Festive word up!
Having just returned from Dame Reg's nuptials, I'm not best placed write my annual Christmas message to my adoring fans but here goes.
What a do that was. Having spent 3 hours in traffic on the way there only to find that it was the queue for Ikea, you can imagine that yours truly was not in the best frame of mind on arrival. Still, the old queen did us proud and I managed to put away my fair share of the bubbly on offer. Good to see Ozzie Osbourne and Mrs Beckham there even though I did get them mixed up - and that was before I'd hit the Bollie.
So now its back to reality and Christmas Day at my mum's. She's in a bit of tizz because of all this bird flu business. Last I heard she was basting the turkey with Vick as a precaution. I only hope we don't have Lemsip sauce to go with it. Unlike the royal wedding, it will be a modest affair. Just me, my old mum and her toy boy. I was hoping my beloved would be able to join us but she suddenly remembered she had to climb Kilimanjaro or something. So it'll be the usual turkey and all the trimmings followed by a 3 hour drunken doze in front of the Xmas edition of Pimp my Ride. I believe it's Santa's sleigh that's getting the treatment this year.
So another year closes without a number 1. I was going to re-record 'All I want for Christmas is a Beatle' but looking at the ones that are left, I decided not to bother. What a year it has been in the rock firmament, what with that 70's throwback - Rod Stewart fathering yet another sprog instead of collecting his pension and moaning about the state of the paving stones outside the post office. It set yours truly thinking about the future and what it holds for the golden generation. I mean, what with Sir Mick and the boys on yet another tour with Keef asking every 5 minutes whether he's had his dinner yet and Lady Elton getting spliced, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the world has tipped every so slightly off-centre.
Anyway must dash, there's a carol concert at the Al Jazeera Tapas bar and Massage Parlour and I'm keen to get a front seat.
Season's Greetings and a Happy New Year
VG - RS
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Blinking into the sunlight
Word up!
So you thought VG was no more? Well let me tell you, he's back and he's better than ever. For those of you who are the tiniest bit interested, I've been on a bit a sabbatical 'oop northdrying out writing my memoirs in a desperate bid to make some moolah for the forthcoming festive season. I decided to miss out all the childhood stuff - living in one room with 11 siblings ( mainly because I lived in rather a nice house in the suburbs with my own room)- and jump straight to the '60s. Five months later and I can only recall an afternoon in Earls Court with a australian backpacker who taught me the chords to 'Tie me Kangaroo Down, Sport'. Plus ca change, c'est le meme chose, as my old dad used to say (he was a french polisher).
So, now I'm considering, as they say, my options. Casting about in the muddy pool that is rock (or is that the rock pool that is Mud?), I see that anybody who's managed to survive the years of excess is now on tour peddling 30 year old songs in the hope that some anorak with a computer will sample something for their next downloadable ditty and save them the trouble of going out of the house at all. If you are Robert Plant, you stick a load of rugs on stage, burn some incense, play everything at half speed and call it world music. Cynical? Moi? At least you won't see me on Coronation Street. Yes I mean you, Rossi and Parfitt.
Anyway, I'm off to revisit my usual haunts in a bid to make binge drinking an Olympic sport by 2012.
Someone's got to do it...
So you thought VG was no more? Well let me tell you, he's back and he's better than ever. For those of you who are the tiniest bit interested, I've been on a bit a sabbatical 'oop north
So, now I'm considering, as they say, my options. Casting about in the muddy pool that is rock (or is that the rock pool that is Mud?), I see that anybody who's managed to survive the years of excess is now on tour peddling 30 year old songs in the hope that some anorak with a computer will sample something for their next downloadable ditty and save them the trouble of going out of the house at all. If you are Robert Plant, you stick a load of rugs on stage, burn some incense, play everything at half speed and call it world music. Cynical? Moi? At least you won't see me on Coronation Street. Yes I mean you, Rossi and Parfitt.
Anyway, I'm off to revisit my usual haunts in a bid to make binge drinking an Olympic sport by 2012.
Someone's got to do it...
Monday, July 25, 2005
and today's word is...
His word up!
Finally made contact with Quentin. I suggest we meet as I have some news to impart. He wants to go to one of the usual watering holes which will allow him to show off his tan to anyone who might be interested but I direct him the Christian Reading Room and Macrobiotic Food in Centre in Hoxton which throws him out somewhat.
Slightly nonplussed, Q pitches up and has to hand his mobile phone which immediately which sends him into a twitchy fit. I suspect he has already got the drift that all is not as before. So, I launch into the Finding God Thing after which I have to help him retrieve his jaw from the floor. I ask him how he's going to handle it PR-wise. After a significant rabbit in headlights moment he comes up with a stonking idea - Grope for God.
You've got to admit - it's got a ring to it
Finally made contact with Quentin. I suggest we meet as I have some news to impart. He wants to go to one of the usual watering holes which will allow him to show off his tan to anyone who might be interested but I direct him the Christian Reading Room and Macrobiotic Food in Centre in Hoxton which throws him out somewhat.
Slightly nonplussed, Q pitches up and has to hand his mobile phone which immediately which sends him into a twitchy fit. I suspect he has already got the drift that all is not as before. So, I launch into the Finding God Thing after which I have to help him retrieve his jaw from the floor. I ask him how he's going to handle it PR-wise. After a significant rabbit in headlights moment he comes up with a stonking idea - Grope for God.
You've got to admit - it's got a ring to it
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Thank the Lard
As you can imagine the Grope mailbox has been groaning with messages from my massive fan base thirsty for more info about yours truly's spiritual conversion and , of course, my beloved - Gloria.
First off, Gloria Goodbody is not her real name as she changed it early in her modelling career from Tamara Goodbody for obvious reasons. At the peak of her career she was the Face of Lard 1978 until the product she was endorsing began to take its toll. Several years and a few stone later, she was at a low ebb. When I first met her, she was a wringer-out for a one-armed window cleaner who only did bungalows. Penury and RSI beckoned.
We continued to meet from time to time at various glittering occasions but it was only latterly that we forged a deeper relationship. Last year, I was on the road to Perdition, which is a small village just outside Bootle, when she convinced me that there was a better way. The rest is history and after a whirlwind romance, I popped the question. Those of you who read the more basic newspapers will have seen photographs of the ring which I managed to secure from a local branch of CASH NOW! at a favourable price on a 'no wedding, no pay' basis.
