Gone down below

Flipping little liars them guidebookers.

Look at what they promise:

“The idea of a fun trip to a salt mine may sound a little dubious. And as you head out through the suburbs you may wonder just why you are leaving the glories of the city behind. However, it is not just the antiquity of these mines that makes them worth the trip (things got fully underway here as early as the thirteenth century), they are also home to one of the wonders of Poland. This is the chapel of the Blessed Kinga, which to all intents and purposes is a full blown church, the only difference being that it is 200 metres undergound, and carved entirely from salt, (including the chandeliers that hang from the ceiling). It is a quite astounding sight, and all the more so as it was carved not by an outsider, but by a group of gifted miners themselves.”

And can you lick the statues? No!

I imagine this is some hang over from the years of repression, as I've never been stopped from licking up a bit of the old marble in the good old United of Kingdom.

I suppose this is what passes for Polandish wit.

Not a zloty going on

Just don't ask me how...

Can I offer my immense and heart-felt condolences for a couple of laydeez of my acquaintance who have between them joyously given birth unto an baby.

No, me neither.

But I say well done! The march of Science will not be halted!

Here's a poem I wrote up especially:

Hell-ooooooo baby
Yooooooooou baby
Neeeeeeeeew baby
Oooooooooh baby

To the Poland

Today I am off up the Poland and hooray for that.

Along with the old jazzing, Poland's chief export has been their inventionness. Yes, always thinking and a-dreaming up new stuff, the Polands.

Hence I will be reporting on their clever way with brains and stuff during my visit to their popular salt mines and their other mind-numbingly grey, dismally-oppressive, architectural wonders of great brilliance.

We start with the Q-Tip.

In 1923, Leo Gerstenzang invented the cotton swab or Q-Tips. His product, which he named "Baby Gays", went on to become one of the most widely-sold brand names, where "Q" as in "Q-tip" stood for "Q" for "Quick get that wax out".

There are many dull and poorly-sourced anecdotes about how Mr. Gerstenzang came to create this invention.

He founded a company, called the Leo Gerstenzang Infant Novelty Company, to market his new product. In 1926, he changed the name of the product from Baby Gays to Q-Tips Baby Gays. Eventually the Baby Gays part was dropped and the product was simply called Q-Tips.

Though commonly used as an ear cleaner, doctors today do not advise using the Q-Tip for ears because of sensitivity of the eardrum.

So not actually that much use then, but still Poland's biggest revenue-earner around the world.

Tomorrow, the creation of a new mounting for the ballast tank funnels.

Can't wait.

Looking up at the stars

Good to see Beattie touting for business, raking the curdled scum and gunk out of your personal conduits and culverts.

With Yuletide fast coming up us, the extra cash won't go amiss at Derrig towers, where we are badly in desperate need of a new pair of silk jim-jams.

Literary efforts

I am often asked about my means of support and, of course, my lifestyle-thing simply cannot be sustained with the profits from Club Derrig and the repeat fees from Smartarses. Apart from having to fund BT on a regular basis to help him out of his gambling owings, I also have a full wardrobe to keep stocked with the latest in men's outfittery.

So it will not surprise you to discover it that I am also a merchant of fine illustrated literature to lonely gentlemen.

I have a chain of outlets, and above you can see me captured in an advertising pose at my Cardiff branch.

In common with many entrepreneurial sorts I am feeling the credit crunchie, hence the 'sale' sign. Up to 20% off of well-thumbed copies of 'Behind Prison Walls' and 'Hot Doodie'.

I am also accepting bids in excess of a fiver for a rare copy of my own magnus opum 'Derrig: Up All Night Again'.

All purchases posted in a plain brown envelope.

Onward and onward

Jazz-Poles, earlier.

I am relieved of myself to have got that confession yesterday off my chest.

In fact I can say that it made me feel so good that I can now reveal around the purpose of my trip up the Poland to come soon.

Yes, for indeed it is a yes, it's the Poland's Cool Jazz Festival while I am there.

The Poland has a thriving and notorious jazz 'scenery' for 'hipstercats' like my own.

I am more and more of the opinion that the Poland jazz is amongst that nations finest and I hereby do tribute unto it with a swift run-through of the finest ever work by Adam Malkowicz, one of the real geniuses of Polish jazz. His brilliant career spans decades and even today he always amazes jazz fans with his virtuosity and swingery.

