Friday 1 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: '... it's the dogs mess that I find hard to swallow.'

I'm writing another novel. My first one needs to be set aside for a while so that I can reread it and blush at its naivety and inattention to plot construction. If I end up selling less copies than Jeremy I'll have to change my name and move to Pinner where I will become a recluse and keep bees.
This one is less dark and gothic, but no doubt has less fiction in it than the Royal Family have produced in the last couple of days. Paul Burrell, having been accused for the last eighteen months or so of stealing items belonging to the late Diana, Princess of Wales, was just about to give evidence when his trial was mysteriously halted due to The Queen 'suddenly' remembering that Burrell had told her he had taken certain items of the princess's for safe keeping.
No one, I think, is giving credence to this explanation. It would seem that Burrell's evidence might have contained certain details which the Palace wish to keep quiet. Of course, it is possible that The Queen, only having been briefed on the details of the case for the last eighteen months, should have completely forgotten and suddenly recalled such a vital piece of evidence on the day before Burrell was due to testify.
When are the British going to see these corrupt relics for what they really are?

Saturday 2 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: 'I want some repairs done to my cooker as it has backfired and burnt my knob off.'

As the Ugly One popped out for a snifter of the amber juices, I decided to watch 'The Green Slime', a film in which tentacled one-eyed electrocuting beasties infiltrate a space-station and attempt to squeak the crew to death.
Marvellous stuff. Let's have more of that. There was even a Tom Jones style theme tune called, coincidentally enough, 'The Green Slime.'
Later, the Ugly One turned up with a KFC family bucket and we watched a Doctor Who adventure 'Underworld' in which Daleks invade Mike Baldwin's knicker factory.
Lately we've been watching 'Mutant X' (the Marvel TV series), which bemuses me somewhat. It has been in legal dispute with the producers of The X-Men (the movie) since Marvel's contract stipulates that they should not produce any live action X-Men related shows. 'Mutant X' of course, is completely unrelated to the X-Men since it features mutants with strange and amazing powers (including Victor from Days of Our Lives who can make lightning come out of his fingers like a big human plasma lamp).
X-Men of course, is completely different, since it features mutants with strange and amazing powers, looked after by Patrick Stewart in a wheelchair.
The sundry Mutant-X mutants who - no doubt as a by-product of their mutant genes - are all young and good looking, are looked after by the man who used to be Lex Luthor. Last week's episode was very silly as their deadly enemy, super-mutant Gabriel Ashlocke, cloned an Egyptian alchemist who - with the power of the Triangle of (insert made-up name here... 'Zinthar' works well) - was going to cure Ashlocke of his incurable mutant Westlife hairdo.
However, Lex Luthor found an old Egyptian spell in time and turned the power back onto her, causing her to die of acute American shame when all her extensions fell out... or so it seemed to me.
Talking of evil deformed mutants... Jeffrey Archer is still in jail.
Hoorah!
On a sadder note, my plan to kidnap Posh Spice and have her vocal chords removed fell apart. I'd have got away with it too if it hadn't been for those pesky reporters.

Sunday 3 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: '... and their 18 year old son is continually banging his balls against my fence.'

'Police 'searched for secret Diana rape tape'

A SECRET tape made by Princess Diana in an attempt to incriminate a member of Prince Charles' staff who had been accused of rape was at the centre of the police's original search of Paul Burrell's house, according to reports today.
The cassette was a recording of a Kensington Palace servant who claimed he was sexually assaulted by an employee of Prince Charles. The tape recording is said to have gone missing along with "cruel and insulting" letters written to the princess from senior members of the Royal Family.
The recording was reportedly one of the items that police were looking for when they raided the home of Princess Diana's former butler. The Old Bailey was told detectives wanted to find "sensitive items" from a box of Diana's secrets she kept at Kensington Palace. However, they were also looking for the tape which was recorded by Diana in the early 1990s when she "interviewed" a man who claimed to have been raped by someone from St James' Palace. Diana is said to have visited the victim and used a hidden recorder to tape the conversation.
Royal lawyers were reportedly brought in and a discreet internal inquiry was carried out, but the matter was not brought to public attention.
Royal lawyers are said to have been contacted by Scotland Yard officers about the claims.
Police intelligence which prompted the initial investigation had suggested that information collected by Diana could hugely damage the monarchy, her own family and the Government.'

http://edinburghnews.com/uk.cfm?id=1221762002

'discreet internal inquiry'? Ouch!

