Hara-Kiri-Oke

For those who recall my previous success bellowing in a hellish sweaty furnace, I would draw your attention to this marvellously executed version of "Scooby Doo's-Day".

Reunioning

Mad Dickie Evans (Bass); yours truliest on Vocals (Basso); Beattie (Bassey);

Tallulah (Bass Squealing); Braisers (Lyircs and Double Bsas).

I am well over the top in delightment at the official creation for the first time of a musical front for Club Derrig. Yes, I have put together my first band, who you can see above reunioning in order of loftiness after the first rehearsal.

Called 'Chemical Fruitness' (after a drink of similar taste) at my personal insistence and shouting at the others, we look forward to recording our first 45 sometime soon. Look out for it on the Fantasy label.

Iron Laws of Entertainment No.1

I was a-mulling it over yesterday, as is my wont, but then I stopped and had a good wash before joining a choice lunchtime crew (Beattie, Tallulah and the Genius Amanuensis) to announce my latest findings vis-a-vee unremarked upon iron laws of entertainment.

They listened enthralled as I explained that the entertainment industry - throughout the world - is run according to certain 'iron laws' that are as fixed as the stars in the sky, or indeed on the telly-box. These laws cannot - must not - be broken for fear of messing with formulae that have stood the test of time in throwing-up and sustaining in the firmament the great stellar array of entertainers we all know and love mostly.

"Write this down, Genius," I declared. "It's one for the blog, and may crop again in my memoirs.".

"The first law, the one on which many of the others relating to acts involving more than one person, rests on the simple but rigid requirement that where any such act shall be known by the members' names, those names ARE ALWAYS - INVARIABLY - IN ALPHABETICALISED ORDER."

Of course, the assembled throng gasped as they reeled through lists of such acts, racking their feeble brains, and unabled to come up with a single one of an example between them.

Next in the series: that Macbeth play, and the country which shall not be named in any theatre.

Film Review 12: The King's Peach

Synopsis: A sulky rich aristo-type simply can't articulate his desire to give his wife his closest attention, leaving the whole Empire at risk, apparently. Beastly Germans are on the horizon, while the aristo's useless brother dallies with Marge Simpson.

Col's commentary: Once again the sensationally-gifted and provocatively-pouting Ms Helen Bon-Temps Carter has to step in and save a gloomy production whopse one high-point is taking the mickey out of stutterers to hugely hilarious comic effect. Only by dint of her dress-sense and all round vampishness is this dreadul effort saved and made watchable. Possibly the greatest film since her last one.

Black Sabbath

Last night I stumbled upon the World's Sweariest CoupleTM - Ozzly Ozzbornio and his flame-haired pot-of-vitriol-cum-missus Shazza, out for the evening to celebrate their special night.

Quelle horreurium!

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!

Dear Cheryl...

I am getting in touch only to offer my deepest and warmest sympathies for all that malarkey and you giving Ashtray the second chance and all and more, wasn't it?

I know how much you must be a-hurting all over about dumping that cheatingest love-rat and all that damn misery-making he's put you through with that posse of lovely laydeez. It's shocking and not at all envy-making.

Anyway, I would like you to know that I am currently a single man, more than capable of showing affection and physical stuff and that old rubbish, and would dearly love to carve another notch on the barrel of my bliss-cannon, that is if you think you're ready to plunge back into the maelstrom that is getting loved hard and briefly by a chap.

I've always liked the Geordie accent, I am a big fan of the name Cheryl - especially as a middle name - and am an admirer of boniness. I must, though, draw the line at your tats.

Get them removed and we're in business.

RSVP 25th February.

Yours,

Big Col

Birthday Boy

South of Africa's most famous sonny, right pensive

Today, being the end of the month, it is the 60th birthday of one 'Braisers'.

Many of us know this ageing legend for his starring role as Zulu Dawn in the film of the same name, or what is also eponymous in the journo trade.

However, what is often forgotten is the fortune-amassing years in the 1940's and 1950's when he started playing the role of Biltong Boy, an Afrikaans version of Jungle Boy, which he was to make his own over the next 45 years. He was widely admired for strutting through the veldt clad only in a loincloth, or 'chafer' in the local lingo, wielding an outsize sjambok on the flora.

He was of course accompanied by Bliksem, his trusty springbok - played by Erik van Der Merwe (front) and Dusty Parts (rear) - who never tired of playing a Lassie-type role, calling on Biltong Boy to follow him into all sorts of mildly perilous scrapes.

Braisers carried off this role in what was virtually a national institution well into the late 1980's, when he made a vast amount of money from endorsements and advertising as Biltong Boy, including White & White whisky, and White pudding.

However, he finally fell victim to the march of time in 1990 as the world became ever-more internationalised, and it was proving difficult to sell the series abroad. More and more of the commercial operations withdrew their sponsorship of the show.

And so it was on 11th February 1990 that, as the great statesman Nelson was released from prison, Braisers wiped away a tear and swore never to black up again, thus ending his screen life as Biltong Boy forever.

Braisers, we salute you, and wish you another 70 glorious years.

Televisual celebratory occurrence

Tonight I will be celebrating in excelsis your favourite TV moment of the present century to date.

Already now regarded as the best ever-viewed programme round my house, it will be nearly close to a year on since this festival for your eyes was filmed in the early hours all that many, many year ago.

Not only has it already won the accolade of Derrig's Review 'Best episode of all-time of anything', but it will shortly be featured at great length in my own re-telling of the whole damn thing again unto exhaustion this evening.

And of top of that I'll be a-whuppin' the intellectual arses off the opposition in a PC Crampton-stylee-mockery-of-a-quiz-night at Club Derrig in a high state of inebriation.

And won't we all be, I ask?

Film Review 11 : Up The Road

Synopsis: Man goes up shops with kid. Gets a bit lost on the way back. DON'T TOUCH THAT TROLLEY! Moodies about.

Col's commentary: The laughs come thick and frequently in this marvellous remake of The Road To Moroccan, with Vigorous Mortifyingsen in the titular sour-faced-josher Bingo Crosby role. Three out of ten.

Hogmananny

So there was me and Beattie up all night with our traditional egg-nog and our preferred nibbles (him a sausage surprise and me the Ginster's buffet bar) waiting for the appearance of the Scotland lad.

And nary a word or sight of him.

Is he not on as often these annual years now?

Or, to put it more sucinctly, has someone changed the frequency, Kenneth?

Still, at least we saw the old year out with a bang, as is our wont.

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.

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.

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.

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!

It's getting to be the norm round here

Liberace - now there was a real entertainer.

Here he is, as re-imagined by Bobby Crushed, at an event that Twin of Evil 1 - the inflammatory Vladarina Gortona - went to last night instead of getting out with me to see the Morris Lad.

I'd have paid good money to have swapped. Bobby always turns up.

And let the look-ee-likee comments drop, will you?