I am not well. Swollen glands (oh matron), aching neck and back, sore throat, occasional headaches, lethargy, fatigue, and I've got that wretched cough I had in April again. Damn damn damn, where's that vitamin C overload.....?
In the summer of 2002, the Cranley Hotel began a competition for its regular punters called 'Deathwish'. This started after a spate of celebrity deaths - Princess Margaret and the Queen Mother to name but a couple - and the idea was that each player picked a famous person that he/she thought was going to kick the bucket soon and then every week he/she contributed £1 to 'the pot', with the winner being the person whose chosen celebrity died first.
There were many strong contenders - Nelson Mandela, Margaret Thatcher, the Queen, the Pope, Clint Eastwood etc, but the winner has just been announced. Congratulations go to Simon H who selected Bob Hope. Simon goes back to Cranleigh with £218 and the knowledge that he is one of a few people on the planet that will profit from Hope's death. Give him a big hand everybody.....
I was queuing in the supermarket yesterday and I noted what the people in front of me bought - a twelve pack of toilet rolls, a 2 litre bottle of bleach and eight rolls of kitchen paper - I assumed they were cleaning the house, except that there was a solitary stalk of broccoli there too.....
This is an extract from the Sunday Times Travel supplement from yesterday which made me chuckle, so well done writer Matt Rudd. The subject is stupid questions asked by tourists, and this was the pick of the bunch.
'A lady rang to ask a company what temperature she could expect on her Greek-island holiday. After being advised accordingly, she got a bit huffy. "Well, in that case I'm going with Thomson"'.
.....and finally, after a week of keeping it zipped, I am able to announce that my brother Ben and his girlfriend Carole are engaged to be married. Utterly splendid, about bl**dy time, but utterly splendid.
SO, thirty of us descended upon their house for what had been advertised as a birthday party for Ben. At 3pm the champagne was opened and the guests began to flock in. The barbeque was lit and the girls huddled around it stirring the massive paella and talking about gardens. The boys broke off into a separate group, as happens EVERY time, without actually meaning to, and discussed various topics such as football, cars and women.
This is where Chris M, otherwise known as The Belly, really shone. As one of only two in the group that is single, Chris has felt pressured to find himself another half. Has he done it? Boy has he done it. The Belly will, tomorrow night, be going out with an 18 year old Israeli lapdancer that he met in her club, who is willing to pay someone £3,000 to marry her so that she can get a Visa and work permit. Needless to say, it was incredibly amusing.
Anyway we had three hours of sing-a-long, polished off 30 bottles of champagne and downed countless beers before heading off to a bar in Wimbledon where we danced the night away and smoked cigars. Splendid, although the hangover the next day was almighty, particularly as I am not very well anyway!
The battle of the sexes cropped up at work today, by email.
I received this from a colleague:
"Men are like a fine wine. They start out as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the hell out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with."
to which my rather creative reply was:
"and women are like a chewing gum, once you've tasted them, chewed them round and spat them out, you don't ever want to see them again....."
Needless to say, there was no retort, just an abusive reply.
SO, I suppose most of you want to know how the British Grand Prix day was spent.
Usually, when my alarm clock goes off at some God awful hour in the morning, I want to beat the wretched thing to a pulp. Sunday morning, however, I was pleased that it woke me at 5.15am as I knew that, along with Mark, Silverstone beckoned and with it the VIP tickets that we had won.
We arrived at Finmere heliport (a field somewhere in Buckinghamshire) bang on 7am - the first to turn up - and we munched on sausage sandwiches in the hospitality tent until others arrived and we could group together before journeying to the track. This is when we met Jim - a mid-fifties gentleman and a rampant stalwart of the Grand Prix experience. Jim bundled us into his car, after taking a few moments to clear all the CRAP from inside, and off we went.
"Now then, navigator, where do we go?" he asked me, as if he couldn't read the clearly marked signs at the side of the road. "Follow the signs for 'Officials'" I recommended and we eventually found ourselves in the VIP parking area right next to the circuit. We noted the three Ferraris, brand new Porsches and countless AMG Mercedes everywhere and wandered towards our Paddock Club Grandstand. As we crossed the road, I couldn't help but stare at a lovely Porsche Carrera 4 that was about to pass right in front of us. I stopped and looked directly at the driver to try and gauge his age. I reckoned that he was probably an IT guru about 35 years old and earning far too much money. The car drove by and we wandered on. "That was Gloria Hunniford in that Porsche" Jim said excitedly, "oh, I thought it was a bloke". Sorry Gloria.
