It's been drawn to my attention - by Sebastian - that my publicity photograph shows me holding a book upside down. Well, Sebastian, for your information, it's supposed to be upside down. I am a huge fan of the ancient and honourable art of upside down book reading (I'm a green belt, thank you very much). The reading of books up the wrong way is as old as time itself and even gets a mention in the Doomsday Book. As a devotee I attend evening classes on the subject at my local college. The course I am attending at present is called: 'Reading Upside Down.' and includes the following bumph:
Do you like reading books the wrong way up? If the answer to that particular question is yes, then this IS the course for you. We will show you some (one) time-tested technique(s) for reading your books upside down without the need for standing on your head.
* No more aching necks.
* No more unsightly scuff marks half way up the living room door.
* No more having to wear track suit bottoms underneath your dressing gown.
PS. If time permits we'll also be looking at evidence that proves beyond all doubt that Mama Cass-Eliot and Jimi Hendrix both choked to death on the same pork pie crust.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Fab New Picture
Hi all,
as you can see I've uploaded a photograph of myself for those of you who have no idea just how fabulous I look. This picture was taken by my agent. Yes, I have an agent now. He's not a literarary agent, he's a look-a-like agent. In an attempt to shore up my faltering income I've signed up as a famous person look a like. For this picture (I think it's called a publicity shot) I'm supposed to be Sir Winston Churchill, Alf Garnett, Phil Mitchell's dad, a peanut or Michael Stipe after a particularly heavy pie-munching session outside Devon Savouries in Swindon. I'm also down as a Brad Pitt/David Beckham or George Clooney look a like. The last three were my suggestion but Sebastian, my agent, didn't seem to think I'd get much work if I just included Pitt/Becks/Cloon on my CV. Tosser.
as you can see I've uploaded a photograph of myself for those of you who have no idea just how fabulous I look. This picture was taken by my agent. Yes, I have an agent now. He's not a literarary agent, he's a look-a-like agent. In an attempt to shore up my faltering income I've signed up as a famous person look a like. For this picture (I think it's called a publicity shot) I'm supposed to be Sir Winston Churchill, Alf Garnett, Phil Mitchell's dad, a peanut or Michael Stipe after a particularly heavy pie-munching session outside Devon Savouries in Swindon. I'm also down as a Brad Pitt/David Beckham or George Clooney look a like. The last three were my suggestion but Sebastian, my agent, didn't seem to think I'd get much work if I just included Pitt/Becks/Cloon on my CV. Tosser.
Monday, 6 September 2010
THE BLACK VELVET BAND
Ah! Ha! Just when you thought you could sneakily delete your name from the blog list without anyone knowing it, I turn up again, all eyeballs and where are they and what are they doing.
I've no excuse for not posting anything sooner but I think you should all be thankful for that. The truth is I've been very busy enjoying the summer holidays: writing, restoring furniture and holidaying in Broadstairs. But now I'm back and raring to go. During my visit to Broadstairs I paid a visit to the council house where I was born, a half hour bus ride east of the more glamorous Margate. I didn't go in or anything, I've no idea who lives there now, but it didn't look that much different from how it did when I was a boy. So, I sat for a short while on the bus stop bench opposite and before I knew it one memory after another came to me. The following story (or memoir) is a result of my visit.
NB. I think I should quickly add that the following story is a combination of fact and fiction or, 'friction' as I've just christened it. Christ but I'm clever. Friction! Who'd have ever thunk it?!
I'd also like to add that each and every individual in the story was and still is much loved by me.
THE BLACK VELVET BAND
1966
One of my happiest memories is of Sunday nights sitting in front of our second hand black and white TV with my brothers, sisters and parents. Around half past seven with 'Sunday Night at the London Palladium' about to start, Mum would get comfy on the floor in front of Dad's armchair and, for the next half hour he would brush her hair. I don't know why, but I liked seeing them there together like that, perhaps it was because it made me feel safe in some way. The sound the bristles of the hairbrush made as my Dad’s calloused hands pulled it through my Mum’s shoulder length hair is a sound that has stayed with me ever since.
After a while Dad would put down the brush and Mum would tie her hair back with a thin piece of black ribbon, remaining where she was until it was time to herd us kids up to bed.