Naturally, being linked with a mega-star such as myself has its drawbacks but Gloria's inner spirituality and considerable bulk is more than a match for anything that the redtops can throw at her.
My only problem now is how to break all this to Quentin who is blissfully unware of current developments on account of the fact that he is sunning himself on a tiny island off Greece with his hair gel consultant.
Pax Vobiscum
First off, Gloria Goodbody is not her real name as she changed it early in her modelling career from Tamara Goodbody for obvious reasons. At the peak of her career she was the Face of Lard 1978 until the product she was endorsing began to take its toll. Several years and a few stone later, she was at a low ebb. When I first met her, she was a wringer-out for a one-armed window cleaner who only did bungalows. Penury and RSI beckoned.
We continued to meet from time to time at various glittering occasions but it was only latterly that we forged a deeper relationship. Last year, I was on the road to Perdition, which is a small village just outside Bootle, when she convinced me that there was a better way. The rest is history and after a whirlwind romance, I popped the question. Those of you who read the more basic newspapers will have seen photographs of the ring which I managed to secure from a local branch of CASH NOW! at a favourable price on a 'no wedding, no pay' basis.
Naturally, being linked with a mega-star such as myself has its drawbacks but Gloria's inner spirituality and considerable bulk is more than a match for anything that the redtops can throw at her.
My only problem now is how to break all this to Quentin who is blissfully unware of current developments on account of the fact that he is sunning himself on a tiny island off Greece with his hair gel consultant.
Pax Vobiscum
Saturday, July 16, 2005
His Word Up
You have no doubt been wondering where yours truly has been for the past few weeks. Well, I can reveal that I have been at the renowned Doris Mondeo Clinic on account of my rather enthusiastic lifestyle. I have now returned, revived and revitalised.
I can also announce that during my stay I found God which I think was as much a shock to him as to me. I have renounced my former hedonistic life in exchange for days of quiet contemplation which I will be spending with myfancy piece fiancee - ex-model, Gloria Goodbody. I have also exchanged Grope Towers for a modest residence more fitting to my present spiritual state. I have therefore taken a small apartment over the Wing Ya Dim Sum Express & Tanning Salon for the duration.
Stand by for yours truly's take on god and his mysterious ways.
I can also announce that during my stay I found God which I think was as much a shock to him as to me. I have renounced my former hedonistic life in exchange for days of quiet contemplation which I will be spending with my
Stand by for yours truly's take on god and his mysterious ways.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Live 8
Full marks to soap-dodger Saint Bob for putting together the Live 8 concerts. Must admit to being slightly miffed for not being top of the bill but I suppose Dame Reg needs the publicity more than yours truly.
A big up, however, for the non-appearance of the Spice Girls sparing us the sight of Ginger's gusset ten years on...
A big up, however, for the non-appearance of the Spice Girls sparing us the sight of Ginger's gusset ten years on...
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Public Image
So I'm in Imaculada's Portuguese BBQ & Sauna having a private moment when the manager calls me on the mobile. After an ear-bending of gargantuan proportions I get the message that yours truly has to get out there and earn some serious dosh.
Now you will recall that a Comeback Tour was mooted earlier in the year. Now that Cream has finished its gigs, I reckon the coast is clear for the some serious Grope Rocks! action. I get hold of Quentin and arrange to meet him at the White Lion to talk tactics.
I pitch up to find him bent over some gadget which he tells me is a raspberry or something. Apparently, he can be contacted by email at any time of the day or night to which my first question is 'Why?'. Anyway, I tell him that he needs to rustle up some PR pdq otherwise he'll spending more time with his strawberry in the dole queue. He does this little dithery thing for a few seconds and then launches into something about me getting a more consumer friendly image. Inevitably, bloody Clapton's name crops up. Now, is it me or does he look like a middle manager from an insurance company these days? There's a lot of 'over my dead body' from me and gentle sobbing from Quentin before I finally agree to a feasibility study.
So in the interests of consumer research, I'd like to hear any suggestions as how the already stella Grope image might be improved.
Keep it clean
Now you will recall that a Comeback Tour was mooted earlier in the year. Now that Cream has finished its gigs, I reckon the coast is clear for the some serious Grope Rocks! action. I get hold of Quentin and arrange to meet him at the White Lion to talk tactics.
I pitch up to find him bent over some gadget which he tells me is a raspberry or something. Apparently, he can be contacted by email at any time of the day or night to which my first question is 'Why?'. Anyway, I tell him that he needs to rustle up some PR pdq otherwise he'll spending more time with his strawberry in the dole queue. He does this little dithery thing for a few seconds and then launches into something about me getting a more consumer friendly image. Inevitably, bloody Clapton's name crops up. Now, is it me or does he look like a middle manager from an insurance company these days? There's a lot of 'over my dead body' from me and gentle sobbing from Quentin before I finally agree to a feasibility study.
So in the interests of consumer research, I'd like to hear any suggestions as how the already stella Grope image might be improved.
Keep it clean
Monday, May 16, 2005
Bath humbug
As today is the first day of the rest of my post-political life, I was not best pleased to learn that we are now no longer allowed to have a hot bath for fear of upping the second degree burns statistics at No 10.
Presumably there'll be an ESBO (Extremely Scalding Bath Order) in preparation as we speak.
Presumably there'll be an ESBO (Extremely Scalding Bath Order) in preparation as we speak.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Et tu Brute?
Well, the post-election knives are out and yours truly's been asked to resign his leadership of In Vino Veritas. Officially, it's to spend more time with my family but if you'd lived with my mum as long as I have, that's the last reason you'd give.
Truth is, there is a viper in our midst in the rather uneven shape of El Magnifico who has been waiting on the sidelines for VG to dig himself into a big hole. It all came to pass in the Diminished Fifth last Friday where we were foregathered for an end-of-week libation. I was on my seventh JD and Chocotino when the bombshell came. It fell to Quentin, who by now had taken enough Babychams to sink a battleship, to deliver the coup-de-grace by shouting 'You're out - gitface!' from the back of the bar. Now I know how Lady T felt. What followed was an unseemly ruck which resulted in the entire party being ejected into Greek Street but not before I made sure that El Magnifico wouldn't be writing any rhyming couplets for a couple of weeks.
