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Stanley McHale is a single man rapidly approaching thirty who loves and dreams of the same things he did when he was seventeen. But the band was never formed, the novel never finished, and the ill-chosen career in stand-up comedy is giving him more headaches than headlines. With the self-imposed deadline of his thirtieth birthday to either make an international success of himself or go and work in Woolworths, why not pull yourself up ringside seats for the tragically inevitable descent into mania and psychosis by reading his increasingly inane, pedantic, desperate, harrowing and wretched daily diary. It'll make you feel a whole lot better about yourself.

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May 2006 Archives

Wednesday 31st May 2006

Posted by on May 31, 2006 2:26 PM

Driving to Sheffield is a dream, but I don't mean in a positive way, I mean it's like one of those dreams where you're running towards something you can never reach, as no matter how hard you try, it keeps getting further away. Like a mad monster. The first bit of the journey is fine, you skirt around Manchester on the motorway, but then you have to enter Derbyshire and go over the Peak District on a lonely, winding road, and this is where the clock starts ticking. You'll pass a sign that says 'Sheffield 18 Miles' and then drive for about an hour, and then pass one that says 'Sheffield 17 Miles' and then drive for a week before passing one that says 'Sheffield 19 Miles'.

I'd looked at the journey on the map and there's a road that leads straight into the Steel City, and this is the one I was on, but as we finally got closer to our prize, the only option was to drive onto the M1, which wasn't the plan, and then go a further 15 miles. I was in the car with the comedians Paul Betney and Paul Smith (I only give lifts to comedians called Paul, if you're hitch hiking then hold out a sign that says 'I am a comedian called Paul' and I'll definitely stop) and we couldn't believe the hours this trip was taking. We feared we would never reach Sheffield, and I started to accelerate out of desperation, tipping 100mph on the motorway but seemingly never getting closer.

When we did finally arrive we walked around the evening streets feeling as if we were somehow in a different country. Not only did it seem like we'd been on a long flight, but Sheffield has trams and so we might have been somewhere like Brussels. Then someone walked past in a shell suit looking for heroin and that illusion was put to bed.

But honestly, I've never known a journey like it. We've all had long, traffic clogged nightmares that have taken hours, but I've never experienced a journey where you're driving fast and making good progress the whole time, without ever seeming to get closer to your quarry. It's almost as if Sheffield exists in some weird vortex, where time and distance mean nothing. I for one think the government should investigate. How dare the people of the Steel City have their own rules of physics?

Tuesday 30th May 2006

Posted by on May 30, 2006 2:24 PM

Pub quiz night down at The Lion this evening and as per usual I formed a team with Landlord John and Paul. I don't really play an active role in the quiz, pretending to watch the TV and then casually offering an answer when I know one, which is rare. This fails to give me the desired air of someone who knows everything but only chooses to proffer this information occasionally, but I'll continue to practice it.

Next week, if you're interested, is the first of two heats to compete for a place in the regional leg of a national pub quiz competition. You'd then have to progress to the national stage, and then probably against the nation's most knowledgeable people, and then you'd stand to win a £2000 prize.

But you can forget about the money because in the latter stages, you'd be competing against freaks. Freaks I say. These are the pros, the people with heads so full of useless information they are impossible to beat. Minds jam packed with utter, utter banality and inconsequential nonsense. How they acquire all this knowledge is a mystery, because I don't know how you'd source such diverse facts, but they know everything. What's the population of Lima? No, not now, in 1964. They know that. Do you? No. You idiot.

What Laurel And Hardy film was the first film to be shot using a new film grade? They know that. They know every stat, every date, every bit of random curiosity... they're machines these people. Machines I say.

But machines programmed to win pub quizzes and nothing more, because the sort of knowledge they specialise in has no practical application, save for winning pub quizzes, and perhaps settling arguments in pubs between groups of people that can't decide how many goals Chile scored in the 1970 World Cup. Before half time. From headers.

Monday 29th May 2006

Posted by on May 29, 2006 2:20 PM

For a good while now I've avoided reading the annoyingly successful The Da Vinci Code, not because I'm jealous that someone has sold forty million books and created some sort of completely undeserved and unqualified following, that is not the reason, but because everyone I've spoken to who's read it says it's rubbish, a poor read.