1973
The sexual revolution roled into Westgate about ten years after it had started some seventy miles up the road in London. Soon after it arrived Mum ran away with a little fat Italian called Mafia Lou.
For Dad it was a blow to his pride as much as anything else and being the type of man he was he withdrew into himself. Despite my occasional attempts to talk to him about it Dad never spoke to me about Mum's departure except to say that from now on I’d need to clean up after myself. Dad and I rolled along together okay but it was fairly obvious to me that he wasn't over Mum yet.
Then one bitterly cold November evening there was a knock at the front door. Dad was in the kitchen so I answered it expecting to find one of my mates out on the step. Instead I was confronted by five wild-eyed men wearing Donkey jackets, gruby jeans and steel toe-capped boots.
‘It’s the Ganger Man we’re after looking for, son,’ the smallest of the five men said winking a twinkling blue eye at me. ‘Is he inside?’
Before I had a chance to reply the five of them pushed past me, filling the tiny hallway with the smell of tarmac, rolling tobacco and Guinness.
Now, it wasn’t a regular occurrence for my Dad to get into grief but, on the other hand, it wasn’t unheard of either. And so my immediate thought was: are these five paddies here to beat the bollocks out of my Dad? Although I knew my Dad could handle himself: I’d once watched as he battered two men unconscious for spoiling a works outing: I was pretty sure even he couldn't manage five men.
Fortunately for Dad, and me, the paddies hadn’t arrived at the house intent on caving his head in. In fact, the opposite was true. As we were both ushered out of the front door, Dad told me that these five men were the O’Dowd Boys. I’d heard him talk about them before. They were members of Dad's road gang and had come over from County Kerry in Ireland in search of work some months before.
Stepping out into the cold night I was hauled into the back of a waiting lorry by three of the brothers while Dad, as guest of honour, sat up front with the other two. As we drove off towards Margate I was told to sit on what remained of that day’s tarmac. 'It'll keep your arse warm,' Mickey O’Dowd assured me.
Ten minutes later we arrived at The Benjamin Beale, a spit and sawdust pub situated on Margate seafront directly opposite the pier. Inside, the pub was full to bursting with hard-faced men and their equally tough looking women: the booming sound of working class people having fun filled the air.
At the bar the O'Dowd's ordered beers and I was told to make myself inconspicuous. As a reward I was passed half a brown ale and a packet of Woodbine cigarettes.
I watched, from the safety of my corner, as the five Irishmen brought my Dad out if himself. Despite their rough exteriors it was clear that the O'Dowd Boys not only understood what my Dad was going through but also cared enough about him to want to make him feel better again. They did that in the only way they knew how, by filling him with beer and surrounding him with the people he felt most comfortable with.
It was around half past ten when we moved positions in the pub and my Dad’s rough hand guided me through the sea of drunken bodies over to an area in the pub where the O’Dowds had congregated. One of the brothers produced a banjo and began to play. As a teenage boy growing up in the seventies I was used to Slade, The Sweet and David Bowie, I had never heard anything like the O'Dowd Boys. They sang with such passion and harmony and about such wonderful things that I fell in love with Irish folk music that night, so that now, whenever I hear: The Irish Rover, Whiskey in the Jar and Sweet Molly Malone, I always think of my Dad and his five Irish mates.
Just as we were about to go home I saw my Dad asking Mickey O'Dowd if he'd persuade his brothers to sing one more song. A short while later they sang the song that will forever remind me of my Mum and Dad and the times when I would watch them in the front room as he brushed her hair. Although the song is a sad one my Dad seemed to pick up after that night out and eventually he found happiness again.
Click on the link to hear the song the O’Dowd Boys sang. (And no laughing at the beards!)
I've no excuse for not posting anything sooner but I think you should all be thankful for that. The truth is I've been very busy enjoying the summer holidays: writing, restoring furniture and holidaying in Broadstairs. But now I'm back and raring to go. During my visit to Broadstairs I paid a visit to the council house where I was born, a half hour bus ride east of the more glamorous Margate. I didn't go in or anything, I've no idea who lives there now, but it didn't look that much different from how it did when I was a boy. So, I sat for a short while on the bus stop bench opposite and before I knew it one memory after another came to me. The following story (or memoir) is a result of my visit.
NB. I think I should quickly add that the following story is a combination of fact and fiction or, 'friction' as I've just christened it. Christ but I'm clever. Friction! Who'd have ever thunk it?!
