In vino veritas

It seems from drunken admissions that Tallulah is happy to boast en publique that she and the Genius Amanuensis are living the good life.

Together!

Me? Jealous? What do you think?

Reader participation opportunity

Beattie has been getting all medievally-opinionated on my ass.

Last night at the Club Derrig Symposium for Superior Gentlemen he took on his Rexy Harrison persona to suggest that my approach to the art of pouring a Guinnnnness was "worse than a woman".

Dear readers, feel free to let the lad have it with both barrels...right up the comments box.

Grubby

Mmmmm! Muffins!

For fans of eating stuff, this is simply the best Derrig-related feeding site in the whole of the world of food, (aside from the mash bits and the peas bits of course, but you can't have everything or your cake and eat it).

If you are a Derrig (no time-wasters) and want to be featured here, leave your webpage address in the comments. If you are not a Derrig, move along quietly but marvel at just what a special example we set across the planet from here to there.

Read all about it

Last night I was besieged in Club Derrig by a clusterful of laydees with only one thing on their minds.

There they were, like a goosey gaggle huddled in a corner talking really quite seriously. All very impressive, I must have to say for myself.

They were clearly engrossed with books - which on closer inspection turned out to be all the same book. Nice little earner for an author this Literacy Class thing.

I investigated further with one of their number, a Celtic bubbly blonde who approached the bar. With a sarcastic toss of her locks, she flourished the book at me, a hefty tome going by the name of "T' Roubles".

Now, foreign exchange is, it seems to me, a good thing. But I don't want any of it in the till of Club Derrig, thank you very much. I addressed them firmly on this matter then returned to my copy of Motor Sport, having giving them the all the very best of my opinions.

P-P-P-P.....

Okay readers - it's Friday afternoon: what's your favourite anti-superhero-related snack, ideal with a coffee?

Cat-O-Lick

Far too often, stupid animals seem unable to enter the world of spirituality and Poop worship. Or for that matter the other multitude of frankly farcical stuff we superior beings get our heads around in the name of 'goodiness'.

Not this cat, though, who was totally entranced by the sight of Glasgow, WITHOUT RAIN.

It's a miracle!

Perp Visit

Nice haircut.

I want to be amongst the initial group of the first to welcome His Massiveness The Poop to this great island of ours, hereunder our very feet.

I am, of course, already booked at the front of the queue to kiss his Holey ring. I'm hoping he'll want to return the honour.

At it like rabbits....

No, really - you do not want to know.

Shaggy dog story

It's not too often one (I) gets the chance to big-up man's best friend.

Man's best friend may have some fairly ferocious gnashers.

He may be smaller than us, and hairier.

He may well need to wear some dapper little body-warmers in the colder weather.

And he may even communicate in a gruff and unintelligible way that leaves us wondering what he is trying to say.

But none of this should put us off appreciating our old chum Braisers, le vielle mer-chien, for also being a real sport and giving a rescue dog the chance to get a bit of practice in.

Saluté, Braisers - plongeur et nageur extraordinaire!

That curious feeling

You've probably had that feeling of getting the willies up you.

I know I have...it's that eerieful sensation that makes you turn your head, thinking that perhaps there is something or someone observing you. Right creepy and a total disturbination.

Don't call me paranoiacal!

But that feeling is for merely mortal men and others. For me it can go a whole lot further than that.

It's a fear that - in the words of the great Germaniacal film director Fatbinder - eats the soul.

It is, of course, anatidaephobia of what I speak. Read all about it below...


Yes, my millions of readers, it's true - I have a phobia of being followed by anything with a bill.

(A tip o' the tricorn to Cap'n Jaaaaaaaaaahn.)

On your marks

There is a new fad abroad in the world of the dancing.

Using my own eyes behind my hands I did watch this performed unabandoned on a decently-sprung floor by a young laydee of enormously talented ableness.

I have re-created me own recreation of this event but using a chap for the avoidance of any issues about eroto-naughtiness and the like. And clothed, too.

Look on this as a lesson in smooth dancefloor movements, and maybe of interest to those of the 'snakehips' tendency, what like Beattie is.

Top Team......?

After spending a few days shacked up in the lap of luxury in the middle of the English countryside - dull, eh, readers? - a right bunch of reprobates are now self-declared 'losers'.