Here's a short vocal rendering of his greatest work "BaDaDaDooBop", printed so you can singalong with it, you.

Oooooooh
Skeedly bop
Oooooooh
Skiddly bop bop
Bip bom bip bom skeedly bipbop bam
Ooooooooooooooh
Twiddly tweeeee skee-boo
Bip bop bip bop bip bop bip bop
Bippery boppery bip bip bip boo
Skiddly
Skiddly-dee
Skiddly-dah
Oooooooooh
Sh-bop bam boo
Skiddly
Skiddly
Skiddly
Skiddly
Skiddly
Skiddly
Scat
A Bam
A Bip
A Bom Boo Boo Poo
Poo
Poo
Poopy Poo
Skiddly Poo
Poo Bop
Poo Poo Poo
Poo
Bop Poo Plop
Ploppy Poo
Plop
Bum
Boo
Bum Plop Poo
A-Bam

I am looking forward to a good old jazzing in Krakow.

Secret desires

It is time about time after time that I confessed.

I do indeed have a long felt want, of which I have tried to conceal the worst of it from those nearest and dearest to me. It is of such mega-proportions that for a time it threatened to wreck my brain's sane parts.

But recently I have found myself slinking and a skulking off to private rooms to indulge my peccadillo, spending hours alone with only my shame for company. It has begotten far too big for me to go on in this way of things.

I am therefore dragging myself up screaming and hootering into the daylight of you, the people's, gazes. I have no choice but to expose my troubling habit to the full glare of the paparazzis and general populus.

I am.....
.........
.........
.........
.........
.........
a........
.........
.........
.........
.........
.........
jazz-hound.

Yes, I am a lover of horns, especially those driven with a syncopatin' rhythm.

I am a sucker for a clarinet, a strum on the old archtop, a stroke of the joanna.

Forgive me.

Derrig: Working For YOU!

Mild isn't it?

Unseasonably so, but none the worse for that.

Who wants the weather a-howling and a tipping-down all over their deerstalker and Gannex?

So, spare a thought for those of us working hard for YOU to enjoy the positive side-effects of global warming.

Cap'n Jon the Kingpin

As ever, I was a magnanimous in victory.

Tempus fuggit - unluckily for some

That tempus fuggits away at a rare old pace around Derrig Towers.

One year it's 2007, the next it's 2009, and it's like all our yesterdays and tomorrows have gone up us all in the one big bang. Forgive my phlisophising, but it is isn't it my wont, innit.

It's also my blog so stuff that up your fairisle or your pipe, whichever is the most accommodating.

But with the new legal laws saying you can't use the word age in any context whatsoever - CP gone mad if you ask me - I will confine my remarks about getting withered and 'getting on a tad' to those who weather the storms of the passing years with grace, style, good-humour, a cheeky smile, and still keeping their good looks.

It cannot be easy hitting life's milestones full-face smack and yet still go on with determination, fortitude and pluck, letting no obstacle stand in their way.

Good on them, I say.

Yet, a shame that Cap'n Jon cannot be counted amongst them.

Mozzerable Now

That incident captured in glorious technoblast.

It seems clear to me that it was merely only simply just a case of a fan wishing to pass up a beer to the great chap.

A bit of overenthusiasm, misjudging distance and the target, letting fly a little early, the fluid spilling everywhere, and the intended storms off in disgust.

It's a common problem.

She Ate A Watermelon

In a rather ill-judged attempt to suck up to me for my amazing victory over the Smartarses, Jools has partaken of a watermelon-eating contest for charity.

All proceeds to buy a new tank top.

Puckered out

Bunch of bonkers psychodelic chaps.

It's the only way of putting it all in the one simple word.

The downside? The Genius Amanuensis a-mithering and glum about the legroom.

Pain? Pain!?!

He should try a dosage of the sci-fi-atica and the lumbagogo.

That'll show him who's really a pain.

Shabby Usurpery

I knew it.

The victory over the Smartarses is going to the heads of other members of Team Derrig.

Already it seems that BT is drawing up (and making-up) his own fruit-related quizzes and bandying them about in Club Derrig. Not being the afeared sort, I of course engage him and dispose of his meddlesome quizzical interspersions in a matter of seconds.

