My Day Of Action - Update

Now, that's what I call "action".

There were 12 of these little beauties when I got started. I'm saving the rest for tea.

I'm going all out

Have you got yourself an occupation?

Not wishing to 'diss'-up the types hanging around about the world in their Occupie shenanigannery, but it does seem all one has to do is plonk one's nether regions on a bit of pavement et viola you're part of it yourself!

Hence my staging of my own personal Moment Of Action in the run-up to tomorrow's 'Big Day'.

Of course, one would look an utter and singular fool trying to stage such a protest on one's own. Therefore I invited Tallulah to join me, and gawdblesser, she was only too glad of the chance to take the weight off her plates.

And a right pair we did make.

Tomorrow: I'm all up and proud for action.

On the box

Yes, it's me - on the telly again.

And this time it's not Smartarses!

Here I am waiting for my chance to address a press conference of top-notch journos about my forthcoming Derrig Day of Action, which is happening sometime this week.

I do hope you'll join me somewhere.

Synchronise watches!

Bookends

A First Class pair of sleeping beauteez, if I say so unto myself, snapped as they napped it up amongst the debris of their massive assortment of snacks.

I think they had quite exhausted themselves moaning on about missing out on the second complimentary cuppa.

So engrossed were in their napping-time, they didn't see me helping myself to generous handfuls of their snacks.

Another case of cloudy silver linings!

Recipe corner

Take a large pinch of Joan of The Ark (the finest female Pope of her own generation).

Add a clump of that'um King Dick 3.

Rub together in a big pudding bowl.

Rub, rub, rub.

Add a little spice - your choice but it has to be something a tad tart.

Leave under a damp towel for an hour in a warm place and....

Taa-Daaa!!!!!
Instant Twin of Evil A or, as it's known up North: Parkin Warlock.

TOMORROW: KNIT YOUR OWN TWIN OF EVIL 1.

Late night final

There's really only one thing I like more than polishing off an evening of a hearty three course meaty-meats meal (washed down in a tidal wave of cocktails, pints, and wines) with a little snackette of crisps, choco, and a jolly old dollop of the satirical kind of stuff.

But I'm not telling you lot.

My mind has never been so boggled

I don't do drugs: I simply couldn't cope with the reality-fantasy confusion scenario.

But if I did, they'd probably be the best drugs in the world.

Getting above themselves

Example 1: Amateur snapper

Example 2: Red snapper

Now, some people would be telling you about this showing two fine displays of laydeez rising up and doing their thing up a ladder.

I see a decent chap providing the expert four-square stability and support they need to pursue their little hobbies and reach such giddy heights.

You, the jury, must reach your own conclusions.

Interchangeable, but indispensible

Sharon & Jackie

Don't you ever get your laydeez mixed up?

To avoid such complications and the possibility of embarrassment at hotels and similar, I am resolved upon the remedy of combining names to cut by half the chances of such occurrences coming up.

These two will henceforthwards be known as 'Shacky': elegant, simple, and short.

As is the new name.

I wooden do that

You can probably see the look of disgust on my face.

Plates. It's plates of food. Not planks. Got that, Mr.Lah-Di-Dah Restaurateurerurrer?

So whenever I get wood now, I just say no.

Hat-rocious

Separated at birth, or what?

50 years of hurt

This is a public service warning about the drink of Havana Club.

There you are: all smooth and suave and double-O sevened-up like some secret sex maniac agent.

A matter of moments (and a half bottle of the Cuban calamity-maker) later and it's all fancy dress and acting the goat up....

But that lifestyle takes it's toll and all too soon you've gone all Dorian Gray and his picture up the attic....

And finally a well-preserved after-life as one of the denizens down below and the eternal punishment of karaoke hell...


But all in all, you just have to laugh....

Happy 50th, Commodore Jaaaaaahhhhnnnnnnn!

I'd like a party with an atmosphere

This weekend I was happy to bestow the privilege of my presence at what will soon become not just a matter of public gawping and amazement, but also a matter of "record" - if you'll pardon the punnery.

Yes, I travelled to South East London environs.

But no, that was not the "record" whenceunder I do speak.

Yes, I quaffed mightily of the equivalent of a veritable Nebuchadnezzar of high-quality but reasonably-priced drinking champagne.

But, again no - that is not the "record" of what is the subject hereof. And anyway that's just a typical rip-roarer of a weekend for me. Or a Thursday.

And I did consume unto me the finest meats, sweetymeats, pickles, and cheesery from a table so loaded with goodness it had groaned its last.

But thrice no for third time. Are you listening? That was NOT the "record" wherehere I speak of unto.

For no, I refer of course to the Commodore Jahhhhhhhhnnnnn's 50th birthday and squirl killing festival what doubled up as the world's biggest party in the most confined space since I got all boozed up with Beattie in a phone box.

Cramped, yes. But cosy, and all my kindling kept dry, to boot.

Reunion tour

I was dahn Sarf Lunnon an stumbled right into a photo-shoot for the reunion of Bow Wow Wow.


Haven't aged at all well, was my thinking.

Oh no, not again!

A right turn up for the books

Like buses, it never rains but it happens twice on the trot.

Apparently this sort of thing occurs more often than you think.

It's the same backwards!

I don't know about you, and even if I did, I wouldn't care all that much.