But before you think I'm going to deride The Da Vince Code, having not even read it, nothing can be further from the truth. Even if the book's without much merit, I have nothing but admiration for Dan Brown. Look at him! There are people all over the world paying thousands of pounds to visit churches and sites he mentions in his work of FICTION in the search for 'clues' or evidence, with countless debates raging around the Church, with millions actually thinking there's some grounding to the characters in his book, and yet he remains perfectly silent on the matter. This is what he should do. If you've created a monster, and if it's a multi-million, even multi-billion pound monster, then for the love of God shut up about it and hide under the duvet. The best bit about the whole Dan Brown emergence is he's never said anything - and that's perfect.

Can you imagine a stronger spell broken if he were to be interviewed in an Ohio bowling mall and shrug the whole thing off as something he wrote in his mother's attic as a break from building model aeroplanes?

I think he's great without ever reading one of his apparently ordinary books because he could save a lot of people a lot of time and money by explaining his simple theory's a complete load of goat's vomit but he doesn't... and I rather like that. Be it his publishers, be it him, this will go down as the greatest press silence of all time. What price the first interview? I don't know how he sleeps at night, what with laughing so hard.

Sunday 28th May 2006

Posted by on May 28, 2006 7:24 PM

I’ve come to the conclusion, non-scientific as it might be, that pigeons have become either insanely cocky, or indeed suicidal. In recent weeks, on more than one occasion, I’ve had to slow and even stop my car in order to allow a pigeon to escape certain death. They then nonchalantly make their way away from the car as if they would rather have been squished. Why have they suddenly become so brave or depressed?

Of course it would be true in theory that if they slowly started to venture onto the roads more, and cars got into the habit of slowing down for them, they would become more confident over time. But surely only over a long, long time? This sudden change in their behaviour has happened quite recently.

It’s not just my car they’re doing it to. That would be odd. No, I saw a car stopped today, beeping at the ignorant birds to move. Are these pigeons trying to combat a population explosion by increasing the risk of death in their day to day activities? Or have they just been listening to The Cure?

They can’t be suicidal because animals don’t understand the concept of suicide. No animal does. “What about lemmings?� No, lemmings don’t commit suicide and have never ever had a single suicidal thought. “But they jump of cliffs!�

There’s a really quite horrible reason for that myth. Lemmings were seen jumping off a cliff in a Disney film made in the 50’s called White Wilderness. Unfortunately, they weren’t jumping at all, but were herded off the cliff by the film crew. They were murdered, basically. What’s really odd is that the lemmings suicide rumours really started with the release of this film, there wasn’t the notion that lemmings committed suicide before it was made. So Disney invented the concept of a suicidal animal. Why?

Saturday 27th May 2006

Posted by on May 27, 2006 6:09 PM

The question comedians get asked most often (apart from “Can you please take your hands off me you filthy old man?�) is ‘Where do you get your material from?’ I normally say ‘I wait for someone who isn’t a comedian to say something funny and then steal it’. This is only partly true, normally writing material is a solitary and annoying process that doesn’t have any bearing on real life, but occasionally something will happen in real life that not only makes you laugh, but gives you a great new bit to put in your set. It’s free material – written for you unwittingly by someone else for you to profit on.

This happened today. I met Trevor for a drink in the Egremont Ferry pub over the water in Seacombe. He was with his friend Sully who’s very nice, and not in the least bit stupid 99.99% of the time, but he came out with a pearler today. First of all, we saw the ferry going past on it’s way to Dublin or Belfast, which is operated by a company called Norfolk Line, and indeed has ‘Norfolk Line’ emblazoned down the side. Sully looked at the ferry and said, excitedly and sincerely “Let’s get the ferry to Norfolk!�

It’s amazing that he thought the ferry went to Norfolk. He got mercilessly lampooned for it, but that wasn’t the thing I’m going to steal and entertain people all over the country with. He was talking about a recent trip to Galway, on the west coast of Ireland, and said “Galway’s fantastic. It’s like the Irish Dublin.�

The Irish Dublin!

This had us laughing, weeping even, for about five minutes. What he was trying to say was that it’s unlike Dublin because there are fewer tourists and so it’s more traditionally Irish, but the complete idiocy of calling something ‘The Irish Dublin’ was just too delicious for us to forgive. I’ve got this long story in my stand-up set now about Jane, who’s the stupidest person in the world, and so I give loads of examples of her stupidity. This can be a new one, I’ll just have her describing what Galway’s like. Thank you Sully, your slip is my pension.

Friday 26th May 2006

Posted by on May 26, 2006 4:51 PM

You may remember some time ago that I intended to start doing a Podcast version of this Blog, for reasons inexplicable, and yet those Podcasts never materialised. You’ll perhaps remember that I was very excited about this pointless development and had invested in a new microphone and everything. Well a flood of zero complains that the Podcasts never begun suggests nobody really gives a damn if they happen or not and so you’ll be neither happy or sad to learn that they are going to happen, definitely, and I’ll record the first one next week.

