Out of the Partridge Canon (cont.)

1997 September
Thursday 18

Only three people in the entire world know about my battles with chocolate. I, Partridge (obviously); Sue Cook (obviously); and Michael, Linton Travel Tavern monkey-butler. To be clear, Michael's not actually a butler. I'm not sure precisely what his job title is, but he is loyal and personable (when he makes an effort to let me understand him) and he'd make a good butler. I Can't Believe [He's] Not Butler!

Yesterday was the THIRD DAY IN A ROW I've bought a prism of travel-size Toblerone and eaten them all over the course of an evening. And today I'm very likely to go out and do the same thing AGAIN. (They're reduced at John Menzies.) As Sue Cook always says, "When you start suffering withdrawal symptoms, that's when a habit becomes an addiction". She neglected to mention tolerance (in my case half-a-packet-a-day no longer suffices for my cravings, or "does it for me"), but I could go on about Sue's negligences ad infinitum.

I realised I needed to think about seeking help after I lost out on a corporate gig with Bradford & Bingley to Norman Pace. (Of Hale & Pace.) I'd underperformed at the meeting with the Bradford & Bingley bigwigs (or "B&BBW"s) because I had Toblerones in my head (not literally, that would be a health hazard). I also just didn't want to do it. But good luck to the chap, his career has yet to peak - I foresee his star rising to Jim Davidson levels. (Just as an example! Obviously Jim Davidson I cannot condone as a human being for his choice to be under the employ of ITV. What has the BBC ever done worthy of such spurn?)

Note to self: Remember to ask Lynn what The Woolwich said about my proposal for a potentially long and auspicious working relationship.

Out of the Partridge Canon

1997 September
Monday 22

Today I received a hamper from Fern Britton.

"Wey aye Mister Partridge", Michael said, bringing the package to my room. "Canny that, like".

Except it was un-canny. (Not "uncanny"; rather it was not-"canny", as in the Geordie sense.) It was a culinary surprise, yes, though not a pleasant one. My multi-month sojourn (or "stay") at Linton Travel Tavern had thus far yielded no culinary surprises (even a thrice-weekly rotating menu can get somewhat predictable); but what in the heck am I supposed to do with dried pasta, balsamic vinegar, and a set of steak knives in a hotel room? I suppose you could boil the pasta using the tea-and-coffee-making-facilities, but I would stop short at heating up the sauce in a Corby Trouser Press. I did. (It's only the Corby 3000 series; I wager the Corby Executive would not "spoil the broth", or sauce.)

I'll give the steak knives to Carol as a housewarming present. Technically it is my house (and she never did properly move out), but with her and her sex partner living there now it seems churlish not to gratify her my small onus. That's if she doesn't take the knives to mean I want to horrifically murder them both, like something from an Alfred Hancock film. The balsamic vinegar I'll give to Dave Clifton. I'll tell him it's a dessert wine. The prank won't stretch much further than his reading of the label - but I'm sure I won't forget the look of disappointment on his face. I'm laughing now just thinking about it.

It's all my assistant's fault.

"But Alan, when you gave me the memo I did ask who 'F.B.' was".

She ruddy well didn't. Transparently attempting to acquit herself she fired back this gem verbatim: "I left a message for you at reception, and you didn't get back to me", then she claimed she couldn't get through to either of my business phones. (I'm upgrading from an Ericsson GH337 to a Motorola StarTAC. It has a very futuristic name and high-tech clamshell design, I can imagine Captain Kirk calling his doctor on that. It has a silent vibration alert function, which can be very irritating when you miss an urgent call - unless it's from Bill Oddie - and I don't see that ever catching on.)

She did know I was writing a letter to an alluring female BBC presenter, I told Lynn as much to her aged face, ipso facto how could she mix up Fiona Bruce with Fern Britton?! One of whom presented such pieces of televisual history as Diana: The Nation's Farewell, and Election 97. The other does Ready Steady Cook. It doesn't take a rocket genius to work out who I'd have for dinner.

