Stamping out scurrilous gossip

Usually at this time of year you can find me propped against the bar at Club Derrig, my Jagerbombe clenched firmly in my fist, while I review my doings of the past 12 months to the assembled congregation.

This year I realise I have no need of this, as my webberlog stands examination time and again, there in perpetuality for all who want to read and re-read my adventures on behalf of mankind.

So I will use this opportunity to deal with a scurrilous rumour that has followed me around since I returned from my foray into Africa, the magical continent of jumbucks and biltong.

I believe that Mr.Benjamin Thomas has been the purveyor of this gossip, holding court in the gutters he occupies when not emptying the Club Derrig spittoons and flushing out his pipes.

The story being circulated is that my African exploration included absolutely no dalliances with laydeez and that it was a romantic desert as far as I was concerned.

Well, to quash this ugly mistruth, let me state here and now that my luck was in and I quite literally came across a lovely young laydee, holidaying alongside me, all the way from darkest Hertfordshire.

And for those who may doubt this tale I am prepared now to give the full and detailed story featuring the who, what, where, when and frequency of all our carryings-on.

The mystery woman in question is called...Sorry, that's the phone. I'm waiting on an important call from my stockbreaker. I'll be right back. Don't go away.

Could do better

This psychedelic conglomeration just about made up for a very disappointing evening of gourmet cheffing by Johnson at Chez Chandler.

Peas on earth

...and goodwill to ALL men. And the distaff, of course.

Today I will be partaking in the traditional engorgement of my girth with all manner of rich foods and beverages.

Later on, of course, there will also be my resulting traditional log.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Miserabalum dictus hosanna excelsis convertii

Gordo, the Lord Brown, seen here with a Pope of America, at his conversioning

Although ensconced with ma and pa in a remote corner of this verdant isle, shrouded in fog, and cut-off from humanity by the sneaky Pete Bog and his marauders, news does occasionally filter through.

Often we rely on the ever-tasty carrier pigeon, bearing urgent data from outside our narrow hold, and from time-to-time, by the Postman - played by Kevin Costner now that his career playing shoddy sporting failures has run into the buffers.

So word does finally reach us, of the Lord Gordo Brown (Prime Minister of the U.K. and thereabouts) and his converting to the faith of gold and frankenstein - Garlicism, quite possible amongst the very best of all the faiths, if not quite what it was when we ruled the bit of the world we knew about.

Hooray for our side, and the Lake of Fire for all you other maggots!

By special request

I have been asked by young Diarmuid Cuchllain - our local hotrodder and philosopher - to put the following list on my interblog as he wants to see it in the virtual world.

1. The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, U2, Pink Floyd, Hank Williams, Van Morrison, Leona Lewis, and Rachmaninoff or Bach.

2. William Blake, Gaudi, Willem de Kooning, Jake and Dinos Chapman, Georg Grosz, Tretchikoff, Howard Hodgkin, Malevich, and possibly Yves Klein. Yes, Yves Klein.

3. James Garner, William Conrad, Paul Michael Glaser, Telly Savalas?

4. Kate Atkinson, Don deLillo, Graham Greene, Philip Pullman, J.K.Rowling. Not Proust.

5. Nelson Mandela, Gandhi, Sir Stafford Cripps, Ed Balls.

6. Only Gary Rhodes.

No, I haven't a clue.

The homeland at last

So very nice to be with the folks for the festive season and have a little time to survey the old homestead!

My father let me in on a little secret. It is because I learnt the English tongue whilst unconscious from a hard day's graft under his tender direction that I am so skilled with it and the twisting thereof. I knew there was some explanation to be had if only I digged up deep down far enough.

Ah, me old homestead

Tomorrow I jet off again - does this man never stop with his global misadventures, making Lord Alan Wicker-Basket seem a mere ferryman? I hear you ask, - to the infamous Knockke aerodrome, en route to visiting my inheritance.

It wouldn't be Christmas without being force-fed from dawn till dusk by me dear oul mammy, and touring the wilds of Clonmuckmurry and environs to explore the superb variety of Guinness on offer with me dear old pa.

I will return laden with gifts for all!

Club Derrig Xmas Xtravaganza!

It all started so well, with a drink in every hand, at the end of an almighty 4-day Club bender.

