Plus Bruxelles Extra

Yup. Still here.

Just back from a visit to one of Belgianer's famous chocolollickers factories.

Here we see the joyous staff engaged in the first part of the process - treading the cocoalate beans. Apparently they are not allowed to wash for a week before setting to the task. It adds to the rich flavour and aroma of what is revered as the world's finest chocollato, our guide said.

I bought a box for the Bosslady - And What A Truly Fine Bosslady She Is TM.

Plus Bruxelles

This is what passes for culture in continental (incontinental?) Europea.

The Twin of Evil No.1 nearly hawked her lungs up laughing at this, having already spluttered her way through a pint of 11% Trappiste Ale. Clearly it wasn't a matter of a vow of silence after a few jars of that mentalising brew, more a matter of being unable to form recognisable words.

Or, as Twin 1 put it, "Nerrnerrarr..................pfffffttttt......stoosh.....stoooooosh........unpahahaaaa............stoosh......................nop."
Nop! say I too.

I can't wait to be back amongst the home comforts of Club Derrig with it's beer so lovingly watered by Mr.T.

Sous le continent

The Belgiquer flag. Dull isn't a bland enough word for it.

Today I am in Bruxelles, world capital of Walloonery.

After a lengthy night of hard romance on the Oriental Express with Twin of Evil No.1, we disembarked, got on the right train, and were here in no time.

As usual these days, on arrival it's Oy! anti-terrorism-measure-precautionastic-jobsworthery! off with your socks! walk through this metal detector! name ten famous natives of the country you'd think would be over-bloody-joyed to get its grasping hands on your exchange-rate-decimated Eurocash!

So, 10 top native Belgiumers:

1. Jef Denjin
2. Adrien deGerlache
3. Quentin Matsys
4. Jeanne Deckers
5. Victor Horta
6. Dirk Frimout
7. Gella Vandecaveye
8. Ilya Prigogine
9. Cornelis Floris de Vriendt
10. Louis Hennepin

Sorry about the feet, though. They are decidedly abominablous in any language.

Now, I demand entry to your chocolates and extra strong lagerbeer!

On friendship

Some friends similarly enfriended by the power of Jack Daniels

Here's a little ditty they're singing in the city that I penned to paper in honour of Ben.

Ben, the two of us need look no more
We both found what we were looking for
With a friend to call my own
I'll never be alone
And you, my friend, will see
You've got a friend in me
(you've got a friend in me)

Ben, you're always running here and there
You feel you're not wanted anywhere
If you ever look behind
And don't like what you find
There's one thing you should know
You've got a place to go
(you've got a place to go)

I used to say "I" and "me"
Now it's "us", now it's "we"
I used to say "I" and "me"
Now it's "us", now it's "we"
Ben, most people would turn you away
I don't listen to a word they say
They don't see you as I do
I wish they would try to
I'm sure they'd think again
If they had a friend like Ben
(a friend) Like Ben
(like Ben) Like Ben

It is, of course, about a rat.

Me and the laydeez X

I just can't keep 'em away.

There I was enjoying a fish supper with the Genius Amanuensis at the world-famous Glasgee chippie "Roger Nose" and they beset themselves upon me and plied me with tea.

Despite the obvious hot and freshly-brewed temptations on offer, I was full of grub and unable to handle the pair in my customary caddish way. I made my excuses and left with the GA, fighting our way through a happy smiling throng of Glasgee well-wishers and amateur street-dancers to secure a taxi.

I was in already in me Planet of the Apes jim-jams and tucked up in bed before I realised I had left them the bill.

Ree-sult!

Word of the week 3

Now I know how many holes it takes

I’ve been gathering my thoughts since Tuesday night as I can’t quite believe what a disaster it all was.

First off, got chatting to a young laydee on the bus to Albert’s Hall. I must have said something out of turn because all of a sudden I seemed to be a right old Doghouse Derrig. I had run through my usual gamut of conversational gems: military strategems in the Punic Wars, the naming conventions on Thunderbirds, cars, the Smiths Band and Morrison, my collection of figurines, my aversion to mashpo and peas, my bird-like feet, and my many and varied adventures with the laydeez of all stripes.