An immeasurable load of my time was wasted on said letter to the sexy sophisticated Fiona Bruce. I pored my load over it. Very nearly I pulled an all-nighter - a tough decision to make when you have a show to do at 4.30am.

I've got to stop abbreviating people's names. This is just like that time I faxed Anneka Rice a congratulations on her new baby. Then Anne Robinson called me back genuinely panicking that she'd birthed a child in one of her frequent blackouts. Maybe I'll gift the balsamic vinegar to Anne instead, as a sort of wino-equivalent nicotine patch. Obviously I won't tell her it's a dessert wine - she'd very likely have me on Watchdog.

Lighthouse Fam

Call me a sadist. But there's nothing more satisfying to me than seeing the face of a young child after asking him if he's heard of the Lighthouse Family, before telling him they're a British easy-listening duo.

You would think they'd improve with age, like wine. They started off as embarrassing "dad music", and it was this perennial uncoolness that made enjoying their songs impractical. That's not to say I don't like the production - I don't particularly, it's desperately middle-of-the-road - but it still maintains a 90s flavor, enough to give the songs extra value in nostalgia points. There is something quintessentially 90s about the Lighthouse Family look as well. They've adopted the dark informal suits (sockless) look, the one black guy one white guy look, and the frontman-in-"ethnic"-looking-rumpled-collarless-cream-shirt-while-the-other-guy-looks-into-the-distance-in-his-shades look. Their artistic sense is nothing if not satisfactory. But they are still "dad music". They epitomize it. You could imagine Tony Blair listing the duo amongst his favorite bands in an interview.

Still some way off from middle age, I can not yet dream to afford to own a car, let alone a nice one typical of men in mid-life crises. But even in middle age, even if I had the means, I'd probably not buy a fancy car. My compensation for my brood flocking the nest and leaving it empty - like the easy-listening section of my music library - would not be in flash cars, but probably food. I will become an old sausage-eating, self-loathing Jabba-the-Hutt whose emotions will never be Lifted when I take an Ocean Drive in my hovercar. And my hovercar will of course be cheap and battered. (I was going to say "like most of my food" - but now I have an image of myself driving a massive sausage. I hope future technology will reach this stage.)

Millennials are the first generation to be financially worse off than their parents. But let me tell you something; 75 years down the line, Japan and Germany are doing very well economically. They are both highly respected and advanced. Which just goes to show, war crime does pay. Don't you see? Tony Blair is playing the long game.

Labour had used "Cool Britannia" for their 1997 image, successfully so, but, for the theme song of their first post-90s campaign Things Can Only Get Worse. In other words, they were self-confident enough to use Uncool Britannia. It worked however. The Lighthouse Family song Lifted helped reelect Tony Blair in 2001. But millennials find it difficult to get the help needed to make their way in the world. With useless degrees, fleeting industries and training, and increasing outsourcing and increasing automation, we are are still asking Dad for pocket money in our thirties. Well, I am anyway. Consequently we feel desperately uncool. Despite our taste in music.

I am genuinely sorry for my digressions, for taking attention away from the two men who were meant to be the focus of this article.

If I sound disparaging towards either Tony Blair or the Labour Party in my digression, that was not intentional (my attitude towards them is one of apathy). In fact it was originally just a contrived way of fitting in my crap 'war crimes' joke. Not worth it, because this whole article now sounds like an unfocused rant. I sound like an old-timer who contradicts himself - but does so with passion. Have I already skipped past middle age?

I guess the answer to the above really depends on how long I live. Either way, I think the Lighthouse Family are alright. Their non-single album tracks are more then tolerable. Not much more though.

Vaping and Pillaging, or: Events and trends of 2015

Like most years, things happened in 2015. But I shall NOT be making light of the deaths of over a hundred French concertgoers and hundreds more injured and traumatised, OKAY!? Other than that there were some memorable things in the year, and, ignoring my wonderfully short attention span, particularly recently in fact. One thing that slipped past me in 2015 was a gyrating Richard Branson in his Ferris Bueller's Day Off frolics. Not a private dance, sadly. This was a genuine stunt in the streets of Chicago, reenacting that iconic scene with Bavarian girls on floats and everything. For a day, Branson became Bueller.