So that's it for me and politics - give me the slimy, corrupt, exploitation of the music business any day
Truth is, there is a viper in our midst in the rather uneven shape of El Magnifico who has been waiting on the sidelines for VG to dig himself into a big hole. It all came to pass in the Diminished Fifth last Friday where we were foregathered for an end-of-week libation. I was on my seventh JD and Chocotino when the bombshell came. It fell to Quentin, who by now had taken enough Babychams to sink a battleship, to deliver the coup-de-grace by shouting 'You're out - gitface!' from the back of the bar. Now I know how Lady T felt. What followed was an unseemly ruck which resulted in the entire party being ejected into Greek Street but not before I made sure that El Magnifico wouldn't be writing any rhyming couplets for a couple of weeks.
So that's it for me and politics - give me the slimy, corrupt, exploitation of the music business any day
Friday, May 06, 2005
Party Party
Despite our best efforts Vino Veritas did not manage to win a seat in yesterday's election. There was a moment when we thought we might beat the Death Dungeons & Taxes party but I couldn't get my mum away from When Celebrity Nose Jobs Go Wrong in time to cast her vote.
Undeterred, we held a post-ballot party at the Somalian Barbeque and Private Book shop (all you can eat for £2.99 with a complimentary Special Brew) which I have to admit turned ugly at one point when Quentin and Old Cove got into a heated debate about our policy of free hair gel for the over 60s.
Anyway, it's all over for another 4 years and I wish our fellow campaigners all the best for the rest of the season.
Now I can get back to my normal lifestyle, I'm off to my favourite Gentleman's Venue for a bit of well-earned R&R.
Undeterred, we held a post-ballot party at the Somalian Barbeque and Private Book shop (all you can eat for £2.99 with a complimentary Special Brew) which I have to admit turned ugly at one point when Quentin and Old Cove got into a heated debate about our policy of free hair gel for the over 60s.
Anyway, it's all over for another 4 years and I wish our fellow campaigners all the best for the rest of the season.
Now I can get back to my normal lifestyle, I'm off to my favourite Gentleman's Venue for a bit of well-earned R&R.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Bring on the Swingometer
Well another week of canvassing has passed as the search for the elusive voter continues with only one day to go. I don't mind telling you that all this being nice to people malarky is beginning to wear a bit thin. I call a meeting of my campaign team at the Bigamist and Fancy Piece. According to the party treasurer, the battle fund, which consists mainly of a generous donation from my old mum's weekly pension that I lifted from her handbag while she was watching Celebrity Oven Cleaning, is all but spent - so we're on halves.
While we are honing the final part of our manifesto - no swedish students on the underground, a free coke with every meal for the under 5s, caravans for all - Quentin's mobile starts up. After a lot , 'yessing' and 'uh-huhing' he comes off the blower all excited. Apparently, we've acquired a new member who's jumped ship from one of the other parties. Some bloke called Kilroy-Silk who's given up trying to rid the country of johnny foreigner and wants to throw his lot in with us. Bouyed up by this news, we plan the final push which will be to address a rally of the faithful in the back bar of the Double Standard followed by group postal vote rigging before the last collection at the Mount Pleasant sorting office.
Isn't democracy a wonderful thing?
While we are honing the final part of our manifesto - no swedish students on the underground, a free coke with every meal for the under 5s, caravans for all - Quentin's mobile starts up. After a lot , 'yessing' and 'uh-huhing' he comes off the blower all excited. Apparently, we've acquired a new member who's jumped ship from one of the other parties. Some bloke called Kilroy-Silk who's given up trying to rid the country of johnny foreigner and wants to throw his lot in with us. Bouyed up by this news, we plan the final push which will be to address a rally of the faithful in the back bar of the Double Standard followed by group postal vote rigging before the last collection at the Mount Pleasant sorting office.
Isn't democracy a wonderful thing?
Friday, April 15, 2005
On the campaign trail
Regular readers will have noticed that the old diary has been a bit thin of late. As you can imagine, it's been a bit a week what with the Wedding of the Year (I hope Ken and Deidre make it this time) and the big event in Rome. To top it all, yours truly has been out in the hustings in the Battle Datsun Sunny chivving up support for my In Vino Veritas party.
It's been an endless round of kissing pensioners and promising free Werthers Originals to babies, without, I have to admit, much success. As you know, we are a compact group - me and El Magnifico, my Minister Without Cogent Thought. So I decide to co-opt Quentin from the PR company and Old Cove from the Planet Bollocks to help out with the manifesto.
We meet up at the Bar Rhumba for a drink with an umbrella to discuss tactics. Old Cove goes into one about focus groups and suggests a little 'blue sky thinking' about party values so that we can define the voter demographic. So I give them both barrels. At end of twenty minutes, it appears that I will not tolerate; children, foreigners, foreigners with caravans, young people or old people and I am in favour of; free pre-written essays for students, corporal punishment for people at the supermarket checkout without the correct change and a lifetime ban for drivers who hold everybody up in car parks waiting for someone to leave their space. OC and Quentin go into a huddle and come back with the result.
Apparently my target voter is a rather strange woman in Dungeness. I wonder if I can get her telephone number?
It's been an endless round of kissing pensioners and promising free Werthers Originals to babies, without, I have to admit, much success. As you know, we are a compact group - me and El Magnifico, my Minister Without Cogent Thought. So I decide to co-opt Quentin from the PR company and Old Cove from the Planet Bollocks to help out with the manifesto.
We meet up at the Bar Rhumba for a drink with an umbrella to discuss tactics. Old Cove goes into one about focus groups and suggests a little 'blue sky thinking' about party values so that we can define the voter demographic. So I give them both barrels. At end of twenty minutes, it appears that I will not tolerate; children, foreigners, foreigners with caravans, young people or old people and I am in favour of; free pre-written essays for students, corporal punishment for people at the supermarket checkout without the correct change and a lifetime ban for drivers who hold everybody up in car parks waiting for someone to leave their space. OC and Quentin go into a huddle and come back with the result.
Apparently my target voter is a rather strange woman in Dungeness. I wonder if I can get her telephone number?
Monday, April 04, 2005
Grope dot com
I'm back from a few days away in my seaside retreat to find that all is not well at Camp Grope. For a start, the new web site and shopping experience is not online so I call up Quentin to get the latest. Apparently, there's been a big fall-out about how much to charge for the GROPE ROCKS! t-shirts and the web developer has had a hissy fit downing keyboards until everything has been sorted out.