Any road up, I was subsequently forced to spend the evening with Tallulah and the G.A. round at Albert’s for what I was promised would be lush entertainment.

So there we are, up in the Gods, which is not my style at all, especially when Twin of Evil A is in the stalls four rows from the front with Dave ‘Johnson’ Johnson. To show my disdain when they sought to communicate through arm-based semaphoric signalling I averted my gaze and waved at someone entirely different. Hah!

As regular readers will know, I have no fear of anything, but especially heights I do not. No fear! However, on this occasion I was a bit woozied-up on the Frulio and for the fun of it posed as if terrified of the altitude. Which I wasn’t.

The early part of the entertainment was a bunch of tiny rockabillies who go by the name of Freeman, Hardy, and Willis, although there are five of them. So a bit like the Beach Boys in that respect.

Next up the main entertainment, a Sheffielder doing a tour promoting Henderson’s Relish. It’s for all Northern sorts but has yet to crack the Southern market with its more refined palates.

He started off with some song or other.


“Snowstorm!” shouted Tallulah. “Snowstorm!” she shouted again. “Where’s that bloody dog! Give me that key before I break your neck you malingering Phoenician!”


A quick shot in the arm settled her down.

Then a quick bit of jingle janglery.



And so the sauce-merchant went on a bit and when he got bored bought on Joe Cocker’s son, then Tony Amarillo, and finally his entire performing family.

The evening was topped off with me giving it a load of chat to another young laydee on the transport home.

Still in the doghouse.

Airhead

Who that then?

Clue: leggings.

I'm too specsy

I have finally come to the unsayable conclusion that I am in need of some help with the old 'vision-thing'.

For example, see above.

Mr. Benjamin "" Thomas and I were indulging oursleves in a quick bout of our favoutite pastime - "Saucy Robot Wrestling" - and I asked him to pose for a quick snap for my private album. I was sure I had opened my aperture correctly and got his focal length sorted, but alas and alack-a-day you can see the unfortunate result.

I can only wonder what Mutt Faithfull or the Red Snapper would make of this shameful effort?

One can't expect to beat off the depredations of tempus forget forever. And being a driver who knows nor fears the meaning of the words 'speed limit', 'neck brace', 'navigation' or 'blow into this, sir' I have wrecklessly forgone the necessary care and attention my beautiful peepers deserve.

But I cannot go on like this, letting what could be the veritable prime of lush womanhood pass through my field of vision merely as a blur of whimpering, fuzzy-gorgeousness. Who knows what opportunities I might be missing out on?

So I am heading to Sightsavers for a gander at their prestige top-flight range of "Cheap-o-spect" optical assisters.

If I can find them.

Weird food alert V

"A tea-bag?".

Of course we all remember how hilarious it was when the famous Lady Cracknell blurted that immortal line out in Sir Oscar Wilder's renowned play "The Earnestness of Importance".

Sadly, it was far from hilarious when I blurted it out, flummoxed to bingo, in the midst of a meal.

For I had discovered a teabag in my stew!

Surprisingly amazed I was at the awful discovery on a visit to partake of the latest cuisinery efforts of Twin of Evil No.1.

Munching my way through part-cooked root vegetabalia and pulses in a liquid closely resembling something akin to gravy, I began chewing on something rather ghastly. No matter how I chewed, it would not break down under the assault of my fearsome mandibles.

I extracted the offending article from my gob and found it to be none other than a teabag of the teabag sort.

"Bucket Gah Knee," explained my lascivious hostess, dribbling down her harness.

Word of the week 2

We have lift-off: this special day

So it's finally here.

I know you've all been waiting.

The tension in the air everywhere was like nothing anyone anywhere has ever felt anywhere before anywhere, anytime, anywhere.

It was hugely anticipated and I thank you all for your unfumbling patience.

To celebrate this momentous event I have decided to launch my new web-based product -a product whose invention rivals that of the wheel, fire, and the papal blush!

10 months of research and development, and literally millions of man-hours have gone into this amazing piece of celebratory genius.

Trailed here and here, I am fortunate that my competitors have not launched their own alternative products.