Sunday for us has become 'Dallas' day as UK Gold are repeating the cult US soap from the start. They are however, putting it on at 4.30 am which means we have to tape it. We've fallen into a habit of saving them up for Sundays which is normally ruined by TV companies insisting on putting religious programmes everywhere.
Dallas is compulsive viewing, not so much for the outrageous plots and the dodgy acting, but for the US interior design and fashion of the mid-seventies. The worst victim is Jock Ewing, who likes to wander round the ranch in tartan flares, or a tartan jacket, but never the two together. Sometimes he wears his tartan pants to dinner, which pale into insignificance in the Ewing dining-room which seems to be populated by big pewter emus.
Be warned! If you haven't seen Dallas before you should prepare yourself for some of the worst wallpaper in the world. All of it is in Bobby Ewing's bedroom.
What were they thinking of? I know the seventies were a bit wild, but they were never as tasteless as this... or maybe in America they were...
M mmmm. There's a thought.

Monday 4 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: 'I wish to report that tiles are missing from the outside toilet roof. I think it was bad wind the other night that blew them off.'

I was chatted up in the park today, by a man from Sudan. That restored my faith in Human nature.
I was sad to hear that Lonnie Donnegan died today. It's probably sadder that Lonnie will be remembered more for his song 'My Old Man's a Dustman (He Wears a Dustman's Hat)' than for his more notable and influential contributions to British music.
It is a cruel and unjust world.

Tuesday 5 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: 'My lavatory seat is cracked, where do I stand?'

Scientists have been investigating Gay Sheep. They have discovered (hardly a surprise) that examinations of the brains of dead gay sheep show that there are marked differences with the brains of heterosexual sheep which tends to support the premise that homosexuality is genetic. Their fields were also found to be much neater than the fields of neighbouring, brick-throwing murderous straight sheep, and their flocks were far better choreographed.
What puzzles me is how the scientists found all the gay sheep in the first place. It must have raised many eyebrows when men were seen peering through the binoculars at the unorthodox sexual behaviour of a couple of rams.
I am eternally grateful to the lovely Anita of Forest Gate for the complaints to UK councils. She spent months contacting local councils and municipal bodies all over Britain just to gather this vital information.
The Republic of Free Hairy Men salutes you, Anita!

Wednesday 6 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: 'I wish to complain that my father hurt his ankle very badly when he put his foot in the hole in his back passage...'

I spent the day searching for work, trudging the weary cyberstreets of opportunity (I've applied for a job with a bookmakers. Two jobs actually. Maybe I'll pick up some hot tips) and then gave up and did some writing.
I have had no response from the Jeremy Spake website, to whom I wrote to ask the very valid question 'What talent does Jeremy actually possess?'
No doubt they are still pondering this. I ought to give them a few more days to sift through the evidence.
The Ugly One and I watched 'Coronation Street'. Evil Richard (who has already battered his ex-wife to death with a shovel and buried her in the foundations of his luxury flats) is trying to drive Audrey Roberts mad by sneaking into her house and turning her gas off.
Eeeeh! The insane dastardly genius of it all.

Thursday 7 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: 'I am writing on behalf of my sink, which is coming away from the wall.'

Granddad guns down terror squirrel

When squirrels attack: Knutsford has been living in fear.