I call an emergency meeting in the Bridge and Coda to see if I can retrieve the situation. Quentin turns up with a face like a smacked arse which doesn't improve when I point out that he's probably depriving a village of an idiot at this moment. This sends him off into girly sulk which doesn't help yours truly's cause one bit. At this point, Old Cove pitches up fresh from some skiing jaunt. Now normally, I find OC about as useful as a wrongly-dated Royal Wedding souvenir but for once, he comes up trumps by 'dear boying' Quentin back to some semblance of normality. Now we are back on track, I bring up the question of the web site launch date. I suggest this Friday which for some reason doesn't go down too well.
Is it me or does no-one have a sense of priority?
I call an emergency meeting in the Bridge and Coda to see if I can retrieve the situation. Quentin turns up with a face like a smacked arse which doesn't improve when I point out that he's probably depriving a village of an idiot at this moment. This sends him off into girly sulk which doesn't help yours truly's cause one bit. At this point, Old Cove pitches up fresh from some skiing jaunt. Now normally, I find OC about as useful as a wrongly-dated Royal Wedding souvenir but for once, he comes up trumps by 'dear boying' Quentin back to some semblance of normality. Now we are back on track, I bring up the question of the web site launch date. I suggest this Friday which for some reason doesn't go down too well.
Is it me or does no-one have a sense of priority?
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Can you keep a secret?
Now politics is not my thing. I only know the name of the prime minister because I was cornered by him at some drinks do at Number 10 when he was going through his cool phase. He's banging on about his Stratocaster and how half the cabinet are closet rockers while I'm trying to make a rapid exit. In the end, I fall over the drummer's guide dog and it all gets a bit unpleasant.
Anyway, I'm in the Maharishi Curry and Tanning salon having a quiet five minutes and I spot this article in the paper about MI5 having a bit of a recruiting drive. Apparently, we can now expect the nation's security to be run by ex-middle managers more accustomed to directing the incontinent to the customer facilities in Tesco.
Call me old-fashioned but yours truly was a lot happier when all this was under wraps. I don't really want to know that counter-terrorism is now being monitored by someone who was once in charge of enhancing my dining experience at the local Harvester. Give me a dodgy toff with a public school education and penchant for young men any day. With people like that at the helm, at least you know where you stand. Next thing you know, they'll be bringing in a SPECTRE card with points for the most spies bagged in a month.
It'll all end in tears, mark my words.
Anyway, I'm in the Maharishi Curry and Tanning salon having a quiet five minutes and I spot this article in the paper about MI5 having a bit of a recruiting drive. Apparently, we can now expect the nation's security to be run by ex-middle managers more accustomed to directing the incontinent to the customer facilities in Tesco.
Call me old-fashioned but yours truly was a lot happier when all this was under wraps. I don't really want to know that counter-terrorism is now being monitored by someone who was once in charge of enhancing my dining experience at the local Harvester. Give me a dodgy toff with a public school education and penchant for young men any day. With people like that at the helm, at least you know where you stand. Next thing you know, they'll be bringing in a SPECTRE card with points for the most spies bagged in a month.
It'll all end in tears, mark my words.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
I'll have a P please Bob
Given the unseasonably warm weather, I'm sitting outside Yoshi's Noodle Bar and Colonic Irrigation Centre enjoying a post all-nighter reviver.
As I'm taking in the rays, I start to muse upon some of the big questions in life. Why are we all here? Do blue men sing the whites? Is Carol Vorderman really good at sums or do they stop the tape while she gets her calculator out? As all this is swimming around my head, the mobile starts up somewhat breaking the moment. It's the manager, trying to ascertain my whereabouts.
He tells me that he's got good and bad news. Apparently, Old Cove has done his back in snowboarding and the feasibility study's gone on the back-burner. When I ask what the bad news is, he says that is the bad news. The good news is that I'm up for some award. Not before time I say and enquire which glittering occasion I'll be attending as I have a new companion I want to show off. He goes silent at this point and tells me to jump in a cab and get over to the PR company.
I pitch up to find Quentin looking more twitchy than usual. I ask him what the award is and after a lot of umming and ahhing I find out that it's the Saga Personality of the Month. As you can imagine, this isn't quite as rock and roll as I expected and to add insult, it's shared between me and someone called David Dickinson - a perma-tanned barrow boy who's apparently made a name for himself amongst the permanently-bewildered, selling old tat on the telly.
The deal is that they want to photograph me and tango-boy for the Saga 2006 calendar. Quentin tries to convince me that this is good for raising the old profile but the prospect of being a pin-up to a bunch of coffin-dodgers hardly fills me with breathless anticipation. He then ushers in a woman in tiny glasses and a large scarf who proceeds to wander around me tutting a lot. When I ask who the hell she is, he tells me that she's in charge of 'getting me up to scratch' for the photo shoot. Now all this might be OK for Sir Bob who hasn't got a career to worry about anymore but I have my adoring fans to consider. So I make a rapid exit leaving Quentin and Makeover Woman to their hair products.
In the sanctuary of the Lost Chord I reflect over a large JD on the grubby world of celebrity and decide that Carol Vorderman probably can add up in her head, she just doesn't have any dress sense.
So that's alright then.
As I'm taking in the rays, I start to muse upon some of the big questions in life. Why are we all here? Do blue men sing the whites? Is Carol Vorderman really good at sums or do they stop the tape while she gets her calculator out? As all this is swimming around my head, the mobile starts up somewhat breaking the moment. It's the manager, trying to ascertain my whereabouts.
He tells me that he's got good and bad news. Apparently, Old Cove has done his back in snowboarding and the feasibility study's gone on the back-burner. When I ask what the bad news is, he says that is the bad news. The good news is that I'm up for some award. Not before time I say and enquire which glittering occasion I'll be attending as I have a new companion I want to show off. He goes silent at this point and tells me to jump in a cab and get over to the PR company.
I pitch up to find Quentin looking more twitchy than usual. I ask him what the award is and after a lot of umming and ahhing I find out that it's the Saga Personality of the Month. As you can imagine, this isn't quite as rock and roll as I expected and to add insult, it's shared between me and someone called David Dickinson - a perma-tanned barrow boy who's apparently made a name for himself amongst the permanently-bewildered, selling old tat on the telly.
