All posts in category: Sex

Nice outfit. Where do you keep the fire extinguisher?

September 28, 2018
Animals/Pets Entertainment/Media/Arts Sex
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Why...

Are we obsessed with safety in all things, except what can actually kill us? Last Christmas my wife and I attended a carol service in London. Before the service started with a candlelit procession and a lone voice singing out ‘Silent Night’, we got a safety announcement. Yup. All the lights were switched on, organ music stopped and the priest in full air stewardess mode pointed out where the fire exits were in case a candle ignited a choir boy’s cassock or some incense managed to set fire to a pew. This in a building that had survived over 1,000 years and never so much as had a runaway candle singe an altar cloth. However later this year my wife has organised a huge charity bash here in Malta to save the Valletta Skyline starring the world’s best ABBA Tribute Band, Revival. So it’s time for fancy dress… out with blue eyeliner, bellbottom trousers and platform shoes. As I am not quite the snake hipped love god of 40 years ago, my old clothes are a tad snug, so I need to hire an outfit. There is a smorgasbord of ABBA costumes available to buy on the web... most of which have a small warning saying stay away from a naked flame or the wearer will turn into a Roman Candle. So there you have it. Come to a church made predominantly out of stone and be subjected to a fire drill, but buy some clothes that can toast you like a marshmallow and tough luck. Yo-yo (You are on Your own).

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Love me, love my dog

August 31, 2018
Animals/Pets Friends Kids/Family/Relations Life Sex
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Why...

When you come to my house do I suggest you don’t criticise my dogs as I won’t judge your children (at least not out loud).

Now I completely accept some people don’t like dogs... in the same way I accept that some people believe Elvis Presley is alive, well and riding Shergar across Area 51.

The thing about dogs is their love is unconditional. Even Hitler’s pet Alsatian Blondi no doubt thought Adolf a loveable chap who fed him scraps and gave him a splendid kennel complete with a swastika weathervane. That pooch was always pleased to see Mein Fuhrer, even after a hard day’s genocide.

In fact dogs are the ultimate sycophants. They laugh at your jokes, look at you admiringly, even perform tricks on demand... of course in return they expect to get food and shelter.

Dogs have indeed come a long way from their wolf forebears and many are more metrosexual with clipped nails and smart coats than flea infested hunters of old. In fact were man to become extinct in a haze of radioactive mushroom clouds, I’m afraid man’s best friend would follow pretty shortly afterwards.

The idea that Pepe the Chihuahua would survive in a post apocalypse world is farcical unless the radiation allows him to develop thumbs to open any tins of Kanga Chunks that he might uncover in the ruins of the post atomic blast.

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Casting call for Aliens in next Star Wars movie. Only real Aliens need apply!

Why...

Is there now a huge gerfuffle over actor Jack Whitehall being given a role as a gay character in a Disney movie? Not because Disney are giving a prominent role to a gay character but because in real life he is not gay so some say he should not get the role.

When I was a Producer casting for roles, I chose the actor or actress best able to portray the character. Doh! It’s called acting.

So does this current nonsense mean that John Hurt should never have played The Naked Civil Servant, a multi award winning production about the first real gay activist Quentin Crisp?

Sean Penn (a renowned swordsman) got an Oscar for playing the gay Harvey Milk.

On the other side of the coin Rupert Everett has played a hunky heterosexual numerous times and gay Cynthia Nixon played Miranda Hobbes, one of the man eaters in Sex and the City.

This debate is utter nonsense brought on by people whose IQ matches their shoe size. Please would someone with some real credibility in Hollywood stand up and tell them to shut up.

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Oh, come on... what happens in Benidorm stays in Benidorm

Why...