I knew things were getting a bit less than satisfactory with a Twin of Evil 1 / Red Snapper sandwich, in which I was little more than a meaty filling.

Sated, the red snapper moved on to other prey leaving Twin of Evil 1 to help herself to MY DRINK!.

Next, in a turn-up for all record-books, I am turned down by an apparently-repulsed cracker, EVEN THOUGH SHE IS SOLO AT THE CLUB!!!

Finally I am approached by someone with an offer of a twosome, conveyed in the medium of fingers.
All in all, not a bad night.

Why oh why 3: world record attempt

News reaches me hotfoot at my barstool that the popular lunatic Dickie 'Cash-Builder' Evans has stunned his doubters with a triumphant run up a flight of stairs.

It seems he entered upon a wager Mr Benjamin Thomas (the cad and complusive animal-toucher, conviction now spent) that he could manage all the stairs between the basement of Mabledon Towers and Club Derrig on the 9th floor in less than 60 seconds.

And, yes, to the surprise of everyone who had him marked down as a broken-down and incapable young sot, in just 74 seconds he managed this astounding feat.

Starting from the ground floor he addressed the security team - The Happiest Employees In The World TM - on his intention to reach the 8th floor in just under a minute and a half. They happily parted with a tenner each against the adrenalin-crazed "athlete" and would-be accountant.

A mere seven minutes later he breasted the third floor tape and, with a minute or two to spare, demolished two Bensons and quaffed a Mangers.

After a somewhat lengthy but medically-essential toilet break on the fifth floor, he bounded from the gent's and renewed his ascent with astonishing vigour. Taking up to two stairs at a time, and with not a hand on the bannister sometimes, it was not a matter to be undertaken by anyone less than 110% fit, and certainly not by a man with his appalling history of miserable gut-wrenching failure.

Later that evening he staggered out of the lift on the ninth floor, his legs like blancmange, his eyes wild, his hair like an explosion in a coconut matting factory. He barely reached the bar and uttered through lung-draining breaths, "A breeze, chaps, simply a breeze!"

Mr.Benjamin Thomas stopped his usual worthless chattering to consult the Club's sundial. "You're an afternoon too late," he declared louchely, stroking his face where he would grow glossy, lush moustachios were it not for his hormonal troubles.

Poor mad Dickie. I hope for the poor deluded fool's sake that he is not relying on such brainless wagers to settle any temporary financial embarrassment he may have, or in order to fund his attempt to make an honest woman of the long-suffering, ever-patient, and devoted Contessa.

Why oh why 2

Ever get the feeling of deja viewed?

I have been stuck here like this for two days now and only just getting ready for the Club Derrig Xmas Xtravaganza. I am not scared of the demon drink - I can defeat it easily. I think I can last until this evening when I have a full dance card to work my way through, and the lips of many luscious laydeez upon which to graze.

My only hope is that Mr.Benjamin Thomas will douse me with cold water and revive me in time for me to exercise my God-given masculine rights.

Why oh why

Another cheery 24 hours of non-stop festive merry-making at Club Derrig, but this time with the added bonus of jet-lag.

Just why do they put so much chemical goodness in Mangers?

An old friend

Bumped into Alan Jackson in the lift at Mabledon Towers.

I still can't believe that he dumped a thriving career advising on the application of standing orders to conferences for the misery of country and western stardom.

Still, it wouldn't be Christmas in Club Derrig without Alan perched on the stool by the dartboard, strumming and stumbling his befuddled way through another mind-numbingly dreary rendition of his best-loved classic "Please Daddy don't get drunk this Christmas".

He's a trouper all right.

Twice as welcome

Arriving back in Blighty I stepped off the plane to find nobody. I was aghasted.

I hailed a cab and made my way poste haste moste speede to Mabledon Towers to check on the situation vis a vis Club Derrig, my investments, and my charitable doings.

Imagine my surprise when after an hour or so I had successfully rounded up the Twins of Evil and they demanded to pose for a welcome home photo with me for a fee of twenty English notes each. How could I let them down? I paid over the fee freely.

After a few moments of ribald joshery I then headed for the Club, determined on one almighty bender.

Homeward bound

To avoid any reptition of the indiginities of the boat trip on the way out to my legendary SA trip, I decided to expend a few extra English sterling pounds on flying home.

