by the latest HSE initiative to quell ‘ridiculous’ rumours that have abounded for years, such as the magnificent trapeze artists to wear hard hats and office workers banned from putting up Christmas decorations malarkey. It’s enticingly labelled the Myth Busters Challenge Panel, it’s chaired by the enticingly labelled Judith Hackitt and sets out to put a bit of common sense back into the workplace so we can all get on with our lives. Safely. And healthily. Unfortunately, when you log onto the panel there are no satisfying howlers for us all to giggle at round the water cooler, no siree. There’s just a brutal grey block with gaping text fields nagging us for information: What is the issue? Who advised you of this? Have you raised this directly with the person? What was the outcome? Subtext: YOU’RE NOT GOING TO WIN THIS, BEDWETTER! WE WILL GRIND YOU DOWN WITH HIDEOUS MUNICIPAL ADMIN UNTIL YOU SUBMIT NOTHING! BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE: NOTHING!!!

Now, I don’t know about you but if I’m going to dob in a jobsworth I’d like to to it with a little more panache. Some rich text formatting, perhaps? Or a background template image of Hunter S Thompson straddling the American desert in an enormous convertible ripped to the tits and toting a Magnum. It only seems fair: They made the mistake, now meet us on our terms.

In an attempt to illustrate the above point further I made a swift call to Nibs, hot off the plane from Dubai as is his wont. All Idle Hour staff, I’m told, have to fill in a form stating they are aware of the step leading into the garden, and that they are able and willing to climb all three inches of it and also descend should they so wish. That they acknowledge the inherent dangers thereof and are prepared to sign a disclaimer lest any accident pertaining to the above should occur. It does strike me, however, that if said staff are unable to negotiate a step no higher than two Mars bars making out, perhaps they should consider an alternative career path, the Hillary-esque hazards of hospitality potentially being the very thing Ms Hackitt is so keen to dispel. Who’d have thunk it?

My particular favourite is surely one on the MBCP hitlist if indeed it were true: The Bodleian Library Oxford, for centuries the hub of literary excellence, has always relied on its pointy ladders to access and distribute those out-of-reach tomes. Until now. Gone are those exquisitely-crafted relics of yesteryear, replaced by motorised cherry pickers which zip in and out of the ancient shelves, making a mockery of common sense and human initiative. So come on, Ms Hackitt: Give us a form we can use that goes even half-way to express our disgust at your systematic annihilation of our heritage. And we’ll get in staff who get the step…

Idle Eye 28 : The Sting

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Mrs Sting : Is that the Idle Hour?

Barstaff : It certainly is. How can I help?

Mrs Sting : It’s Mrs Sting here. You know, the other half.

Barstaff : Hello Mrs Sting. Would you like to book a table?

Mrs Sting : No, not exactly. But I could use your help. It’s a somewhat delicate matter.

Barstaff : It’s not the, er, tantric business again, is it?

Mrs Sting : I’m afraid it is. And he’s getting worse. I haven’t slept in over a week and I was rather hoping you could recommend something to dampen his ardour, so to speak.

Barstaff : Of course. Well, the organic chicken thighs washed down with one of our biodynamic reds should do the trick. Mr & Mrs Meatloaf were in over Bank Holiday and they had to be airlifted home afterwards.

Mrs Sting : I don’t think so. Any mention of thighs and he’ll be at it like a rat up a drainpipe. No, I was thinking of something a little more sedative perhaps?

Barstaff : How about our Stroh 80% volume Austrian rum? Pop a couple of shots in his coffee when he’s out pointing Percy and he won’t be bothering you for quite some time, I should coco.

Mrs Sting : Been there. He bought a case back after the last European tour and whipped through it like lemonade. Gave a whole new meaning to Viennese Whirl, mind.

Barstaff : Hmmm, difficult one. How’s the book going, by the way?

Mrs Sting : That’s precisely the problem! I don’t have five seconds to myself anymore. The minute I sit down at the computer he gets all hot under the collar and chases me round the mansion like in The Secretary. I’m only on the preface and I’m exhausted already.

Barstaff : Can I make another suggestion?

Mrs Sting : Please do. I’m at my wits end.