When I went on my first solo summer holiday, was the hottest part of the day always after dark? I remember reading that in the 1980’s such was the lure of ‘a quickie in Magaluf’ that over 35% of single people had sex with a stranger within two days of starting a package holiday on the Costa Brava. I suppose if you ground out 50 weeks a year in a damp typing pool in Wigan, some rumpy pumpy in an exotic locale had a very strong appeal. I mean all those hormones, no parents and no prying phone camera from your friends to tell the world what you had been up to. My holiday snaps in the 1970s were taken on the last day to show my Aunt the sea view from my room and the plane I flew home on; taken with a camera loaded with one roll of film with 12 shots (ASA 100 - Remember those). Today’s racy photographs that cover snapchat like acne would never have been developed by my local Boots. Instead I would have found a note inside saying these pictures were unsuitable to print! I can assure you that what I was looking for on those first holidays was not a UNESCO World Heritage Site or a basket weaving co-operative. So I was somewhat staggered to learn that young people on their first solo holidays nowadays seek out exotic locations as opposed to locations where they indulge in something erotic. Cheap and cheerful holidays have been replaced with earnest young people wanting to load up on Instagram a photo of a three toed armadillo or four eared fruit bat. Students and the first time employed apparently now yearn to sample the delights of a warm oil colonic irrigation whilst eating mung beans in an Ashram. Fun seems to be a ten mile trek through some mosquito infested swamp with the reward of a tofu burger and cup of tepid fruit tea, rather than an all-night rave and enough E to fill a giant size bag of M&Ms. The kiss me quick traps of the Baby Boomers and X Generation have suddenly gone quiet. The locals in great swathes of Spain, Italy and Greece are actually nostalgic for the old days of sluicing away the vomit from the night before’s over indulgence or collecting abandoned flip flops, thongs and condoms that once littered the beach in dawn’s early glow. Wolfing down paella with chips followed by binge drinking Raki with Sharon from Skegness has faded from memory like the sepia pictures that hang in the mock rustic tavernas. Now, whilst I am the last person to deny some culture to our youth, where has fun gone? I worry today’s youth are not being misspent.

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Do you wanna be in my gang?

June 22, 2018
Finance/Law Food & Drink Life Politics Sex Technology
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Why...

Do we seek solace mixing with people who on joining a group or club revert to stereotype? “I never want to be a member of a club which would let me in,” may be a classic Groucho Marx line and a cliché but for good reason... It’s true. I have been very lucky to have been invited as a guest to several clubs and they break down into the following seven categories. Back to school There are a handful of Gentlemen’s Clubs in London holding a male only policy. They are all in Pall Mall and St. James and distinctly different to other Gentleman's clubs that can only operate by having scantily club members of the opposite sex. The London Gentleman’s club is really just public school (private school in the US) for boys who never grew up and miss nanny. The place runs on old fashioned rules. The Nanny organises the social desk and membership fees but that’s the only woman you will see. You better turn up in a tie, shoes polished, nails clipped and hair brushed. Yes, you can drink, but do not get rowdy. Most of the food is what I call nursery menu. A perfect lunch would be: Windsor soup, Steak and Kidney Pudding, Jam Roly-Poly, & Welsh Rarebit. Conversation through the meal with other members sharing your refectory style table equally as stodgy and bland. This is followed with a port and a snooze reading yesterday’s The Times. These throw-back establishments work on handed down privilege, who you know and how you behave. I am sorry to delude new members who have fought their way up in society through hard work and brains to join but… Old Biffo and Squiffy in the corner still look down on you as nouveau riche; the same way they dismissed Johnny Foreigner as a new boy at Rugby or that boy with the flash watch as parents “working in trade”. Back to Basics Health clubs. No frills. Over sophisticated gym equipment and eye wateringly expensive juices, drinks and rabbit food. Staff preachy and superior with bodies buffed to within an inch of their lives. Off peak these caverns of sweat are filled with the bored and rich. These poor souls have nothing else to do except cheat on their partner and sneak off for plastic surgery to show the results of all the dieting and training they pretend to follow. Peak time it’s just an overcrowded dating agency. Back to the Future The Lovie playroom. Media based haunts are filled with overloud voices recalling their last meeting with Brad and Angelina, how genuine the Spielberg’s are and what a shame about Amy’s drug abuse. Always in slightly seedy parts of town set up by failed media wannabes who see this as their entree into the glitterati. The propeller head equivalent of techy clubs are full of earnest members trying to convince you to invest in some crypto crapto currency or hint they might get you into an angel start up fund with guaranteed returns. “So, you’ve invested yourself,” is a sure-fire way of getting rid of them... and leaving you with absolutely no one to talk to. Pointless. Back to the Wall The exclusive nightclub. Exclusive because there are only so many people willing to spend £10k a year for membership to an overcrowded noisy hell-hole that charges prices that are an insult and a door policy that admits only good-looking people with an IQ quota the same as their shoe size. To make it worse should you be insecure enough to have to order a five litre bottle of vodka or a jeroboam of champagne for £1,000, the staff bring attention to your vulgarity by having sparklers light up the bottles as they bring them to you and alert everyone else in the place who is tonight’s soft touch. If you have to go to one for a night of drug fueled fun, you never want them to have your real name anyway. Always make sure someone else is the member. Back in the saddle The Horsey Club. Filled with overweight florid faced men and woman who bray when they laugh. If you ask for the bridal suite it’s a large room full of saddles, riding crops and Gucci buckles and the last place you’d want to spend your honeymoon. If you can separate the bullshit from real horse manure you might get a good tip on a horse. The Back Nine What can I say about a golf club except I don’t want to join one. Ever. It’s a chance for you to dress up like an extra from a Blaxploitation movie, though ethnic minority representation still remains low. Members may slice their tee shots to the left or right, but politics is invariably to the right. I speak with some experience here when in Myrtle Beach a club member made the mistake of asking me my opinion on abortion. “The obvious answer is it is not really a man’s decision; though if it were men who got pregnant, I suspect termination would be so easy it would come from an ATM machine. “No religion recognises a miscarriage or the trauma that causes. So, until they do they cannot go on about the rights of a foetus.” He pulled a gun on me and called security to eject the “limey liberal pinko”! Back Inside There is a great line in the TV series set in a woman’s prison Orange is the New Black with a character greeting a new inmate saying… “Welcome to the 1950s”. The speaker is not referring to the building or facilities. But to the clubs. The Narco Mexicans stick to one group, The Neo-Nazis another, right down to the Nepalese Horse thieves or Belgian child molesters. Everyone has a group. It’s basic. It’s for protection. So, on that note console yourself that Bernie Madoff is not the wife of some 6’6” ex Cripps member but closely closeted with some other fraudster both cheating at monopoly but a least paying protection money to keep their balls.

