I have decided to name this day as JC day in honour of the great messiah who will one day return .I say that because the BBC have in fact not sacked him , instead they will not be offering him another contract to present Top Gear.

This means they have left the door ajar for him to return in some other guise which means his followers can salivate in anticipation or beat their bishops if they happen to be male.

Its in light of that, that I have decided that all JC followers should celebrate the great man's life and his deeds by having a meal at a Mexican restaurant ,that is if you can find one . Better still go to Mexico for there are plenty there.
I thought this one would be a good way of honouring him, his co presenters and one of Top Gears most infamous programme .The one in which they likened certain makes of cars to the national character of the particular nations they are made in .Not that they were stereotyping in anyway but it appears that the one made and designed in Mexico ,ie Mastretta MXT , is in their view very like your average Mexican ie “lazy feckless flatulent and likely to fall asleep staring at a cactus”. Excuse me a minute -hahahaha , There i laughed .Hard work but i did manage it

Apparently they cant do food either because its “all like sick with cheese on it”.Now those two comments cant exactly be attributed to JC himself but as all three presenters are in it together , they might as well be , besides he chuckled noticeably as they “discussed” the merits of a car which looks very much like a Lotus Elize but only does about 0-60 in 5 seconds , which is obviously very lazy ,feckless and flatulent.

As an added extra I would change the number plate to one that reads ElAlamo1836 because I cant think of another that might wind Mexicans up.They won that battle but ultimately lost the whole of Texas .
Upon arrival you will disparagingly ask Manuel for a table .I say Manuel because as an avid Top Gear fan you will have decided that all Spanish speaking men are called that .Once seated you will look at the menu and decide that refried beans would be the perfect embodiment of Mexican cuisine .

It is known to them as frijoles refritos , but you wont waste any time in speaking to the natives in their native tongue . Instead you will firmly demand “refried sick with cheese Manuel, and we want it pronto ,capiche?” Manuel has been here before because he has had dealing with many an arrogant gringo so he just pretends not to feel insulted .Instead he makes sure that refried sick is gobbed on repeatedly before serving the dish, which also turns out to be luke warm.

As a committed JC fan and supporter your moment arrives ,the one you have been waiting so you then indulge in a barrage of verbal abuse lasting not less than 20 minutes - ”I asked for hot sick not lukewarm ,you lazy cnut.I wanted sick hot you hear , hot !”

Dont forget to froth at the mouth, stand on your feet, wave arms around in unrelenting fury at the end of which you may deliver a well aimed punch at the scoundrels lip.”Do you know who I am , have you any idea.I am the immeasurably great JC?”. Another punch may be delivered as your colleagues cheer in unison.Its the only thing the natives understand ,you know.

The patron will obviously ask you top leave but dont be too despondent because a petition will be
raised using Change.org into which 1000 people will sign demanding a full apology from the patron, the Mexican government and any Dago that takes your fancy .A years supply of hot sick should be delivered to your doorstep as well.

I hope no ones thinks I am being ironic, heaven forbid.

By the way frijoles refritos are very nice, can be bought at Sainsburys (or other stores) together with other Mexican delights such as guacamole ,enchiladas, burritos and tortillas .Should you be brave enough you could always attempt making a Mole Poblano which is Mexico's national dish.
None of it looks anything like sick with cheese on

must be losing my fear of spiders .as i walked through the front door I felt this fluttering feeling just above and to the right of my right eye. I thought it might be a daddy long legs .It wasn’t ,it was a Boris the size of a something nasty .It didnt bite me which is just as well, but i didnt throw a fit either

So because you have been a taxi driver for the past ten years and know the streets of London like the back of your hand, you think you are something special? You can fuck off ten times over. Do you know who is special? I am because not only have I locked myself in a cabinet but I have also counselled countless queens(gay blokes) and i am an award winning broadcaster of loads of shite on Facebook albeit in print, so there! Realise you are inferior to me .Bet your wife doesnt even have a title as in Duchess or Lady.Was she given a CBE by her royal highness ? Thought not.
When I tell you how to do your job, its in the sure knowledge that it is because of my work experiences mowing lawns ,weeding ,pruning and planting roses.For that reason I know loads more than you do.,plus unlike you i am not a peasant with a nasty accent for I was schooled at St Johns .Bet you didn't go to Cambridge either.Only special people get to do that ,so just do as you are told

