Singing through the wire

They said the full majesty of myself in headlong song-murder could never be captured. How wrong they were.

Available for weddings, parties, and wakes.

At the top of my game

I've been inundated with a query asking for more details about what I do at the conference.

My queree simply could not believe that I was, as she put it, "a rather over-paid usher".

I think it may not have been clear from my previous posting that I have an extremely responsible role.

First off, it's not just about making sure someone is sitting comfortably. I have to ascertain whether they are delivering a sparkling oration for or against a particular proposal. Or they may wish to make a cutting intervention by means of a procedural motion. Or they may have the chance of coming back at the end of the debate to deliver the coup de grace and demolish the carefully-constructed edifice of their opponents' arguments. Although this dignifies the actual contributions of the "brothers and sisters" rather too highly.

But I often need to deploy my skills in detailed negotiation with, and interpretation of, people who really have no idea what they are actually doing there.

Second, escorting people to the appropriate chair for their contribution is nothing short of a balletic performance. In particular I have to glide around, sweep past, and manoeuvre the all-too-often discipline-resistant strain of the multitude into the correct chairs for them to be called forth by the Grand Arbiter to unburden themselves.

Thirdly, I have to maintain an air of calm, authority and presence in the face of all this.

"A rather over-paid usher?" Hell-o-oh!?!

And for those needing further evidence, here's Derrig inaction.

Well, obviously there are similarities...

Time changes everything, and we've both put on a bit of muscle since this shot of the Master Baiter. In fact, It's often commented on that I'm looking slightly trimmer than the rather more heavyweight Mozzarella - or 'the Big Cheesy' as we loyal fans call him - of late.

Travellin' Light

As a man of the world, jet-setting my way through life and ensuring all the women of the world get to share a continent with me at some time or other, I want to let you in on a secret: travel light.

Too many people insist on packing everything but the kitchen sink (take note, lexicographers and all my future biographers - that's a copyrighted original phrase). My own approach whittles it down to the bare essentials: toothbrush, change of underthings, bucket of Hai Karate, and a bed.

All too often the experienced traveller finds himself (or indeed herself in these days of women's liberties!) skyjacked on the whim of the airlines, ending up marooned in a godforsaken airport en route to his ultimate destination. Whether it be Eastbourne, Leeds, Scarborough, or Harrogate, an airport can be a friendless and uncomfortable place.

That's when my self-designed "Derrig's Portmanteau-cum-Boudoir-cum-Liferaft" - pictured above - proves an invaluable travel companion.

It's on sale now at all good travel emporia for £29,999 + VAT. With integral fridge and bar: £30,250+VAT. Also available in puce.

Weird food alert

This is a public service warning to all my readers. See these above? These are "cherries".

You can buy them in "greengrocers", or, if like me you prefer all your shopping needs to be conveniently located under one roof, in Lidl.

Well, beware! These innocent-looking blighters have hard bits of wood in them called "stones". Hard enough you could break your teeth on them if not forewarned! As I wasn't. These "stones" serve some kind of purpose but science has, as yet, been unable to work out exactly what. One theory runs they are a protective device against cherry-hunters, making them unpalatable at best and dangerous at worst, and so have allowed the "fruit" to survive unchanged since prehistoric times.

And the long stick bits aren't edible either.

Consider yourselves duly advised. You'll thank me.

Multi-skilling

This week I have mainly been doing my most important work on behalf of my employer. Yes, it's conference again and I have been down the front in my best suit and primped pompadour, shepherding people to the right seats.

It's one hell of a responsibility, and that's why they've picked a Derrig. It's all about making it look well-oiled, as indeed I have been during most of the week. There was a moment of product-crisis when I went a bit limp and floppy, but by the end of the week I was fully upright again.

As to what actually goes on, who knows? Certainly not me.

Me and the laydeez IV

No! It's not true, and I'll flay any man alive who dares to suggest it. Me and Ronald? Never in a million years. Not in any car park under the building, no matter what evidence they have on CCTV.

One step too far, Master Baiter!

Oh, dearie me - the bottom of the Smiths barrel. Bleating sheep. Lowing cows. Clucking hens. Snorting pigs. You know, he could've been the next Percy Edwards, but instead our Steven decided to plough his own furrow.

Give us this day our daily bread. Singed.

That fancy new Pope Benedict hasn't wasted any time starting his bid for beatification, has he? Let all those non-believing C of E-types out there look upon his toast and tremble.

Can I have it with cheese on?

Hill's Angel II

Eeeh-bah-goom. Fetch me ferret, mother, I'm gan oot for a hike.

Why isn't a man with that assured gait and just the one arm not on Britain's Got Talent? Better by miles than one of those ex-smackhead community dance troupes whose idea of the terpsichorean arts is impersonating an explosion in a prosthetics factory.

It's all down hill from here...

Civil partnership II

If only this charming man were free. Sigh.

Love that jacket! Shame he seems to have caught his thumb in the buttonhole.

Me and the laydeez III

Liberal splash of the Magner's SexGod Pit De-Stencher last night and there was no stopping me.

Started out with the short mouthy one and ended up with the enormously tall strange one.

Couldn't make out a word either of them said. Possibly the Fizzy Kruger to blame.

Hill's Angel

For some reason this rather appropriate and fetching attire resulted in me acquiring the nickname 'Benny'. I can only presume they mean the rather talented comedic genius blessed with the skills of patting slapheads and running away from scantily-clad buxom types.

