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.

XXXX Factor

This is who I'm backing to win!

Can you tell why, readers?

Noisy visuals

To you and me, it looks like this:



But to someone like Mr.Ben Thomas it looks like this:



It's got to stop.

The campaign starts now!

On legal confusion

Many of you seem to be confused about allegations that I have a criminal record for kerbcrawling.

Let me put the record straight: Firstly the American legal system is a very different bottle of fish from that in the United Kingdoms. They have different legal concepts such as '3 strikes and you're off'. They also have 'Double Indemnity' with Fred MacMurraymint and Barbara Stansted. And Perry Masonry, of course.

Secondly, it's a long way away, despite the virtual bridge of our grand telephone system.

Thirdly, the laws and verdicts of that benighted country, God Bless Her, do not apply in this country.

Finally, they speak a different language: Americano. Coffee is known as 'joe' and 'jive', and 'jazz'. Marion Morrison is known as John Wayne. Dr Who is known as Dr Who?. What they call kerbcrawling, we call jaywalking.

Having clarified the situation, I will say no more.

Look out below!

I am renowned for my ability to impersonate virtually any Second World War aircraft.

Here I demonstrate the infamous Junkers 88.

Good, eh?

Excess all areas

This weekend I will be enjoying working with people who face extraordinary challenges in order to live ordinary lives.

They come up against barriers of all sorts which many of us either do not even see or which we can deal with and overcome easily. Indeed, our world is one which has been designed for the vast majority of us in such a way that it has the effect of excluding those who are equipped differently.

I am of course referring to Susan 'The Microphone' Davey and Gloria 'Small Car' Foran.

I never cease to marvel at how Ms Davey makes herself heard without the aid of a Led Zeppelin-sized PA system, and how Ms Foran gets herself from A to B in her sewing-machine powered micro-car.

I salute these two tireless workers and their unending fight for their own rights.


Fight on, sisters!

On the perils of fashion

Unlike the aformentioned fashion-plate Mr Jon ‘Pugwash’ Richards, I do not find it necessary to adorn my body with fancy high-priced garments. My inner beauty will always shine through regardless of the scarecrow cast-offs and unironed shirts I choose as my day-to-day apparel.

Having said that, from time-to-time my eye is caught by a decent bit of schmutter, which I believe can only be improved-upon by my wearing it.

Only the other day I saw what is probably the finest overcoat since young Joseph was gifted his rainbow smock.I’m sure you’ll agree that this is a particularly fine example of the tailor’s art, and one which would grace any man’s wardrobe without making him look like some irritating gilded lily.

In somewhat of a rush to get to my barber’s salon (‘Primpers’ - £5.00 flat-rate, no job too big), I decided to return at later date to the emporium at which this item was available and purchase it.

Imagine my horror when that very evening my so-called “Genius Amanuensis” Williams bowled into Club Derrig wearing THE VERY SAME COAT (save a little smaller).

Of course, I cannot be seen garbed in the clothes of the masses, so I have decided to buy the same coat for myself, but wear it customised with various badges and gaily-coloured ribbons. And I have instructed Williams to phone me each morning before he leaves his premises so he can learn if I intend wearing the coat that day. It would be simply too ghastly were we to arrive at functions we have in common attired in a similar fashion.

I am also buying one in a curious brownish-type colour.

A sharp-suited buccaneer!

More pirates, me hearties!

Here be Jon 'Scuttle' Richards, whose obsession with cartoon characters has seen him move on from impersonating Tintin to wandering about pretending to be Captain Pugwash. It is his generous apportionment to himself of pieces of eight garnered from his many wicked exploits on the high seas that allows him to sally forth to the bespoke tailors of Savile Row and purchase suits of fine silks and cambric, his sea-weathered skin being so sensitive.

He is also a regular visitor to men's perfumier's and pungent unguent manufacturers. To call him a dandy would be to make Beau Brummel feel an inadequate and horny-handed oaf of a landlubbing lummox.

I understand that 'Mr' Benjamin Thomas is taking on the role of the good Captain's Seaman Staines.

On the answerphone

Home from Club Derrig late again last night, to find a blinking red light on the telephone answerer.

"Hello there, son, it's your mam. I had a dream. Did you get home alright? It's your mam."

Succinct, informative, and brief. If only all my callers could be so!

A long weekend in Halifax

Drinking wine spodee-o

It is not often I am required to force The Contessa Ms June 'Twin of Evil A' Chandler to drink.
On this particular occasion, though, she needed my help to obliterate from her mind an awful memory, that she had flashed-back to upon seeing me lounging louchely at the bar of Club Derrig.