A vicious squirrel which terrorised a Cheshire town has been shot dead by a grandfather seeking vengeance.
The animal had already attacked a man mowing his lawn and a woman walking down the street in Knutsford. But when it sank its teeth into Kelsi Morley's face, her grandfather Geoff Horth decided to act.
He went out and killed it.
Two-year-old Kelsi was attacked as she took a morning stroll with her mother.
She stopped to admire the squirrel before it pounced on her face and sank its teeth into her forehead.
Kelsi's mother Karen had to pin the girl to the floor and pull the animal off her face. The youngster was left bleeding heavily from a deep gash.
Mr Horth said he was unrepentant about his vigilante action.
On Thursday his wife said: "When Geoff saw what had happened, he just wanted to put a stop to it.
He said if it had bitten a child's face this time, what would it do next? "

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2415095.stm

Whatever it had planned, nothing could have been so criminal as to call a child 'Kelsi'.

Friday 8 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: 'Will you please send someone to mend the garden path. My wife tripped and fell on it yesterday and now she is pregnant. We are getting married in September and we would like it in the garden before we move into the house.'

As a treat, the Ugly One took me to see 'Harry Potter and The Arse of The Bandersnipe' tonight, in a late night showing down in the Bush of Shepherds. To get to the cinema we had to travel through the busker's underpass (ooh... upon re-reading that I got the hot thrill of innuendo) where the faithful old busker was once more singing 'The House of The Rising Sun.'
It's nice to know that in an uncertain world there is someone you can rely on to be consistent.
Thankfully, with the film starting at 11pm there were no nasty children present, although I was disturbed by an annoying man some rows behind me who seemed compelled to constantly explain the the more esoteric points of the plot to his girlfriend. I gave him my basilisk glare and he shut up.
Harry Potter was excellent. I was particularly impressed by Jason Isaacs as the camp and evil Lucius Malfoy. He once played a schizophrenic gay gangland boss in a BBC series and haunted my erotic dreams for months.
There is a scene in the film where Dobby the House Elf is freed because Mr Malfoy was tricked into handing him an article of clothing (Presenting an elf with clothing frees them from their bondage, you see).
Later, for reasons which are not important, I threw a pair of shorts at the Ugly One. He now claims that he is free and refuses to do any more washing up.

Saturday 9 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: 'I request permission to remove my drawers in the kitchen.'

The Ugly One had a night out to celebrate his elfly freedom so I made myself some fish and chips and settled down to read 'Synthetic Men of Mars' by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Bliss! Hoorah!

Sunday 10 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: '50% of the walls are damp, 50% have crumbling plaster and the rest are plain filthy.'

Man falls asleep at the very sight of Penelope Keith
Nov 11 2002 Daily Post

A NORTH Wales man is hoping for a cure to a bizarre illness that makes him keel over at the sight of Good Life actress Penelope Keith.
David Degge, 53, suffers from narcolepsy and can doze off up to two dozen times a day.
An accountant, he also suffers from the associated condition of cataplexy - a muscular limpness which causes its victims to collapse fully conscious without warning. Attacks can be triggered by a range of emotions including surprise, excitement and laughter - making classic British comedy The Good Life, starring Ms Keith and one of his favourites, off-limits.
Mr Degge, who lives in Glyn Ceiriog, near Llangollen, said: "Anything can bring on an attack. Humour is a terrible trigger. It's lethal for me to watch The Good Life. I have only got to see Penelope Keith and I feel myself start to go."

http://icnorthwales.icnetwork.co.uk/news/regionalnews/page.cfm?objectid=12354101&method=full&siteid =50142

Monday 11 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: 'The toilet is blocked and we cannot bath the children until it is cleared.'

I went to sign on for my unemployment benefit, happy and secure in the knowledge that the Royal Family are up to their Royal Arses in Kack.
Jeffrey Archer is still in jail, and I have an interview on Thursday for proper work with real money.
All that could have made Life better would be Phil Vickery turning up to soap me down with his big rough rugby loofer.