And Trump became Sarah Palin! Branson wins here I think. Not to mention his net worth is $5.2 billion compared to Trump's measly $4 billion. That's 3-0, dude: coolness; enterprise; and face-not-looking-like-a-scrunched-up-Sainsbury's-shopping-bag-under-a-cloud-of-vaporized-bigot-tears. But saying this, making fun of Trump and Republican candidates is like shooting fish in a barrel. Try shooting eagles in the sky. Or a rock concert.

If I could go back and tell the child who'd just watched Back to the Future 2 for the first time about 2015, I'd probably moan about paying for shopping bags. We do have Hoverboards. But they don't hover. On the plus side, "smoking" looks less cool to children, despite now smelling like the insides of a candy store. So this made the papers: Hoverboard Rider Hunted for Lucozade Theft. Isn't it a pity that as soon as we have a new invention we use the technology to commit crime? Griff Tannen's gang was probably the most accurate prediction in that movie.

I See Auras (a short story)

    I see auras. I'm reasonably well educated, and I consider myself a pretty level-headed gal, so you can understand why I’d keep something like this to myself. Few people believe me. Even fewer are sympathetic. There is no rational explanation that I can give to the phenomenon - it’s just that on rare occasions I can see radiant light, faintly coloured, about a person’s head and shoulders. It can be pretty as a rainbow, and just as elusive.
    At a party one night I noticed a young man - around my age - and I reflexively beamed with joy. Because the most vivid and intense fiery gold was emanating from him like a halo. As he neared where I sat he, understandably, couldn’t help but notice my grinning wide-eyed stare. What do I say to him?
    After a few exchanges he just thought I was being friendly, flirtatious even. So I asked if he wanted to put his head in my lap while I stroked his hair. His turn to beam with joy. My fingers began rubbing his neck and crown and I couldn’t tell you how long it was before I slipped, “I can see your aura”.
    His silence was a deadening blow to my esteem.
    “You can see my aura?” he finally said with a ‘you fucking serious?’ look on his face. To call it  eternity would be superlative but it was indeed a very, VERY long time of his confused, silent stare before he had managed to say this.
    “It’s just … kinda … yellow looking”, I offered.
    His eyes were focused so intently on mine I was relieved when he finally closed them again. ‘Just carry on stroking my head you crazy woman’ I could feel him thinking. I carried out the rest of my promise but my heart was no longer in it. He clearly didn't believe me, clearly wasn't interested, and we both acted like what I'd just said had never happened.
    What was he getting out of this? What was I getting out of it? Had he never felt a woman’s touch before? Pervert. I’m not just some tart who goes about touching up random guys. He seemed pretty happy with it but the silence was getting awkward. I just wanted to politely tell him I’d had enough. But eventually unconscious cues in our touch led him to get up.
    His halo soon faded to nothing.

Ghosts, Rapists and Turtles, or: Belated Sequels and Reboots

Cosby biographer Mark Whitaker says he was wrong to exclude rape allegations

Mark Whitaker shouldn’t apologise for his omission. It didn't matter how definitive the biography was supposed to be - what sort of person goes out to buy a biographical book on Bill Cosby anyway?? Celebrity biographies are for people interested in the glamorous lifestyles of the rich and famous. The choice of celebrity is rarely a mundane one like pre-rape Cosby. For example I am reading a frank account of the peak years of a real legend, and it’s a good autobiography, an exciting read for me it is simply unputdownable. Perhaps not the most rock-n-roll-lifestyle, but the man's influence is such to have inspired generations of tender minds to emulate their hero. It is Trowel and Error, the autobiography of the famous and successful Alan Titchmarsh MBE. Whereas nobody had even heard of Whitaker’s book before all this shit about Cosby had come out. His sorries should be thank-yous.