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There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues

June 15, 2018
Animals/Pets Fasion Health & Beauty Life Sex Travel/Nature
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Why...

Is the colour of summertime really blue? Well, OK apart from the obvious colour of the sky and the sea. Let’s start with profanity. Yup. The redder the thermometer the bluer the language. It is beyond me how anyone in my youth managed to drive in the heat without air conditioning and not to lob a thermonuclear device into the idiots in front trying to read a road map. Remember those… only men could read them and only women could fold them while doing twenty miles an hour with an indicator that had been blinking for an hour. In London, on the days it gets really hot, a blind person cannot go on the tube. Reason? You cannot transport animals in a temperature over 30c (86f) and the subway regularly reaches 34 (93f). So whilst it was fine to gently poach a commuter, it was illegal for a guide dog to ride the tube! Aircon (again a blue colour) is so critical for comfort. How do London Black Cabs who again have no Aircon, not understand that in the summer they just give ground to Uber?

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In the old days we cooked real food and made our own entertainment

June 8, 2018
Food & Drink Kids/Family/Relations Life Sex
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Why...

Do some people in their sixties plus go all starry-eyed when harking back to the days before the microwave and streamed entertainment?

“When we were young, we played cards,” they moan.

So giving your kid a regular gambling fix is better than subliminal history via Vikings and The Tudors or world class fantasy literature of Game of Thrones or Lord of the Rings?

“The family stuck together and entertained each other,” they pontificate, sniffing at Netflix, Amazon, Sky, etc...

“Which is why in some remote regions your husband, your brother, your cousin and your uncle were all the same people,” I reply. This is even an argument to allow easy access of porn to occupy Uncle Ernie rather than him insisting on a game of doctors and nurses with his niece and nephew.

However, I do accept that building a tree house, riding a bike without a helmet, a game of conkers or walking unaccompanied to school did generate a dollop of risk. No one I grew up with got away without a broken limb... if not two.

“And we had such innovative games. So much more involving than just a video screen.” True but...