It will revolutionise the internet and the World Wise Web.

Inheriting the mantle of the 'next big thing', I present you with a chance to get in on the ground floor with investments. Rush your cash to me now.

So turn up the volume, sit back and be prepared to get blown away.

Ladies, gentlemen and gentleBen, I give you.................
MyFace

Countdown..........

Countdown.........

Bumpy ride

I have been asked on far too many occasions to make short films which defy the wishes of the authorities.

Here's one where I join the infamous Mile High Sky Club.

Countdown........

Countdown confusion

A number of people have written to me asking for clarification of the mathematical precision of the countdown, the purpose, and the what the hell the thing is it is all leading up (or probably more accurately) down to of.

First of all let me explainify about the way I'm counting down.

When it was ten days to go it was 10 (ten) days to go.

(For Yorkshire fowk, replace 'was' with 'were'.)

When it was nine days to go it was 9 (nine) days to go.

When it was eight days to go it was 8 (eight) days to go.

When it was seven days to go it was 7 (seven) days to go.

When it was six days to go it was 6 (six) days to go.

When it was five days to go it was 5 (five) days to go.

When it was four days to go it was 4 (four) days to go.

Later today it will be three days to go so it will be 3 (three) days to go.

Tomorrow it will by two days to go so it will be (two) days to go.

On Saturday it will be one day to go so it will be 1 (one) day to go.

I hope that clarifies it for the more soft-brained folks out there. I'm sorry for any confusional quandarification that anyone has felt over this and in future I will try to simplify things further. I know it looks mighty complicated, but follow the formula above, and you can't fail.

Now, as to the purpose, a countdown is used - in this context - to generate a gradual sense of tension, excitement, and mystery. From my observations of the hubbub at the watercoolers it is clearly working.

Finally, what it is all leading up to? An event so momentous that you will be quite literally stunned beyond belief.*

Now, get back to work.

*Terms not subject to Trade Descriptions Act. No guarantee or obligation inferred.

Countdown.......

Pispromunciation

Me, enchained by frustrationery

Participation.


It's not a difficult word, is it?


Participation.


I can type it as easy as anything. But obviously with different, fewer letters.


Participation.


I can read it with out moving my lips.


Participation.


So why do I have so much trouble saying it?

Party (pause) Sippay-Shung.


See what I mean?

Countdown......

Word of the week

Simply slip it into your everyday conversation.

Countdown.....

It's a bit much

I got home late last night after my Caledonian adventures and what do I find? Mr. B"e"n" Thomas has had the interior designers in again.

If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times. Lawrence "Llewellyn" Bowen, (the Beau Brummy of stapling up shoddy bits of curtain across plaster cracks to give an impression that lasts until the film crew leaves) is not welcome in Derrig Towers after his shenanigans with my u-bend.

Countdown....

McRotation

I am in the utmost North of England. The bit they call Scotland.

Not much seems to be going on save for 'Hooting the Mon' and 'curly-wurling' - their two national sports after 'greeting'.

Here you can see me admiring their greatest piece of archtectation-cum-engineery - the world-famous in Clackmannanshire "Gilby Finger."

It's basically a big pointy tower thing which looked space-age, I'm sure, back when it was built with all the oil money. Apparently they had a referendumb in which they were asked to choose between this and introducing stab vests for their Police.

I am told that on good days, when the weather is fine, and subject to prevailing mechanical maintenance and the operator's overtime rates, it spins aroond and aroond a bit for up to three minutes at a time.

No-one seems to know why.

This was the highlight of my trip.

Countdown...

A tough question

A young man asked me yesterday, "How can we get more active young women?"

"I only wish I knew," was the sole reply that came to me, alas.

Countdown..

He's got to be...so macho

This is shocking stuff.

I'm glad I don't know anyone who fits this bill. Only the other night I was enjoying a post-prandial with Mr. Ben Th"o"mas and we were saying how much more refined it is to be somewhat on the camp side, and how much the laydeez do like a gentle gentleman.

Mind you, he can be bit of a rough boy on occasions.

World beaters

According to a report on the BBC News website:

A third of employees have been to work with a hangover and more than one in 10 has been drunk at their desk.

