Tour du monde I

Zut alors! as they say in the old language of the land of my fathers - it seems that Monsieur Thomas has been somewhat lax in keeping up with 'ze bloggings'. Quelle un idler!

I have travelled far and now reached Greenland (or 'The Emerald Isles' as it is known hereabouts) and am familiarising myself with 'Garlic' - the local lingua Celtisme.

I have many tales to tell, a pocketful of strange coinage to distribute to the needy orphans on my return, (don't bring the charitable works up again, will you?), and a 'clippe sur la bonce' for the errant Thomas.

Fait les bonnes temps roule, mes supplicants!

On vacances

I have made a sudden and irrevocable decision to quit the country for an indeterminate period and travel the world.

I would like to put on record that this is in no way connected with a petition currently being circulated by my rivals. This scurrilous document demands that I immediately hand over funds I have raised from others in good faith. It claims the funds will allow a group of undeserving urchins to pay a visit to the seaside and enjoy their first experience of a holiday.

I make a practice of never discussing my charitable work, although I should point out it was A BLOODY LONG AND DESPERATE TREK I UNDERTOOK AT GREAT PERSONAL RISK TO MY OWN LIFE AND LIMBS to raise that money. I am sure no one begrudges me the few measly pence I made out of this effort. It's not as if I even had the money long myself as I had to make my regular Club bar bill payment.

So, off I go globetrotting. I am reluctantly forced to leave the upkeep of my blog in the hands of that rapscallion Ben Thomas. He has assured me he will be posting regularly with all the wit the half-wit can muster.

So, ciao, mes Freunds!

Cricket, lovely cricket!

Great news!

I hear my cricket team have beaten those scoundrels and bounders from the Audit Commission! That’ll be the second time this year that the Gareth ‘The Cad’ Sully has had to slink home with his bails whipped off.

A lot of people find cricket a confusing game, and some even go so far as to call it “boring”. I think that it’s a game which rewards effort, and rewards should be earned and not attained without a bit of the old elbow grease. I gained my extensive knowledge of the game by simply going along to my local ground and listening to the comments of my fellow spectators. Occasionally I would ask a question, but it all fell into place eventually. So I say three cheers for our national sport!

Anyway, my lads – under the captaincy of Sam ‘Spiv’ Oestreicher - really spanked the arses off the Commission lads and by the end of the day we were eight goals to the good.

Fantastic stuff. Pimms all round, I think?

My Lurve Techniques

I have to be honest: I wasn't born with my powers.

I learned most of them at the knee of my Great Grandfather, Sir Colin Derrig, who was a celebrated philanderer and rogue. He was an enormously popular figure in his day, having a similar standing to that of the Tichborne Claimant. There is no denying he was much beloved in his time by laydeez of every shape and size and orientation.

I merely mention this as I was clearing out the attic at Maison Derrig the other day and stumbled across a reel of film.

Almost virtually decayed, I have had it restored to the best condition I can afford and present it here for all you students of Derrig Power.



I can only salute the old man for his stamina and good looks, which I have so obviously inherited.

Hallam: A Star High In Seventh Heaven (or, H.A.S.H.I.S.H)

Pictured here yesterday in special Yorkshire Day sunglasses.

It's not often one has the pleaure of hosting a hippy-dippy-trippy-glam-rock-groupie-cum-witch in Club Derrig, but we are fortunate to have a neo-pseudo-type one in Jools "Smoking, Snorting, Shooting, Spelling" Hallam, whose rare visits leave my many worldly-wise guests wondering just what the hell was going on.

Laying claim to having entertained the bongo drummer out of T.Rex, the second drummer in the Glitter Band, the bass player out of Slade, the guitarist out of Roxy Music, the Sweet, and most of Wizzard on one night of their all-star glam reunion tour in 1981 (13th May, Doncaster Alhambra), she insists her memory for individual names is far less important than her recall of their poptastic credentials.

She has an amazing recall for sordid details and can recount a lengthy and shocking tale for each of the notches on the heavily-scarred broomstick she is never seen without. This detailed recollection is all the more surprising as she has never knowingly turned down any substance offered her (save a Twix, once, her reasoning being that if a Mars Bar was good enough for Marianne it was good enough for her.).

Chocolate, she claims, is a sacrament. She can often be found wandering the streets of London drenched in it - and it alone - as if participating in some hippy dirty-protest performance art, and threatening to violently smear herself on unlucky passers-by. Indeed, those who have had the 'pleasure' of visiting "the Old Hallam House", as it is known by pent-up young men locally, will be enchanted by the many shrines to a vast array of chocolatiers that can be found in every room of that cursed building.

There is one good thing to say about Jools, though: she is always very handy on those rare occasions when the whiskey turns too sour or the brandy becomes undrinkable. She merely whips out a candle from some nook or cranny about her person and, whilst whirling on the spot - well, pretty much nearly on the spot - commences an invocation thus:

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!
On Ilkley Moor Bah Tat
On Ilkley Moor Bah Tat
La-la-la-la I believe I can fly
La-la-la-la Oooh - or do I?
La-la-la-la Up in the sky-y-y-y-y
La-la-la-la Right way up high-igh-igh
La-la-la-la Banish those bad spirits - ooooooooooooooh! - goodbye-bye-bye.

She then places all the bottles of "bad spirits" in her capacious carpet bag and leaves quickly. It certainly seems to work. For her, at any rate.

On evenings of the full moon she will hold what she describes as psycho-psychic-psychedelic happenings. These include fortune-telling using either cards, tea leaves, palmistry, a crystal ball, or - until a recent intervention by the licensing authority's Health and Safety fascist goons - the entrails of a freshly-slaughtered goat.

Unable to foretell the next day's weather with almost the accuracy of the Met Office, she is much sought after for advice on picnicking plans.

She is also able - when in a deep, alcohol-sustained trance - to summon forth those from the 'other side' who seem peculiarly willing to help with such mundane matters as where someone has mislaid their keys. Speaking in a voice not her own - one more refined, elegant, and less Yorkshire - she will channel the spirits thus, "Does anyone here know a of Charles who has passed? No? Wait it's....Charlotte.... no....no-one? Wait it's coming through clearly now - Carol?....Carlotta?....Carl? Oooooh, for flip's sake give me clue won't one of you?"

She has yet to reveal to us (although not, apparently, the members of Showaddywaddy) what she refers to as her "famous golden chakras".

Star Spot

My old mucker Braisers has turned up in another movie!

This time he's playing the part of a narcoleptic Mini-me to top lung cancer champion and celebrity sort Anthony Worrall-Thompson.
Party on, Braisers!

(Copyright Col Derrig.)