The process of writing a Blog is pretty odd anyway, believing that people might want to read about your life despite you not being famous, original or interesting, and so the idea of going to the enormous effort of recording a weekly Podcast might appear both ludicrous and egocentric, but I’ll do them for the very same self-serving reasons I write this every day – it’s just something to do. And just as the Blog helps me to write, the Podcast will help me to… speak. No, it will give me invaluable experience at talking for half an hour in a hopefully entertaining manner (fat chance) which could lead to radio stuff, who knows? I’m used to standing on a stage and talking continually for half and hour, but this will be a bit different because it’s untried stuff – and also wont just be attempting to make people laugh. I see it as a structured rant.

There are also some characters which were fun to do when I recorded the demo episode for The Echo. Let’s see, there’s the Uninformative Alien who has the secrets to life and the galaxy at his fingertips but only tells us about a boring and mundane part of his week. There’s Doomsday Diana, a mystic force that can see into the future but unfortunately only forecasts death. And a special section called Alan’s Dates, where Alan Merrick, the great-great-grandson of John Merrick, The Elephant Man, tells us of his adventures going on dates with women. So you’ll be looking forward to those.

Thursday 25th May 2006

Posted by on May 25, 2006 2:11 PM

My brother Steve has made an excellent lifestyle choice and bought a narrow boat on which he will now live. This is outstanding behaviour and opens up all sorts of possibilities – not least the ability to wake up in a different place every morning. In reality, the boat will be moored in a boat yard 99% of the time but it still affords him the option to travel if he so wanted.

The boat is on the Medway in Tonbridge, Kent, and so to access the canal network he’d have to sail it up to the Thames, through central London, and then onto the Union canal. That would be a fantastic adventure. Imagine chugging up the Thames under Tower Bridge whilst making a pot of tea. We’ve already tentatively planned an expedition this summer which is a thrilling prospect.

It came as a bit of a surprise to me that he’d bought a boat, but then I remember him saying years ago that he’d love to one day. I’m delighted he’s seen this ambition fulfilled, and I’ve absolutely no doubt he’s made a wise move. Boat life’s great! There have been naysayers who’ve argued he’ll freeze in winter and the novelty will wear off but I don’t agree – I think he’ll be extremely cosy in winter and living on a narrow boat is such a unique way of life that it will always be a novelty. There are far more advantages than downsides.

He’s not moved in yet because there’s some work to be done, but should be in residence within a fortnight and then his Rosy And Jim style existence can begin. I suggested he should get a dog (the perfect addition to a boat) but apparently the bloke who manages the boat yard doesn’t allow anyone to have pets. “If I let you have a dog, everyone will want a dog.� He explained. “Then someone will get a cat, then we’ll have a zoo down here.� Steve agreed to comply but then went into the boatyard manager’s office to find two dogs looking at him – the hypocrite. I think he should fight this because anyone who lives on a boat has a dog – that’s an almost sacred rule of boat life. I suppose there’s the problem of having it shut up all day whilst he’s at work… No, I care not for the practicalities, you need a dog.

Wednesday 24th May 2006

Posted by on May 24, 2006 5:24 PM

My grandparents are in the region for the week and have made themselves at home in an interesting hotel on the Wirral called Leasowe Castle. It’s great having them up here because I get free lunches. No, that’s not the reason it’s great having them up here and anyone who suggests it is will be smacked across the back of the neck with the Observer travel supplement. The reason it’s great having them up here is that it’s lovely to see them, although I’ll not pretend the lunches aren’t a bonus.

I got a train over to Leasowe and met them in the station car park. They’re really quite adventurous seeing as they’re now both in their 80’s and think nothing of getting in the car and dashing off to other parts of the country. There are people in their 80’s who make a ruddy great song and dance about going down to the local butchers, or consider a trip out to a neighbouring village for a cup of tea to be a more significant adventure than Columbus crossing the Atlantic, but my grandparents aren’t like that. They are quite young at heart.

They like Liverpool and especially like The Wirral where they’ve been caravanning a couple of times. I suggested we drive along to New Brighton but that was an error of judgement. The last time I’d been to New Brighton was on a burning hot August afternoon a couple of years ago and it was alive. This was a unseasonably cold May day in a hurricane and the place was desolate. It displayed everything bad about decaying seaside towns – the graffiti holding together the dilapidated and wrecked pavilions and promenades. That dreadful forced jollity of the rusting amusements and the promise of a burger that will take four years off your life. The wind was fierce and there wasn’t anyone about – and so we pushed our way back to the car against the weather and reassessed.