I remember being given an Atomic Energy Lab from a toy company called Gilbert that had a small sample of polonium and uranium! At seven I had fuel driven planes whose propellers regularly tried to sever my fingertips, steam engine trains with boilers heated by methylated spirits (so you were stoned before your fingers got third degree burns) all jumbled up with catapults and a wicked gun called a Johnny 7. This little darling had seven different missile firing guns each capable or poking out an eye or pissing off the next door neighbour’s cat.

I never wore a seatbelt and quite often steered the car sitting on my father’s lap. (Please note we never had an accident... we saw dozens).

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Lost & Found… but we keep it anyway

Why...

Is getting back stuff you have lost so difficult? Yes, I understand that my i-Phone and i-Pad should be attached to my wrists with a piece of string, just like a toddler’s gloves. I do have a tendency to lose things… A LOT. However, recently I left my i-Pad on a Turkish Airline flight that had to connect via Ataturk (Istanbul) Airport. I left the i-Pad on the plane that landed in Ataturk from Malta and noticed it missing on the plane to Sofia, my final destination. So far, so stupid. Rang the airline. Hooray they have found it. To confirm it was mine they asked for the access code to turn it on. I gave it to them. “When are you coming to collect it from Lost and Found?” I replied I was not coming back though Ataturk so could I send a courier to collect. “No. Lost and Found is airside (i.e. after customs/immigration control) so you have to collect yourself.” Having a Lost and Found at an airport that you can only physically pick up yourself if travelling is as logical as a chocolate tea-pot. In addition, my insurance company declined to pay out a loss as the item was in fact recovered. Now if I was a cynical chap, I might think this is part of a cunning plan. You lose an item on a plane, you hand over the access code to show it is yours, they know you are unlikely to collect and before you can say Ebay, it’s for sale… but that would be a terrible thing to suggest…….

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And then they insisted Putin issue a public apology...

Why...

Does everyone think diplomacy is like laundry... to be aired in public? The easiest way to get people to change their minds (excluding attaching parts of their anatomy to a car battery) is not to make it look like they changed it in the first place. Now I am no apologist for some of Russia’s excesses but we equally overstep the mark in what we release in public. There is no public evidence of Russia meddling in the US elections at the request of the Kremlin. I am sure a battalion of James Bonds and Jason Bournes have secret evidence... but isn’t that the point? In public you give Johnnie Foreigner the benefit of the doubt but you stick incontrovertible proof under his nose in private. Yet you still give him a way out publicly as you haven’t painted him into a corner. Note that our Kremlin buddies have been unusually quiet about the Golden Shower allegations swirling around President Trump... the only reason I give the sordid claims any credence!

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I never forget a face... but in your case I’m prepared to make an exception!

Why...

Is it people I really want to forget are always the ones who remember me? If there is one certainty in life, it’s the annoying geek from kindergarten whose teddy bear I punched, the abusive jerk whose girlfriend fell into my arms, or the cross-eyed clown who reversed into my car at the supermarket car park will end up sitting next to me on a marathon airplane journey. They will also be the first to greet me at a wedding line reception. And they ALL remember me. I on the other hand do not possess even a flicker of recollection. Then there is the reverse. Once at a dinner party I was complaining about a recent review from the late TV movie presenter Barry Norman when a lovely blond lady to my left piped up: “Hi, we have not been properly introduced. Emma Norman. Barry is my father.” Cue to a prayer for a hole to open up beneath me to swallow up my elephantine social gaff. As if that was not embarrassing enough, I was at awards dinner two months later with the great man himself sitting opposite me. My wonderful hostess for our table started doing the introductions… “Mark Grenside, this is Barry Norman.” “My daughter sends her regards,” were the only words he addressed to me all evening.

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Wear a tie if you want to be taken seriously

Why...

Don’t people understand that a business suit is just 21st Century armour? It’s meant to be intimidating. It’s expensive, often handmade and bloody uncomfortable. This is something that is close to home for me. I’m actually allergic to wool, so when I dress up in a suit and tie I itch like a flea infested baboon rolling in a nettle-bed but my dear business partners explain that’s a small price to pay for some financial or legal glory. Some folks might think it’s bangin’ to turn up to a meeting with Bankers or Lawyers in Nike Louis Vuitton sneakers ($2,500) and a Dolce and Gabana t-shirt ($1,300), but all you’ll be banging is your head on a brick wall. There are rules and regs in life and these include costumes. Run against that and you simply put yourself at a disadvantage. And if you think dressing like a walking advertising slogan makes a statement… it’s that you are a gullible twat!

