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!