The deal is that they want to photograph me and tango-boy for the Saga 2006 calendar. Quentin tries to convince me that this is good for raising the old profile but the prospect of being a pin-up to a bunch of coffin-dodgers hardly fills me with breathless anticipation. He then ushers in a woman in tiny glasses and a large scarf who proceeds to wander around me tutting a lot. When I ask who the hell she is, he tells me that she's in charge of 'getting me up to scratch' for the photo shoot. Now all this might be OK for Sir Bob who hasn't got a career to worry about anymore but I have my adoring fans to consider. So I make a rapid exit leaving Quentin and Makeover Woman to their hair products.
In the sanctuary of the Lost Chord I reflect over a large JD on the grubby world of celebrity and decide that Carol Vorderman probably can add up in her head, she just doesn't have any dress sense.
So that's alright then.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Lend me your watch and I'll tell you the time
So I'm in Svetlana's Private Bookstore and Vodka bar having a quiet afternoon when the mobile starts vibrating nineteen to the dozen. It's my manager who's just back from the accountants and he's not a happy bunny. Apparently, the Grope net worth is travelling rapidly south and he tells me to drop everything and shoot over to the PR company pdq for a meeting. So I do, leaving Svetlana waving a broom and shouting something at me in russian which I don't think was very complimentary.
When I get there, I'm ushered into the boardroom to find Quentin and an old cove in a pinstripe suit, hanky in top pocket - straight out of Jeeves and Wooster. It transpires he's a management consultant they've drafted in for a bit of emergency surgery on yours truly's failing fortunes. He starts telling me that 'we' need to realign the Grope brand bringing it closer to a higher spending demographic. As you can imagine, I glaze over at this point which is partly due Svetlana's home-brewed vodka and partly because I don't understand what the hell he's on about.
Anyway, he starts asking me a few questions about my career as a mega-star and gradually it comes out that he's a bit of guitar buff with some sort of a collection. Now this is about a snooze making as it can get because I reckon you only need one guitar at time - maybe two if you include an acoustic - and a ukelele . Half dozen stories about how he once fed Eddie Cochran's parrot or somesuch later, Svetlana's vodka's taking its toll and I 've lost the plot. In an attempt to bring things back on track, I ask what the plan is. Old Cove and Quentin start sniggering in a kind of pitying fashion at this. He starts 'dear boying' me and say that they have to perform a full feasibility study before any sort of recommendation can be made. I ask how long and he says three months.
I make my excuses and leave them to their blue sky thinking while I head for the daVinci Codebreaker for a reviving JD on the rocks. I don't know why we can't just put a few flyers on the tube but then I'm not an expert.
When I get there, I'm ushered into the boardroom to find Quentin and an old cove in a pinstripe suit, hanky in top pocket - straight out of Jeeves and Wooster. It transpires he's a management consultant they've drafted in for a bit of emergency surgery on yours truly's failing fortunes. He starts telling me that 'we' need to realign the Grope brand bringing it closer to a higher spending demographic. As you can imagine, I glaze over at this point which is partly due Svetlana's home-brewed vodka and partly because I don't understand what the hell he's on about.
Anyway, he starts asking me a few questions about my career as a mega-star and gradually it comes out that he's a bit of guitar buff with some sort of a collection. Now this is about a snooze making as it can get because I reckon you only need one guitar at time - maybe two if you include an acoustic - and a ukelele . Half dozen stories about how he once fed Eddie Cochran's parrot or somesuch later, Svetlana's vodka's taking its toll and I 've lost the plot. In an attempt to bring things back on track, I ask what the plan is. Old Cove and Quentin start sniggering in a kind of pitying fashion at this. He starts 'dear boying' me and say that they have to perform a full feasibility study before any sort of recommendation can be made. I ask how long and he says three months.
I make my excuses and leave them to their blue sky thinking while I head for the daVinci Codebreaker for a reviving JD on the rocks. I don't know why we can't just put a few flyers on the tube but then I'm not an expert.
Friday, March 11, 2005
I've got a combine harvester
It's Red Nose day and I'm sitting in Grope Towers with mine which I didn't have to stump up a quid for because it's natural, acquired over 30 years of imbibing JD and coke. Be assured that I'll be doing my bit later at the 12 Bar in a sponsored Drinkathon when we'll be looking to raise a few bob for the cause.
Anyway, news that the bearded fairy from LOTR has landed a gig on Cornonation Street sent yours truly into a flurry of activity. Not to be outdone by some northern thespian, I start ringing around the long-running soaps (Eastenders, Hollyoaks, Today in Parliament) to see if they're in the market for a global mega-star. It beggars belief but no-one seems very interested. So I get on to Quentin at the PR agency and tell him to stop gelling his hair and kick-start the Grope board-treading career.
A bit later on, I'm in the Carpathian Tattoo and Fish Bar having my ex's name altered when the the mobile starts up. It's Quentin, all breathless and twittery, telling me to get over to the Groucho pdq. I pitch up to find him in a huddle with another meedjah type. Apparently, she's a producer on the Archers and they've come up with a story-line where I play Walter Gabriel's long-lost musician son, Peter, who's been living in the west country recording people banging logs and playing nose flutes.
Thinking that this is a result, I shoot off to the countryside - well Hackney Marshes - to commune with nature and hone my farming skills - milking sheep, mangling wurzels, that sort of thing.
Just as I'm getting into the swing of it when I get another call to say that they've had second thoughts. They've found someone more closely matched to the character and they'll be developing the idea with him. Well you could have knocked me down with a sledgehammer.
Duplicitious or what?
Blog of the Day - 10/3/2005
Anyway, news that the bearded fairy from LOTR has landed a gig on Cornonation Street sent yours truly into a flurry of activity. Not to be outdone by some northern thespian, I start ringing around the long-running soaps (Eastenders, Hollyoaks, Today in Parliament) to see if they're in the market for a global mega-star. It beggars belief but no-one seems very interested. So I get on to Quentin at the PR agency and tell him to stop gelling his hair and kick-start the Grope board-treading career.
A bit later on, I'm in the Carpathian Tattoo and Fish Bar having my ex's name altered when the the mobile starts up. It's Quentin, all breathless and twittery, telling me to get over to the Groucho pdq. I pitch up to find him in a huddle with another meedjah type. Apparently, she's a producer on the Archers and they've come up with a story-line where I play Walter Gabriel's long-lost musician son, Peter, who's been living in the west country recording people banging logs and playing nose flutes.
Thinking that this is a result, I shoot off to the countryside - well Hackney Marshes - to commune with nature and hone my farming skills - milking sheep, mangling wurzels, that sort of thing.