It appears that some time back she had written the rudest word known to the English-speaking world in the snow on the windscreen of her testosterone-crazed partner's (Mr David 'Johnson' Johnson) luxury saloon vehicle. 'Johnson' became seized with a fit of rage, and seeking to dissolve the snow, relieved himself on the defaced windscreen. His rage grew further on discovering his super-powerful hormone-drenched urine had the effect of acting an an etching agent.

In a bold attempt to disguise the offensive word, he now motors the land in the guise of a Scunthorpe supporter, in a frenzied search for private contractors to spit on.

Weird food alert III

Oh foul and cursed confectionery!

Reader, do not be fooled. Imagine if you will candyfloss which has been subjected to the same pressure as carbon when it is diamondized. Now imagine that item without the hardness, shape, transparency, or value. Now imagine it with a different taste.

And there you have the marshmallow.

As a child I suffered the unfortunate experience of having an Aunty Bridie.

She had an obsession with these works of the devil and judged all she met against their liking - or otherwise - for marshmallow. She devised a complex algorithm through which she worked her demonic 'likeability' calculations which can be expressed thus:
Unfortunately I scored very low on the index, while my brother - one Brendan Derrig - scored very highly indeed.

And even when it was pointed out to the old dear that I had no taste for these ghastly items, she merely said, "Well, then, the Lord be praised, that's more for your handsome older brother, isn't he a delicious little leprechaun what with his cheeky smile and running around like a hellion, bedad and top of the morning. And here's an extra bag for going! Ah, but there I go forgetting you have a terrible fear and mistrust of the pink and white delights. So now you won't be wanting them, but I'm sure young Brendan - Lord bless his plump red cheeks - can find a use for them. Now get out of my will. Sorry, I mean way."

So much for lovely old ladies and their doubly-devilish trickery.

Breaking News: Election Cancelled!

I don't know how many of you get the chance to keep up with the heady world of political doings and going-on, what with those full bottles to be drained and all, but I thought you might want to know that the election has been cancelled.

There I was all ready to enjoy the hustings, the wranglings, the manifestoes, the opinion polls, and the op-ed pieces in the quality press, and now it's a matter of 'as you were'.

Unless I'm mistaken, I'm going to end up as Club Derrig's President-For-Life.

Cyber-Derrigs a-plenty

I am pleased to see that numerous other members of Clan Derrig have staggered into cybernauticalism alongside your truly.

I have added links to their efforts in the 'What I Like' section on the right of this page and hope they will do likewise in order to spread the word.

Come on all ye Derrigs - unite! You have nothing to lose but your reputations.

For her own good

Tallulah has been temporarily incarcerated.

She is allowed one postcard a week and she writes:

"What a divine room! Unfortunately, budget cuts mean I have to decorate it myself. The bastards will only allow me access to non-spirit-based paint. WHO'S THAT? OVER THERE - ON THE PELMET! You know, the good thing about Malibu? It's better than a coconut because it's alcoholic. RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!"

I'm sure a break from the rigours of real life is just what she needs.

Seafood update

I am pleased to report that the scampi have at last returned to their natural habitat and are swimming to the sea as I write.

They think it's all over...it is now!

Ending my enforced visit to Plymouth, I decided the only way to go was in the traditional manner.

It’s been a few days of sweat, tension, and explosive debate.

I would go so far as to say it’s been enough to put the willy up weaker sorts, but I stiffened my upper lip and after what seemed as epic an experience as I can recall from recent weeks, I led the seething masses to a glorious finale.

I only wish it all came round more often.

World's greatest joke

I have been heartily congratulated on a speech I wrote on the subject of toilet provision.

After a lengthy discourse on this pressing issue: We all need them, we all want them, and there aren't enough (that's enough of the gist to make sense of my quippery) I ended the speech with a rip-snorter of a funny.

"Only 28 out of 343 local authorities were represented at the World Lavatory Convention."

Oh! how they fell about.

Well, maybe you had to be there...

And then it was back to passing motions.

Fight it root and branch

Today has been one of the highlights of the year for the group of maturing people I addressed.

Taking elder abuse as my subject, I spoke at length on this distressing matter, touching on the use of knives, ropes, and systemic poisons.

I think all now agree that defending one of this nation’s finest species of tree is a matter for everyone and should be pushed firmly up Sir Gordon Brown’s agenda.

Off the rails

Journeying to Plymouth - where it is always International Talk Like A Pirate Day - I was disgusted to find that British Rail has fallen to a very low ebb. It's reliance on poorly-drafted hand-written notes on scraps of paper, appended to walls using whatever adhesive material comes to hand shows a shoddy attitude to the travelling public.

