Tag Archives: The Idle Hour

Idle Eye 47 : The Rag Trade-Off

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Like most males of my age, I’m an uncomfortable clothes shopper. The very thought of leaving the warm nucleus of my flat for a brutal, strip-lit warehouse touting whichever vulgar garment happens to be fashionable right now is so appalling that I tend to hang onto the same tatty old shite attempting to cover my nakedness for one more glorious season rather than face the alternative. I’m not proud of it, far from it, but that’s the truth. And as every summer leaves what autumn finds, I have learned to recognise that 50/50 mix of pity and disgust buried deep beneath the permafrost of those I hold dearest. They try to disguise it, bless ‘em, but I know it’s there. And it hurts because I know they know I only have two sartorial settings: Dress to Impress, and Dress Down Weekday.

Take, for instance, my Bolongaro Trevor ‘God Save the King’ tee-shirt with its attendant heraldic symbols, furry-faced monarchs in period ellipse frames and mottled seriffed type. This fits neatly into the former category and gets outed whenever I need to dazzle ‘em. About twice a decade. Anyone who witnessed the annihilation of popular song performed by my brother and I at the Idle Hour last year may have spotted it, and my fervent prayer was that you’d be so impressed by the packaging, a closer inspection of the contents would have been unnecessary. And while we’re on the subject, could someone have a word with Nibs about that Union Jack jacket? We all know it’s a magnificent beast but there’s a fine line between Mo Farah and Jimmy Savile. As well he knows.

In the latter corner lies my John Lewis knee-length overcoat. This loyal lovely has been doing the rounds since the Boer War and was dyed black in 1926 in order to disguise the blood of fallen suffragettes and rotting stitches stolen from a roadside hospital in Ypres. If it were a tree it would be a Douglas Fir: Solid, stalwart, stoic. A bit like Jeremy Clarkson. The inside pockets, however, have frayed beyond repair (although this does have the advantage of easy access to my person for those essential ‘on the road’ adjustments).

Also worth mentioning are the unmentionables. Yes, it’s those grey Christmas 2003 boulder holders I never thought would last out the year, but like the Council Tax and Tesco Metro have managed to survive despite multilateral distain. Admittedly there’s not much to fall in love with here, but as the years have gone by they have formed an impressive crust on the inside elastic which has aided and abetted adhesion to the waistline. Sorry, ladies, he’s taken.

They say charity begins at home. And I have a bag marked the same which will never, ever see a shop marked the same. Because there’s always a couple more years left in there. At least a couple.

Idle Eye 46 : The Last Good Day of the Year

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I was listening to Radio 4 on Saturday morning (as one does) and this lady came on who had been struck temporarily blind. Oh no! But then she went on about how she had reassessed her life and realised it had been peppered with relentless negativity, and from that moment on she vetoed any such sentiments which in turn improved the quality of her everyday life immeasurably. Anyway, I turned it off ‘cos I was late for the Barnes Food Fair, in which Nibs had a stall doing spectacular Bloody Marys I badly needed to assess for this ‘ere blog and ran out to get the train. Cancelled. Engineering works. But before I did my usual Ian Dury (****holes, bastards, ****ing ***** and pr**ks) I thought of that woman, lifted my head up high & took the replacement bus with pride. Good on ‘em, I thought, for actually bothering to replace the entire train with a bus: Good on ‘em.

And when I got to Barnes Common two hours later, no small thanks to weekend traffic and an unfortunate iOS6 maps error, I was determined to keep this up. The sun was out, small boys were kicking a ball about (jumpers for goalposts) and everything was heading up to be a Breugel-tastic, culinary lovefest. Even a Volvo passenger opening her door into my smalls did not manage to dampen my ardour (although I did get the temporary blindness). ‘Oh yes, life is good’ I thought, after sampling several pints of the red stuff which, in turn, led me to the real ale stall where I discovered Tactical Nuclear Penguin, a 32% beauty I saw no reason not to obtain for the very reasonable sum of £45. Which, in turn, made the Barbers’ Shop singers sound so angelical I was compelled to enjoy a large Pimms in sheer admiration which, in turn, made me purchase a rather delightful fishermans’ winkle box for Ursula despite my misgivings as to its authenticity.