Barstaff : It’s a long shot but it might have legs. I’ve been working here for a while now and when we get stragglers at the end of a shift, Nibs hops onto the acoustic and anaesthetises them with his astonishing rendition of ‘Wonderwall’. Works every time, trust me.

Mrs Sting : Perfect! I’ll get the chopper out.

Barstaff : Isn’t that what we’re trying to avoid, Mrs Sting?

Mrs Sting : No, I mean I’ll bring him over tonight. Book me a table for two by the traps.

Barstaff : Slight problem. Mr & Mrs Bono have already reserved the traps table. Popular one with the Live Aid lot, it seems.

Mrs Sting : Listen, I want that table. Do what you have to, ok? If it helps, I’ll do a book reading in your bloody pub when I’ve done it. Got that? Good. And clear a space in the garden for the chopper. I mean, the helicopter.

Mrs Sting will be reading excerpts from her frank autobiography ‘One Swallow Does Not a Sumner Make’ in the Idle Hour Rest Rooms when she has written it. All rights reserved © 2012 EyeBooks UK, including the made-up bits. Especially them.

Idle Eye 27 : The Life Aquatic

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Our weather, whether we like it or not, is the great leveller. Just as we were throwing sprinklers into deep storage and preparing to watch our green and pleasant land morph into parchment, the heavens opened and did their traditional holiday middle-finger salute for the full term. And that, of course, is how it should be. Lulled into a false sense of security by March’s clement efforts, we needed to be knocked into place by forces we have no control over whatsoever lest, God forbid, grown men whipped out the shorts and their womenfolk allowed it. In public.

Like the metaphoric horse, your average Brit is inexplicably drawn to water at this time of year. Whether it be heading towards it at 6mph on a snarled artery of choice or watching the educated elite slug it out on the Thames, we sure like it wet. So hats off then to plucky Aussie Trenton Oldfield, coming as he does from climes more temperate than our own, for stripping off and mucking in at this year’s Boat Race. Never mind the fact he was a bit miffed about, er, something or another: The man got wet and that’s all that matters. Welcome, Trenton: Now, deal with the rest of the year.

Consequently, it’s no surprise that Race Weekend is the busiest of the year for most pubs on the main drag and the Idle Hour, conveniently located a coxswain’s piddle from the river, is no different. So when all hope of fleshy exposure is dashed against the cruel rocks of climate, the good folk of Barnes head indoors for a restorative sharpener and watch the hardy on the idiot’s lantern. Great for business but staff are run off their feet, tempers fray as service struggles to meet demand and, at the end of play, everyone’s as shagged as the rowers (ahem). Good thing we’ve got our internationally renowned sense of humour to pull us through, eh? And as we down those optimistic Pimmses and fancy French rosés , we learn to put aside our grievances and laugh at the absurdities of life instead of having a pop or flinging ourselves into the nearest river in disgust. It may not have the desired impact but it’s a lot more fun. Damn straight.

The more intrepid Bank Holiday reader may be interested in this: I note that 100 years on, fans of failed liner Titanic are off to pay homage to Mr Cameron somewhere deep in the Atlantic. For somewhere between $4,445 and $9,520 per person. Now, call me old-fashioned but this is devotion to the cause way above and beyond: A simple heads-up on Twitter seems to suffice for most politicians and the monies spared could go some way to improving security at public events, particularly in this our Olympic year. It’s not rocket science. I wonder sometimes, I really do. Perhaps all that water’s made them soft in the head..

Idle Eye 26 : The Last Order

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What a shame. The past seven days have thrown up more blog fodder than usual as the hapless pilots of our land have steered us into Pastygate, Granny Taxgrab, a phantom fuel crisis and the splendidly-monikered Peter Cruddas taking bungs for No.10 access. But, if you will forgive me, this week I’d like to focus on something a little closer to home. The ill-conceived, boozed-up tripe you have come to know and love will be back next week: You have my word.