Just as I'm getting into the swing of it when I get another call to say that they've had second thoughts. They've found someone more closely matched to the character and they'll be developing the idea with him. Well you could have knocked me down with a sledgehammer.
Duplicitious or what?
Blog of the Day - 10/3/2005
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Leaving no turn unstoned
News that old codger Bill Wyman likes to spend his time waving a big wand in front of him comes as no surprise to anyone, I'd have thought. However, full marks to him for getting a book out on the subject.
Never being slow in leaping on any passing bandwagon, I give ideas boy Quentin a bell and ask him over to the Hernia and Roadcrew for a brainstorm.
First off, he puts me right on the terminology - apparently brainstorm could be insulting to people with a mental health problems so we have to call it mind mapping (which presumably pisses off anyone who hasn't got a mind or can't read maps).
Anyway, I tell him that he's got to find me a hobby so I can write a book about it. He looks at bit glum at this point but asks whether I have any unusual pursuits. Well there's the rubberwear I tell him but I'm not sure I can stretch that into a book. I then suggest one of my other pastimes which I quite enjoy, but this makes him go a funny colour and he has to breathe into a paper bag for five minutes.
We continue in the same vein for some time but everything I come up with is either illegal in most parts of the world or something you shouldn't try at home.
Exhausted by the whole experience, I send Quentin back to his desperately cool office and then take myself off to the Acropolis Massage and Grill for a bit of light basting with some baby oil.
You could write a book... I wish
Never being slow in leaping on any passing bandwagon, I give ideas boy Quentin a bell and ask him over to the Hernia and Roadcrew for a brainstorm.
First off, he puts me right on the terminology - apparently brainstorm could be insulting to people with a mental health problems so we have to call it mind mapping (which presumably pisses off anyone who hasn't got a mind or can't read maps).
Anyway, I tell him that he's got to find me a hobby so I can write a book about it. He looks at bit glum at this point but asks whether I have any unusual pursuits. Well there's the rubberwear I tell him but I'm not sure I can stretch that into a book. I then suggest one of my other pastimes which I quite enjoy, but this makes him go a funny colour and he has to breathe into a paper bag for five minutes.
We continue in the same vein for some time but everything I come up with is either illegal in most parts of the world or something you shouldn't try at home.
Exhausted by the whole experience, I send Quentin back to his desperately cool office and then take myself off to the Acropolis Massage and Grill for a bit of light basting with some baby oil.
You could write a book... I wish
Friday, March 04, 2005
Karma Cameleon
It's amazing what a honeymoon can do for the old karma, especially when you don't have to spend the rest your life with your holiday companion. Refreshed from the rigours of, erm, 'married life', the old Grope brain is swimming with new projects. On my return, I did manage to catch up with my old mates Crosby and Nash while they were in town and I swapped a few organ replacement stories with David. For those of you with a salacious turn of mind (you know who you are) , I'm talking livers, here.
Anyway, this set me thinking about how I could talk up the 2005 tour. So, I get hold of Quentin who's in the Rampant Rabbit comparing strategies with Lady Reg's PR - well that's what he calls it. I tell him that I need to up the old profile. He then starts wittering on about mixed media campaigns this; and cross-gender demographics that. At this point I have to stop him - mainly because I'm getting a headache - to say all I wanted was a few flyers to leave on the seats in the tube. Needless to say, he's crushed so I leave him to take consolation in a crate of Smirnoff Ice and I shoot off to a favourite Gentlemen's Venue down Shoreditch way.
You just can't get the staff these days.
Anyway, this set me thinking about how I could talk up the 2005 tour. So, I get hold of Quentin who's in the Rampant Rabbit comparing strategies with Lady Reg's PR - well that's what he calls it. I tell him that I need to up the old profile. He then starts wittering on about mixed media campaigns this; and cross-gender demographics that. At this point I have to stop him - mainly because I'm getting a headache - to say all I wanted was a few flyers to leave on the seats in the tube. Needless to say, he's crushed so I leave him to take consolation in a crate of Smirnoff Ice and I shoot off to a favourite Gentlemen's Venue down Shoreditch way.
You just can't get the staff these days.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Grope pulls plug on ball and chain
That's it. I can take it no more and I've called the whole thing off. Apart from the meddling from Witchy Woman indoors, the extreme makeover defeated all the top men in the business so I'm bailing out. After all, a man of my age position needs his space - which was in short supply when my ex-beloved was in the room, I can tell you.
So, yours truly's work/life balance is restored and it's on with the old routine which will no doubt bring a sigh of relief from the drinks industry. Mind you, I'm hanging on to the honeymoon because the barmaid from The Valve Driven Amp is looking a little peaky and might be in need of some R&R, if you get my drift.
Anyway, must dash - the road manager just turned up in limo to take me up West. Hope he's remembered the resuscitation trolley.
So, yours truly's work/life balance is restored and it's on with the old routine which will no doubt bring a sigh of relief from the drinks industry. Mind you, I'm hanging on to the honeymoon because the barmaid from The Valve Driven Amp is looking a little peaky and might be in need of some R&R, if you get my drift.
Anyway, must dash - the road manager just turned up in limo to take me up West. Hope he's remembered the resuscitation trolley.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Vernon's Mum in no-show showdown
Word up! This wedding malarky is pissing me off no end. Latest is that my mum's decided that's she not going to turn up at the the town hall for the splicing ceremony. She says that it's because she thinks her presence will turn the whole thing into a three-ring circus but I know it's because there's an all-day 'Location, Location, Location Revisits the Mess They Left The Poor Sods In Last Time' on UK Shite. She's also obviously trying to wheedle out of coughing up for a gift. Miserable old bat.
Well, she's not heard the last of it. I've already changed the photo on her bus pass to one of Thora Hird and if she goes looking for the rat on a string she calls a dog, she's going to get a nasty shock (as did the hound when I crept up behind it with a meat skewer) .
Meanwhile, getting my beloved into a presentable state for the Big Day is taxing the experts somewhat. Last I heard, they were sending out for reinforcements and a large bucket. I've also been on the dog (and bone, that is) to the media to try and defray some of the costs. Hello! and OK! seem to be fully booked with King and Queen Chav's latest sprog and some old fogies' wedding which is apparently going off on the same day. Best offer I've secured is from What Caravan! who want us to pose for the photos in front of their latest Super Sprite 93 model. If I can get them to throw in a week's touring in Scotland, I might go for it. Mind you, I understand it's a bit windy around the Trossacks at this time of year.*
* insert your own gag at this point
Well, she's not heard the last of it. I've already changed the photo on her bus pass to one of Thora Hird and if she goes looking for the rat on a string she calls a dog, she's going to get a nasty shock (as did the hound when I crept up behind it with a meat skewer) .