I have worked hard for my money, so I don't expect to hear anyone challenging me about green footprints and all that Hippy Hairshirt 'Ooh isn't it getting hot' garbage. There's science and there's science and there's not science. And there's not quite science but mumbo-jumboism of the very highest order.

"It's a con put up by Bonio of that You Two and his ex-copper pal Stingy. Both of them jet-owning greenheads with nothing better to do than poke their noses in to the business of decent ordinary folk," said dapper Jon 'Scuttle' Richards to me the day before I left. "There's not a word of truth in this 100% scientifically-tested-and-proven climate change theorising."

He knows all about this stuff, geologicalism and planetary material and pop stardom's ability to turn your brain inside out and leave you wearing leggings and a woolly hat on a summer day. I don't know why he's never called on by the news brigade to give a more rounded point of view to our current affairs reportage.


Anyway, trip back pretty much to plan, dropping me off at Lydd airport where I imagine I'll be met by a bevy of laydeez with plans for me.

Hasta la fistula, baby!

Roughing it

I have been forced to make do with accommodation at a rather unsalubrious establishment, "The Lily Lodge" in Durban (Durban, South Africa).

It appears that Jenkins and Argy have connived in a disgraceful plan to smear my reputation among the hoteliers of the region - some nonsense about waste hair products glueing up the ablution systems etc. - leaving me with only the lower end of the market to meet my needs.

Despite its marvellous location adjacent to the Indian Ocean where 'it never rains , but it pours cats and dogs' (a local maxim of some obscure origin), it is in bad need of a lick of paint and a change of bedding.

I am beginning to wonder if there is a curse on my travels.

Still, I head for home tomorrow where I am loved and respected by all those who know me.

I had intended to remain longer, but I have been summoned back to investigate allegations that my charitable efforts have ended up in the pocket of some Hedgehog-harbouring woman, who intends buying tiny raincoats and galoshes for the spiky flea-magnets, no less!

One-Three-Seven!

A momentous day, interbloggingly-speaking, as I reach my 137th epistle to the ether.

Hooray for me and myself!

Other than that, spent the weekend in bed, slathered in bug repellent around the regions.

A chance encounter

I left the UK to get away from this sort of thing.

However, here - deep in the brush - I stumbled across Jenkins The Old Contemptible. Usually to be sighted leading the 3rd Pensioners Brigade, he was on a lone mission scouting out a new location for his faltering international antiquities import scam.

I have to say he looked somewhat out of place in his George at Asda jungle greens, but soon seemed at home after I had bought him a laager or two.

"Where's Argy?" he enquired.

I spun round, confused, quickly realising that I had seen neither hair nor hide of the wretched bargee for the best part of a week.

"Cheers," I replied and bought us another brace of drinks.

Jenkins and I then toured the great battlefields featured in the film Zulu and similar. We dressed modestly in safari suits, pith helmets, and puttees and carried only carbines for our protection.

On our grand tour we re-enacted many of the scenes and sayings of the time, captured so eloquently in the blockbuster "Zulu":

"You have made a covenant with death, and with hell you are in agreement! Death awaits you all! You're all going to DIE!."

And:

"The Army doesn't like more than one disaster in a day"


And:

"C-can I... undo me, me tunic now? "

And who could forget:

"I have work for baritones, too."

But, overall, I'd have to say not much Kop.

S.A.Fari Part Four

After trekking for numerous days in the wilderness and mountains with my feet and all I was delighted to hear the sound of a babbling brook.

I prayed it was not some insane-in-the-brain mentalist hallucination, and made my way with some trepidation towards the sound.

Imagine my surprise to come upon a German man without a stitch on, calmly stroking himself up and down the length of a beautiful waterhole.

And he was not alone! Just out of frame of the picture I snapped - from the safety of my secret station behind a coolibah tree - was a woman I took to be his wife! Also German. But, mercifully, in a swimsuit.

Unfortunately, I dropped my camera, the sudden noise alerting them to my presence.

"Guten Tag" they shouted at me, waving. "Kommen Sie innen."

I waved back, using my free hand to cover my eyes, and shouted "English! English! No naked stuff!" I then turned smartly on my heels and left, marching off back into the scrub.