I'd also like to add that each and every individual in the story was and still is much loved by me.
THE BLACK VELVET BAND
1966
One of my happiest memories is of Sunday nights sitting in front of our second hand black and white TV with my brothers, sisters and parents. Around half past seven with 'Sunday Night at the London Palladium' about to start, Mum would get comfy on the floor in front of Dad's armchair and, for the next half hour he would brush her hair. I don't know why, but I liked seeing them there together like that, perhaps it was because it made me feel safe in some way. The sound the bristles of the hairbrush made as my Dad’s calloused hands pulled it through my Mum’s shoulder length hair is a sound that has stayed with me ever since.
After a while Dad would put down the brush and Mum would tie her hair back with a thin piece of black ribbon, remaining where she was until it was time to herd us kids up to bed.
1973
The sexual revolution roled into Westgate about ten years after it had started some seventy miles up the road in London. Soon after it arrived Mum ran away with a little fat Italian called Mafia Lou.
For Dad it was a blow to his pride as much as anything else and being the type of man he was he withdrew into himself. Despite my occasional attempts to talk to him about it Dad never spoke to me about Mum's departure except to say that from now on I’d need to clean up after myself. Dad and I rolled along together okay but it was fairly obvious to me that he wasn't over Mum yet.
Then one bitterly cold November evening there was a knock at the front door. Dad was in the kitchen so I answered it expecting to find one of my mates out on the step. Instead I was confronted by five wild-eyed men wearing Donkey jackets, gruby jeans and steel toe-capped boots.
‘It’s the Ganger Man we’re after looking for, son,’ the smallest of the five men said winking a twinkling blue eye at me. ‘Is he inside?’
Before I had a chance to reply the five of them pushed past me, filling the tiny hallway with the smell of tarmac, rolling tobacco and Guinness.
Now, it wasn’t a regular occurrence for my Dad to get into grief but, on the other hand, it wasn’t unheard of either. And so my immediate thought was: are these five paddies here to beat the bollocks out of my Dad? Although I knew my Dad could handle himself: I’d once watched as he battered two men unconscious for spoiling a works outing: I was pretty sure even he couldn't manage five men.
Fortunately for Dad, and me, the paddies hadn’t arrived at the house intent on caving his head in. In fact, the opposite was true. As we were both ushered out of the front door, Dad told me that these five men were the O’Dowd Boys. I’d heard him talk about them before. They were members of Dad's road gang and had come over from County Kerry in Ireland in search of work some months before.
Stepping out into the cold night I was hauled into the back of a waiting lorry by three of the brothers while Dad, as guest of honour, sat up front with the other two. As we drove off towards Margate I was told to sit on what remained of that day’s tarmac. 'It'll keep your arse warm,' Mickey O’Dowd assured me.
Ten minutes later we arrived at The Benjamin Beale, a spit and sawdust pub situated on Margate seafront directly opposite the pier. Inside, the pub was full to bursting with hard-faced men and their equally tough looking women: the booming sound of working class people having fun filled the air.
At the bar the O'Dowd's ordered beers and I was told to make myself inconspicuous. As a reward I was passed half a brown ale and a packet of Woodbine cigarettes.
I watched, from the safety of my corner, as the five Irishmen brought my Dad out if himself. Despite their rough exteriors it was clear that the O'Dowd Boys not only understood what my Dad was going through but also cared enough about him to want to make him feel better again. They did that in the only way they knew how, by filling him with beer and surrounding him with the people he felt most comfortable with.
It was around half past ten when we moved positions in the pub and my Dad’s rough hand guided me through the sea of drunken bodies over to an area in the pub where the O’Dowds had congregated. One of the brothers produced a banjo and began to play. As a teenage boy growing up in the seventies I was used to Slade, The Sweet and David Bowie, I had never heard anything like the O'Dowd Boys. They sang with such passion and harmony and about such wonderful things that I fell in love with Irish folk music that night, so that now, whenever I hear: The Irish Rover, Whiskey in the Jar and Sweet Molly Malone, I always think of my Dad and his five Irish mates.
Just as we were about to go home I saw my Dad asking Mickey O'Dowd if he'd persuade his brothers to sing one more song. A short while later they sang the song that will forever remind me of my Mum and Dad and the times when I would watch them in the front room as he brushed her hair. Although the song is a sad one my Dad seemed to pick up after that night out and eventually he found happiness again.
