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.