After having our passes stamped, we headed for the pit tour where we tottered about the pit lane for half an hour watching the teams practising their tyre changes and taking photos of everything. The first race began and we took our seats in the grandstand. Very noisy indeed. The commentator made us chuckle with terms such as "well, he ducked into the outside line which wasn't very gentlemanly, then when they rounded the corner, he biffed him".
We headed back to the pit lane for the drivers parade and it was at this point that we noted the Fosters girls. Two lines of beautiful women, waiting patiently for me to fully extend my zoom, so to speak, and photograph them again and again.
When we got back to the Renault F1 hospitality tent, the champagne was freely flowing and the lager was looking tempting. We noted the presence of Jeremy Clarkson and Vicki Butler-Henderson on the next door table to ours and we sat to listen to the pre-race briefing. Both drivers spoke to us, as well as the Technical expert, and special guest Ellen MacArthur also gave a speech, with Jim remarking that he'd like to "give her one".
The Red Arrows did an impressive display and we smirked as we stood there in the Paddock Club Grandstand, watching the Arrows and sipping our free champagne (glasses held by the stem, obviously).
We took our seats in the grandstand and rose for the national anthem, I noted the presence of VBH sat three seats to my right and blessed her when she sneezed. The cars are very loud and very fast and the race was extremely exciting, particularly as Renault got into the lead off the start, only for that troublesome oik dressed in a kilt to slow everybody down and cost us top position. Have you ever tried photographing a vehicle that's travelling at 150mph? Speed cameras can't do it and now I know why.
The race ended (it goes a lot quicker when you're actually there and it is by no means dull) and we sampled more champagne before heading off to the stage where Status Quo were to perform. Imagine our shock when Damon Hill comes on stage with his band, sporting long grey hair and a sparkly electric guitar and gets the crowd rocking, ish. We also saw Nigel Mansell and Jackie Stewart.
Alas, our time at Silverstone was to draw to a close and we got back to the heliport via a drunken Jim, spouting things such as "you haven't lived if you haven't experienced a Silverstone traffic jam" and "are we lost? If we follow the helicopters, they'll lead us to where we need to be".
It had been a great day - we'd seen Clarkson, VBH, Mansell, Damon Hill, Jackie Stewart, Tiff Needell, one of the Red Arrows pilots (so Mark says...), the two Renault drivers, Ellen MacArthur and Gloria Hunniford in the flesh, as well as Arnie, Shane Ritchie, Robson Green and Frankie Dettori on the tv coverage. The champagne and Fosters went down a treat, as did the gourmet lunch.
Not bad for taking a few photos.....
Mark, Alex and I headed for Chicago's last night, the pound-a-pint offer was just far too tempting. The entertainment for the evening was a Michael Jackson impersonator, although he was clearly miming and perhaps the worst act they have had there in recent weeks.
Anyway, Mark used the same "that's a smashing blouse you have on" line to somebody he said it to last time, provoking a glare and a hasty exit. He also tweaked it to become "that's a wonderful frock you have on" and persisted in chatting to elderly women.
A twenty pence piece had fallen onto the ground and we were kicking it to each other, when all of a sudden a Chinese man appeared, clearly on his own. He watched us for a while and then picked up the coin. He then searched the area for any more loose change and made the 'I'm going to the bar' gesture. Odd.
Before we could put up our defences, we had been pounced on by a large girl who would not seem to go away. To make matters worse, her friend then turned up. By this point I'd had seven pints and she was still utterly repugnant. She was huge, a massive wobbly jelly of a woman with more chins than a Chinese phonebook. Thankfully she targeted Mark who had to fend her off by pushing her away repeatedly. Wide load? Not arf.
So we staggered home, made toast and I fell asleep on the sofa.
I turned up at work late, unshaven and walked past my boss and a few of the other women in the office. "Blimey, you look rough" one said as I sat at my desk. "Are you ill, you don't look well?". Seizing the opportunity for a bit of attention and perhaps getting off work early, I admitted that I hadn't had much sleep and that I was not 100%. "Your eyes are a bit bloodshot and veiny, and they lack their normal sparkle" another one added, so I played along once more.
The thing is, I don't actually feel well - my glands are up, my back and neck and aching and I am developing a cough. That'll teach me to cry wolf.
Another visit to the Chinese herbalist beckons.....