Staff said they made mistakes, struggled to concentrate and had to go home early as a result of drinking.

Of those who had had a hangover or been drunk at work, 85% confirmed it affected their performance or mood.

More than a third (36%) found it hard to concentrate, 35% were less productive, 42% felt tired to the point of being sleepy and 25% did the minimum amount of work and went home as soon as possible.

Who says there is never any good news?

Rejoice that the sun has not yet set on the glorious British Empire and the UK again leads the world!

All we need now is to get our noses to the windmill on the hydroponic manufacture of bonce-bamboozling superskunk and we can hold up our high heads again in the League of Nations Table.

So do your duty and come visit Club Derrig - its vital you hold your end up.

Countdown.

Virtual quiff

N-n-not a bit like me of course.

Far too stuck-stuck-stuck-stuck in the eighties with all that gloomy boy synthesiser music.

Football fanaticalist

There's not many can withhold a candle to the magnificent Arsenal over the past few seasons in the football cup trophy.

I think it's fair to say they've been absolutely bloomin' superb, with no serious competition from any quarter ever at all.

I can - and do - and have done - spend hours watching them chasing the ball up the pitch; punting a perfectly-weighted pass to a team-mate; dribbling; nutcracking; shooting and, of course, my favourite, scoring a top-flight goal net.

I'm rarely off my hideous feet - leaping about all the time cheering them to the rafters of our marvellous high-spec new venue, the Emerald stadium.

But my admiration goes far, far beyond simple skills and team spirit.

It is one of my life's great pleasures to watch them striding, running, chasing, and breaking into a sweat in their little white shorts and red tops. The little pecks on the cheek when they want to congratulate one another, and the full-on mouth action and embraces when they actually score.

Sometimes - and forgive me if my confession shocks you - I even go as far as fantasising about scrubbing mud- and sweat-stained backs in the communal baths. What fun we could have with the soap and loofah!

Yes, I love my team!

Mare of London

Despite backdoor approaches and offers of which I remain unable to declare the information and detailing of, I have decided I cannot accept the position of Deputy Mare with the Mare Boris "D'oh"Johnson.

Clearly we have masses in common:

• youthful charm

• vitality


• shady but exuberant love lives


• wives (or similar)


• a soaring genius concealed by public idiocy


• mop-top blondy-greyness


• a pseudo-mastery of the broad vision-thing


• chunkiness


• a supremely legendary yet appalling grasp of detail


• a concern about just how far a bendy bus will bend


• clubbability

But me being of simple Anglo-Irish stock and English coming to me only as a subliminal language, I can't be doing with his Eton hinterland. I'm too much of a self-made power-broker and all round good guy. And the London thing is a bit too limiting of my ambitionery.

So, sorry your Borissness, but you'll have to thrust your portfolio up someone else.

A heavy night indeed

I never look at my best first thing in the morning before a shave, especially after a long old bender with "M"r. Ben Thomas.

Luckily for him I used the silk rope.

Workers of all lands untie!

A spectre haunting Europe, today

It's all red round at Derrig Towers and Club Derrig today as you workers celebrate your International Day of Working.

You cannot move for the copious strings of scarlet bunting, flags, and doilies that have been carefully arranged by Mr. Ben Thoma"s" under my supervisory control. He's not done bad for a soft lad.

All through the day I will be marching here and there around and about, proudly stuffing my hot red pennant in the faces of those who seek to ignore this momentous 24 hour tribute to the working sort. I will be offering lectures and pamphlets on "Communistism: up the masses" and "Senator Joe MacArthur-Park: Naughty man, bad man, left cake out in rain, boo hiss."

Later this evening I will be retiring to Club Derrig for an evening of cocktails and chuntering, enjoying the fruits and fruli of what that you all have worked so hard for to provide for me.

I can honestly say that more than once today I will think of you all toiling away in your little offices, shops, and railways premises act at no less than 60.8 degrees.

It's a hard life for some and I am perpetually grateful I'm not one of you downtrodden serfs. It just wouldn't suit my lifestyle.

So accept my tribute with gratitude, for tomorrow it's all back to the degradation of you working for a living.

Come on, you reds!