Very sadly, friday saw the last day of trading at Idle Hour Barons Court. It was a day I know Nibs was dreading, not merely because it was the end of an era, but also because all the hope, energy and love he put into making it look and feel so special was scythed down into administration, arbitration and all those other things beginning with ‘a’ that, by their very nature, are the polar opposite of soul. And, let’s face it, soul is what you need in spades to get these things off the ground in the first place.

I’m feeling for my little bro right now. In the ’90’s I watched him blossom after a prolonged training period in America, where he learned the hard way how to marry personable service with efficiency. After a few minor hiccups over here he poured everything he had into Idle Hour Barnes, which he turned around from being a grimy backwatering hole to a much-loved local hub. And despite fierce competition (never a bad thing actually, sharpens the resolve) it remains more popular than ever to this day. Not one to rest on his laurels, he branched out on more than one occasion: Putney, Henley-on-Thames and finally Barons Court. All way better than your average gastropub but the problem they shared is that there is only one Nibs. I’m trying not to be mawkish here but the facts speak for themselves: Dilute the talent and the most remote suffers. It’s a brutal truth, made worse when you consider the human cost of loyal staff, goodwill of investors etc.etc..

So, now he’s back down to what he does best under one roof and my gut tells me it will soar. As you may have read elsewhere in this shower of drivel, there will be an extension in place by the end of the summer, a spanking new website, some stunning new wines on offer and, best of all, he’ll be there to give it 100%. And, on a more personal level: Hang in there, bro. You’ll bounce back, you always do. And I’ll keep on writing the bollocks. It’s what I do.

Goodbye Barons Court. You were a magnificent ideal. You had the courage to aim for the stars against all the odds and in your short time you gave a lot of people something to remember. And like so many of the great romantics you died beautiful and you died young. Now, upwards and onwards…

Idle Eye 25 : The Bogs

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It seems that finally, unexpectedly and mercifully, the good weather landed last weekend. And what better way for yours truly to spend it than to head over to Idle Hour Barnes and enjoy a few sherbets on the roof with my younger and lesser sibling. And when we weren’t taking apart the relentless attack on pubs by successive governments, he showed me the plans for the soon-to-be extension which will double the covers and annihilate those wretched lavatories. So, more of you will get in for Burger Monday but less of you will be able to ‘create room’ unless you bring a bag or get creative.

Now, the relationship between ‘what goes in’ and ‘what comes out’ has long been a bugbear for those in the hospitality industries. The latter demands significant landmass by law and yet yields next to nothing in return (when I say ‘next to nothing’, I mean, of course, nothing of salient value. Don’t make me spell this out.) The former, on the other hand, is the meat and potatoes of profit and loss which, at some point in the proceedings, ends up with the latter.

So what’s to do? When margins are tight, where would you compromise? A dilemma one of our most loved TV personalities is probably not experiencing right now:

Housekeeper : Mr Cowell, I think there’s someone in the conveniences.

Simon Cowell : Never mind that now, I’m on the telly.

Housekeeper : No, really. I think there’s someone up there. Will I ring the Police?

Simon Cowell : Yes, of cour… Er, no, actually. Leave this with me.

Housekeeper : Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.

Simon Cowell : Max! My Man! Slight snag. Apparently there’s someone upstairs trying to break into one of the traps. Could you give me my position on this one?

Max Clifford : Armed intruder or crazed fan?

Simon Cowell : Crazed fan, I think.

Max Clifford : I see. Ok, Simon, don’t panic. Would you say it was like something in a horror film?

Simon Cowell : Yes, Max, I would.

Max Clifford : Excellent! Sure they’re not armed?

Simon Cowell : To be honest, I haven’t checked.

Max Clifford : No need. Probably a chick with a brick. In one of your least profitable rooms. I’d turn in if I were you.

Simon Cowell : Thanks, Max.

Max Clifford : Don’t mention it. Goodnight.

I was, of course, making out that Nibs isn’t going to provide somewhere for you to ‘drop the kids off’ for comic effect. It’s part of my weekly remit. To make you laugh but keep it topical. And you have my word: The Porcelain Bus will simply be relocated, not removed. Unless it contains a crazed fan with a brick, in which case he will put in a swift call to Max and leave the rest to the bizarre powers of tabloid journalism. But I very much doubt it will come to that. Or will it?