Happy, happy birthday in a hot bath

Is it her birthday?

I don't know, but it might as well have been mine when she stood so close to me last night I could easily have touched her in the foyer. Twice.

Someone alert the popperazzi, why don't you!?!

Lovely hair, nice armpit deodorant: a true Princess of pixie-pop.

Clare Groggan, I salute you and thank you for all the good times we've shared. (Not that you'd necessarily want to know the details, Clare.)

Twins of rivalry

Vladarina and the Contessa seen here in happier times.

Something is clearly upsetting the equilibrity of the twins of evil.

Whether these two have been thrust together by their mutual passions or a dark and shameful secret known only to women in the hours of the full moon, I cannot say.

What I do know is that they have become hideously rivalistic - taking their ambitions for male-domination to new depths of disgustibility.

For a couple who choose to spend their daylight hours cheek-by-jowl in what amounts to little more than an airing cupboard with windows, they appear to have no concern about vis-a-vis or in regard to, stuffing up the little space they do have.

Stuffing it up with wild and insane plans for conquering the male of the species!


Take Twin of Evil 1 - Vladarina Gortona - seen here in what she calls the 'Boy-Map Room'.

Her days are filled with hatching mad plots on how many men will fall under her wicked spell on a day-by-day basis. Her clawed hand inscribes her maniacal plans on a wipe-clean whiteboard, using a complex code of post-it notes and crap handwriting. Linked to this object of horror is an unassuming map of the British Isles, slowly being coloured in with a pink crayon.

From a close reading it is possible to determine the direction of her conquestication - and I warn you now - THE STOUT MENFOLK OF THE COTSWOLDS ARE NEXT!

Now turn, if you can, to Twin of Evil A - the Contessa Joonie-Woonie. A woman of doubtful origins and even more doubtful humanity. Cold-blooded to the point of having to sun herself on the roof of the Tower of Mabledon before she has the energy to feast on a victim, her ambition rises far above that of Twin of Evil No.1, much like a cucumber rises over the heads of those engaged in juggling lessons at a salad factory.


Turn to her wall, if you can, and observe the piteous future of all mankind - for there is a map of the world (15 years old, but nonetheless) in which she has stuck pin after pin to show the progress of her crazed manhunt across the globe.

And - turn away now if you have a weak stomach - some of those pins of evil are green!

And yet for one man - as yet unconsumed - they hold no fear. It is Sam Spiv - who saunters effortlessly with his comedic seafaring gait into their cubicle and demands they make him a cup of tea. No 'please' or 'thank you', mind you. A simple barked order which they jump to immediately, fulfilling his beverage needs. What is it about this man? Is it his access to cheap silk stockings, his never-ending supply of rubber goods? Maybe his way of providing young laydeez with plentiful amounts of bratwurst?

Whatever it may be, I know one thing for sure.

He'd never get away with it at home.

Chemical brother

I have long been a fighter against all things racistic, and can often be found in a park cheering on a variety of beat combos to this end. It provides a perfect opportunity to consume copious barrels of cider and whatnot (wink!) and tell perfect strangers how much I love them, and at the same time flaunt my principles.

This weekend was no exemption, and I was pleased to be spotted - totally off my bonkers luvvied-up bonce - in the crowd of Victoria Park by an old friend who secured me a backstage pass to celebrate 30 years of music in parks.

It was serendipitous. (A word coined from the name for a robotic dog who appeared in the enormously forgettable children's TV magazine programme "Tom-Tom". It means something like 'bloody lucky'.)

About halfway through the set by 'The Good, The Bad, and.....ER the Queen', poor Demon Albarn stubbed his little finger as he trilled the ivories way too far up the trebles.

Chaos ensued. The band stomped off stage and pleaded with me to help out.

Finally, despite being pissed IN FULL EFFECT, I agreed to step into the breach. The boys trooped back out to the roar of anti-racist freedom-fighters' encouragement while I stayed behind the scenes as Demon mimed over the top of my stylophonic-contribution-wizardry

We were able to complete the gig with my tiny organ and a cracking 27-minute version of "Oh Danny Boy". It's going to be on the B-side of their next single, according to their basso player Paul Simonononononononononononon.