And not the woolly-hatted rural mushhead from Crossroads.

Even better than a Ginster's?

For the longest time I thought I had discovered the perfect food: the Ginster's Porky-roll. I found this food-based product to be both edible, easily controllable whilst driving, and packed with liquefying cheese-like goodness.

Imagine my shock then to discover that a new product has become available - one which quite literally knocks the stuffing out of the Ginster's.

That product is Walker's Cheese and Onion French Fries.

Just look at all the goodness they pack into these: potato granules - actual granules! - (preservative(sodium metabisulphite)) , potato starch, sunflower oil (16%) , cheese and onion flavour [lactose (from milk),cheese powder, whey powder (from milk), flavour enhancer (monosodium glutamate (from wheat)), sugar, flavouring,colour (paprika extract)], salt, colour (annatto).

I am now at the stage where I drool at the mere thought of getting my hands on one of the plump little bags of these slender, cardboardy sticks of delight. Although they are cheese and onion flavour, the taste is all that and yet, curiously, so much less. I love they way they drain all the moisture from one's mouth as they dissolve into a sloppy mulch, remaining in one's mouth for the shortest time until they clump and slither quasi-phlegm-like down one's oesophagus.

The only downside as far as I can see? The packet is only 22g in size and the fries are suitable for vegetarians.

I won a tenner!

You recall the almost-qualified, almost-guitar-playing, almost-recovered, does-a-lot-of-revising-in-the-bar-student-type, Dick?

Well he's a regular at Club Derrig, taking a load off, getting over the stresses and strains of the day, keeping up the average Magners consumption rate for the Club and so on. I am somewhat of a father figure to the gurning fool - and that is not code for him being my long lost son, the product of a quick knee-trembler in the car park of Mabledon Towers with whatever her name was...nice hair, tattoos, eczema, pipe...oh come on, you remember?

Anyway, in my role as mentor, I occasionally give him a few lessons in the gentlemanly art of pool. He'll never make a real player, but I think it's important that he's allowed to express himself on the table, knock a few balls around and so on. It's all very non-patronising of course, and I do let him win from time-to-time to keep his pecker up.

But dash it if the young whippersnapper wasn't getting all cocksure and thinking that because I set shots up for him, or deliberately foul to give him a couple of shots, or miss my own pots, or knock his in a pocket occasionally when he's at the bar getting a round in, well dash it if he doesn't think he can take me on in a big-money-game!

Clearly, as a Derrig, I couldn't let such a challenge pass and decided to teach him a lesson. Keeping my powder dry, I let him win the first match and suggested a double-or-quits return. Foolishly he picked up the gauntlet and was mightily peeved when I won the game, leaving me a tenner up. That certainly settled his impudent hash and was a victory for myself of magnificent proportions! He certainly won't be trying that one again.

All hail Derrig-Power! Huzzah!

(For the sake of completeness and the avoidance of legal action, I must add here that the night did not stop there and by the end of our endeavours I ended up owing the runt a fiver. Not that that has any bearing on the afore-reported Derrig-tastic wiping of the floor with the misbegotten oaf.)

Civil partnership

Can I make it clear here and now that my planned civil partnership with Benjamin Thomas is purely for financial reasons. There is no intent - certainly not on my part at any rate - to consummate the union. He is far too physical for my liking. Providing neither of us kicks up a fuss about it there's no reason why anyone should be any the wiser.

Here's the cheeky scoundrel with some floozy he's picked up as a 'beard'.

When we do finally move in together we will, like Gilbert and George, maintain a 'show' joint bedroom. Mind you, I don't see why we can't sleep in the same bed.

HELL-OO-OOOH! "SLEEP", I said.

It worked for Eric and Ernie. We could always get a 3 bedroom place so we can have separate rooms for when we are entertaining or enjoying our solo pursuits.

Oh no its not either

OK, so there's a vague similarity between me and Des Brown, Minister of Defence. But its not a separated at birth issue, is it? The smile, and the slightly bouffant barnet, I'll give you. But I still haven't got my new specs yet.

Bonham-Carter clock confusion

I once had a whole week of waking only semi-satisfied each morning from an especially pleasing dream about Helena Bonham-Carter in her hot monkey-woman guise. Turned out I had bought a chimpanzee instead of an alarm clock and it's curious chimp noises provoked my nocturnal frenzy.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Titfer alert

Now THIS is a hat.

I have this superb item of miltary headgear stored in the spare bedroom at Derrig Villas. It's the from the British 1858 Lanarkshire Yeomanry Lancers, and what a fine body of men they must have looked trooping into battle, only their faces obscured by the enormous plumes descending from their helmets.

Unfortunately, I am no longer able to display my beautiful shiny helmet in public following a court order in which scaring the horses was cited.

I was thinking of growing a 'tache

And people still wonder why I am such a hit with the laydeez. Be-quiffed to the max, shiny suit, slick mannerisms, sensuous small talk, and a versatile tongue. I tell my acolytes that I treat my blog just like I treat all the beautiful laydeez I come up against: with regular and frequent entries.

Me and the laydeez II

Christ-on-a-bike! I had a few last night. Here's one of them. Lovely laugh. Like being slathered in warm treacle and having it gently smoothed into your skin with a velvet glove. She said.

(Copyright Col Derrig.)