I really do not understand why you are complain about the "tradesman's" ,i.e. roofer,quote ? You say he is expensive ,maybe he is but he comes highly recommended and from what i have been told , does very good job because he takes pride in his work. It is on that basis that he values himself and his work. Of course you do not have to hire him as I didnt because I could not afford his prices .Difference here is that you are a very wealthy woman with 3 houses ,all for personal use ,at least four posh cars all of which you keep parked in full view of the passing public ostensibly because you like showing off , so you can easily afford his services but choose not to .Obviously you prefer spending money on prestige possessions rather than on something as vital as a roof.
Can i please ask you to stop complaining about said roofer.He like you likes to be well rewarded but unlike you ,does not complain

M first ever blog albeit in the form of a letter I sent to my best mate

M first ever blog albeit in the form of a letter I sent to my best mate

Dear Julianus

Well I have almost run out of superlatives that would adequately describe our latest Rhytm festival experience. Lets say its has gone up several notches from last year's offering.The weather was brilliant for which I suppose we must thank Zeus , Mahindra, Krishna or whichevcr deity is in charge of meteorological matters .Apart from a brief period on saturday morning ,the sun shone on us throughout each day.

Must make a mention of the fellow revellers who behaved impeccably- no wretching everywhere, no pissing or crashing on someones tent. In fact everyone was remarkably civil, all except me of course . Both my snoring and penchant for pissing in the middle of the night outside our tent ,this time on Christine's rear offside tyre , brought a chorus of disapproval. One bloke bawled out “Can someone turn that snorry bloke off .Its not fair!!”.He woke me the inconsiderate sod. Anyway these were minor matters as on the whole the atmsophere was excellent.

One of my favourite passtimes there was people watching- both young and old.The kids as always are a delight as they run around kicking footballs ,chucking frisbies etc but the old timers are also quite interesting.There was a prepondence of lard buckets this year which helped make me feel quite at ease.I guess the logistics and the relative smallness of the event make it a viable attraction for the more horizontally challenged amongst us. They were able to waddle along quite happily guzzling their lager and chips free in the knowledge that no one would shout “you fat bastard!”.Another group that caught my eye were the superannuated hippies from the seventies , some even sporting long greying hair, beads ,rings ,leather waistcoats and lurid shirts.One particular character sidled up to the bar ordered his pint of grog and proceeded to chat up the young waitress. When I say chat it was more of an incomprehensible blurb but she seemed quite taken. Maybe the idea of being rogered by “old craggy face” kind of appealed to her. Rather oedipal I thought but charming none the less.

Must tell you of an experience I had re the porta loos. Saturday morning saw me making my first use of them. They'd just been cleaned out and I thought “perfect”, so I ventured into one sat down and let my bowel movement take place. It was one of those pleasant ones when you know the end result will be firm but will ease out with minimum effort and nestle at the bottom of the bowl. “Mmm” ,I thought, “not bad” Anyway upon completion I went to pull the lever and the brown 'un wouldnt move. Three ,four times I tried ,each time with more vigour and still it wouldnt budge. “Fuuuuck!!” Shall i leave it and hope no one notices ? No I am too much of a gent, so I got a piece of toilet paper and gently eased the offending turd down. Task done except somehow in the tooing and froing movement I managed to get some lumps of excrement on both my t shirt and trousers.”Bugger, gotta clean that off, but, how, there is no water?? I know, I'll use spit” Spit spit, rub ,rub, got most of it off but the very evident brown stains would not shift. Now I have a choice tuck the t shirt in and display the stains on my trousers which are on the arse side ,or leave the tshirt untucked. I opt for the latter and scurry off back to our tent . First thing Nelly asks me is “ have you shit your self ?” The perceptive bitch!!”Nahh someone spilled some curry on me” I blurbed. Must have worked because she did not press me further.

Now to the music but before I start a special mention must be made for Jim Driver who organised this event.This guy in my view is the cojones de perro. Last year he made a loss but it didnt deter him having another go. He just upped the stakes, got some better bands , a decent programme and “Robert is your father's sibling”Bearing in mind this place can only accommodate 5 k ,his spending budget was always going to be very restricted so he aimed for passed their sell by dates, on the fringes or never heard of acts. The one thing he insists on is THEY MUST BE ABLE TO PLAY and he'll have no truck with useless ,here today gone tomorrow indie bands with attitude.With this in mind this is what we received or at least these were the bands I personally watched.