Tuesday 12 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils: 'Will you please send a man to look at my water, it is a funny colour and not fit to drink'

Things just keep getting better and better:-

Aide who 'sold gifts' adds to royal woes

MP wants inquiry into activities of prince's assistant who came to be known as Fawcett the Fence
Jamie Wilson
Tuesday November 12, 2002
The Guardian

The Prince of Wales was last night facing another damaging inquiry over allegations that one of his trusted advisers sold off royal gifts and kept a percentage of the profits.
It has emerged that Michael Fawcett, the prince's personal assistant, was nicknamed "Fawcett the Fence" in royal circles because of his knowledge of where to offload unusual gifts at shops around London, including some of those holding the royal warrant. He is said to have kept between 10% and 20% of the proceeds as his cut.
Yesterday Labour MP Ian Davidson, a member of the Commons public accounts committee, said he would be calling for the national audit office and the PAC to investigate the allegations.
"My concern is that Prince Charles goes abroad at public expense and receives valuable gifts. The last thing anyone expects is for him to come back, flog them off or put them in pawn and then trouser the proceeds," Mr Davidson said. "If this is happening not only is it immensely disrespectful for those who have given the gifts, but it also raises questions about tax liability. Gifts received in an official capacity should be held in trust for the nation not used for personal gain. We will certainly want to look at all of this."
This is not the first time Mr Fawcett has been the subject of unwelcome headlines. In December last year an employment tribunal brought by Elizabeth Burgess, a former member of staff at Highgrove, Prince Charles's Gloucestershire home, heard her claim that Mr Fawcett had called her a "fucking nigger typist". But her claim for constructive dismissal was thrown out by the tribunal, which ruled that she failed to prove her allegations.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk_news/story/0,3604,838238,00.html

I suspect that that is not all we are likely to hear about the exploits of Mr Fawcett.
I was thinking today that it would be a good idea if gay people were born green. Card-carrying flag-waving poofs like me could be a nice strong deep green, and those who are otherwise straight but do it now and again just to help out when we're busy could be a lovely shade of lime, and all the other shirtlifters could be all the shades inbetween depending where they fit on the scale.
At least everyone would know where they were, and who was Arthur and who was Martha.
I doubt if Jeremy Spake would be going out very much though, which would be another bonus.
Hoorah!

Thursday 14 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils:
'Our lavatory seat is broken in half and is now in three pieces.'

To wake myself up I switched on the TCM channel and was unsuspectingly lured into 'Blossoms in the Dust' with Greer Garson and Walter Pidgeon, in which Greer sets up a home for orphaned Texans, of which there seemed to be many in the bad ole days. One could almost believe that Texan women were throwing children out of windows right, left and centre. One of the children had a limp and a Victorian Orthopaedic Leg Brace (no doubt as a result of being chucked out of a window). The aforesaid brace was wrapped up and given to Greer for Christmas when the crippled orphan learned to walk without it.
They shouldn't do this to me so early in the morning. I came over all weepy and turned into Greer Garson in the bathroom, leaning on the sink and saying 'There are NO illegitimate children! Just illegitimate parents!'
It is just my luck that the day I decide to turn into Greer Garson is also the day of my interview and, curse upon curse, the same day as the National Fireman's Strike. In a kind of half-arsed act of solidarity some of The Tube-train drivers decided it was far too dangerous to drive without a solid fire-fighter behind them, which - were I a Tube driver - might be my thoughts entirely. Some of the Lines were therefore closed and it took me an hour and a half (on top of the hour and a half I'd spent getting myself into a suit. No mean feat I assure you!) getting to the interview. I apologised for my lateness, after walking into the completely wrong building after which I was pointed in the right direction by a cute and cuddly doorman.
I apologised for my lateness again, to the right person, blaming it on the Tube drivers and the cute and cuddly doorman who had sent me on a wild goose chase. The deceitful veneer of cuteness and cuddliness, readers! Do not be fooled by it. Be warned by a man who knows.
Anyway, things went OK. I had to do a typing test and my amazing typing speed is 41 words per minute which I thought was terrible.
'No luv,' said the nice lady. 'Some of the people we get through here are lucky to manage twelve.'
The upshot of all this is that they may be able to place me either with a job in Waterloo ('Couldn't escape if I wanted to') or Chiswick. As Chiswick has no Abba song associated with it, I have opted for the Waterloo option and now have to await the nice lady chasing up my references.
I then headed for HMV where I used up my birthday HMV vouchers to get a copy of Boris Karloff's 'The Mummy' on DVD.
Hoorah!

