Red Leader: Enemy activity has been slight

I suffer from arachnophobia after an horrendous experience as a child.

So it is with a sense of dread that I write this post, but...

My house is being invaded by giant spiders.

Four MASSIVE hairy bird-eating bastards (slight exaggeration, but only slight) have been discovered in my home since Sunday.

One set up its sinister dirty black web in our bathroom and sat there like an eight-legged Gollum, leering.

One came hurtling down the bedroom curtains as I shut them (shudder).

One was in the dining room - and it was the size of a fuckng saucer.

And, horror of horrors, there was one dead in our dog's drinking bowl this morning - AND ITS LEGS TOUCHED EACH EDGE!

God but I HATE THEM.

Same every September though, they start creeping in to escape the cold air.

Must invent some anti-spider potion that will scare the buggers off.

So knackered my eyes feel like they're full of sand.

Hang about...

They are full of sand.

*shakes sand from ocular organs*

That's better.

Been a bugger of a week at weerk, when I got in last night I had a cup of tea and went straight to bed.

Slept for 12 hours solid.

Now I feel the need for a proper drink.

A BIG drink.

Guardian today:

It was through the character of Bip, who made his first appearance in the tiny Théâtre de Poche in 1947, that Marcel Marceau's mime technique came most vividly alive, blending humour and pathos.

Here, he departed from the classicism of Decroux to revive the more romantic spirit of Jean-Gaspard Deburau and the 19th-century Pierrots.

So.

Not just a pranny with a flower in his hat and a pair of silly kecks pratting about like a balloon, then.

Just shows you.

Guardianland, eh?

I have very bad news.

The master of mime, the sultan of silence, Marcel Marceau has died.

Who will ever forget the maestro pretending to be trapped in a glass box, or walking forwards in an imaginary high wind?

It took the Grim Reaper to wipe the look of permanently amused surprise from his chalky face.

We'll not see his kind again.

Thank Christ.

Ooh-er!

As predicted, things didn't end well!

They were still at it at 6.30am - music blasting and shrieking like knobheads.

So.

Enough was enough.

Sadly, by this time, I was actually deeply unconscious, so it fell to Mrs Red Leader to represent me and express my displeasure with our new neighbours.

Using a wheelie bin to stand on, cos she's only 5ft 4ins, and hanging over their back wall, the "conversation" (which luckily I woke up just in time to hear) went like this:

"YOU FUCKING WANKERS! WHAT THE FUCKING HELL DO YOU FUCKING THINK YOU'RE PLAYING AT?

THERE'S FUCKING KIDS TRYING TO SLEEP ROUND HERE YOU SELFISH ARSEHOLES.

SHUT THE FUCK UP NOW OR I'LL FUCKING TWAT THE FUCKING LOT OF YOU"

There was some mumbling of complaint from Spoilt Bastard and his hideous mates, but the music went off and they did indeed shut the fuck up.

Good for Mrs RL, eh?

I've trained her well.

*cough*

Ooh!

We've called the police.

Spoilt Bastard and his incredibly ignorant mates are rampaging round the street like Visigoths. With a bouncy castle.

We've thrown darts at them.

Not in a good way.

Yay!

This can't end well.

Saturday night and I just got paid...

Well, not exactly.

I'm absolutely bleedin' knackered.

Did a shift at weerk today and it's somehow knocked the stuffing out of me.

Half way down a bottle of Chianti though, and things are starting to look up.

Think I need a hobby, apart from guitar-bothering.

Too noisy and anti-social.

There's some lads moved in a few doors down and they "work in the music business."

What they mean is, they book local bands to play in clubs and their rich parents bail them out to they can afford to hold annoying, loud parties for their pikey mates.

So, in a desperate need to show my superiority, which naturally means not doing anything too noisy, I must find another creative outlet.

Maybe tropical fish are the answer?

But then, there a bit boring, fish, aren't they?

Hmm.

Is that my whammy guitar I see winking at me in the corner?

Let's vibe the bugger up and have a think about this!

At the end of a manic working day, there's nowt much more enjoyable than getting home, cracking the chilled bottles, inhaling deeply from a ciggie and logging on to the blog.