Thursday night was the Easyworld gig at the University of London Union. Simon H, Shaun H, Matt S, Lucy R, Mark R, Alex Mac, Luke and I all rocked up to the venue in London Euston and immediately began commenting on what we saw.
At first we thought we were in the wrong place, as the queue of people we found ourselves in seemed to have the average age of 14. Alex' eyes lit up at this and we watched the students of today. Big hair seems to be back. Wild, messy, large hairstyles are definitely back in student fashion, and so are luminously coloured clothes. They are all a tad porky round the waist as well, which made Simon H relax a little.
Shocked by the £3 a pint bar charge, we stood in the centre of the wobbly-waisted, big-haired students and watched the gig. The first support band was 'Atlas', later renamed 'Lifeless' and 'Charisma' - they had absolutely no stage presence and seemed to drone out the same song over and over again. The female lead singer was a plus, but she needed to be wearing something better than a maternity dress. The drummer bore an uncanny resemblance to Alan Partridge and was heckled with cries of 'Back of the net' whilst he tapped away on his Argos toy drum kit. Pathetic.
The next support act was 'Delay' and although they were better and actually entertained rather than wailed away, I still could not appreciate them. The lead guy was very good vocally (and surprisingly high-pitched) but I couldn't help wondering how many cans of hair spray they had gone through in the dressing rooms.
Easyworld were brilliant - rocking tunes, immensely talented lead singer/guitarist/piano player/harmonica player/banjo thing player and the female bass player was wearing a pvc outfit. Splendid.
All in all a most amusing night with Easyworld. When's the next one?
The 'NO' button on my phone has been playing up for a couple of days. It also happens to be the 'back' button and the power button. It began to not register when I pressed it, resulting in multiple presses of the button before anything happened. Then it started to interpret my 'NO' command as a 'oh, hang on, just wait a jolly minute, what he actually means is 'YES', resulting in several blank text messages being sent and countless curses. Apologies to recipients.
This evening I removed the battery and the wretched phone refused to turn on again. Consequence - new phone in post. Marvellous.
After a delightful barbecue at Mel and Elli's in the early evening, coupled with glasses of Pimms and a full scale food fight, we headed off to the pub for comedy night.
The only seats left were the ones right at the front and it was inevitable that we would be picked on by at least one of the four acts. I didn't think that all four would pick on me..... Anyway, the first act came on and before long I had become the lover of an 11 year old girl and the father of her baby..... Ian Stone was comedian of the night - a name to look out for on the comedy circuit.
The tables were soon cleared away in favour of a dance floor, which provided Simon S and I with the perfect opportunity to give renditions of the shopping trolley, the lawnmower, the spin-the-pizza and the motor neurone dances.
So this morning, with an almighty hangover and in 30 degree heat, I drove the 25 miles across London back to Watford. Only took two hours.....
Some of you may remember the Megane competition that Mark and I entered a couple of months ago.
We have today received news that we have WON the competition and the pair of tickets to the British Grand Prix that were first prize!! BUT, it's not just your bog standard entry tickets, oooooh no (click 'timetable'). We have VIP entry to the event, which will include several build-up races, meeting the drivers personally, complimentary food and drink all day, a red arrows display, a Status Quo gig and, best of all, arrival by HELICOPTER!
This is an extract from our information pack:
"Feel the noise and hear the passion of the most exciting motorsport series in the world, and enjoy an exclusive pre-race briefing with both drivers. From the Paddock Club Grandstand, you'll be guaranteed an unrivalled view of the race and, in a restricted area reserved for F1 teams and their sponsors, you can enjoy day-long luxury VIP hospitality. To make life easier, we shall have a 10 minute helicopter shuttle into the circuit."
Approximate value of these tickets is a marvellously splendid £4,000 (that's if you could buy them.....)
SPLENDID SPLENDID SPLENDID
.....and while I'm at it, here's a look at somebody who was a VIP corporate guest before, and he met a few celebrities. After reading his page, please make sure you click his link at the bottom. Utterly brilliant.....
Finally, at about 8 o'clock last night, Mark R and I decided to go out into Watford town centre. We started off in the Moon Under Water (a Wetherspoon's pub) which was extremely busy and full of white-trainered, large fake 'white gold' necklaced, imbecilic oiks. How can anybody think that they look good wearing those? Does anybody out there think it's a good fashion? I personally would rather wear my elf outfit to a goblin-only Christmas party.