Friday 15 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils:
'Would you please send a man to repair my spout. I am an old age Pensioner and need it badly.'

The newest phrase one can type into Google to reach my website is 'Where to buy Winton floor tiles.' How the hell should I know?

I am very pleased to hear of the ad which is currently running on BBC Wales. Wales are playing Canada at rugby tomorrow, and the ad runs as follows:
Black screen, over which one can the hear the nasal horror of Celine Dion singing "My Heart Will Go On". The text which accompanies this reads:

'This is Celine Dion
She is Canadian
This Saturday It`s Payback Time!'

The Ugly One is planning to get a kilt, despite the fact that he has no Scottish Blood.
I caught up with my taped episodes of 'Sinbad', a new series to which I have become strangely drawn. The UO and I were shocked and appalled by an ad which appeared just after the end of part one. 'Baby Weewee' is an anatomically correct (and I suspect grossly over-proportioned) male doll which, when given a drink (from a supplied bottle) moves his hand over his crotch and says 'Mummy Wee Wee' at which one is encouraged to pull down his Jock Ewing style tartan pants and point his percy at a blue potty, which he duly fills.
We sat gobsmacked and speechless. I feel the image of Sinbad has been forever soiled.

Saturday 16 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils:
'I want to complain about the farmer across the road; every morning at 6am his cock wakes me up and its now getting too much for me.'

The Wise Woman of Wigan came over this evening to celebrate her birthday, and to get some precious things which we'd bought for her which included a DVD copy of Puppetry of the Penis (nothing to do with Baby WeeWee, but fully grown Australian men doing physical impressions with their genitals) and a WWF advent calendar.
I cooked some Chinese food and we watched the Doctor Who episode 'Colony in Space' which featured not only a young and fit Roy from 'EastEnders', but Gail Platt from 'Coronation Street'. She spent all her scenes looking earnest and vulnerable despite her complete lack of chin. It's nice to see that the acting practice she received here has stood her in good stead all these years.

Sunday 17 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils:
'The man next door has a large erection in the back garden, which is unsightly and dangerous.'

Today was a day of Sci-Fi and Fantasy excitement. I made the Wise Woman of Wigan a bacon sandwich and we settled down to watch the 50s classic 'Them', the tale of giant atomically mutated ants cavorting about New Mexico.
Later, the UO and I watched 'Attack of The Clones', the second in George Lucas' Star Wars prequel, which the UO had bought on DVD, in the vain hope that it might have improved since we last watched it.
I should bloody well cocoa! It's still pants.
To take the taste of George Lucas out of our mouths, which is not a phrase I use lightly or indeed often, thankfully, we broke open the vodka and opened the UO's spanking new copy of the Lord of The Rings 'Fellowship of The Ring' special edition, which comes complete with some lovely statuettes of The Gods of Stop-In-The-Name-of-Love, and a Moth of Enya pupa case in which to keep precious things.
Words fail me as to how fabulous a film this is, made even more fabulous by the fact that there is an extra half-an-hour of Ring action (No! It's not what you think).
George Lucas must be spitting chips.

Monday 18 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils:
'Our kitchen floor is damp. We have two children and would like a third so please send someone round to do something about it.'

Man Slashed In Fight Over Who Has Hairiest Buttocks
Victim Cut In Head During Argument
Posted: 9:11 a.m. EST November 15, 2002
Updated: 9:20 a.m. EST November 15, 2002

MANSFIELD TOWNSHIP, N.J. -- A fight between friends over who had the hairiest buttocks landed one of them in the hospital and the other in jail, according to police. Police in Mansfield Township, N.J., said Emmanuel Nieves and Erik Saporito were talking with friends Wednesday about their buttocks when the conversation became heated. Nieves got so upset, he allegedly pulled a knife and slashed Saporito on the head. Saporito is in good condition after being treated at a Hackettstown hospital. Nieves is being held on $25,000 bond.
Charges include aggravated assault, terroristic threats, weapons offences and criminal mischief.

http://www.local6.com/orlpn/news/stories/news-178798320021115-081102.html


Tuesday 19 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils:
'I am a single woman living in a downstairs flat and would you please do something about the noise made by the man I have on top of me every night.'