I was even more disgusted by the travelling public, however, and their inability to read and follow the simplest instructions. Fortunately my travelling companion on this occasion, Mr Christophulous Fabbulous, was available to put them right with a swift blow to the back of their heads while they stood there gawping at the sign and then directing them appropriately in a firm manner.

I remained calm and maintained my dignity incognito behind my newspaper, concealing the withering looks of superiority which passed across my handsome countenance.

I'm A Knock-Out!

A lot of people see this excellent television programme as the point at which the Royal Family itself jumped the shark.

I see it as possibly THE high point in the British televisual experience (notwithstanding the programme in which Rebecca Loos assisted in a porcine ejaculation).

The show featured members of the British Royal Family alongside sporting and showbiz celebrities including Lady Jane Seymour, John Travolting, Meaty Loaf, George Lazy, John Cheese, Jenny 'Stopped a train with her knickers?' Gutter, and so on and so forth, and ever more shall be so.

It was conceived and organised by the very high Prince Edward who wanted to get into TV after an illustrious career entertaining the Royal Marines, and he featured prominently alongside Princess Anne, and the Duke and Duchess of York as team captains, each of whom supported a different charity.

The show was hosted by Stuart Hall, Les Dawson and Su Pollard.

The contestants competed in vastly entertaining games. In one round they dressed up as giant vegetables and threw fake hams at each other.

Immediately after the event, Prince Edward asked the assembled journalists "Well, what did you think?" Somewhat taken aback by such a direct question, the craven yellow-bellied dogs responded with a nervous laughter. The Prince quite rightly withdrew, bitterly thanking the journos for their lack of enthusiasm.

I am told by a Palace insider that The Queen had not approved of the event and that her courtiers had advised against it. Neither she, the Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Charles nor Princess Diana agreed to take part but for whatever reason, Edward persevered and the project went to completion.

But to this day I have never seen this televisual feast.

Why?

Well, for a start it's never been repeated.

And when it was broadcast I was forced to miss it because I was making an effort for a young woman called Shirley.

But I learned my lesson alright.

Never again.

Tossing in my titfer

I have decided to throw my hat into the ring as a Parliamentary candidate at the forthcoming Generals Election.

I am aware that the good people of Suffolk are crying out for decent representation by a skilled orator with the necessary direction, gumption, verve, vim, and spunk.

I am therefore giving notice to all parties that tenders (cash only, no cheques) for my services may be submitted in sealed brown envelopes to the usual address.

More Derrig history

From the New York Times, 15 April 1877.

I understand - to my chagrin - that it remains the case that if the women are in different countries it still counts as bigamy.

We Derrig men just can't say no. It's clearly genetic.

Just another night

Out on the razz again last night.

A splendid evening commenced with drinks at Club Derrig and the opportunity to hear an enormously interesting exchange between Spiv Oestreicher and Bilberry about ambulances. It became guffaw central after a handful of drinks. The moment was somewhat soured by an outburst of disagreement between Spiv and Mr Benjamin Thomas over the purchase of a glass washing machine, each of them denying responsibility in a very degrading way.

Onwards to a musical extravaganza at Le Scala, with my amanuensis, the literary genius Williams. (Who writes this stuff?)

The first entertainment was provided by a young woman and her troupe mainly dressed in red and bathed in red light. All very red, really.

Next up a bunch of noisy boys. Lots of green and purple.

Finally a clump of bearded chaps giving history lessons with guitars, and one of them a knob-twiddling one-note trumpeter of the Saxondale ilk.

All of them sporting black armbands for the passing of dear old Ned Sherrin. Great name for a horse.

Who knows what on earth they were on about, but I do recall some anti-Norwegian heckling for a reason best known to the heckler.

Then home for a pot noodle, one of nature's finest confections.

Harp's delight

Ah! The harp! (Or ‘harpsichord’ for those who prefer its full moniker.) Such a delightful instrument, very much like the guts of a mighty piano hoicked up on its side and painted gold! So many strings, so few fingers!

Those were my merry thoughts as I made my way to the Royal Albert Hall this Friday last, anticipating being entertained by the heavy, heavy sounds of one Ms Joanna Newsom.

And what a night it was! Totally ruined by a prancing percussionist who persisted in barefoot shenanigans while refusing to shed his sweat-soaked corduroy jacket. He even surpassed those fools in the crowd who vented cries of adoration and love for the harpist; the price of the drinks and the bar shutting midway through the event; and the Moore Brothers, officially The Two Wettest Men on The Planet TM. They would be far better named as the Less Brothers.

Ms Newsom gave song to many lengthy and delicate verses about the fate of the monkey, the bear, and seeds and nuts of many varieties.

A complete washout, redeemed only in that the venue’s seats swivel a little either way and I was able to indulge my passion for seated motion throughout the course of the evening.