Just thought I'd make a note of that, in case I ever forget.

I lurve browsing about and having a butcher's at what everyone's been up to, adding my two cents' worth here and there.

A couple of years ago, an old and now sadly departed (well, he was in his late-70s) friend said to me and my missus: "I know I shouldn't sit here at my age drinking scotch and listening to Mozart every night. But it's just so bloody enjoyable."

It has stuck in my mind.

Because, although not entirely unexpected, (and, much as I would like to, I don't actually compare our outpourings with those of Wolfgang Amadeus's) there has been a bit of strange angst in my friends' group of late.

Can't say I see the point in turning a pleasurable relaxation into yet another source of stress and upset.

Still.

Each to their own, eh?

Could be a long night...

"This had better be important...you simply could not have called at more fucking inconvenient time."

I was reminded of that shockingly rude phrase by the reference in my previous post to the depressed musician.

For it was he who uttered it, into the front-door intercom, in the control room of a recording studio in Manchester, late at night, much to the amusement of chortling session players gathered round him like a drunken coven.

We laughed even louder when the source of this unwelcome interuption explained it was his girlfriend - and her mother - calling in with flask and sandwiches for their hard-working ickle midnight soldier.

Strangely, he actually stopped laughing round about then.

In fact, he went ashen.

Especially after he'd legged it downstairs in a panic to apologise only to find the doorstep empty and a pair of deeply upset figures fast disappearing into the dense Manc winter fog.

Her mother never spoke to him again.

LOL!

Britain could be heading for an "epidemic" of winter blues following one of the most miserable summers in memory, mental health experts are warning.

The relentless rain and dark skies mean that many sufferers of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) will be starting the autumn already depressed.

Bloody hell!

And wait until we switch from British Summer Time to GMT.

I can't take the risk.

Must have sunny holiday in the sunny sunshine.

Or.

Will.

Die.

*croak*

As a musician mate of mine who had fallen on spectacularly hard times once said: "It's gonna be a long, hard winter - and summer's not over yet."

The McCann fiasco tumbles ever more into pure farce.

The pot-bellied, mustachioed bling-wearing plod in charge of the "investigation" is now himself being sued for allegedly beating a confession out of another woman he, er, prosecuted, for supposedly killing her own child.

Also, the flatfoots are now hoping they can reveal conclusive evidence that Kate McCann killed her child - because they believe she might be depressed.

Yet another leak to the cops' favourite reporters says they believe detailed analysis of her medical notes could provide them with "significant evidence."

No wonder she's depressed, with you incompetent muppets doing your best to destroy her.

The official police spokesman, by the way, has quit in disgust at the way his fellow officers are leaking "information" (smears, lies and innuendo) to the media.

Come on lads.

You've been rumbled.

Your one hope of salvation was medieval to begin with.

Your chief witness was going to be a dog?

Excuse me?

Two woofs for "yes", one for "no"?

What a sick joke.

The latest round of leaks from the increasingly desperate Portugeuse police have now appeared in a couple of that country's rags.

Pages from Kate McCann's private diary, which Porto Plod whizzed last week, have been published - making a mockery of the idea that their dark-glasses-wearing flatfoots are forbidden to discuss ongoing inquiries with the media.

The diary shows she found her role as a mother hard.

The papers quote police sources who say that Mrs McCann discovering that motherhood is a thankless task is "fundamental" to their belief that she was involved in the death of her daughter Madeleine.

Oh dear.

Dear, oh dear, oh dear.

As any parent of a hyper-active child will tell you, looking after them is exhausting and it is debilitating and can actually - YES - be depressing.

Doesn't mean you are a murderer though.

One Algarve rag actually ran the leak under the headline "McCann Mother Insults Her Children."

Wankers.

The police's flaky evidence would never lead to a prosecution in the UK.

A source at Leicestershire Police has said that the forensic evidence would bear little weight in a British court.

The source said the scientific evidence was fatally weakened by a failure to keep the crime scenes free from contamination.

Now we learn by other leaks that the Algarve investigators suddenly think her body was most probably dumped in a bag.

Yes.

A bag weighed down with stones.