You see, what the R4 lady left out, and this is the salient point, is that you don’t need a life-changing event to make every day of your life the last good day of the year. What you actually need is an arsenal of high-quality booze and the ability to set aside the cold front of cynicism for the sunnier climes of La Dolce Vita. And the former aids the latter, trust me. Now, I know Nibs will be wanting me to big up his efforts right here in the last paragraph but there’s no need. Really. You all ate those award-winning burgers, drank the BM’s and had a great time. And you know what? As I struggled to focus on Nick Clegg’s apology in the freesheets strewn about on the tube home and I listened to that viral tune drawn from the very same, I felt really good for the first time in ages. Shortly before taking a very long ride on the porcelain bus…

Idle Eye 45 : The Sick, the Bad & the Wicked

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Language has moved on a bit since I were a lad, and rightly so. It is the moral duty of the next generation to mix things up for their elders to the point where traditional arteries of communication get so furred that we reluctantly hand over the baton and creep off into extinction. Take this weeks title, for example: A couple of decades ago you could be forgiven for thinking all three denoted particular ailments and we would have had the utmost sympathy for those afflicted. Today the same guys are Top of the Pops. Well matrix, actually. However, anyone of a certain age attempting to shore up their own vocabulary with yoofspeak walks a mighty thin line. For they shall be vilified by those they borrow from, ridiculed by their peers and old hat before the week is out. It’s cruel, I know, but that’s the law of the jungle.

The same goes for businesses and politicians trying to cash in on a fleeting youth market. Nothing makes you look more out of touch than when attempting the exact opposite, as I shall demonstrate:

IDLE HOUR MENU

Homemade Soup 5.50
OMG!!! Legendary. Crucial when served steamin’. Meat flava

Our Award-Winning Organic Steak Mince Burger 11.00
Commin’ atcha with fries’n’tha. Totes amazeballs

Wild Mushroom, Tarragon and Pea Risotto with Parmesan and Rocket 11.00
Proper nang gang’o’veg, bluds

Callebaut Chocolate Brownie w/ Organic Vanilla Ice Cream 5.00
Frigid, but ice is nice

And so on. Shrewd oldies should never kowtow to the shifting sands of youth patois because, as Stewart Lee would say, it’s not for you. Its very purpose is to keep you at bay, and should you and your cronies at Bletchley Park ever manage to hack your way in, the rules will change quicker than Usain Bolt’s lady count in Stratford. Nota bene, Mr Cameron, nota bene.

I browsed my young niece’s Facebook page the other day. Not in a weird way, honest, but she’s just back from Croatia & I thought I’d see how she got on. Turns out she’s all gravy, well sick and had an epic keen one, oh yeeee boii. Which is important, because if she thought anyone over 25 had a clue what she was on about, she probably wouldn’t be. I mean, have. Whatever. And the very fact that an old git like myself can access the online exploits of todays teenagers may well have something to do with Mark Zuckerberg’s downward slide on the stock exchange. When the exclusive goes global, the cool factor goes out of the window and if you happen to be under 25, that’s all that matters. Innit?

Fortunately for us seniors, there is one trick left up our collective sleeve. One last defiant roar before we shuffle off this mortal coil. Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold:

“What’s Grandpa saying, mum?”

“I’m not sure, dear. Just leave him to it.”

Idle Eye 44 : The Herding Instinct

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Human beings are essentially congregational. It’s why we’ve always had towns & villages, churches, sporting arenas, festivals and, of course, pubs & clubs. For most, the complex web of possibility that life throws up is far too vexing to navigate alone, so we take on a partner to help make sense of it all and surround ourselves with like-minded individuals in establishments inside which we feel comfortable. This instinct is at once tribal and refined. From the hallowed portals of St James to the bingo halls of Bognor we prefer to stick with our own as it confirms in some small way that we’ve made the correct choices, and if we haven’t, screw it; at least we’re in good company.