Anyway, we then headed for Bodega's, a classy bar with not a trainer in site. Here we drank Polish Firewater, which Mark had never had before, and I quote him "I can feel it dissolving the Quarter Pounder I ate" and we both agreed that we much preferred the up-market atmosphere - not that we are snobbish, but we've had enough of the pea-brained idiocy of the local Watfordian troglodytes and we'd far rather pay a few extra pennies per pint than be exposed to their cretinism.
When Bodega's closed, Mark expressed a distinct desire to visit Chicago's - the bar with all the old women. Once more, he was not disappointed and before long we found ourselves kissing hands and complimenting on blouses. Mark, however had to take it further with a 29 year old walrus - short, plump, terrible short hair, bearded, but hey, she had a smashing blouse on. I found this particularly amusing and did my utmost to further encourage the interaction, but, alas, the evening drew to a conclusion and we were then herded out the door by the burly security staff.
Then we met a guy holding a McDonald's bag - Ben. Mark started up a conversation and we were then submitted to Ben's detailed life-story, indispersed with tales from the nursing home where Ben works, including extensive information on how the old folk "do it". "What's in the bag?" I asked him, bored of the gross images of wrinkly flesh imposing upon more wrinkly flesh. "Well, there WERE three Quarter-pounder-with-cheese meals, but there's only one now", he replied. I motioned towards the bag "may I?", and without waiting for an answer, relieved him of the bag and began happily munching away on the burger inside. Result. Mark then took the fries, opened a barbecue sauce and handed the two to a passing tramp who was ever so grateful. Thanks Ben!
Not satisfied with the free burger, the kebab shop beckoned and we stumbled in the door, put on our very best accents and went through the entire kebab-ordering process in FRENCH. "Urrrr, avec plusieurs oignons s'il vous plait, des piments, urrr, (I couldn't remember the word for cabbage, so I didn't have it) et sauce piquante. Merci bien Monsieur, a la prochaine". Utterly splendid, and the white-trainer types didn't have a clue what was going on.
Then, at 7 o'clock this morning, I woke up, opened my eyes and muttered 'not again...' as I noticed I had once more fallen asleep fully clothed. I could also smell the chilli sauce (sauce piquante) on my shirt and clocked the chilli dribblings on my trousers.
It is now half past eleven, I feel like death warmed up and Mark has yet to materialise. Splendid.
I sent this to our I.T. manager today:
Hi Howard
I was wondering if you might be able to set me up with an internet access
number, as I have seen this fantastic porn site that I could spend all day
looking at. There's a few bits and bobs to do with work that I would use
it for too, but it's mostly about the porn.
Let me know?
Thanks
Jon
A few weeks ago I swore I would never go out on a school night again. Didn't last long.
Last night, Mark R, Alex Mac and I ventured into town for a beer in Chicago's. However, upon arrival, it turned out that there was a Guns'n'Roses tribute band playing live later that night, and that pints of lager were a student-union-esque £1.
We sighted the strangest looking man dancing in the strangest way (far worse than my silly dances) and tried hard not to point and laugh, particularly as his rather sizeable friend was close by. There was also a girl wearing what looked like pink pyjamas who kept on walking around the circular bar, like she was doing laps. Also, some girl came up to me and pointed at a bloke not far away, she then remarked how strange he was and how she really didn't like the look of him. "Alex, meet Sarah, Sarah meet Alex". MARVELLOUS.
Anyway, before I knew it, it was 6am and I was lying on top of my bed, still wearing my trousers and shivering. An hour later and I was getting ready for work. Never again, I promise.
ish.
A work colleague has recently got married and her surname is now Lemon. She has just announced that she is pregnant and during a particularly stressful day for me, all the women in the office were standing by her desk (pretty much opposite mine) and were offering their thoughts on choice of baby name.
"I think BEN Lemon sounds like a really nice name" one said, as she fiddled with her hair and gazed admiringly at Mrs Lemon.
"I think CHARLIE would be good, I like the name Charlie" another added, picking up the maternity clothes magazine off the desk.
Meanwhile, I had been distracted from my spreadsheet and lost the calculation I had been doing. I couldn't help but listen to the rest of the conversation, slowly getting more and more irritated by the soppy, broody women.
"Well what if it's a girl?" yet another asked, sauntering over. "Natasha is a really beautiful girl's name. Natasha Lemon, I really like that".
"Victoria's nice".
"I think Susannah". They were all at it now, I had a deadline to meet and couldn't concentrate.
"If it's a boy, I still think you should call him Ben". "No, I think Charlie". At this point I lost it and announced:
"Look, why don't you just call it JIF?"