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Twenty goes into sixty a lot more times than sixty goes into twenty

Why...

Do the media nearly always portray the old rich guy who gets the trophy wife, rather than the Merry Widow snagging a twenty year old toy boy? Let’s face it, when it comes to old age women have us men beat. Today’s female grey wolves were lucky enough to have bought property fifty years ago for the current price of a Plasma TV screen. When their other half sadly shuffles off the mortal coil some widows will have amassed considerable fortunes. Male goldmines are still hotwired by nature to their groin, so most gold diggers come in one size fits all sugar daddy model; a trout mouth pneumatic busted blond, often with an IQ rating matching their shoe size. There is nothing wrong with that. I always remember the ecstatic grin on the wheelchair bound J.Howard Marshall who married playmate of the year Anna Nicole Smith. But women have a far more eclectic selection process. Obviously fit and toned but this new age toy boy is going to have work hard for the money.

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Funk me, Mark Zuckerburg wants to put me on the naughty step coz I talk like a sailor

Why...

Has swearing become the big no-no on Facebook... as opposed to: how to build a nuclear bomb on a rainy afternoon, five different ways to slice and dice a noisy next door neighbour or learn to shish-kebab the infidel in ten easy steps? I understand that algorithms are being introduced as electronic bleepers to cull blogger’s profanity. Therefore this might be my last blog for a while as I dial down my language. So what happens to my friends on Fanny Hands Lane in Scunthorpe or Butt Hill road in Penistone who are ornithologists and want to discuss the mating habits of a blue tit, a skiddy-cock, nicker-pecker, boobyalla or assapanick? Will the marine biologist from Cockermouth in Cumbria and their aholehole and bummalo fishes be banished from showing pictures or the insect lovers and their cute six legged cockchafers have their accounts closed? No more stories from holiday-makers out to catch a dik-dik (a small antilope) or out for a sail with a fuksheet (foresail). Clearly one man’s passion is Facebook’s poison.

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Time for a World Summit

Why...

Do people go to Davos? The question I pose is why Davos as a place, not why a bunch of billionaires and centi-millionaires congregate somewhere to discuss the plight of the working class! Call me stupid but last time I checked Davos is a ski resort. Clearly it would be electoral suicide for a Political bigwig to go there and be filmed enjoying a convivial après ski drink or a couple of runs down the mountain before breakfast… unless you are Putin when it’s more likely your opponents keep committing suicide. However whilst I understand that G10, G20, GSpot or whomever dutifully rotate the choice of a city between members for their get-togethers, who on earth said: “I know, let’s disrupt an entire ski resort in high season, fly a bunch of Politicians and plutocrats into a snow storm and add in a battalion of security guards and flunkies. Oh and the world’s press. Yup, we can shoehorn them somewhere that is dedicated to fun and frivolity and pretend it’s somewhere to save the world”. Whoever that someone was, is a genius and I assume is making a bundle of money out of this.

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This call is in confidence....right?

Why...

Do people believe anything indiscreet they commit to an electronic device will not come back to haunt them? The only way you can be sure some witticism, rant or personal video you have sent into the electronic ether will never be disseminated is: kill the recipient blow up every server in existence. As this might prove a bit tricky, you’d think the alternative of only whispering things in confidence into someone’s ear (so long as they don’t have a hearing aid that records) is as obvious as a Donna Versace face lift. And yet........ Privacy started to leave planet earth with President Nixon. He was brought down by recordings in the White House that played back some remarks that ultimately cost him his job. The irony is it was Tricky Dicky himself that started recording in the Oval Office so that Presidents remarks could be recorded for posterity. Doh! Hilary Clinton’s biggest mistake (apart from believing Bill when he promised her for the umpteenth time that was his last peccadillo) was not what she wrote in her emails... it’s that she was dumb enough to write them at all. Sarah Palin was furious when a stash of her emails were leaked with details of a possible ‘mix’ between business and politics… yet her password on such sensitive material was her birthday! If half the rumors about Jack Kennedy are true, there is no way he could have kept a lid on things in today’s world of email message trails and camera phones. Indeed a recent survey showed that a smartphone is the number one hand held device... relegating what men keep in their underpants to second place.