Tueaday 23rd May 2006

Posted by on May 23, 2006 4:16 PM

To the theatre tonight to see an old Edwardian play called The Lady Of Leisure at The Playhouse. It was written in 1907 by the caddishly named Hubert Henry Davis and was the big hit of that year, and unsurprisingly, as it contains all the best of Edwardian life. There’s the decadence, the cigars and the preposterous aristocratic behaviour, all wrapped up in a ludicrous and great script.

It’s the story of a rich wife called Mrs Baxter who’s so fantastically idle, so brilliantly lazy – and extremely ingenious at finding new ways to be so – that she’s dubbed a ‘mollusc’ by her newly arrived brother, the bombastic Tom, straight back from Colorado. He argues that whilst a merely lazy person will be pushed and pulled about by the tide, a mollusc will use an amazing amount of force to remain doing nothing.

She looked after by her rich and clueless husband, and also by her children’s governess. But with Tom’s arrival from America, this happy arrangement of hers is all shaken up as he decides to rid everyone of her idleness and falls in love with the governess at the same time. So the play is basically about how to ignite and jump-start the most bone idle and cunning woman on the planet. Which is hugely entertaining, very funny, and runs until June 3rd, so I’d very much recommend you get a ticket. Ring 0151 709 4776.

I never go to the theatre and tonight reminded me of what I’m missing. I love the whole routine, but I’m put off by the fear a play might be rubbish (can you just leave mid way through a performance or is it not the done thing?) and also my ignorance of Shakespeare and the classics. I honestly don’t know if I’d enjoy even a great performance of, say, The Tempest, because I’m clueless about the whole of that sphere and often don’t understand what’s going on. This annoys me, and I take that out on the theatre as a whole by never going to watch anything and educate myself.

Monday 22nd May 2006

Posted by on May 22, 2006 5:13 PM

Most of today was spent trying to organise my office, which is long overdue and yet strangely rewarding to have now conquered. When I say ‘conquered’, this means having put things into neat, autistic piles, without having actually dealt with them. Take the electricity bills, they are now in order and filed away neatly, but absolutely no attempt has been made to go to the Post Office and pay them. It’s a bit like decorating a room as a nursery without bothering with any sort of pregnancy.

People often argue that the tidier your work space, the less cluttered, the more productive you can be. I certainly find this to be true, but the sweet irony is that I spend quite a lot of time tidying up my workspace at the expense of doing any work. I’ll happily dedicate myself to filing receipts if it avoids any work which will pay for the things I’ve bought to get those receipts.

Filing is the curse of the self-employed. Why should a comedian have to pay tax? Why? Did the jester in the Royal courts of medieval England have to pay taxes? No, they merely had to do a silly dance at supper time and juggle. Maybe have some soup poured over them. Modern comics should be the same, we should be exempt from these sort of responsibilities because we’ve purposefully forged a career that avoids responsibility. If Gordon Brown wants me to pop over to his and do some routine about something, okay, that’s his prerogative. But pay tax? It’s not in our nature to bow to the state and sort out our income tax returns, it’s in our nature to go to the pub and spend all we’ve worked for on wine, no women, and song. In most cases it’s our want to spend all we’ve earned on good times and then borrow another £20 off someone for an extension to that good time. We know not of National Insurance and PAYE.

Sunday 21st May 2006

Posted by on May 21, 2006 4:23 PM

This is how good the Hodgkinson’s Hotelin Matlock Bath is, they get you drunk in the evening and then let you fester in your bed all morning without disturbing you. Try getting that at the local Travelodge. It was almost midday when I woke up, feeling better than I’d expected to which is probably due to the lovely bed. Showered and out into the rainy day, I thought it would be a waste to go straight home and so decided to have another ride on the Heights Of Abraham cable car, which I’ve not been on for about twenty years.

The ride up is good fun, if marred today by the low visibility, and at the top there’s plenty to keep yourself amused. I was eating some lunch when I was forced into one of those weird conversations with an overly confident five year old boy who strode up to my table and announced “Hello.�

You get these kids don’t you? They’re normally very middle class and have very ‘modern’ parents, who treat them like ‘young people’ instead of kids and therefore encourage them to act in a way that doesn’t really fit an infant. It’s a bit disconcerting, as if you could discuss the situation in Iraq with them, or the ludicrous price of oil. They always look ridiculously healthy too – they’ve been brought up on food from the garden, without a chicken nugget ever having passed their lips. It’s hard to criticise people wanting to bring their children up with emphasis on health, learning and communication, but as I say, they’re not really kids anymore.