And, and, then, er, yes, then thrown off a British-owned yacht at high sea, according to reports in Diario de Noticias.

So without a body, the case ain't ever going to court.

Jeez.

What more do Porto Plod need to do to convince the world that they've made a right hash of this and are trying cover their own arses?

In the days of Lord Palmerston, the gunboats would have been sent in by now.

The first time I went to Anfield was both exhilarating and hugely disappointing in equal measure.

The Mighty Reds were playing West Bromwich Albion, it was in the mid-70s and I'm pretty sure we won.

The exhilaration came from walking into the sacred stadium.

The disappointment came from the Kop, whose chants in those days were legendary and legion.

The massed, swaying ranks of the faithful sang one song, from kick-off to final whistle.

It went like this:

"WE HATE WEST BROM
AND WE HATE WEST BROM

"WE HATE WEST BROM
AND WE HATE WEST BROM

"WE HATE WEST BROM
AND WE HATE WEST BROM

"WE ARE THE WEST BROM...

"HATERS!!!!!!"

Imagine my crestfallen little face.

British scientists involved in pioneering research to grow replacement organs in genetically modified farm animals have moved their work to the US, complaining they were being stifled by red tape.

The research, led by Professor Robert Winston, the Imperial College-based fertility expert and Labour peer, stalled after government restrictions barred the work on genetically modified pigs.
Guardian today

Excuse me?

Modified pigs?

Frank Zappa once wrote a chortling tune called Evelyn a Modified Dog, but it was meant to be a joke.

But when you think about it, it all starts to make a terrible kind of jangled sense.

Amerika is clearly miles ahead in its animal modification programme.

Their clever science bods (copyright; Nukulah warheads, stealth bombers, cluster bombs, napalm, Star Wars Defense Missiles) have come up with ways to perfect pigs far in advance of anything evolution could provide.

But their experiments in modern Prometheus went horribly wrong.

For the pig, which was supposed to represent all that was beautiful, somehow mutated.

It was yellow, had watery eyes, translucent skin, red pupils, too thin hair and lips and stood around eight feet tall in the right cowboy boots and hat.

The super pig was pronounced revolting and the scientists ran from the room in terror.

At which point the creature became enraged and went on a bloodsoaked killing spree, mainly, thank goodness, in the Persian Gulf.

But it became lonely and started to ponder its existence. The slaughter that was once so fresh and exciting, now seemed somehow pointless.

Now the creature only wanted companionship.

It begged its creators to build a synthetic woman pig, or sow, as they are known, with whom the creature can live, sequestered from all humanity but happy with his mate.

Many years pass and the modified pig adapts to its new life.

It studies hard at college, dodges the draft, and, in an uplifting saga that few would believe possible, became the 43rd President of the United States.

I know it's the anniversary of the World Trade Centre horror but something has been brought to my attention that I am sure you will agree is of far more importance.

Yes...

It turns out that BCUK is publishing bloggers' birthdays on the home page.

Imagine what havoc could be wreaked if this ultra-senstive information was to fall into the wrong hands.

*faints*

If my totally fictitious birthday under my totally fictitious name and featured on my totally fictitious profile page should ever appear without the written consent of me, my agent, my manager and my lawyers, then there will be HELL to pay.

Sorry.

Just had to get that off my chest.

(Was the irony deep enough? I can never tell)

For reasons unknown, I just joined Friends Reunited.

Perusing the menu, er, list of "friends", I did see some names I recognised from skewl.

But quickly realised I never liked any of them even back then, which was why I never bothered with the f*ckers all these years.

Not much point starting now, is there?

Soooo,

You've spent more money that you can possibly afford on a 400 watt CD player.

One hundred X four.

Watts.

That's quite loud, innit?

Sooner or later, the temptation to crank it will be overwhelming.

We are at that crossroads right now.

Every 16-year-old will be expected to devote their summer to "patriotic" national service, under radical proposals being launched by David Cameron today.

School leavers would be encouraged to join six-week projects such as military training, working with the elderly and even travelling overseas to help in Third World countries.

Oh Dave.

Do fuck off, please.

Go and hug a frigging hoodie or summat.

But really, there's no fun in this any more.