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Ashley Madison, Tinder, Match.com and E- Harmony have a lot to answer for.

Why...

Do people believe a computer will find Mr. Right, or Mrs. Always Right? I believe it was Bill Clinton who said he came from a town called Hope. Perhaps he forgot the prefix No.... Of course everyone should experience love. However if you have hit every branch of the ugly tree, are pushing 70 and can count the number of teeth you have left on one hand, let me be blunt. No dating site is going to send you a Brad Pitt clone with a ribbon tied to his gentleman’s sausage or an Angelina Jolie facsimile wearing a T shirt saying ‘Treat me like a postage stamp. Lick me, stick me and send me on my way’... well not without presenting you with a large bill. Wake up! Internet dating is fine, so long, as Clint Eastwood said, ‘A man must know his limitations’. It is fine and laudable for a dating site to attempt to provide a soul mate. A sex crazed bed mate will almost certainly require a cheque, mate.

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Another New Year. If you want to stay alive don’t tell anyone how old you are...

December 29, 2017
Entertainment/Media/Arts Food & Drink Friends Sex
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Why...

Tell anyone your age? Brrrrrruce, a Greenland shark was unceremoniously hoicked out of his icy home recently and duly dissected by some scientists because they thought he might be quite old. All bad news for the aquatic carnivore but good news for those who care about other people’s ages as it appears Brrrruce could have been up to 512 years old; making him by far and away the world’s oldest shark. (Sorry you lost your crown, Rupert Murdoch). However, on further investigation it appears Brrruce might only have been 272 years old. The research scientists needed some comparative analysis before they could nail down the exact number of birthday candles Brrrruce would have been entitled to, had they not caught him. “Oh no,” I hear you exclaim. “How could this be? What can we do? We must know his age. I insist we know the truth!” Simple. With a gobsmacking lack of irony, some propeller head in a wet suit said: “We really need to capture another Greenland shark (i.e.kill it) and then using comparative analysis of the eyeballs we can be sure about the age of this first one. Trouble is these sharks are very rare and difficult to find........” If I was a Greenland shark and read this during my morning coffee and herring, I’d be bloody impossible to find cos I’d be diving under that melting ice cap and heading somewhere safe, like Japanese waters where at least I won’t be harpooned as I have zero attraction to Japanese diners.

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Christmas is coming... Oy vey!

December 21, 2017
Entertainment/Media/Arts Food & Drink Friends Kids/Family/Relations Sex
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Why...

Is Christmas so confusing? The weird thing about Christmas is we all think we have a shared vision but in fact each of us has a very specific ideal that has very little in common with anyone else... apart from over indulgence and a fat man with a beard (or thin if you are Dutch - see what I mean?). Is it a real or fake tree? If it’s fake, you need to use it for twenty years before it is ‘greener’ than a real one. In Catalan they have a guy called the Caganer in the nativity scene. This is a guy having a poop! Yup apparently it denotes fertility and good luck. In Austria Santa is accompanied by a demon called Krampus who punishes the ‘naughty’ kids in ‘naughty or nice’ and in Holland the locals black up like Al Jolson as a character called Black Pete. First thing Christmas morning is it stockings or boots? (no, not those kind of stockings and boots... though they may indeed make a very Happy Christmas for someone). Is a cracker a paper present you pull, a good looking member of the opposite sex you pull or something you put cheese on? Is the Christmas meal dinner on Christmas Eve, lunch on Christmas Day or dinner... or all three? Do you overeat Roast Turkey, Roast Goose, Roast Beef or nut cutlets? In Japan the whole country eats Kentucky Fried Chicken. So popular is it, that you must order two months in advance. I sort of get it as turkey sushi would bring salmonella as it’s Christmas present. In Greenland it’s Kiviac which is fermented sea birds wrapped in seal blubber. Yum! Outside, is it snowballs or sunscreen, football or soccer, ski-ing on snow or water? Inside it is splodging in front of the TV to watch a Christmas Story, The Great Escape, Elf or The Queen’s Speech? In Sweden everyone watches Donald Duck!