The racists were right miffed, I can tell you.

Bird crazy!!!

The Derrig blood will out

I have just received a snail letter from a Mr. Don "The Boxer" King, or it may be Don "The National" King - the handwriting is difficult to decipher and some confusion reigns .

I have determined to consult Dave "Johnson" Johnson who is my resident adviser on all things testosteronically pugilistical. He's one chap who knows his Rolling Stones from his Ruby Tuesdays.

Anyway, Mr. Don "Whatever" King sent me the above picture in order to claim Derrig kinship, making such bald statements as "we are clearly related trichologically".

"It takes much more than a grey explosion on top of your noddle to get into the Derrig clan," I replied to his missive. "It takes, style, elan, grace, and a rare old skill on the stylophonette. Or in the absence of those a fee of not less than five pounds, cash or kind."

I doubt very much I'll see his money, but I will wait by the front door just in case. I could do with the lolly.

Derrig gets profound on your ass

I was thinking. Wouldn't it be brilliant to be a baby in a television programme and just grow up in it always?

Me and the laydeez IX

Watch and learn. Just - watch - and - learn.



Christopher Cazenova eat your heart out!

P.S. If anyone can help me identify the gorgeous sprouting blonde in this film, please send details to the usual address. I believe she still owes me a round.

Spot the difference

No, me neither.

But I've promised Tom's dad to meet all the vet bills/burial costs and buy a new one if necessary.

Sorry, Tom.

Clean at last! Clean at last!

The new washing machine arrived yesterday and all is odour-free again at Derrig Towers.

No longer am I beset with tottering columns of unwashed laundry and the concomitant nasal assault. The past eight months of putrefying man-mades has been olfactory hell. Mind you, the most part of that was Mr.Ben "T"homas's one-piece undergarment.

So, my message of the day is:

OK, laydeez - Old Stinkum Derrig is gone!!!

Come and get your nostrilicious fill of that old-time odourificent Col Derrig magic again!!!

You know I'll be a-waiting. And mighty damned hungry for a-lovin'.

Yee-haw!, young laydee, yee-haw!!!

No offence.

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Club Derrig Big Night In

For those who have yet to understand the appeal of Club Derrig, I present a short film of our typical Friday night activities.

Arthur century

Tallulah writes:

Lovely little chap. Shame about how he turned out, though.

Weird food alert IV

This nauseatin' confection just about scores on every known negative index known to known civilisation.

Mash!

Peas!

Cornet!

Dried up old sausage!

No! It's wrong! Stop now! 'Tis the work of the devil himself.

P.S. I have heard that mashpo is often used as a substitute for ice cream in films as the latter often dissolves under the powerful cinematicographical lights. This would be a real test for me, as I have often pondered long and hard about consuming ice cream directly from the ape-suit- encased torso of Ms Conham-Barter.

Long and hard.

Were mashpo to be used in such instances, I would have to declare myself out of the running.

Her loss, though, obviously. Very much her loss.

Stage genius identity query

A star-spotter writes:
Dear Uncle Colin
Vic Olivier? Who?
A mum

Uncle Colin advises such and thuslike:

Short, sharp, and to the point - just how I like my mums.

Let me roll back into the mists of time to when all our heroes pranced about in tights on the silver stage, poinards in hand, and dripping in painted grease in front of the raw crowds of hoi-polloi.

Vic Olivier,(born 8 July 1898 in Kingston upon Hull, East Riding of Yorkshire, England) is a long-serving comedian. He is best known for his legendary 'faulty handshake' routine and for his amazingly lifelike gibbon impressions (a part he has now played in all 37 of Shakespeare's plays on stage, never making a successful transition to the silvery screen).

He is also, of course, the older brother of the lesser-known failed ventriloquist Larry Olivier.