Look at them - smug, self-satisfied, and stuffed to the gills with the finest foods and wines available from Grantham's 'Victor Value' supermarket.

Why wasn't I asked?

Hold the front page!

Earth-shattering is the only oxymoron that can be applied in these circumstances.

6 tubes of Polop's for just one English pound sterling and forty English new pennies.

It doesn't get better than this.

Leading Laydee

Jools has been getting led-up, at a school for leader-uppers.

After days of being voluntarily injected with knowledge, skills, and upfront leadership-type-attitude, she has been practising leading anyone daft enough to follow into her magical, but regrettably imaginary, land of unicorns, doors with faces, and extravagant skylights.

Here we see her beckoning on her current favourite non-existent unicorn 'Muffin', who she claims was miraculously transformed from a plain old mule into the aforesaid mythical horned horse by application of a tin of emulsion and a rolled-up newspaper tied to its forehead.

It is such stuff as dreams and sectioning are made on up of.

End to end....

Tallulah, the old dear, sent me a postal carte de France which has just popped through my box.

Sprained neck/Sontaran warlord pciture to follow...

My Grand Opening

Well, party on down, dudes!


Yes, it was the biggest day of this week to date when I opened up my humble new ballroom in the upper deck of Derrig Towers.

Of course, only a select bunch actually got to come in - no riff-raff here! - apart from Jools who shows up at the opening of an envelope and managed to tap her way through my highly witty speech.

I was a bit miffed though to discover that Beattie had clearly been up all night painting some absurd rural trumpet l'oeil on the window, completely obscuring my (research purposes only)view of St.Trollope's School for Abandoned Young Laydeez.

Style Guide

Anthony St.Braisers, sporting the shady v-neck/third-arm look

I for one am more than over-delighted to bring you news that none other than Braisers himself has put I-Pen to I-Pad and laid down his many rules and tips for maintaining that most elusive of qualities, to wit: stylocity.

All too often we men of the masculine gender are accused of being uncaring about our attire, blithely donning raiment as though its main purpose is to conceal our various knobbly bits etc. etc.

Braisers comes down like the wolf on the old on this outmoded approach, declaring in his "meni'vesto" , "Men! Our fab gear is solely an extension of our egos! We are peacocks!"

It's a bold war cry from the diminutive popinjay (and yet so, so very typical of the man-cum-fop Braisers) that he not only comes on all strong-like, but virtually sloshes Cap'n Jaaaaaaahhhhhhnnnn across the chops and declares him an under-dressed ninny - and this to the man who has defined most of what passes for good taste in schmutter up these parts for the past six seasons.

Braisers' Style Guide is now available in his a la mode tiny parts from Vague, Weskit Weekly, and Ideal Gnome.

Braisers - the chap putting the 'Ernie' back in dernier cri, and the 'Fec' back in affectation.

A Personal Statement

Following a long-term campaign against me of enormous proportions I am forced to issue this personal statement of about me.

First off, and no shilly-shallying, I think the picture above says it all for me. A picture paints a thousand words, according to the song, and that saves me an awful lot of input.

Secondly up, on the sharing of rooms with Beattie. I am known far afield and wide away for my tightness and that's all there is to be said about that as a full and total explanation.

Thirdly now, I am comfortable in my own skin and with the smooth skin of other men in my company. It's perfectly natural and I've never been any different.

Fifthly*, there is nothing like a dame, and I cite in my defence Dame Edna Everage and Dame Danny LaRue.

Sixthly, there are plenty of women who could tell you all about my fancy-footwork and fiendish loving techniques, but as a discreet gentleman I'm not prepared to give away any identifying features except for those previously featured.

Now, stop your delving in my hinterland.

*Fourthly deleted as I was advised to exercise my Fifth Amendment rights in the America where my blog reaches unto.

Death of a Disco Dancer

And they say those sickly Mancs have no sense of rhythm!

This post in tribute to one of them poorly Northern lads who's picked up the Geranium Measles, (also known under it's medical terminology as Rubbelly).

La Snapper Rouge ecrit aussi...

C'est incroyable! Deux grandes bieres au-dessus les lignes, est un packet de fags to boot! Dieu aime les Français!

Braisers ecrit de France...

C'est vrai! Les Francais sont terribly genereux avec la vielle biere!