The Sun reports that Michael Fawcett, butler to Prince Charles, the man whom the Prince describes as 'indispensable' may have gained this adjective because he "was the only person who knew how to load his toothbrush the way Charles liked it."
What on Earth was he loading it with? If rumours about Mr Fawcett are true then it doesn't really bear thinking about.
Talking of not things not bearing thinking about I still have had no reply from the Jeremy Spake website. I shall have to e-mail them again and reiterate my request.

Thursday 21 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils:
'I have had the clerk of the works down on the floor six times but I still have no satisfaction.'

All suited and booted, prim and proper and feeling a little like Sinbad at the start of a quest I set off on a voyage to the Beyond (or Rayners Lane as it is known). It turned out that there were three other people taking the test with me, none of whom were dressed like a penguin. I was at a loss whether to feel superior or stupid. I plumped for looking superior while feeling inwardly stupid. I am confident that at least one other applicant also employed this strategy, but the other way round.
We were given a logic problem to do, in that we were given a set of statements about an alleged robbery and then had to check a further set of sentences against them and judge them to be true, false or not known (in terms of what one had already been told). It's not as easy as it is sounds.
Then we had to do one of those 'what is the next figure in this sequence?' tests (at which I am usually pants), and finally we had to write newspaper headlines about some old Scottish bloke who build a microlite plane out of MDF and some sellotape (or so it seemed) and got to two thousand feet before plunging back down to the land of the porridge-gobblers. I can't remember what headlines I wrote offhand, but I am sure that they were pithy, witty and likely to win prizes at a National Staff Event.
Later, one of the other entrants told me he doesn't want the job as it would mean that he might have to work on Saturdays and it would interfere with his football.
I wandered back home and then had to go the vets to pick up some medicine for the fish who I suspect are merely malingering in order to get more food.
I was glad to get home, make some coffee, put my feet up and listen to an interesting programme on the radio about the history of the shawm.
'And now,' the reassuringly warm and comfy presenter said, 'Lucie Skeaping explores the little-known but varied world of the shawm. Keith McGowan leads her from its origins in the Middle East through to the music of Shakespeare's plays.'
It made me realise how much I miss Melvyn Bragg, banging on interminably about the medieval heresy of the Cathars, especially now I know what he's talking about.

Friday 22 November 2002
Complaints to UK Councils:
'This is to let you know that our lavatory seat is broke and we can't get BBC2.'

There were riots in Nigeria caused by the Miss World contest, of all things. You'd think people would find better things to riot about. There's the cost of parsnips for a start. It's shocking!

Saturday 23 November 2002
Vicarious (adj) Taking the form of a man in a white collar and a long black dress.

Subj: jeremy spake syndrome
Date: 11/23/02 11:27:20 GMT Standard Time
From: HairyBloke
To: info@jeremy-spake.com

I was shocked to hear the very talented Les Dennis on Celebrity Big Brother mention a 'Jeremy Spake Syndrome', although at the time I confess I was distracted and missed the context of the remark.
Is this a recognised medical condition? I did mention it to a Doctor friend of mine, but he seemed unaware of any such disease or syndrome, though he did suggest it could be a form of narcolepsy, since he'd read a recent report - I presume in The Lancet - regarding a Welsh man who falls unconscious at the very sight of the very talented and lovely Penelope Keith.
Does Jeremy suffer from this condition, or is it a condition which Jeremy provokes or induces in others?
I would be very grateful for an early response.

RODDY WILLIAMS

Sunday 24 November 2002
Algorithm (n) The measurable pulse of seaweed.