Olivier grew up in Doncaster in a working-class family. While working at BP's chemical factory, he started making all sorts of noises, making his workmates laugh with improvised comic routines during breaks (and all too often outside them). Encouraged by his line managers, he started to work the northern workingmen's club scene, with steady success through the 1930s. He first came to national media attention after a successful appearance at the Royal Variety Command Performance in 1951. Though occasionally appearing on television thereafter, he made his main reputation on the northern club circuit, and was highly regarded by many fellow comics. (Notably Frank Carson, Bobby DeNiro, Michael Caine, Prince Philip, Les Dawson, and 'Little Ann Large', who was a regular house, and family wedding, guest.)

To casual television viewers, he is best known for two routines: one in the guise of a northern club compere whose handshake works intermittently; another adopting the noises, gestures and movements of a gibbon, using his outturned jacket to suggest the mighty creature's wings. However, the 'soundbite' demands of television work have never reflected the detailed and large-scale routines that have characterised Olivier's club work and which brought him enormous success through the 1950s and 1960s. (He was never a participant, for example, in the 1970s ITV gagfest series The Professionals.)

His reputation among working-class clubgoers and fellow professional comedians has always been somewhat tarnished by his habit of staeling drinks from the tables of patrons; however, those who have never ventured inside a working men's club and imagine they know the comic's work from a few unrepresentative minutes of television are, like everyone else, totally bamboozled as to how he has stayed constantly in demand for over 40 years.

In 1970 he won an ITV series called Get Off, You're Rubbish, in which club entertainers were pitted against each other, performing their full routines in front of a panel of judges. Olivier was easily knocked out in the first round by a unanimous decision of the panel.

His style is very much in the traditional northern-comic school, based on absurdist situational monologues and the phrase 'sock-drawer', rather than a 'series of jokes', and shows a notable influence of the 1950s star Al Martino. Unlike some comedians of the 1930s, Olivier did not rely on any racist material; however, his zany set-pieces have often drawn on northern working-class archetypes, for which he was often punched.

He has been married eleven times to the same woman, who is getting thoughly sick of it. He has twenty-eight children scattered around Yorkshire, several hundred grandchildren, and an ever-vaster number of great-grandchildren who make up most of the population of Hebden Bridge. He lives in Penury, a rundown village west of Hull.

I hope that clears it all up.

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Dreadful quiz night stitch-up

Angry quizzers mutter in a grumbling stylee about quiz debacle.

I have never been more sickened to death. Literally.

Last night I was abused on a charitable basis by cut-purse scoundrels who made off with prizes for the annual "Look At Me, I'm Derrig, The Quizmaster - Ha Ha You've Got To Listen To Me Now Haven't You, Suckers?" quiz night.

I was shocked and appalled to learn that Tallulah "Fizzy-Shenanigans" McGuinness, Ali "Un" Worthy, Steph "Un" Wise, and Lucie "Un" Hynged had been cahooting with my Genius Amanuensis Williams in behind-the-scenes appallingness and curvaceous knavery to win £50 of worthless vouchers and 5 t-shirts they will struggle to get over their disturbingly-shapely trunks.

It's this kind of thing that's giving Club Derrig a bad name.

Quiz maniacophile (just 3rd last night) Bazza Lyons, seen here seizing the Lady Josephine's charitable box while her spiv hubby merely looks on.

The blame must be laid firmly at the door(s) of that new President woman, the Lady Josephine "Not Tonight, Sam, Down Boy" Wheeeeeeeeeeelan and the bad example she sets canoodling with Sam "Spiv" Oestreicher, the Club's esteemed Treasurer and owner of many very fine and well-furnished properties in and around the Forest of Walthamstow, although this is entirely unconnected with his very fine management of our many ebbing income streams.

Still, at least Mr. Benjam"in" Thomas wasn't present to snatch victory with his cracked team of BlackBerry-wielding ne'er-do-well sirens.

All in all, then, an excellent night.

Little drummer boy enters top 40

Yes, amazing I know, but he's only just turning 40 today.