Meanwhile, getting my beloved into a presentable state for the Big Day is taxing the experts somewhat. Last I heard, they were sending out for reinforcements and a large bucket. I've also been on the dog (and bone, that is) to the media to try and defray some of the costs. Hello! and OK! seem to be fully booked with King and Queen Chav's latest sprog and some old fogies' wedding which is apparently going off on the same day. Best offer I've secured is from What Caravan! who want us to pose for the photos in front of their latest Super Sprite 93 model. If I can get them to throw in a week's touring in Scotland, I might go for it. Mind you, I understand it's a bit windy around the Trossacks at this time of year.*
* insert your own gag at this point
Friday, February 18, 2005
Gotta get a witness
Plans for the impending Grope nuptials have hit a major snag. The idea was that we'd get hitched Chez Grope but the Thought Police have stepped in and ruled that we would have to get a license under some Act or other. This would mean that any chav dressed like a meringue could get spliced here for ever more. Naturally, my old mum's put her foot down with a heavy hand so we're forced to do the dirty deed down at the local registry office. Now I have to say that this has put the kybosh on my idea to host a new television series When Celebrity Fat Clubs Go Wrong which I was going to hold in the grounds post knot-tying.
On a separate note, I see the old welsh windbag, Tom Jones, has asked his female fans to stop throwing their underwear on stage. Now he says that it's because they don't even take the price tags off anymore. I reckon that given the age of most of them, anything they throw at him is most likely to have his eye out. Last time anyone threw something at me on stage, I had the best crop of rhubarb for years.
On a separate note, I see the old welsh windbag, Tom Jones, has asked his female fans to stop throwing their underwear on stage. Now he says that it's because they don't even take the price tags off anymore. I reckon that given the age of most of them, anything they throw at him is most likely to have his eye out. Last time anyone threw something at me on stage, I had the best crop of rhubarb for years.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Where angels fear to tread
So the Norman Wisdom of rock has been voted a gong for the best song in 25 years. No doubt Peelie's rotating at some speed in his grave at the news of this one. Mind you, this was voted for by the tone-deaf wrinklies who listen to Radio 2, the station where presenters only leave when they join the choir invisible. Like most other right-thinking people, the old Grope head has been spinning at the vast number of songs that might just have pipped Angels to the post. Where was Agadoo, Achy Breaky Heart and the Chicken Song? Strikes me that standards are slipping. Bring back Jonathan King!
Friday, February 11, 2005
Grope to wed shock
So, yours truly has finally decided to take the long walk after years of public speculation. Now, it is well known that I'm no stranger to the old marital ball and chain having had several shots at wedded bliss in the past - 5 to be precise (that's not counting the goat in Las Vegas). However, I have decided that the time has come to make a bit of an effort commitment-wise.
As is evidenced in some of the newspaper shots, she's no oil painting but I've got a crack team of specialists on the job as we speak and I'm confident that'll we'll have a result come the wedding day. Of course all the top fashion houses have been sniffing around to get the wedding dress gig but after a closely fought bidding war, Anita from SarisRUs in Brick Lane has won the contract with a keenly-priced proposal.
There has been a bit of a ruckus over where the ceremony is going to be held and who's going to do the business. I gave the Archbishop of Canterbury a bell to see if he was up for it but apparently he's washing his beard that day. I've finally settled on a parson of my acquaintance who'll be available on the fateful day provided he passes his parole board.
The choice of venue has also been excising the old Grope brain but I've finally hit upon a stunning solution. Terry at the Roadie and Strumpet has come up with a stonking 'all-you-can-eat- for-4.95 wedding breakfast, including complimentary Snakebite' offer that would be churlish to refuse. So that's all sorted. I just need to get the old invites out to the glitterati. I'm thinking a May wedding as nothing of importance seems to happen around then.
Not surprisingly, there has been a considerable furore over how my beloved will be addressed as the new spouse of the King of Rock. I got Quentin down at the PR company to do a bit of a straw poll in the Wang Bar and apparently 6 out of 10 drinkers capable of coherent thought, felt that it was not acceptable for her to be known as the Queen of Rock. Bowing to public pressure, it has been decided that she will be titled Doreen: Princess Consort of Rock. Naturally, she will have all the privileges associated with the Queen of Rock including a lifetime membership of the Betty Ford clinic.
As is evidenced in some of the newspaper shots, she's no oil painting but I've got a crack team of specialists on the job as we speak and I'm confident that'll we'll have a result come the wedding day. Of course all the top fashion houses have been sniffing around to get the wedding dress gig but after a closely fought bidding war, Anita from SarisRUs in Brick Lane has won the contract with a keenly-priced proposal.
There has been a bit of a ruckus over where the ceremony is going to be held and who's going to do the business. I gave the Archbishop of Canterbury a bell to see if he was up for it but apparently he's washing his beard that day. I've finally settled on a parson of my acquaintance who'll be available on the fateful day provided he passes his parole board.
The choice of venue has also been excising the old Grope brain but I've finally hit upon a stunning solution. Terry at the Roadie and Strumpet has come up with a stonking 'all-you-can-eat- for-4.95 wedding breakfast, including complimentary Snakebite' offer that would be churlish to refuse. So that's all sorted. I just need to get the old invites out to the glitterati. I'm thinking a May wedding as nothing of importance seems to happen around then.
Not surprisingly, there has been a considerable furore over how my beloved will be addressed as the new spouse of the King of Rock. I got Quentin down at the PR company to do a bit of a straw poll in the Wang Bar and apparently 6 out of 10 drinkers capable of coherent thought, felt that it was not acceptable for her to be known as the Queen of Rock. Bowing to public pressure, it has been decided that she will be titled Doreen: Princess Consort of Rock. Naturally, she will have all the privileges associated with the Queen of Rock including a lifetime membership of the Betty Ford clinic.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Smells like white spirit
So I am in the Capo and Plectrum having a quiet libation with one of my 'associates' when the mobile start ringing off the hook. It's Quentin from the PR company all wet and giggly because he's had an idea (about time). Can I rush over to the agency now for a meet? Now I wasn't best pleased at this intrusion but as a responsible media star, I have do it.