I think EVERYONE has rumbled this floundering Eton Toff arsewipe for what he is by now.

It ain't NEWS, is it?

News just in...News just in...News just in...News just in...

The British Guild of Beer Writers is giving writers, broadcasters,
photographers, poets illustrators, designers and webmasters the chance to
enter their work in six different categories, with one of the category
winners to be named as the British Guild of Beer Writers' Beer Writer of
the Year.

Beer Writer of the Year?

The title is as good as in the bag!

Actually, there is something else.

Something shameful and awful.

Years ago, my boss at work let slip that she was a Samaritans volunteer and told us which area it was she was based in.

She wasn't very popular at work, in fact she was pretty much hated.

So for a laugh, like, it was decided among the staff that we, er, they, would phone the helpline every night until eventually the Boss answered.

And when she did, the conversation would go along the lines of:

Caller: I'm so depressed I feel like topping myself.

Boss: Do you want to talk about it?

Caller: Yes. It's my Boss, you see. She is a total twat and is making my life a misery.

Boss: Oh dear.

Caller: Yes. Everyone fucking hates her and she's totally crap at her job.

And so it would go on until the penny dropped that the caller was one of her staff and she was the shite boss making him suicidal.

What a scandalous waste of her precious time a bogus call like that would have been.

If it had ever happened.

Presser from the Samaritans.

More than one million people have died world-wide by suicide in the last year - more than have died from all wars, terrorism and violence.

A life is lost to suicide, somewhere in the world, every 40 seconds while every three seconds someone tries to take their own life.

Er, that's pretty bleeding shocking isn't it.

Hmm.

Nothing else.

It just is.

An engineer from Currys has refused to fix an under-guarantee computer because its owners smoked!

He said it invalidated their policy.

An inevitable consequence of the public jumping aboard the government's war on smoking bandwagon.

It made me think...

Long before the war on smoking, politicians waged a couple of other wars.

There was the war on sex.

Remember how there was once an unsavoury habit called prostitution, whereby men paid women to have sex with them?

Parliament passed laws against it and this degrading practice entirely disappeared.

Then there was the war on drugs.

People used to take substances with names like “cocaine” and “cannabis”.

Then politicians made them illegal.

Some feeble-minded campaigners said this merely encouraged their use, handed the supply chain to gangsters and exponentially increased crime.

What nonsense! Such drugs are hardly heard of nowadays.

One could also mention the war on terror.

Or the "crackdown" on gun crime.

But maybe we are getting the point by now?

I believe the thickheads of Westminster should run the benefits system, see that our bins are emptied and the drains work.

But they think we need to be told how to cross the road.

And what to eat.

And how dangerous it is to drink a bottle of wine.

Councils have been given £29.5 million of taxpayers' money so they can "train staff" to enforce the smoke ban.

They could have given the money to medical research, spent it on looking after patients with cancer, or on hiring more nurses for the NHS.

But no, it's gone to fund local government officials so they can perform the essential task of issuing fines to smokers.

The smoking ban is a wonderful opportunity for taxpayer-funded courses and jobs, for the production of official documents, for rules and regulations on how to issue fines, so of course officials are exploiting it to the full, regardless of the fact that it is a total waste of our money.

I hope our London blog brethren are standing shoulder to shoulder with the downtrodden, oppressed Tube workers who have so gloriously gone on strike today.

Up the workers!

The wonderfully good thing about being away for a week is that when you return, the torrent of work crap that so used to wear you down and deeply annoy you seems utterly irrelevant (which it always is of course, but you get my drift).

The squabbling and fretting about complete bollocks is about a trillion miles out of my orbit.

The trick is to preserve this sanguine shield of dispassionate despondency for as long as possible - or at least until the next holiday.

Back from hols.

It was very real, thanks.

Anyhoo...

See that picture of Ronnie and Keef having a ciggie on stage?

And all the fuss?

Just a measure of how puritanical our society has become that the Stones lighting up is considered so incredibly wicked that it makes the national papers.

I can't stand all that shite.

It's like the school swots and prefects and mummy's boys have taken over the world and are determined to show the rest of us how naughty we've all been.

Ah.

It's good to be back!