Friday

The Yardbirds . Only three surviving original members but they were tight and played with a lot of composure - R&B ,psychedelia and some of their well known hits

Hothouse Flowers – good oirish band whose efforts were slightly marred by the singers idiotic belief that he is some kind of sex God. He chucked his jacket down and proceeded to shake his body around obviously hoping the girls in the audience would chuck their soiled panties at him- sad git.

The Levellers- Now why the fuck have I never seen this band before??? They were just plain awesome. Been around for about 20 years as well.

Saturday

Joe Bonamassa . The day kicked in for me watching this dude from the good ole US of A playing shit kicking blues the likes I hadnt heard since Steve Ray Vaughn. This guy is an axeman supremo, go watch him ,buy his records he is that good.

Dr John- different kind of blues ,a much more laid back Misissipi confection. We know all about him and he didnt disappoint.

Seth Lakeman- a modern day English folky I feel sure we'll hear more of

Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel. Arrogant cnut, never did like him and he quite obviously resents the fact he never rose to become a big time Charlie. Doesnt stop boasting about how many women he's laid. As I say a prize cnut. Neverthteless I will admit through gritted teeth that he can play some good stuff.

Prince Buster – now I should have stayed and watched this dude , instead for some assinine reason I went in search of Tony Mcphee (ex Groundhogs axeman from the seventies)Should have stayed where i was as he was shit . On top of that he was late, about an hour late so I watched Ian Mathews( remember him? He made a hit single called Woodstock) instead . He was competent but I'm not one for crusty folk club atmospheres - all very earnest and solemn . Barnsley hippie pipes in “have you seen Terry Reid?” Who?? I smiled at him and kept quiet for fear of appearing ignorant. Then Long haired friend of Jesus appears from nowhere as he would , the guy is a dead ringer for the Messiah and I stand there wondering whether I ought shit myself or not.Then I remembered I had done that already and a repeat performance defnitely wasnt in order. "Jesus" had the most amazingly luxuriant long hair reaching down to his arse a ,neatly trimmed beard and steely blue eyes, his clothes were loose fitting, the kind one would associate with the Ist century AD. He stands there for a minute or so and as soon as I look away he glides off. Yup maybe I should've shit myself.I later consider that self defecation is probaly quite common at these events and, what, with the shere logistical nightmare that is maintaining sound cleanliness and hygene, decide those brown stains I commonly saw around me were probably good evidence of bowel movenents gone crazy , portaloo ineptitude or a poor ass wiping action.

Sunday shit last day

(I am wearing a clean shirt and trousers this day and decide to spend it at the main stage area guzzling beer)

The Blockheads - minus the late Ian Dury.I quietely admonish the lead singer because of his fowl mouth “ there are kids running around you moron! ”Have to forgive him, though, as he is plainly off his head and besides the band is shit kicking good.

Alabama 3- another massive highlight, this band plays a weird sort of elctro techno southern country western rock type stuff. They appear on stage clad in white suits and stetsons and one of their main men talks in a kind of southern drawl which emanates from a southern state I've never heard of . Thats because he and they are from London .He looks bit like spiv with a lecherous grin which he squarely aims at the young ladies . I can well imagine him sitting in a train behind a group of women ,grinning ,eyes bulging and with a length of spittle dangling from the side of his mouth. Dirty man. Good singer though. Then there is the fat bloke. Yes him standing in one corner clutching a beer can in one hand and a tab in the other . Again the same grin, but whats he doing there? Then it becomes obvious he is the “provider” as the band members slide over to him for a line or a qualude or even a tab. Every band needs a grinning fat bloke on the side I decide.

John Mayall

Well there is nothing i can say about him that you dont know already except I think you should tell the bloke who saw him and thought he was crap to get his ears syringed. Mayall is a consumate professional who doesnt do bad shows. It doesnt happen. One of the characteristics of this blues genius is his ability to unearth brilliant guitarists. On this occasion Buddy Worthington filled the role that others such as Clapton and Page did with so much aplomb. Who is Buddy you might ask? Well he hails from Fort Knox and he is serious lardy.Must weigh about 30 stone I'd guess. Mind you his guitar playing is sublime and ,whilst shaking his booty may not be welcome, he can certainly nestle his guitar on his considerable girth and play like the rest of us can only......well I can do a passable air guitar imitation but thats about it

Anyway it was a very pleasant weekend on the whole and one which I would certainly wish to repeat next year, they are already taking bookings now with a discount. I wanted to relay my experiences so that you might feel a little envious given your penchant for doing the same re the WC. I am also going to watch Alabama 3 in Brighton and Manu Chau in Brixton just so that you know that we in the SE enjoy an enormous choice of bands which you guys can only dream about in Cornwall. Is the envy gnawing away??