I wandered for another few miles, stunned by the display of their continental freedoms, before finding I could hear water again. This time I could not hold back and bounded towards the sound, tearing my boots and socks awkwardly from my feet, desperate to first soothe my toes, then slake my thirst.

I hit the waterhole at a fair old clip, removing my shirt as I did so, leaving myself garbed in shorts and vest, and commenced splashing the water liberally about myself. I carried on until I was soaked and blissful.

It was then I found myself being watched from a matter of yards by the swimming German and his Damen! I had walked round in a complete circle!

"Ach!, Heidi" declared the naked Deutschlander. "Welcome the Englisher spy pervert! Invite him to join our merry band of nacktness."

For the second time that day I was forced to make my excuses and leave.

And that was the statement I made to the authorities about the whole unfortunate incident.

S.A.Fari Part Three

Soldier ant!

S.A.Fari Part Two

Termite!

S.A.Fari Part One

At last my snaps are back from Boots (Robben Island branch) and I can bring you the wonders of the wildlife I encountered on my long trek up the bush.

Stick insect!

Cousin Derry

Spent most of the day with my South A.-based cousin Derry 'Bunco' Derrig.

A famed barber in these parts, he showed me a cunning trick with a handful of oil that will ensure I never lose the pinnacle of perpendicularity of my pride and joy, no matter how bad the weather, no matter how low my natural vigour.

Forever in his debt, I strode about Cape Town this afternoon completely cock-a-hoop and all dandy dinmont, thereby allowing the locals to gaze freely on my glory.

A shame he could do nothing for Argy, merely suggesting a number one.

Derrig's open house

Some admirers study my immense brainpower.

I think I have just about learned everything I can about S.A.frica: my mighty brain is engorged to busting with facts, ephemera, and tittle-tattle of all things pertaining to this region.

So I spread myself open to all my readers who may have burning questions they wish to test me with.

I, Derrig, am ready.

Simply submit your query through the 'readers comments' link at the end of this post and I will rush my answer to you.

No timewasters. GSOH essential.

Nothing much surprises me, but...

I have now been in Africa (South) for almost 73.44 hours and I must say I am struck by something most peculiar.

Despite all my reading up on touristical materiel and the many and varied historical tomes available through my local library, I am just plain bamboozled by just how many white fellows there are here.

On the basis of my vast knowledge I would put it down to the country's superb marketing of itself as a holiday venue. However, it seems many have even put down roots and settled!

It just goes to show that you can't always believe what you are told by Braisers, a Zulu veteran of SA and its many beverages.

Fruity occurrence

Having rendevousiered with the absentee bargee at the adobe, we enjoyed an evening of rude camaraderie and rough talk.

Then we fell to arguing. As is usual, I'm afraid.

Exhausted from my exertions on the trick cycle and my journeyings, I was too fatigued to resist the dark intentions of Argy who, inflamed with alcohol and strange, unnatural desires, seized hold of my "blackberry". To my great alarm the unskilled bargee fingered it clumsily, but in great awe.

If I had had an ounce of my usual strength I would have repulsed this indignity, but alas I was puttee in the bargee's hands. In a matter of moments I was drained of any remaining vestiges of my usual vim and vigour.

The outcoming of all this assaultery was the issue of many unintelligible emails and texts at ungodly hours to a variety of my readers in what appeared to be my name, but was in fact the untutored and unmannered Argy.

A wise type once said that an infinite number of monkeys (which is a delight in itself, obviously) with an infinite number of typewriters would see one of the hairy chaps produce the complete works of one or another famous authors.

Thank heavens there was only one bargee and one "blackberry", as I shudder to think what Argy would have done with two!

SA

I am over my vapours, and we have safely docked. Nothing more can impede the progress of my expedition, now that I am off that cursed boat.

On disembarkation I was delighted to be greeted with a choral rendition of N'Cosi Fan Tutti, the Southern Africa singing anthem. I am always gratified to be recognised and have tribute paid appropriately.

However, of Argy the bargee, there was not a sign.

Eventually I was directed to a wall and found...

A small note was attached to where the saddle should have been. It read 'Carved by my own hands, Argy'.

On the back of the note were lengthy directions to a meeting spot where we could make an adobe our abode for the night before seeking out the entertainment delights of Rorke's Drifters - a local tribute band of great renown.