“What are you having to eat?� the child demanded.

“Frogs.� I said, playfully. Hoping he’d go ‘Euuurrrrgghhh!’ or something.

“No you are not. You’re having fish. I can see its fish.�

Saturday 20th May 2006

Posted by on May 20, 2006 2:34 AM

I was driving down a straight stretch of wide, empty road today when I got stuck behind a car going cautiously slowly. I could see a long way ahead and the road was completely clear so I pulled out to overtake. As I was passing the slower car, now travelling considerably quicker at maybe 70 or 80 mph, a Police van pulled out from a side entrance to the right, now facing me directly. There was absolutely nothing I could do, I had a car to my left that I was overtaking, and there was no way I could brake sufficiently. It was going to be a full on, head on, collision.

Mercifully, there was just enough space between the car I was over taking and the on coming police fan to whip through – but it was inches. Inches away from a crash that most definitely would have been fatal. The weird thing is, my life didn’t flash before my eyes or anything, which is disappointing because there’s loads of stuff I’ve forgotten and could do with seeing again, but coming so close to death made my feel cold and a bit ill for a bit.

Of course I expected to see the Police van turn around and charge back at me with it’s lights flashing but it didn’t, despite me so nearly killing both the inhabitants, because I suppose they knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was overtaking, they appeared out of nowhere without bothering to check left before pulling out. They were in the wrong. But even so I kept checking my mirror, convinced they’d be there.

Not having my life flash before my eyes is probably a blessing because despite seeing stuff you’ve forgotten, there’s loads of stuff that I’d find embarrassing. I mean, when I was fourteen I was a complete idiot. I’m an idiot now, but then… it was horrendous. Also, if you have forgotten something, does that stuff still flash before your eyes? Does your memory get rejogged? Perhaps someone’s last conscious thought before they died in some horrific car accident was ‘oh THAT’s where I put the garden shears.’

Friday 19th May 2006

Posted by on May 19, 2006 7:56 PM

I had an informal meeting today with my friend Tara Maguire, who runs a talent and casting agency in Liverpool. She’s got the idea of putting on a Liverpool-based pantomime at Christmas and thinks I should write it. I’m no fan of panto, indeed Hell might be one long pantomime (“It’s cold in here isn’t it kids?� “Oh no it’s not! My face is burning off�), but that would at least allow me to create a pantomime that I would like to go and see. A sort of anti-panto. Tara wants it to have a jokey Liverpool theme and setting (i.e. a tanning salon) and the idea does rather appeal.

She’s quite set on the Cinderella story (so it might be called Sunderella for example) and instead of Cinderella being a pretty, gentle soul, she’d be a brassy Scouse scally. The ugly sisters would be worse. Prince Charming would probably be a footballer.

The problem I have is that I don’t really know much about pantomimes, having avoided them every year, but I suppose I could learn the rules. If you’re from outside the UK, and don’t know what a pantomime is, here’s the basic premise.

They are generally on at Christmas time and always based around an alarmingly few stories, Aladdin, Dick Whittington, Cinderella, Snow White being the main culprits. A girl will always play a boy, and vice versa. They’re meant to be for children but always have lots of rude jokes in that only adults will understand, it’s all rather camp and overacted, and there’s a lot of audience participation. One of the main rules is whenever anyone says “Oh yes it is!� the audience have to bellow back “Oh no it’s not!�. The same for “Oh yes I did.�

Um, what else? Well there has to be a dame, and this will be an older man dressed up as a big fat woman.

I think describing the concept of pantomime to anyone from China might be the hardest thing in the world. They don’t really… they’re incomparable to anything else.

Thursday 18th May 2006

Posted by on May 18, 2006 5:08 PM

I woke up in my hotel room at 6am and felt wide awake. Not being able to get back to sleep if I’d tried, I decided to take a walk around the local countryside before breakfast.

Staffordshire is a great county, truly. It doesn’t get the plaudits of Cumbria, or Devon, but I tell thee – it’s right up there. It’s got fantastic scenery, winding roads, dramatic hills, lush forests… It’s great. And so I set off with a spring in my step though Rudyard, down to a mini roundabout, and then picking a direction at random. I was whistling and all seemed well with the world.