All those careworn creases; the 'no-heavier-burden' look that gives his shoulders that not-much-short-of-an-ape cast; his listless drifting from one room to the next: it's a wonder of the age he's gotten this far.

It's nothing short of a miracle he's still able to swill out the spittoon and swab down the decks at Club Derrig in his decrepit condition. I almost feel pity for him.

But, no matter how he pleads, begs, and moans, he's only going to get his special "bathtime treat" from me once a year, and that's at Christmas. To do otherwise would simply be making a rod for my own back.

Where's Colly?

Always in the papers, me - and on this occasion keeping that publicity-seeking famous athlete Konnie Huck out of the headlines. This time it's the Metro - London's finest newspaper of record, and barrier-breaking raportagge.

There I was on Saturday, up the Arse as usual, and some crafty snapper caught me failing to applaud a piece of sheer footballery-type geniusness by one Peter Scouch, the world's tallest man.

See if you can spot me, readers!

Liquid diet consumption foolishness

A cavalier-cum-King Charles' spaniel writes:

Dear Uncle Colin,
I keep seeming to need a fresh change of clothes whenever I partake of that delightful contemporary comestible "the smoothie". Any hints?
Mutt

Uncle Colin advises such and thuslike:

Oh Mutt, Mutt, Mutt, Mutt, Mutt, Mutt, Mutt, Mutt, Mutt, Mutt, Mutt. Crazy name, crazy guy!

It's a problem more common than one might think amongst those who have damaged their brains with Wee, PPS, XXX-Box, Zeldo and Audio Hedgehog, not to mention those Spanish electrician twins. A regular input of these serves only to enflabbergast the brain parts that deal with operational sequencing, leading to all sorts of embarrassing problems, such as sticking one's head out of unopened windows.

As regards the smoothie, try printing off the following and sticking it on your refrigerator so it may be consulted before creating havoc:

Smoothie operating instructions

1. Open refrigerator

2. Locate smoothie

3. Remove from refrigerator

4. Shake smoothie vigorously to ensure even distribution of contents

5. AND ONLY NOW TAKE THE BLOODY LID OFF, YOU TWIT.

6. Position bottle opening at mouth.

7. Consume responsibly.

8. Dispose of smoothie bottle in recycling bin.

On no accounts reverse the order of operations 4 and 5.

I think you will find this advice will see a reduction in your laundry bills.

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Strike a light

Following the headline-grabbing decision of some comedienne or other to refuse to carry the Olympic torch through London this weekend, I have decided to put my name forward as a replacement.

If the organisers could get the torch to me by about 4pm tomorrow at Mabel's Tavern, I will ensure the torch's arrival safely at the Skinner's Arms within a time-frame of approximately 30 minutes.

I hope this will set a good example and show my commitment to those Free China chappies.


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Homme superieur?

A genius and auto-didact scribes:
Dear Uncle Colin,
I see that Morrison, clearly a representative of higher beings sent to grace us with his gorgeous presence, has been apologised unto by a 'music magazine' for allegations made thereunto him. How think you on this?
Yours in awe of your mighty figurine collection and sterling crop of locks,
Anonymous

Uncle Colin advises such and thuslike:
I am always delighted to get such important and thought-provocating messages from people who are clearly on a par with me mentality-speaking.

I do not wish to recount the many times I have seen the hairy-chested giant of pop, and will reserve that for my readers' pleasure on another occasion.

I will say, though, that this man - so unfairly maligned, misrepresented, and abused by the MNE, the Words, his former band-mates in The Smurfs (God rest that beautiful band of brothers), the judge at the royalties trial, the entire reggae industry, and all the others - is nothing less than a God descended to earth in human form.

Who could fail to be stirred by his ripe quiff? His sturdy and inviting musculature? His simpering chops and ambrosaical way with a melody line? The way he removes his jacket whilst he sneers, exposing his self-knit chunky cable-stitch top? The rocking chair? His grandfather's clock? The delicate lace doilies? The poodles? Half a pound of sausages, a packet of Daz, two large aubergines, and a handful of dolly mixtures. And a trout, if you wouldn't mind doing the descaling and top and tailing it for me I'd very grateful?