My favourite adverts at the moment are the ones for Imperial Leather bathtime where a wanton woman lying in her Imperial Leather Lathered bath indulges in various bath-related fantasies including one involving a group of fire-fighters who have to strip down to their underwear (because they do not want to be restricted in any way) to help free her toe which is stuck in the tap. There is now a new one (no doubt because the fire-fighters are on strike and she would have to wait in the bath until a Green Goddess turned up) in which an Italian footballer, whom she hears on the radio has been sent off for an early bath, turns up in her bathroom wearing only a jockstrap. I suspect that shares in Imperial Leather will soar, and that bottles will be found in every gay bathroom in the country.
We watched the new Serial Killer Serial (SKS) 'Wire in The Blood' today, which was - on the whole - very well done, apart from what is getting to be a rather tedious trend in New Gay Stereotyping (NGS). The killer seems to be targeting gay men. One of the victims turns out to be a policeman working on the case, a chunky, rather cute but dim-looking man, who, surprise surprise, turns out to be gay. Mmmmmm. Every drama programme known to man which featured a police station has used that old chestnut. The gay policeman always turns out to be the really good-looking one too. Real life is not like that. Real gay policemen tend to be weedy and in need of a good dinner.
The killer turned out to be a deranged transsexual, which rather clouded the issue. One good thing about the programme though was that it featured music by The Insects and the song 'Human' by Goldfrapp which is the best thing musically I have heard in a long time. It sent a chill up my spine.
I'll have the Goldfrapp album for Christmas please, if anyone's listening.

Monday 25 November 2002
Hale (adj) Dull. Tedious. Repetitive. Derivative. Unfunny. See also 'Pace'.

I had a pleasant wander around Tescos before returning home to do the washing up. Sadly there was no mention of shawms on the radio, which rather saddened me, as I was hoping that this might have been the start of some shawm renaissance which would sweep away the likes of Simon Cowell and Pete Waterman in a tidal wave of medieval instrumentation.
It is a cruel and unjust world.

Tuesday 26 November 2002
Missive (adj) appertaining to women exhibiting a tendency to appear unmarried.

Well, apparently I got through the first level of the insidious induction process as they have invited me back for a further interview this Thursday which means I have to squeeze myself back into my suit and head off for parts unknown again.
Talking of parts unknown I went off to the mucky cinema today and was accosted by a builder who'd popped in on his lunch break.
'You should go up the ole City Road, mate,' he said to me in a gorblimey-I-ain't-seen-nuffin-like-it-in-all-my-puff sort of way. 'They've got a bleedin' blindin' cinema there. You wouldn't credit what goes on in the stalls!'
'Bleedin' 'Ell! Strike a light, mate. I bet!' I said, in a vain attempt to appear local.
Our firemen are on strike still, demanding higher wages and, I suspect, pecs and abs equitable with those of their New York counterparts, judging from the the ones I saw manning the picket line outside Hammersmith Fire Station yesterday.
I won't be thinking of them when I get me toe stuck in the cold tap.

Wednesday 27 November 2002
Palimpsest (n) A seven-sided sepulchre, popular in the Nineteen-thirties with Freemasons.

This year's Celebrity Big Brother rather begs the question of what a Celebrity actually is in the Twenty-first Century. Admittedly, three 'Celebrities' dropped out just before they were due to go in the House and were replaced at short notice, but even so...
The six people chosen - with the possible exception of Les Dennis - have either been out of the public eye for some years or have not yet really established themselves.
And well, it's rather anodyne. No-one has gone crazy, or even got drunk, pissed into the waste-bin and escaped over the wall. Celebrities aren't what they used to be.
Next year, I suggest that Celebrities should be forced by law to enter the House and will have to agree that all but the winner will have their current contracts cancelled and will not work on TV for at least five years.
I'm suggesting (just a random bunch of names... straight off the top of my head) Dale Winton, Jeremy Spake, Simon Cowell, Lisa Riley, Pete Waterman and Geri Halliwell. Other nominations are welcomed. Please e-mail me and let me know who you'd like to see slowly crumble into a quivering heap of insanity and shame.

Thursday 28 November 2002
Ostentation (n) A Dutch Railway terminus.