It soon got better as I came across a sign for a miniature steam railway, and despite knowing it wouldn’t be running, made my way up to the station. You know me and trains. There wasn’t anyone about, unsurprisingly, but the line let off through some trees and next to it was a wide footpath. It’s called the Rudyard Lake Steam Railway, and the line is very narrow although it seemed as if there used to be a full sized railway here at one time because I appeared to be walking along the track bed where a line once ran. I followed it for about a kilometre, until I came across a reservoir with a beautiful, Victorian dam, boathouses, and several vessels dotted about on it’s surface. The sun broke through, and it was a perfect early morning scene. It was almost life affirming. I tell you, when one day in the future I’m destitute, or in prison, I’ll look back at how good life once was and I could well target the morning of Thursday, 18th of May as a prime example. I didn’t really have anything to think about but the scenery, I had a big breakfast waiting for me when I got back to the hotel, I had a steam railway track to play with, I had the company of the chirping birds… It was a really great feeling.

Wednesday 17th May 2006

Posted by on May 17, 2006 1:09 PM

This infuriates me – even though I have a silly job that doesn’t mean I work 9 to 5, I always seem to end up driving in the rush hour. Whenever I get in my car, for whatever reason, it’s 5pm and I’m in a traffic jam. Today I had to drive to Leek in Staffordshire, and I spent the day getting some stuff done before walking down to the car and realising that once again it was exactly 5pm. It’s like I have a special body clock that makes me do this – a natural calling to the traffic.

And today was the worst ever. Having left at five, an hour later I was 2.3 miles down the road according to my dashboard. A HOUR! I could have driven to Leek in an hour, easily, and yet I’d not even made it out of Liverpool. If only I’d left at four… It’s ridiculous. According to traffic reports on the radio, the whole country was struck in a jam. The traffic announcer was almost bemused, and who could blame her? How can a country suddenly have a bad traffic day?

Perhaps it was something to do with the European Cup Final tonight – Arsenal Vs Barcelona. A mouth watering prospect that I ideally wanted to watch and so the fact I was going to Leek for a gig annoyed me. I was sat in my car feeling very negative. Which was wrong and foolish for reasons I’ll make clear in a minute.

Tuesday 16th May 2006

Posted by on May 16, 2006 1:08 PM

I heard on the news today that they’d found an unexploded World War II bomb in the Mersey, and as a result had stopped the ferry crossings and shut the tunnel. If that’s not shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted… If I was a commuter, stuck in the tailback, I’d be thinking – probably shouting – ‘A bomb has lay there for sixty years, minding it’s own business, and now it’s been discovered you think there’s a danger?’

The tunnel was BUILT whilst that bomb lay there, driving through it’s hardly going to cause a problem, surely? And what of the ferries? Why stop them? Is there the minute risk someone might absent mindedly drop a stone over the side during the crossing which sinks to the bottom and hits the rusty old detonator? It’s all ludicrous.

When I got home there was indeed a Royal Navy minesweeper on the river, the same boat that had found the bomb during ‘routine checks’ and caused everyone’s morning to be ruined. They must find so few bombs, and therefore struggle to justify their existence, that when one does turn up they have to make a big song and dance about it.

Bombs don’t react badly to being discovered. They’re not bears in a cave. They react badly to being dropped out of planes (as do bears), but not being discovered.

So today they had the job of taking it out to deeper water and detonating it. Oh, they can move it without it going off, but you can’t drive your car through a tunnel that’s a few hundred yards from it, surely everyone knows that? I think it’s a bit unfair on the poor old bomb, having to be destroyed when it was living a perfectly happy life in the river. Then again, it was always the bombs destiny to explode, and so maybe it would like that destiny to be fulfilled?

Monday 15th May 2006

Posted by on May 15, 2006 3:54 PM

I was in Manchester today and met my friend Athena Caramitsos, the tiny infant faced Greek. The humorous (for me, and me alone) development in her life is that she never used to get any results, or ‘hits’ if she typed her own name into Google, but now there’s one result, from this site, that simply describes her as ‘the tiny infant faced Greek from Manchester’. That’s now her internet CV! Try this for yourself by typing her name into the search bar in Google.

I was elated and proud that if anyone, a potential employer or boyfriend perhaps, types her name, which is Athena Caramitsos, into Google then they’ll see her described as a tiny infant faced Greek child from Manchester.

How does Google work? Is it the case that the more hits a particular page gets, the higher it will rate with the evil geniuses at Google and the higher up the results page it gets? Please someone let me know, because I want to somehow devise a routine that means that if anyone types Athena Caramitsos in Google in the future, they’ll get a plethora of results all describing her as a tiny, infant faced Greek woman-child. It would be nice to get some variation in, such as perhaps calling her a ‘semi midget nano-being’, but all must refer to the fact she’s a thirty year old woman who looks like an eight year old girl.