I set off at once, with only my natural rear padding as defence from the gnarly tree-cycle as I have come to term it.

Aloha!

The scenic route

The captain of the SS General Smuts is a salty old dog by the name of Cut-throat Jake.

He has a somewhat wayward sense of direction, declaring the compass and sextant the devil's tools.

I can only pity those whose 'cabins' lie below the plimsoll line, where the chunder buckets are slopped.

All at sea

I am beset with churnings and visions on this misbegotten journey from heaven to limbo. All is confusion and squitty liquefaction.

I blame Nauseatin' Jim, the cook, who prepared a meal of pork, cheese, and scum to break our fasts.

It is impossible to work out the time or the where we are at all even. I only know this for sure: everyone loves Raymond. Or is it, 'It's a Shame About Ray"?

It brings to mind an entry in the logbook of another famous sailorman, Donald Crowhurst:

"The Kingdom of God has an area measured not in square miles but in square hours. It is a kingdom with all the time in the world - we have used all the time available to us, and must seek an imaginary sort of time."

I agree with almost all of that, you damned lizards. And all speckly like.

Nightmare

After hours of wrangling and negotiation I boarded the SS General Smuts, and entered my midden of a cabin.

I immediately fell into a slumber from which I awoke at 2.21am in a cold sweat, my sleep having been riven with nightmares.

I had been consumed with dread in my dark dreams about what might happen to my Mr.Wonderful FIGURINE in my absence. Someone could do some terrible things to it to wreak revenge for my being so much better than them at everything.

Or worse - what might happen to my study!

Rust bucket ahoy

I am appalled.

I spent almost a hundred good English pounds sterling cash for a luxury cruise to the South of Southern Africa and the SS General Smuts turns up in this condition at the port of Margate.

To cap it all I am to be classed as 'steerage'.

I have written to the great statesman Mr.Manderlay and his Desmond Too too, expressing my outrage and demanding they do something about this dreadful state of affairs p.d.q.

It's all well and good getting visits from Titmarsh and the Spicy Girls, but if a world-class leader can't see that his peers are properly accommodated, then the world is going down the pan.

My heart will go on, indeed!

I have faxed Argy who is preparing to receive me on arrival with transport commensurate with my status.

Touristical ephemerania

A kind friend has supplied me with this beautiful keepsake.

It is the 'rabbits-foot' for travellers, I am told, somewhat akin to the St.Christopher medal for those who believe in the Smith family.

And it's head bobbles about, just like the real thing!

I know now that my journey is blessed and that nothing at all can go wrong.

Pithing off for a bit

Tomorrow I set sail for the wilds of the African continent of Southern Africa in South Africa.

Armed only with a pith helmet, my trusty Ray-Bands, and a weekend bag, I will meet up with my guide, adviser and all-round arguenaut Argy the Bargee at the world-famous port of Pietersburg. Argy is an authority on most things and will be most useful when navigating the numerous canals of Bloemfontein.

My reports will follow, subject to webnet inter-cafes in the bushy wilderness, or 'felt' as it is known by the locals.

I will be travelling on the SS General Smuts and telegrams should be sent care of that vessel, or direct to: Sir Colin Derrig, Club Singles 18-50 Holiday Club Apartments*, Verwoerd Terrace, Cape Town, South Africa, Southern Africa, Africa.

*Lady 'guests' extra after 11pm. No pets. No vegetarians.

Me and the laydeez VIII

So, just who is this gorgeous spouting blonde I was pictured with in an un-posed, off-the-cuff moment?

Let's just say she's married to the famous film director John Landis, so my well-known chivalry prevents me from revealing her actual name.

She is also a top notch type-writer.

A 'bosses' work is never done

This woman never stops working.

If you watch carefully, you can actually see her move.

So the question is, who told her she's in charge?

Film review II : The English Patience

Based very loosely on the utterly impenetrable and totally-unrelated book by the widely-respected and hopeless novelist Mick O'Ndatje, this film has it all.

Synopsis: A toff of an explorer sets out with all his digits in tact to cross the icy wastes of the Northern Pole, with only a power bar and a wind-up radio as kit. Along the way he drops fingers and toes to the point where he can no longer keep a firm grip on reality or his crampons.