Click on the link to hear the song the O’Dowd Boys sang. (And no laughing at the beards!)
Saturday, 17 July 2010
NEW OFFER
Hi all,
I've been looking over the old post that encouraged you to try and recruit other people to my blog. Although the response was not as promising as I'd hoped (i.e. no one recruited anyone), I remain undaunted. We Tuffins are a tenacious bunch, if not a little fat. So, here's the new offer: I will pay anyone a million pounds if they get one or more people to sign up. I'm also offering free holidays to the Bahamas, a world cruise, or a month in a sixteen bedroom villa in the heart of Tuscany, complete with servants and staff. If that doesn't wet your appetite, I'll throw in a shopping spree to Oxford Street in London for two and a £1000 to spend while you're there. You'll also get two tickets to a West End show of your choice plus an invitation to the after performance party.
So, there it is. What are you waiting for? Recommend (or force) a friend now and win one of the many exciting prices listed above.
I've been looking over the old post that encouraged you to try and recruit other people to my blog. Although the response was not as promising as I'd hoped (i.e. no one recruited anyone), I remain undaunted. We Tuffins are a tenacious bunch, if not a little fat. So, here's the new offer: I will pay anyone a million pounds if they get one or more people to sign up. I'm also offering free holidays to the Bahamas, a world cruise, or a month in a sixteen bedroom villa in the heart of Tuscany, complete with servants and staff. If that doesn't wet your appetite, I'll throw in a shopping spree to Oxford Street in London for two and a £1000 to spend while you're there. You'll also get two tickets to a West End show of your choice plus an invitation to the after performance party.
So, there it is. What are you waiting for? Recommend (or force) a friend now and win one of the many exciting prices listed above.
DON'T TALK SUCH SHITE!
Recently I've taken to reading the gumph on the backs (and fronts) of the products that find their way into our kitchen cupboards. Most of what they write is either badly written, or just plain bollocks. Some of it is such shite that it makes me want to go out and find the people who write it and shake them by the shoulders until there features shift a couple of degrees.
Here's three to start off with - feel free to add your own.
Found on the back of a packet of CLIPPER PURE GREEN TEA.
CLIPPER
Natural, Fair & Delicious
Clipper products are made with pure ingredients and a clear conscience.
We use only the highest-quality sources, add nothing artificial and strive to improve the welfare of the workers. No wonder they taste so good.
Read that last sentence again. NO WONDER THEY TASTE SO GOOD. The 'THEY' being the workers referred to in the previous sentence. Up until I read the blurb on the back of the packet I'd always felt the Clipper were a well respected and trusted product, but I'm not so sure now.
For a start off, the slaughtering, cooking and consuming of their workers clearly disqualifies them from suggesting their behaviour is 'fair'. And are they - as practising cannibals - really able to claim to have 'a clear conscience.' Shame on them.
Nivea FITNESS Shower Gel.
I tried this product and didn't feel any fitter, in fact I was knackered from all the showering. Plus, I stubbed my big toe on the shower tray. Shite.
And finally,
Iams Adult Hairball 1+ Years Proactive Nutrition Cat Biscuits.
Flavour: Succulent Roast Chicken.
I can now confirm that these cat biscuits are not succulent nor is there any evidence of roasting or indeed chicken, in them. If anything they taste a bit fishy and they're very dry. After consuming several I had a raging thirst and found myself slurping greedily from the cat's water bowl. Not to be recommended.
However, there is a positive: I haven't coughed up a single hairball since trying this particular product. Which is a good thing.
Here's three to start off with - feel free to add your own.
Found on the back of a packet of CLIPPER PURE GREEN TEA.
CLIPPER
Natural, Fair & Delicious
Clipper products are made with pure ingredients and a clear conscience.
We use only the highest-quality sources, add nothing artificial and strive to improve the welfare of the workers. No wonder they taste so good.
Read that last sentence again. NO WONDER THEY TASTE SO GOOD. The 'THEY' being the workers referred to in the previous sentence. Up until I read the blurb on the back of the packet I'd always felt the Clipper were a well respected and trusted product, but I'm not so sure now.