Also, it would be much better if the results for Athena Caramitsos, the infant faced semi-tall dwarf, came from different sites. Therefore if you have your own website or Blog, why not mention Athena Caramitsos now and again, but making sure to make reference to her insane height directly after her name and therefore allow it to be displayed on the Google search results.

If there was just a series of 456 results for ‘Athena Caramitsos’, but all came from different pages of this site, people might wrongly assume I’m obsessed with Athena Caramitsos, and whilst I like her very much and appreciate her friendship this ISN’T the case no matter what anyone says. So what I’m saying is basically try to get her name onto as many internet sites as possible, followed by a reference to her size. Don’t do your actual job all day, make this your new job.

Sunday 14th May 2006

Posted by on May 14, 2006 7:28 PM

A day spent feeling sorry for myself, sipping water. I’ve come to realise I can only do four day benders now. My associates and friends at Modern Drunkard magazine will scoff at that as being pathetically lightweight but four days it is. The fifth brings pain and immobility. I suppose it’s a bit like an emergency valve that kicks in to stop yourself doing damage, it’s just your body saying “Oi. Enough for now. Have a sit down. Have you thought of tea?�

It’s true I did a nine day bender in Denver last November but that damn near killed me. The flight home was the worst few hours of my blessed life, I never EVER want to have to repeat that. I tell you, I never shall. This upcoming trip to the Modern Drunkard convention in Vegas next month will contain some drinking, of that have no fear, but the New York leg after Vegas is going to more relaxing. Maybe even see some sights? I tend to go to cities and just visit the bars, which is great because that’s where you find the soul of any place, but it also means I miss out on interesting buildings and cultural experiences that don’t involve playing some Mexican at pool for $100. New York will be civilised.

Will it Hell. Ah, we’ll see. The point is I can’t do a nine day job again. There’s be some gentle warm up drinking in LA, then open the throttle fully for Vegas, then ease it back off in New York, that’s the plan.

I can’t have days feeling like I did today. I’m not looking for any sympathy obviously, I like to think I never do, but we only have a limited time on this planet and I’d like to enjoy it and not look back on a fair percentage of this gift being spent holding my sides with my head under a cushion praying for sweet, sweet death. It’s only right to lay off the pace now and again if it means a general improvement in living standards. Or am I just getting past my prime?

Saturday 13th May 2006

Posted by on May 13, 2006 5:49 PM

Last night was the last of the Moz gigs, something I failed to mention because I was preoccupied talking about cafes, and also because it wasn’t the best concert I’ve been to. I mean as gigs go it was great, but as Moz gigs go… strangely underwhelming. Although it’s the last of the tour for me, he’s still got loads to do and I’ve got a sneaking suspicion the ‘cancelled due to illness’ plan will soon be put into practice. He looking a bit weary.

For proper theatre one simply had to watch today’s cup final, which was extraordinary. Jose, the Dutch lady I met last Sunday at The Opera House, and again last night, met up with me and I insisted on watching the game even though she apparently hates football and only had a few hours left in Liverpool before her flight. What a rubbish host I am, but it’s entirely her fault for coming over on cup final weekend and not being able to psychically predict Liverpool would be involved. How stupid can you get? Anyway, as it turned out the match was a sort of antidote for not liking football. It should be used in hospitals for people that don’t like football as an instant cure. It had every single element of a brilliant match. David versus Goliath scenario. David nearly winning but for one of the best goals of all time in the last minute. Non-stop, break-neck pace. A penalty shoot out. Alarming skill. Tons of goals. It was a Roy Of The Rovers cartoon strip played out in real life.

In future, whenever anyone says to me “Why do you like football? It’s a thugs game, and look at you, you French Duke, sat there with your cocktail, why would you like it?� I’ll reach inside my jacket and pull out, not a gun, but a DVD and say “Here, watch this. This is the FA Cup Final between West Ham United and Liverpool, played on the 13th of May, 2006. What this and not only will you realise why I love football so, you too, my unenlightened friend, will love it also.�

And they’ll sit down and their eyes will widen at a sporting spectacle of such greatness and magnitude that they’ll probably hate themselves for not liking football far earlier in their lives. They’ll slam their fist onto the table and cry out “Why? Why have I denied myself this pleasure for so long? Oh what a wretched fool I’ve been! Why! Why!� And someone, probably the barman, will say “Easy, friend. Do not fret. For this summer we have what is called a ‘World Cup’, where there is more football in a month than even the most hardened and mad lunatic could watch. You should leave your job and watch it all.�

Friday 12th May 2006

Posted by on May 12, 2006 4:53 PM

I’ve eulogised many times about the importance of a man having a good quality local pub at his disposal, and recently the topic of conversation in that very pub has been of cafes, and how it’s essential to have a local one that sorts out your emergency culinary needs just as the pub sees to the drinks.