I went along to my second interview in the depths of Rayners Lane, keeping a sharp eye out for predators, exotic insects and the giant anaconda which are rumoured to lurk in the far places of the world.
The interview went well. I answered most of the questions successfully I think, apart from the one where they asked how my referees would describe me.
The phrase 'crazy Welsh poof' was on the tip of my tongue, but thankfully didn't slip off.
When I returned home, there was a message on the ansaphone from The Agency who want me to ring them about two jobs they think I might be interested in.
Jobs are like buses. You wait a year and then three come along at once. I am not tempting fate by assuming I will get any of them. That way lies madness.

Friday 29 November 2002
Captious (adj) Smelling of whippets.

I tried on the Ugly One's kilt today and had my photo taken. I felt like rushing into the street and singing 'Soft Lowland Tongue of The Border' or 'These are My Mountains'. Luckily I realised in the nick of time that I wasn't a Scot and managed to get myself back under control.
Talking of tartan crotchware, Baby Wee-Wee is still causing me a great deal of concern. I wonder what Roland Barthes would make of this (rather generously) anatomically correct male doll which keeps popping up - if you'll pardon the expression - in ads on TV, urinating happily into a blue plastic potty (provided).
One of my favourite books is 'Mythologies' in which Barthes, who was obsessed with the myths of modern life and analysed the signs, symbols and meanings of everything in his contemporary society, examined various phenomena of the Twentieth Century ranging from 'professional' wrestling to Washing Powder advertisements.
One of the articles in 'Mythologies' (which were mostly written in the Nineteen Fifties) deals with children's toys and bemoans the fact that the majority of toys (particularly for girls) are just miniature versions of aspects of adult lives. His point was that these toys allow no opportunity for experimentation or creativity or to deviate from the set pattern of that which the toy represents, whether it be a car or a doll. Whatever you do with it, it is still a car, it is still a doll; miniature symbols of existing facets of grown-up society.
Watching the adverts during children's programming is therefore a little alarming since although fifty years have passed since Barthes made that point, very little has changed. There are very few products which allow children true creativity.
Still no reply from the Jeremy Spake website.

Saturday 30 November 2002
Ersatz (n) A set of chairs reserved specifically for women in Northern Working Men's Clubs.

The UO and I got engrossed in Maury Povich and his 'Shocking Paternity Test Revelations' this afternoon in which Mothers (and sometimes those accused of being the father) demand paternity tests the results of which Maury delivers in a suitably dramatic manner. What's interesting is the reasons the men give for believing they have not fathered the child in question.
'I'm fifteen years old, ' one of them said. 'I am too young to father children.'
'I've slept with lots of women,' another one said, 'and I've never got any of them pregnant. Besides, I am cross-eyed and the baby's eyes aren't.'
It goes without saying that this is an American show.
Talking of shocking revelations, I am curious to know the exact nature of the rumour that was being circulated on'tinternet about David Beckham, husband of the ghastly Victoria, before legal threats were being thrown about right left and centre.
I feel it is a mistake to use such heavy-handed legal tactics to quash what is, after all, a rumour that the majority of people hadn't heard of until The Beckhams made a huge issue of it. Now of course, I and the rest of the country are desperate to know what was being alleged. All that has been revealed is that it involved Beckham's private life and that bookmakers William Hill received a large number of requests to place bets on the Beckhams splitting up within the next year.
It's strange isn't it. The Beckhams try so so hard to avoid publicity and keep out of the limelight yet somehow something always happens to land them back in the news at fairly regular intervals.

Yes. That's what I thought.

One good thing to come out of all the foofaraw is that it has provided huge publicity for Popbitch.com, the Internet site which apparently started this whole palava by printing the rumour in the first place. Hoorah for them.
Check them out. They produce a weekly e-mail newsletter of gossip and unsubstantiated scandal which, after all, is the only thing that celebrities are guaranteed to produce with a fair degree of quality and consistency.
Celebrity Big Brother was eventually won by Mark Owen (the one from Take That whom no-one could remember until last week) narrowly pipping Les Dennis to the post. I have a theory that Mark - a diminutive, and I suspect pointy-eared specimen - cornered the elf and hobbit vote.
While I'm on the subject; has anyone else noticed the spooky resemblance between Les Dennis and Windy Miller from Camberwick Green?

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