For a start off, the slaughtering, cooking and consuming of their workers clearly disqualifies them from suggesting their behaviour is 'fair'. And are they - as practising cannibals - really able to claim to have 'a clear conscience.' Shame on them.
Nivea FITNESS Shower Gel.
I tried this product and didn't feel any fitter, in fact I was knackered from all the showering. Plus, I stubbed my big toe on the shower tray. Shite.
And finally,
Iams Adult Hairball 1+ Years Proactive Nutrition Cat Biscuits.
Flavour: Succulent Roast Chicken.
I can now confirm that these cat biscuits are not succulent nor is there any evidence of roasting or indeed chicken, in them. If anything they taste a bit fishy and they're very dry. After consuming several I had a raging thirst and found myself slurping greedily from the cat's water bowl. Not to be recommended.
However, there is a positive: I haven't coughed up a single hairball since trying this particular product. Which is a good thing.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Yippee! Steve's Hosting A Funeral!
I’ve been pondering death lately – I’ve even been working on a play about it called, aptly, Death Play. At least that’s what the file on my laptop is called. I suspect I’ll come up with something a bit more poncey or obscure when I finish it: ‘Single-Seater Fluge’ for example. I’ve no idea what a fluge is or if they make them as single-seaters, but a play’s title should work as a hook to draw the audience in. That’s what I’m always telling my students, anyway.
Working along those lines and with an eye on increasing audience numbers it might be worth re-thinking a play’s title and adapting it to suit potential audiences. I know that’s what the U.S film industry does. So, let’s say I’m lucky enough to get Death Play produced. And let’s also say that the opening night is a Saturday night in any one of a number of towns where the weekend entertainment includes lager, chicken madras and a late night ride in the back of a meat wagon. ‘Death Play’ or Single-Seater Fluge, as it now is, wouldn’t cause much of a stir among the beer-swilling, curry-noshing violence-doing local populace. But what if it was called: Curry my Lager you Fat Slag! I’m guessing the audience would swell considerably.
Of course, should my play make it to the West End it would have to have another name change, something along the lines of: Joseph and his Amazing Phantom of The Opera Meets Starlight Express, Evita and Jesus Christ, on Sunset Boulevard Whilst out Walking His Cats. Or: JAHAPOTOMSEEAJCOSBWOWHC as it would become known to gazillions of ardent theatregoers.
Anyway, back to death and thoughts on it. I've discovered that death often crops up in my day-to-day musings. I think about it more often than I’d be prepared to admit (even though I have just admitted it).
Over the past few years I’ve been giving much thought to my funeral and I’ve come up with what I think is the perfect funereal experience.
Picture this: the crematorium is crammed to the rafters with weeping mourners all of whom are absolutely inconsolable since hearing of my untimely exit from Planet Earth. I haven’t figured out how I’d like to go yet but I’m thinking along the lines of a KFC bargain-bucket-related food eating scandal of some kind.
So, there you all are, dressed as Tarts and Vicars when the chief mourner – a giant Samoan lady wearing a gold lamay jumpsuit and six inch sling-backs – appears at the back of the crowd on a litter carried by seven dwarves dressed as seventies pop legends, The Village People. Ok, so, there were only five Village People, but I’m going to add two more. One will be dressed as a Tory MP, complete with a Satsuma jammed in his mouth and a fishnet stocking over his head, and the other one will be a Judy Garland looky-likey.
Following on behind the chief mourner will be my coffin which will be made of recycled cardboard, bits of string, paper, tin foil and egg boxes. It will make its way to the rolling platform at the front of the crematorium apparently unaided but will in fact be on tiny wheels, which are fixed at each corner of the coffin and driven (ably) by a man at the back of the room who has a first class honours degree in remote control car driving. His name will be Melvin Scrote, although I’m not sure how I know this to be so. TO BE CONTINUED...
Working along those lines and with an eye on increasing audience numbers it might be worth re-thinking a play’s title and adapting it to suit potential audiences. I know that’s what the U.S film industry does. So, let’s say I’m lucky enough to get Death Play produced. And let’s also say that the opening night is a Saturday night in any one of a number of towns where the weekend entertainment includes lager, chicken madras and a late night ride in the back of a meat wagon. ‘Death Play’ or Single-Seater Fluge, as it now is, wouldn’t cause much of a stir among the beer-swilling, curry-noshing violence-doing local populace. But what if it was called: Curry my Lager you Fat Slag! I’m guessing the audience would swell considerably.