Thursday 1pm and another one of my infamous contretemps , this time with a very thorny pyracantha bush a client of mine wanted tidying. “There are some dead bits sticking up , could you please remove them?” 'Certainly Madam, you may be slightly eccentric but fear not for I will set about the task with whatever aplomb I can muster'
Anyone one who is familiar with pyracanthas will know that it is one of the most thorny bushes one can buy.They are very pretty in the autumn when they are covered with red berries which ,in turn, attract birds,which is all to the good .They are also most suitable for growing against walls and fences provided one keeps them trimmed ,but if they get out of hand they can be a nightmare to deal with.

Anyway I digress. As I trimmed happily away I became quickly aware that I was being repeatedly stabbed by numerous thorns ,measuring between ½ to an 1 inch in length wearing gloves which were not much better than the washing up variety.I should have stopped and gone in search of a more rugged pair but being a man fully fitted with testicles, I decided to proceed stoically.What made matters worse was my own obduracy because despite the fact she had only asked me to trim the twigs that were clearly evident, I could see they were attached to much thicker branches worming their way into the bowels of the bush. Now man + testosterone+ stoicism + obduracy +arrant stupidity+ linear thinking meant that in my mind there was a goal to achieve which went beyond “trim a few dead twigs” for I was determined to removed every sign dead growth I could find and there was clearly far more than I had anticipated .

Someone had previously done some pruning but left the branches in there. Apparently my predecessor had spotted a rat scurrying around and did a runner.Did he suspect Ebola or even bubonic plague? Anyway my testosterone levels were such that was not going to let such triflings deflect me from the task in hand .This was my Alamein moment after all, and I felt like a Desert Rat in all but name.
Now a normal bush is quite easy to tackle , you just cut the branches wherever you wish and pull .There may be some entanglement which might mean a little more surgery, but nothing much to concern one .Pyracanthas are different because they are uber entangled ,a fact made worse by those fucking thorns I mentioned.The only way to tackle it was in a piecemeal fashion which meant a slow, laborious job removing bits of branch and twigs whilst being continuously stabbed on my hand and the top of my head which now resembled a crossword puzzle.Client stepped outside and looked rather concerned but – 'fear not Madam for I am nearly there', my eyes were bulging ,my breathing was rather heavy whilst a length of spittle dangled from the side of my mouth ,but my tenaciousness remained undimmed .
Normally after finishing such a task I feel sense of satisfaction.This was no different except I also a noticed nagging pain coming from a knuckle on my right hand which would not subside so I when i returned home I googled “stabbing pain, thorn in knuckle” etc and as is often the case the results I got included a number of the panic stations variety - “Go to AE, you might need an operation, have you had tetanus jab ,my son ended up in hospital for 3 days, poor lamb”
Anyway I phoned 111 which is the replacement for NHS Direct and spoke to a clinician who asked me several routine questions like “have you got a temperature ,is your hand very swollen,can you move your fingers” No to the first two and yes but not the index finger coz it hurties .She then suggested I keep my hand clean and take some ibuprofen. She obviously thought there was nothing to be alarmed about but the fact remains that as well as the aforementioned testosterone I am also a bit of a worry guts and fairly typical man flu victim to boot.
Nellie has kissed it better but as the pain is still very evident ,I should ,perhaps,put in practice that famous Arsenal football chant of the 70s :
“When you are feeling grotty just stick your finger up your botty.
When you are feeling glum just stick your finger up your bum”

Went to a beer festival in Worthing today. Was greeted by a considerable array of cast conditioned ales with names I had never heard of .Tried some rye ale and a banana flavoured one called Bananalicious.No i didn't feel sick .Nell settled for a cross between apple and pear cider called unsurprisingly pyder.Too sweet for me mind.
The event took place in a deconsecrated church which has been turned into an events hall.Our good lord peered down from his cross above casting his vote of approval on the goings on down below. Most of the attendees fitted in with what Nell called "the bearded folky demographic" although the band that was present played trad jazz.
Quite a few salad dodgers and gym phobes there, in fact I suspect the closest they have been to a barbell is a regular pint glass filled to the brim.Well done lads .
Liked the proliferation of pony tails especially from the more follically challenged .Nothing raises the spirit more than the sight of man refusing to accept his folic status by growing the remains of his hair and tying it into a pony tail.There is hope for me yet