He hallucinates about Kirsty Thomas-Scott having a bath TOTALLY IN THE ALTOGETHER (about 37 minutes and 8 seconds in, for nearly half a minute). Nicely done.

No-one knows or cares who he is, and at the beginning he dies.The rest of the film is a paean to the trials and tribulations of this idiot.

Ends on a high-note with stirring music and a list of names of those responsible for this comedy of flaws and nonsensical dramatic set-pieces. Tears all round, one choc ice and a giant box of popcorn.

Filmed in sepia-vision. May feature Melvin Gibson, possibly.

Col's commentary: Will probably make more sense on the telly.

Next week: Genghiz Khan (1965 version)

Me and the laydeez VII

A night in Scotland's premier drinking city - Glasgo - and as usual I can't avoid the attentions of the waiting staff. Luckily she finished her shift early AND she had the cash to pay for a taxi back to my hotel.

Unfortunately she failed my "10 Year Rule"*, and I packed her off back into the night with a flea in her ear about time-wasting.

*I think its unbecoming for a gentleman of my stature to have to put up laydeez of a certain age, so I restrict myself to only accepting applications from those 10 years either side of my own age. It saves a lot of heartache on their part, I find.

Curtains for Col...?

And look if it isn't myself with the eyes of the very devil in between the curtains.


Actually I was backstage at Glasgow's Scotch Exhibitionism Control Centre readying the cast of Disney on Ice for their performance later tonight.

It's been a helluva job getting Mr.Incredible into his rubber suit with just a handful of talc.

Bordering on child abuse

A terrible scene that I snapped at the recent knees-up in Trafalgar Square to support the Health Deparrtment (NHService).

Just because YOU are "political" doesn't mean you have the right to inflict your lifestyle choice on your children.

I owe it all to him

Aaah – me old Da – what a fine gent and all. He would have been the original Laydeez Man if my Ma hadn't got hold of him first.

As well as building over 14000 miles of UK roads with just a megaphone, a cattle prod and an army of slave labour, he is a man of science.

His particular interest is in the future and how science might come to the aid of man in solving some of the most intractable problems we know. He remains particularly enthralled by the question of what makes us human in the context of artificial intelligence.

This has tried many great minds since the dawn of robotics and my Da was no different, racking his brains over how much we rely on emotional intelligence to distinguish us from thinking machines. Now retired, he spends many hours in his armchair debating himself on this thorny subject, determined to formulate a workable theory.

Living in a remote part of the Sapphire Isle, he does not have the kind of research facilities that many of us might enjoy through local universities and the like. As a result, all of his research into this matter is informed by – nay entirely dependent upon - his access to popular media such as television and the TV Times, his paper of record.

Asked about his research, he says “I was distraught when they cancelled Tomorrow’s World. But I was overjoyed when they reacted to the public outcry about its cancellation and put on a replacement popular science programme. To my delight it combined my love of roads, artificial intelligence, and speculating about the future. Knight Rider – will there ever be a programme to beat it? Well, maybe Robot Wars. Only time will tell.”

Film review I: My inaugural cinematic column

This is my inaugurated film review.

It will, over the years to come, grow into an archive for film and social historians. It will also be a treasure trove of inspiration, memories, and, above all else, entertainment on a global scale.

It will include memorable quotes, cinematic trivia, and my own musings on the film itself, the stars, and the film making fraternity.

All in all, it will be a marvel.

And so to business. Let’s start now with what must surely be regarded as the finest film made in post-war Britain: The Wild Geeses.

Synopsis
Stars Ronald Fraser (pictured above). Scene: Big black chap with an assegai confronted by gay chap played by Kenneth Griffith. Ouch. Berets. Man in aeroplane croaks but gives away secret so plane can land safely. President Lubimbi in backflash. Social progress and an end to racism everywhere when chap stops calling other chap 'kaffir' and starts using term 'bloke'. Almost two hours.

Col's commentary
Excellent.

Next week: The English Patient

Pants on fire

It comes to a pretty pass when I am forced onto the record to rebut some scandalous rumours being put about by Mr. Ben Thomas (seen above testing a mic for me at one of my speaking engagements).