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On your marks, get set, pay

Why...

Does watching live sport bother me? Recently there has been some fuss in the USA about NFL football players making a protest by going down on one knee. Well I have a protest... and I am on both knees praying for some sanity. I have just returned from a Thanksgiving week in Washington DC. During that time I was kindly treated to a basketball match with the Washington Wizards and an ice hockey match with the local Washington Capitals. The seats for the basketball cost my host $275 each and the ice hockey an eye watering $375 each. OK, in each case a hot dog and beer were included in the price. In addition my son wanted a shirt of the Washington Capital’s (ice hockey) leading scorer. A snip at $225! Now this poor love is only paid a piddling $16m a year basic so needs those shirt royalties. He is a pauper compared to his football colleagues who can earn ten times that! Yup there are players with $200m contracts... and the market happily pays for it. And to add insult to injury the salaries now require endless commercial breaks to pay for all this. It means a game with an actual playing time of just over an hour can last a decade to play out (well, at least over three hours). To put all this in perspective the result is some season tickets costing $50,000 a year. Now slap my ass and call me Sally but spectator sport was meant to be enjoyed by everyone. At these prices, it is now clearly the preserve of the über-rich. Whatever happened to “jerseys for goalposts and an orange segment at half time”? I am all for the free market but not for the market free-for-all. Salaries for sports stars are eventually paid for by you and I. If I object as a shareholder to some CEO being paid $ gabillion why can I not as a Sky subscriber protest that a bouffant haired soccer star is being paid £2m a month... after tax. Now I know this line of talk is going to make me very unpopular with gilt furniture manufacturers in Cheshire or diamond ear stud suppliers to the NFL in the USA but guys... you are overpaid over compensated over indulged and the real world is way over the rainbow.

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Zip it, stupid!

Why...

Use the postal service? I know handwritten letters are on the endangered species list along with intelligent British Tory MPs but to me they are still a thing of wonder. We are approaching Christmas (not the Holiday Season, not the Festive Season, Yuletide or any other mealy mouthed watered down in case I offend anyone Holiday) and my wife sends out Christmas cards to all four corners of the globe. I am not so impressed that a series of electronic impulses from my computer in Malta can flash this blog across the planet. But a letter? How, in all that’s holy can anyone read the scribble we write on envelopes. To be able to decipher that is black magic. The ZIP code is of course the key. These are the vital numbers read by a computer that send your letter on its merry way and has helped hugely in the efficiency of the postal service... except in England. In dear Olde England the equivalent of the Zip code (which in USA is only numbers) is called the Post Code. It is usually two letters and one number followed by one number and two letters. NW1 0NE You would therefore think to avoid confusion the Masterminds at the GPO (General Post Office) would never use the letters I and O to avoid confusion with the numbers 1 and 0. Er... No. It is simply staggering how many codes in the UK use one of those four. In fact over 75% of Post Codes on our cards have one of those four letters or digits. And as for my friend who lives in OA1 0IU if you don’t get a card, not my fault. Get the clown who gave you that Post Code to change it. How about FU2 GP0

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Nice outfit. Where do you keep the fire extinguisher?

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Love me, love my dog

Why...

Casting call for Aliens in next Star Wars movie. Only real Aliens need apply!

Why...

Oh, come on... what happens in Benidorm stays in Benidorm

Why...

Do you wanna be in my gang?

Why...

There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues

Why...

In the old days we cooked real food and made our own entertainment

Why...

Lost & Found… but we keep it anyway

Why...

And then they insisted Putin issue a public apology...

Why...

I never forget a face... but in your case I’m prepared to make an exception!

Why...

Wear a tie if you want to be taken seriously

Why...

Twenty goes into sixty a lot more times than sixty goes into twenty

Why...

Funk me, Mark Zuckerburg wants to put me on the naughty step coz I talk like a sailor

Why...

Time for a World Summit

Why...

This call is in confidence....right?

Why...

Ashley Madison, Tinder, Match.com and E- Harmony have a lot to answer for.

Why...

Another New Year. If you want to stay alive don’t tell anyone how old you are...

Why...

Christmas is coming... Oy vey!

Why...

On your marks, get set, pay

Why...

Zip it, stupid!

Why...