Having said that, though, are you too finding a spooky as I am: all this palindromic date stuff that's a-happening today for the first time in well over 4500 years?

Call me 'The Great Predicticator' if you will, but I'm sure something spectacular and surprising will happen sometime.

Breaking news: Anglo-Irish Accord

In what can only be the most coincidental of coincidences, I am taking time out to stand in the street applauding two massively great constitutional changes both here and, of course, there.

Fistly up I am referring naturally to the change over in the Auld country permitting men to become President for the first time in a few or fourteen years now. And in doing so I must say how concerned I am at the prospect of Jack Higgins having to leave off his writing duties. Will we ever see the likes of another 'The Eagle Has Landed' now that he has to spend all his time putting a candle in his window every night for us overseas disaporanoriums?

And to turn to constitutional matters here, at home, I was appalled some time back to see that Dean Paul chap resigning from his post and giving in to the wacky demands of the bunch of liberal namby-pamby god-botherers who believe they run the good old C of D. You don't get that with an iron-crossed...sorry - I mean, iron-fisted Pope running the show, I can tell you.

But enough of me getting all political "up yo asses" as the youngsters have it in their jargoning.

Tomorrow I turn to the ongoing and interminable financial crisis in my wallet.

Bless you, my son

Ha-lo-oh!

The results are in and I have been ennobled up, God-wise, as Saint Colin - patron of the inadequate and intemperate.

My mother will be proud of me, at last.

What more could she want than a son shinning it up the religious hierarchy?

Actually, I quite like that, I might use it again.

Take a note, Ms McK, will you?

Boff

"And then you shout 'I'm calling the Police'.

It's not everyday I get to demonstrate my buttoneering techniques for a luvverly young laydee, but on this occasion I was more than delighted to oblige, and truly well up for it.

Unfortunately it was not to come to anything more as she had an allergy to brain-melting tie-shirt combo colour-clashes.

I was therefore forced to make her excuses and she left.

Chubster magnifico

Everywhere I go, there I am.

Blonde ambition tour

I was pleased to be asked to help out on the Blonde Ambition tour, even if it was as button-boy.

Mind you, she did go on a bit.

Somewhat anonymous

No, not that easy at all

After years of intensive up-the-job training I am pleased to say that the Genius Amanuensis has finally graduated from Button Boy school, and was yesterday called upon to display his mettle in the face of an angry crowd.

I am obliged to report to you all that he passed with almost flying colours, having only once fallen prey to the bugbear of Button Boys throughout history - hairy-trigger - going off early just the once.

A shame though that his prowess was not marked by any of the dash, style, grace, and panache that marks one out as a master button-depresser, and he is, I fear, likely to remain nameless and forgettable in his newly-elevated role.

For instance, who could forget that magical moment when I was manning the knob and - just to break what was a tense and torrid atmosphere with a splash of humour - gave them all a brief blast of the Greek Finance Minister.

Possibly my proudest moment.

Fiddling in the dark

Derrig's in the 'hood!

It is time to put an end to all the rumours circulating round about me around me.

Despite recognition of my talents in the ‘being-pulled-off’ department, and regardless of the way I am perceived by lesser sorts as ruling over conferences with my (non-chemically-enhanced) rod of iron, I am not putting myself up to “do a big job”.

I can, of course, understand how this kind of misconception gets misconceived by those who take an interest in this sort of fanciful pipe-smoking-dream-halluci-scenario.

It only takes a little ‘tap’ on the shoulder in public, and the gossip-mill gets grinding. It’s the heightened political atmosphere I work in.

But I see myself more as a man in the shadows, or an emenince grease, if you will, fiddling away in the dark behind you all.

A Grey Lord rather than a Dark Lord, I suppose you could say.

Remember, remember

Remember, remember the 2nd and 3rd of November....

And that's all I've got to say on the matter unless the rest of it comes back to me.

Back in t'doghouse

Shamefaced as ever.

Word reaches me (via the vine of Chandler's grapes of wrath) of a wholly unfortunate, tragic story of unimaginable misfortune and great hilarity that made me laugh a-plenty till my blooming odd socks came right off each of my tootsies. Or GHYMMLATMBOSCROEOMT as them kids have it in their 'Sexting' type-talk.

But seriously, it could have all gone madly wrong for that happily-married man and intrepid explorer Dave "Magellan" Johnson.

Having set out solo to grab a brief moment or two of solitude in a quiet and well-earned bit of respite away from the virulent source of all his joy, he strode like a maniac off the well-established path.

Did he not learn the country code, I ask you? What's he like, eh, readers?

So, while waiting for the safety of darkness, he decided to build himself a refuge in the shape of a tent formed from a load of old scratchy brambles, as you do. There he rolled around a bit in his all-weather shorts and t-shirt, scourging himself to pass the time.

Severe brambling, pictured.

Within a mere matter of hours a team of rescuers came upon him bramble-scarred, dazed, confused, and seated in front of an impressively-constructed fire, drinking a flagon of ale, in a bar. Where he denied he was hiding until the forecast 'Hurricane June' had blown over. (Which it never will, as far as I can see.)

A remarkable story and a poignant warning about the dangers of rushing into marriage, methinks. As they say, the man who marries in haste, repents at his leisure, on a hillside. Desolate.

A St.Brandy dog, somewhere or other.