My would-be-civil-partner-for-pension-benefit-purposes (or WBCPFPBP for short, and pronounced "Corpse-robber") is nothing but a perpetrator of terminological inexactitudes.

That man knows no bounds of taste or decency and will stop at nothing to besmirch my good name and make me seem a laughing stock among my peers.

I think its time to put a stop to his interminable gossip-mongering and let the trusty sword of truth and justice cut through his mischievous blathering.

1. I CAN swim.

2. I CAN ride a bike.

3. I DO eat crisps.

Let no man doubt me on these matters again!

Not so much a tailpipe as...

Is it my imagination, or....

A hat-tip to Colin Seymour, whose blog I've added to my blog-roll.

Safety first!

I am proud to endorse this new high-visibility cycling gear for the street-wise urban pedaller.

The demon drink

BEFORE

AFTER


Lunchtime drinking can be career-limiting.

Let that be a warning to you all.

Brand spanking new coat

Never again will I have to put up with my Ma saying I turn up looking like a tramp! Yes, I got my new coat - and it will look even better with a belt of hairy string.

We Love Dept of NH Service

Today I have been leading my many and various troops in a celebration of all about getting well or not getting sick in the first place through preventationness.

It was a magnificent day of walking on stilts dressed as lobsters, big bash banging bands with drums and gubbins, and also some eight lads and a filly from Alabammy shouting though a PA about Mondays.

Impressive.

According to Police estimates there were nearly 7 million of us thronging the streets, but they are notorious for underestimating. It was my great joy to lead the revellers with my trade-marked, all-purpose chant, “Come on”, which I include here for tutorial purposes for those amongst you who may need to lead similar such beanfests.



I was also privileged to accompany home a damn fine woman of good stock, and the happenings thereafter shall have a veil drawn over them.



Except to say she congratulated me on my stamina and performance THROUGHOUT the day. She can be seen here on the right of the three “when shall we meet again” sisters.

Oh happy, happy day!

Brother Brendan

Ah, me own bigger brother, the lovely Brendan.

Yet to master the concept of 'keys', he still knows how to get through a door using all the power contained in his mighty frame.

He's a strong-arm for hire, available to put the squeeze on troublemakers anywhere, anytime, through his thriving security company 'Get Out Now You Pathetic Scum Or It'll Be Hospital Food All The Way, Not That You'll Be Able To Bite, Chew, Swallow, Digest, Or Evacuate Your Bowels By the Time I've Finished With You, Ltd' (trading As 'SecuriDoor').

I know through personal experience that Brendan is a good sort to have around when you are poking fun at chaps bigger than yourself, the big softy.

I still haven't forgiven Aunty Bridie, though.

Trick or treat: young thugs' charter

And so we come upon that time of year again when gangs of vicious thugs roam the streets in disguise demanding sweets with menaces from the elderly and defenceless, or inscribe their doors with offensive graffiti - or do even worse - for those who don't cough up.

I can recall a time when even I - yes, I, the Derrig of the Derrigs - was cowed by these terror tots.

It ruined what promised to be a perfectly good evening at a party to celebrate the divorce of an eminently unsuitable couple. I had sent Mr Benjamin Thomas ahead to the Tollgate Public House to await my attendance, promising to bring with me the directions to the party venue. Having preened and primped myself into party readiness, I was about to depart my humble adobe when I was beset by a ruthless gang of marauding minature ruffians, all dressed in what can only be described as "wicked gear".

I retreated and waited for the coast to clear, but they stood their ground, brushing against my garden gate, leaning near my hedge, and shuffling their tiny feet in the most chilling manner.

In the end I could stand the tension and fear no longer and sacrificed my last remaining Ginster's breakfast bar, feeding it gingerly through the letterbox. I withdrew to my bedroom and bolstered myself with the duvet and pillows for an hour or so until it was safe to go back downstairs.

I looked carefully through the letterbox and...they had completely vanished!

It is an experience I do not wish to repeat, although Mr.Thomas did well out of it - as is usually the case - having waited faithfully and fruitlessly for me in the Tollgate and ending up as absolutely cheerful as only a man of his intemperance can.

This year I will be staying overnight at Club Derrig until the hideous youthful-high-jinks-cum-criminality has exhausted itself.

It's a total disgrace and something must be done about it.