I’ve been eating very healthily of late, but only a fool would deny him or herself the joy of typical café fare once in a while, and by that I mean anything from a rack of toast through to a full breakfast. Sadly, and this is why the topic keeps getting brought up in the pub, Liverpool suffers from an alarming lack of these venerable institutions and the quality of life slackens off because of it. I don’t even HAVE a local café to call my own – and that’s no good at all. There’s one next to The Lion, and there’s Me Mams Kitchen down by the Travelodge, oh and a café / restaurant up on Bold Street that qualifies, but really – for a city – there are very few.

But this has changed with the opening of a brand new café called The Riverside Diner a mere five minutes walk from my place. Don’t be fooled by the word ‘Diner’, don’t be afraid, it’s still very much a café, and from my first visit today – one that will become a regular fixture in my life. The great thing about this place opening is that it’s located on the Dock Road (Waterloo Road) where once upon a time the whole place would have been awash with pubs and cafes, of which now only two boozers remain, and not one café. There might be a café about three miles up, yeah… I think there is, but for practical purposes this one is MY café.

Thursday 11th May 2006

Posted by on May 11, 2006 1:34 AM

I sometimes describe Blackburn as ‘Sunny Blackburn’ because it’s rarely sunny and so in doing so results in humour, but today was very sunny in Blackburn and I arrived feeling happy about after a beautiful drive through the Yorkshire and Lancashire countryside from Halifax. Happy the man, I pondered, that has no more pressing an occupation on a Thursday afternoon than to potter the highways and byways of this pretty area of Britain.

But arriving in Blackburn and driving about looking for a hotel, a home truth about the place came home to me; Blackburn has no hotels. There’s one out on an industrial estate by the motorway but I didn’t really fancy the idea of that and wanted to be in distance of the theatre. But no, there are no hotels in Blackburn. I’ve always taken it as a friendly enough place, and I’ve nothing against the town, but it’s a bit of an indictment on anywhere if there isn’t a need for anyone to want to stay. That’s like somewhere without a tourist information centre; they’ve come to terms with the fact that absolutely nobody is going to come for pleasure, and so having one would be redundant. The hotel thing is odd though. Blackburn isn’t Vegas, but you’d think they’d be enough demand for the odd one.

Eventually, I found a street with three B+B’s on it and only one had vacancies. The others were only large enough to contain, oh, ten rooms perhaps? So we can now conclude mathematically that Blackburn requires about twenty to thirty hotel rooms per night to satisfy demand. There are twenty people, or couples, wanting to stay in Blackburn on any one evening.

Wednesday 10th May 2006

Posted by on May 10, 2006 12:46 AM

You might think that LA or perhaps Delhi has the worst traffic in the world, but you’d be foolishly wrong, because the place with the worst traffic in the world is Halifax, Yorkshire. You might also think that perhaps the Sahara Desert is the hottest place on Earth but again you’d have made a child-like error; It’s actually Halifax, Yorkshire. And so sitting in a traffic jam for hours in Halifax, Yorkshire, is not a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, and yet it’s how I spent a great deal of today.

Apparently a series of events had led to the traffic problems, an almost Laurel And Hardy like collection of crashes and breakdowns. I therefore arrived at the Shibden Mill Inn, set in astonishing countryside three miles out of Halifax and at least half a mile away from the nearest traffic jam, in a bit of a flustered bother. Then I was told they hadn’t got a room for me because they couldn’t find my reservation on the computer, although they did have a note of me wanting to eat dinner. The manageress said the only option I had would be to go to a B+B, and I’m quite proud to say that I didn’t loose my temper despite having been sat in a hot car all afternoon and really wanting a lie down and a shower. I was about to leave, and to be fair the manageress was going out of her mind with apology, when I remembered that when I’d rung the hotel to reserve my room I’d been informal and said my name was Stanley, even though my credit card details would have said Stanley McHale and the dinner reservation they had was Stanley McHale but sure enough, my room was reserved as Mr Stanley. The fools. This misadministration had nearly made a mess of my night but thankfully I was in my room a few minutes later, almost too tired to contemplate going out for the evening. But I’m a trooper, and it doesn’t take much to get me excited about an evening of booze and music in a strange town.