Of course, should my play make it to the West End it would have to have another name change, something along the lines of: Joseph and his Amazing Phantom of The Opera Meets Starlight Express, Evita and Jesus Christ, on Sunset Boulevard Whilst out Walking His Cats. Or: JAHAPOTOMSEEAJCOSBWOWHC as it would become known to gazillions of ardent theatregoers.
Anyway, back to death and thoughts on it. I've discovered that death often crops up in my day-to-day musings. I think about it more often than I’d be prepared to admit (even though I have just admitted it).
Over the past few years I’ve been giving much thought to my funeral and I’ve come up with what I think is the perfect funereal experience.
Picture this: the crematorium is crammed to the rafters with weeping mourners all of whom are absolutely inconsolable since hearing of my untimely exit from Planet Earth. I haven’t figured out how I’d like to go yet but I’m thinking along the lines of a KFC bargain-bucket-related food eating scandal of some kind.
So, there you all are, dressed as Tarts and Vicars when the chief mourner – a giant Samoan lady wearing a gold lamay jumpsuit and six inch sling-backs – appears at the back of the crowd on a litter carried by seven dwarves dressed as seventies pop legends, The Village People. Ok, so, there were only five Village People, but I’m going to add two more. One will be dressed as a Tory MP, complete with a Satsuma jammed in his mouth and a fishnet stocking over his head, and the other one will be a Judy Garland looky-likey.
Following on behind the chief mourner will be my coffin which will be made of recycled cardboard, bits of string, paper, tin foil and egg boxes. It will make its way to the rolling platform at the front of the crematorium apparently unaided but will in fact be on tiny wheels, which are fixed at each corner of the coffin and driven (ably) by a man at the back of the room who has a first class honours degree in remote control car driving. His name will be Melvin Scrote, although I’m not sure how I know this to be so. TO BE CONTINUED...
Sunday, 27 June 2010
Great News For My Army Of Followers!
Great news army of five! With the rapidly static non-increasing-any-time-soon situation that I, your fabulous leader is facing, I thought I'd see if I couldn't rustle up some extra recruits by making you all an offer you can't refuse.
This week is: Introduce a Friend Week.
Yes, exciting news isn't it? For one week only I'm offering you, loyal follower, the chance to become an elite member of Sensei Buffoon! with your very own personalised tribute written by me.
That's right! For every new member you introduce to Sensei Buffoon! you'll get a personalised tribute (written by me) exclusively for and about you! Not only that, but I'll publish it on Sensei Buffoon! for all the world to see.
Imagine the look of awe, admiration, lust, hatred, envy and lust on the faces of your friends when they read all the fabulous lies I'm willing to write about you. Your popularity among everyone you know, and even among everyone you don't know, will escalate to unimaginable heights. People will sit at your feet and worship you. Little children will want to be just like you when they grow up. Your partner (be they your business partner or the other kind) will suddenly find you attractive again. Your life will change for the better and all because of the fabulous rubbish I'm willing to say about you.
So don't delay. Drag, coax or cajole a friend along to Sensei Buffoon! and sit back and reap the benefits of your very own personalised Sensei Buffoon! Tribute.
This week is: Introduce a Friend Week.
Yes, exciting news isn't it? For one week only I'm offering you, loyal follower, the chance to become an elite member of Sensei Buffoon! with your very own personalised tribute written by me.
That's right! For every new member you introduce to Sensei Buffoon! you'll get a personalised tribute (written by me) exclusively for and about you! Not only that, but I'll publish it on Sensei Buffoon! for all the world to see.
Imagine the look of awe, admiration, lust, hatred, envy and lust on the faces of your friends when they read all the fabulous lies I'm willing to write about you. Your popularity among everyone you know, and even among everyone you don't know, will escalate to unimaginable heights. People will sit at your feet and worship you. Little children will want to be just like you when they grow up. Your partner (be they your business partner or the other kind) will suddenly find you attractive again. Your life will change for the better and all because of the fabulous rubbish I'm willing to say about you.
So don't delay. Drag, coax or cajole a friend along to Sensei Buffoon! and sit back and reap the benefits of your very own personalised Sensei Buffoon! Tribute.
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