Sample for yourself his tawdry wares with this insolent interrogative: Has there ever been a watermelon larger than I, Derrig of the Derrig.

Ha, I think not!

But he is not alone in having his skull wrenched out of place by the divine Goddess that is Stardomery.

I was perturbed to hear that the Genius Amanuensis was ASKED TO RUN A QUIZ, which he did do done and all last night!

Now, you know me: even if it's a case of having to heave up to the buffers and grind away until the old spine is fairly rubberish, you won't hear me moaning. I am, after all, a great admirer of the Strictly Got Dancing type of stuff, and am willing to shake a rumpfeather for the benefit of the laydeez.

Spread the glory around that is rightly mine own if I must, is my motto.

But this really is the straw that broke the camel's neck.

I herebyforth do declare to all what it may be of concern that I am freely available for Quizmastering of the highest order.

No intellects too small.

Royalty, Arsenal, and Morris questions a speciality.

Fanny

Despite the paternity shenanigannery below, I am delighted to have developed a full-time fan club secretary who I met last night and did immediately offer a position with me.

My admirers, or 'fannies' as they apparently will be styling themselves, will be legion.

Someone send me a badge design.

Stardom's downside

You, dear millions of readers, will naturally have no idea about the sacrifices one has to make as a star of the widescreen.

It isn't all glamour, powder puffs, and cute make-up assistants with very soft hands. Oh no.

Of course, it does have all those, but this of not what I am writing of here.

No, I write today of the perils of being a public figure and having your face splashed with the juices of televisual stardust, and then spilled into the living rooms, bars, pubs, and clubs of the world.

I know you will not have recovered yet from my appearance all over your box on Wednesday. Indeed, I am also recovering.

So imagine my alarm when I am served before breakfast today with a writ allegating that I am a father, arising from a dalliance and a-dabbling some time back of what I know not nothing.

It seems the 'mother' involved spotted me on Smartarses and immediately contacted her solicitor and instructed them to pursue me for funds.

As proof of paternity I have demanded a NAD test (Not A Dad), as I don't think even the average chump on the Chatham omnibus would say there's a passing resemblance to the lads in the picture she sent me.

Victory Revisited!

Following on from my massive brilliance, I have been asked for more pictures of me.

In an unusual fit of generosity, I have herebytofore decided and hereunder to publish a few specially selected snaps for you all of you.

As you can see, I was not - contrary to some scurrilous alligators - the only one wearing slap.

Well-travelled Tim.

Ball-boy Ben.

The Genius Amanuensis. Gondoliers? Gondoliers?

Silent partner.

Victory!

Can I just thank all my overwhelming well-wishers for their condiments on the massive, total and shockingly unpredicted defeat of them Smartarses on the programme telly tonight.

I think I can say without a shadow of any thought that we well and truly showed them who were the bosses of brains unlimited and so forth.

What a great night for Club Derrig, and for me in particular.

For let it not be unsaid, without my stout captaining of those sorry bunch of halfwits we would unquestionably been out on the street without a penny in our pockets for efforts.

Hooray for my brain!

Special effects

Well, I never.

Not often these days, anyway.

I have, though, been a-pondering lately over the amazing special FXsXs that are used to make things appear magically up in the air in films and telly stuff.

I am now fortunate enough to have been 'let off on the ground floor' of this incredible bit of bag of tricks.

Take Dr.WooHoo for an example.

How do they get that T.A.R.D.I.S. (it stands for That Blue Box Which Is Bigger On The Outside) up in the air in a simulation of flying?

Here's the answer.



I've been making the mistake of looking for wires!

World of Lights

Funny way to spell Colin, but there you go.

McGyver

"The name's McGyver. Marty McGyver."

Yes it's the "Man of a Million Voices"TM.

Able to impersonate pretty much any man, woman, or child (and most birdsong) at the drop of a hat through his silky throat skills and the application of pressure to his pharynx, this man is a marvel.

But he is so much more than that, they say.

Give him a sheet of paper, a pen, and half an hour in a locked room and he'll knock you up a campaign that is unsurpassable for content, guile, and gumption. Give him two pens and it'll be twice as impressive.

There are few men at which I do doff my would-be cap, and McGyver is not one of them. But he's close.

Damned close.