Remember Cosby in the film Ghost Dad? In it he plays a dad. A ghost dad. It was so ahead of its time. (The elegance of its self-explanatory title foreshadowing that of Snakes on a Plane by sixteen years.) Cosby plays a family man, and brings humour to the film. Aside from the EXCELLENT novel, which I heartily recommend, I always felt that the Ghost Dad franchise could have been expanded, and there was more life to the premise. But it is his career, now, that is the ghost. A belated sequel is certain not to happen at this point after all that’s come out he’s invisible to his co-stars now – which would have cut the effects budget. Not to worry! There is one other film about ghosts to look forward to. Now, he’s not normally known as a method actor, but if Patrick Swayze’s preparation for the Ghost sequel is anything to go by it’ll be amazing.

How do you explain to kids about Bill Cosby? I remember when I was a kid and I heard the word “rape” on telly and I asked mum and dad what it meant. They, bless them, tried their best to answer. So my concept of sex and violent crime when I was a kid was based on what I saw on TV, be it Byker Grove, Casualty, or Teenage Mutant HERO Turtles. Okay the Turtle violence was more on the slapstick side, but in terms of the sex, there is not one single guy of my age who did not fancy April O’Neil. Call me an old fogey, but I’ve yet to see the live-action reboot - and I don’t think I ever will. I wouldn’t want to spoil the romance. Oh April.  I want our moonlit evenings in the sewers to remain perfect. Although Megan, who plays April O'Neil in the reboot, is hot. You know, that famous American actress Megan whatshername, ooh she’s such a, such a … ?

Dating Hell

I always thought “dating” was something American teenagers did in the 1950s. But ‘50s American teenagers don’t have the internet of course. They don’t have dating apps on an iPhone – nor do they even have an updated version of iOS installed. So even though they may have the late night drive-in theater, their fingers are not as dexterous and exercised from swiping and touch typing. So. It’s a mixed blessing. These days a girl on a crap date is less likely to be groped in the dark, but if she is, he will have fine motor skillz. That’s thanks to modern technology. Actually I was on a crap one a while ago. She revealed her belief in weird esoteric theories; ancient alien technology, you know the kind of thing. She genuinely thought archaeological artefacts from different eras - Mayan pyramids, dinosaur fossils, Roman coins - had all come from the same time. That’s the last time I meet someone from Uniformdating.com.

So it’s a mixed blessing all this technology. Today we rather light-heartedly label behaviour as “stalking”, even though it’s something most of us, let’s face it, are probably guilty of. Who hasn't discreetly from afar looked at people with widefield Olympus binoculars? But we’ve got to accept that social networking is just bad for privacy, our own as well as other people’s. However I can really suck when it comes to talking face-to-face; the ease with which I speak to girls is inversely proportional to how attractive they are. If I think they’re unattractive they know I think exactly that. If they’re attractive they’re insulted I’m even speaking to them. If I'm thinking they’re kind of somewhere in the middle, or thereabouts, then they think I’ve been staring at them too long.

My parents really bug me. The next time my dad asks me why I haven’t got a girlfriend I’d like to give him a smartarse answer, going really in-depth into all the factors, such as social media, unemployment, depression and apathy. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Of a conversation with his son. Now friends, unlike family, actually appreciate and respect you as a person. Their insults are not genuine but playful. Unlike family.  I never thought I’d ever say this, but I’ve actually been growing apart from my friends. There’s been a real distancing in terms of, well, actual distance, as well as in the focus of our interests. It’s a pity when you just don’t care about things in the same way as your hippy friends. They’re real hardcore, trying to get everyone to sign petitions against culling and stuff. Whereas I love killing badgers.  But nowadays some of my best friends are flatworms. Yes flatworms are parasitic “parasites”. But I like how they reproduce by splitting lengthways in two. Unlike your human friends, who all seem to pair up into inseparable couples. And who consider you a bad host.