However, once we’ve settled on our respective coteries, it is astonishing to learn how fiercely we defend them from unsuitable others, considering how subjective this apparent suitability can be. Legend has it that a certain Lord Glasgow once threw a waiter through the window of his club after a disappointing meal. When challenged, he brusquely ordered: ‘Put him on the bill.’ He was later charged £5 and the waiter suffered a broken arm. Indeed, the most heinous crime in the highest echelons of clubland is not that of propriety. Outlandish behaviour, in some circles, is seen as mere high spirits (although clearly it helps to be intimate with the rules before they are broken). No, that particular accolade goes to the admission of ‘manifestly inappropriate guests’, from which we can deduce that if you ain’t one of us, you ain’t coming in. And the higher you climb on society’s ladder, the more rigorously this unwritten rule is policed.

For the benefit of Barnes types who don’t already know this, the Idle Hour has its own equivalent. And fear not: There are no burly minders to get past, no dress code as such and no danger of being blackballed if Nibs doesn’t like the cut of your jib (although he did once eject a vulgar punter from a previous concern for decanting a £6000 bottle of red through the tablecloth. Be warned…) The VIP card makes no background checks, has no nomination procedure or minimum income requirements. In fact it is so widely accepting, one could be forgiven for doubting whether there are any security measures in place at all (who’s on the committee then – G4S?) It does, however, ask one thing, the one thing that is so hardwired into our DNA it would be difficult to refuse even if we wanted to. Which we don’t. See first paragraph for clues.

The beauty of the above lies in the very lack of protocol adhered to so stringently by its esteemed peers. A member of the Garrick once wrote: ‘It would be better that ten unobjectionable men should be excluded than that one terrible bore should be admitted.’ I beg to differ: Give the bore a chance, as he is more likely to be unobjectionable than those who reject him…

Idle Eye 43 : The Priory Priority

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Interesting stuff. Yesterday evening threw up one of them family parties which involved myself, Da Mudda & Ursula all pitching up at Idle HQ to accompany Nibs in a cab that shot us all off to Esher, where we celebrated not one but four (count ‘em) birthdays in some way connected to The Firm. Most of this I have scant recollection of due to usual suspects, but what I did note before succumbing to the ensuing jollities was that legendary sleb hospital, The Priory, was but two minutes away from the Idle Hour itself. Now, I know my brother reasonably well, and when it comes to business I’m afraid to report, gentle reader, he leaves me in the starting blocks. So this salient fact is unlikely to be a mere accident, no siree. And my suspicions were further raised when I did a little, er, research earlier this afternoon. Let me elucidate:

As we all know, what goes on in the Priory is supposed to stay in there, but, human nature being what it is, this is rarely the case. Perennial reoffenders, such as tubby Take That favourite Blobby Williams, fall over themselves to break out of those forbiddingly high perimeter walls, blurt out their respective misdemeanours to whichever red top will shell out a few bob, only to check themselves back in there a few weeks later, steeped in remorse and seeking the kind of meaningful salvation only prohibitively priced clinics can administer. This being the case, we need to get inside the mind of the fugitive patient to fully understand why Nibs chose Railway Side to be his bedrock:

Once out, he/she will almost certainly be on the sniff for somewhere to unwind. Now, according to google maps, the only logical route to achieve this would be to head north.

‘Why north?’ I hear you cry.

Well, listen up: As they hit the Upper Richmond Road, they will invariably come across a hostelry called the Halfway House. This will resonate with the afflicted in a way we cannot begin to comprehend, and will simultaneously spur them on to seek out their real nirvana. And as they stumble towards the railway crossing like Paul towards Damascus, they will find another sure sign that they are on the right track: the Vine Road Recreation Ground. From there it is but a hop and a step to the Vegas that is Idle Hour.

But don’t for one minute think that this is one way traffic: Nibs is far too smart for that. When the seasoned drinker reaches saturation and the bosom of his/her esteemed family can no longer tolerate the inevitable, redemption can be found by simply retracing ones’ steps and heading south, where it is highly unlikely all that personal info will yet have been scrubbed from the database. It’s a narcotic Pushmi-Pullyu situation, in which the hapless addict bounces from one haven to the other.

Bro: Respect is due.

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…