If only more of us could be like him!

A very good question indeed. More like this please.

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Breakfast element equivalence conundrum

An entrepreneur writes:

Dear Uncle Colin,
I have a great idea for providing breakfasts for drivers at road-side cafes. Don't laugh - it's an idea whose time has come. I seriously think it has potential to be a real moneyspinner.

The only flaw in my plan is quite how the elements of a breakfast relate to one another commensurateness-wise. For example - the mighty fried egg. A lovely way to get your protein slathered in grease, but not everyone's cup of tea. If a punter should ask for the set breakfast (sausage, fried egg, beans, fried bread, black pudding, chips, tomato, toast and tea or coffee) but request no fried egg, preferring a replacement, commensurate element, just what should the replacement element be?
Your soon-to-be-wealthy admirer
Ricky Dicky

Uncle Colin advises such and thuslike:

An important issue, as I have learned to my cost in many of the fine restaurants I have frequented down the years. You would think it is simply a matter of the cost of the element, but there are other factors to take into account: overall nutritional balance of the meal; the weight of the item; the aesthetics of how the elements meld together to create the breakfast.

I've given it a great deal of thought and believe it comes down to the following simple table.

1 fried egg = 1 sausage and a portion of black pudding
1 tomato = 80 beans
6 chips = 1 slice fried bread

Follow this golden rule and you'll be rolling in the moolah in a matter of months.

Tick-tock mockery clockery

As an important agonising Uncle, I owe it you - my faithul lap-dog readers - to apologise for the late arrival of this posting.

In a vain attempt to pull the old April Wool over my head, my arch-enemy and life-partner Mr Ben"jam"in Thomas went round Derrig Towers in the early hours of this morning and put all the clocks forward one hour. It was some ridiculous attempt to make me lose an hour in bed.

But I had the last laugh! For why? Let me enlighten you.

Firstly, he had to get up earlier than me, leaving plenty of room to stretch out and wiggle me crustaceous toes in the furthest-most corners of the old King-Size.

Secondly, he had to adjust over fourteen clocks, the central heating system timer, the VCR player clock, and all four of my wristwatches, and Little Ben - the mechanism on the clock spire of Derrig Towers. Quite some fiddling about, even for him.

What he seems to forget is that the clocks went back last Saturday night! (It's easy to remember - I do it by an old poetry-related trick my father taught me as follows: "Spring back, Fall forward, But the other way round, That's how the clocks get wound.")

It follows therefore that I gained an extra hour on Sunday morning when I, myself, put the clocks back. But this ante-meridian-ness I was asleep when he went round and performed his act of deception this morning, so I didn't actually notice losing the hour. Whereas, of course, he did.

Which makes him quite the April Fooled and not yours truly!

No wonder he looks so peevish today.

Detection overload strain problem

A spiv writes:
Dear Uncle Colin,
I have exhausted my reserves through deployment of my wizard detective skills in solving the case of the missing fiver and the few bob. I am trying to relax and recuperate my sleuthing abilities, but simply can't get the time what with work and the lady wife's demands. Can you show me a simple way of getting some quality chill-out time so I can get back to being a top 'tec and spiv?
Sam O'Striker

Uncle Colin advises thus and suchlike:

We need more like you on our team! Yes, I'm glad to be of help. Next time you have five minutes free, stare solidly for two minutes at the graphic at the top of this post. Sit close to the screen and do not let your concentration slip. After two minutes, look away quickly at a blank sheet of paper (best to have this prepared beforehand and not go stumbling around trying to find one as it'll mean having to start all over again) and - out of nothing - POOF! - an image of a very famous event will appear.

It's a fantastic illusion, but also an amazing way of giving the brainstuff what amounts to an oilbath and relaxing old massage.

(And, in the spirit of generosity, there's a prize for every reader who identifies the event correctly!)