So I pitch up at the agency to find two more Quentins with identical Hoxton fins in a similar state of high excitement. They finally manage to tell me what the BIG IDEA is - a range of Grope fragrances. Now, I'm no stranger to the Lifebuoy but I strikes me that this is one step too far given your truly's macho image. Anyway, they start talking numbers and suddenly I'm interested. Apparently, they can make this jollop for peanuts and then knock it out for 30 quid or more! There's more twittering and then they start waving lots of little smelly sticks about. Now I wasn't exactly at the back of the queue when they were handing the hooters out [note to readers over the pond: before you get any ideas, this means nose over here] so I find my olfactory functions quite keen despite having shoved most substances up it over the years.
So they're banging on about notes and I'm sniffing away like Clapton in the '70s but none of it captures the essence of Grope. So I say this and there's a bout of group huffing from the Quentins. I gently point out that there needs to be less citrus and ylang ylang and more Jack Daniels and Marlboro Lights. There was this massive silence, the meeting was closed and I was back in the boozer 5 minutes later. Result!
So I pitch up at the agency to find two more Quentins with identical Hoxton fins in a similar state of high excitement. They finally manage to tell me what the BIG IDEA is - a range of Grope fragrances. Now, I'm no stranger to the Lifebuoy but I strikes me that this is one step too far given your truly's macho image. Anyway, they start talking numbers and suddenly I'm interested. Apparently, they can make this jollop for peanuts and then knock it out for 30 quid or more! There's more twittering and then they start waving lots of little smelly sticks about. Now I wasn't exactly at the back of the queue when they were handing the hooters out [note to readers over the pond: before you get any ideas, this means nose over here] so I find my olfactory functions quite keen despite having shoved most substances up it over the years.
So they're banging on about notes and I'm sniffing away like Clapton in the '70s but none of it captures the essence of Grope. So I say this and there's a bout of group huffing from the Quentins. I gently point out that there needs to be less citrus and ylang ylang and more Jack Daniels and Marlboro Lights. There was this massive silence, the meeting was closed and I was back in the boozer 5 minutes later. Result!
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
The web anorak has brought to my notice that some of the ex-colonials that read this diary seem to be having a bit of difficulty following the plot. Obviously there aren't enough references to Superbowl XXXXXVII and the like. As I see it the Patriots are like Chelsea * - 'nuff said.
Time was in this glorious biz we call Rock (Rawk) that we Brits were ordered to sing like Yanks in order to sell records. So we had the spectacle of a spotty youth from Droitwich singing 'No Particular Place to Go' without the benefit of ever having been in a car, let alone drive one (where is the Kokomo anyway?). Imagine trying this with an english place name? 'Last Train to Heckmondwicke'? '24 Hours to Tulse Hill'? You'd be laughed off stage. It was pathetic. I mean, the first Strat ever to be seen on these shores was bought by Cliff Richard** in 1959!
Anyway y'all, must be moseying along for some chow. You take care now !
(it's not working is it?)
*Association Football [soccer] team; based in west London; winning everything; owned by a russiangangster businessman; hardly any english players; heap of shite
** England's answer to Elvis now looks younger than he did in 1959
Time was in this glorious biz we call Rock (Rawk) that we Brits were ordered to sing like Yanks in order to sell records. So we had the spectacle of a spotty youth from Droitwich singing 'No Particular Place to Go' without the benefit of ever having been in a car, let alone drive one (where is the Kokomo anyway?). Imagine trying this with an english place name? 'Last Train to Heckmondwicke'? '24 Hours to Tulse Hill'? You'd be laughed off stage. It was pathetic. I mean, the first Strat ever to be seen on these shores was bought by Cliff Richard** in 1959!
Anyway y'all, must be moseying along for some chow. You take care now !
(it's not working is it?)
*Association Football [soccer] team; based in west London; winning everything; owned by a russian
** England's answer to Elvis now looks younger than he did in 1959
Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum videtur
The burden of high office is already weighing heavily on yours truly. Since kicking off this In Vino Veritas malarky, I can't get a moment to myself. Not a day goes by without some hack ringing up and asking my opinion on something or other. Why can't they leave it alone?
Anyway, this scribbler from one of the big papers asks me what my policy was on binge drinking. Well, I gave him both barrels (as it were) and told him in no uncertain terms that I was firmly against it. It's no substitute for steady and sustained imbibing and young people have to learn this. For some reason, he didn't seem to think this was very enlightened given my standing and all. So I told him to go and ask Nelson Mandela where he buys his hats.
So then I get another call from one of the small papers asking me in my capacity of rock supremo, what I thought of Jordan having a go at the Eurovision. Is it me or has the world gone mad? A couple of years of topless worm eating does not a rock star make. It requires dedication, hard graft and industrial quantities of drugs. Still, she'll be alright for deux points I suppose.
Must dash, got to firm up my policy of capital punishment for double parking 4x4 drivers in St Johns Wood High Street...
Anyway, this scribbler from one of the big papers asks me what my policy was on binge drinking. Well, I gave him both barrels (as it were) and told him in no uncertain terms that I was firmly against it. It's no substitute for steady and sustained imbibing and young people have to learn this. For some reason, he didn't seem to think this was very enlightened given my standing and all. So I told him to go and ask Nelson Mandela where he buys his hats.
So then I get another call from one of the small papers asking me in my capacity of rock supremo, what I thought of Jordan having a go at the Eurovision. Is it me or has the world gone mad? A couple of years of topless worm eating does not a rock star make. It requires dedication, hard graft and industrial quantities of drugs. Still, she'll be alright for deux points I suppose.
Must dash, got to firm up my policy of capital punishment for double parking 4x4 drivers in St Johns Wood High Street...
Friday, February 04, 2005
Horse and grounds
The news that most of the middle-management of M&S Glasgow is on smack, comes as no surprise to yours truly. I thought all jocks were on something. I mean, have you heard them speak? Whenever that Alex Ferguson's on the goggle box, you might as well be listening to Klingon.
There's probably hordes of drugged up scotch marketing executives heading over the border at this very moment, intent on thieving their way across the country to feed their interior design habit. No wonder the government's given us all the green light to set about intruders with a well-oiled cricket bat. Well, I can tell you that security will be upped Chez Grope. I've got my mum out in the garden at the moment on sentry duty as we speak and I'm giving the old sports bag an airing. If all else fails, I'll read them some of El Magnifico's poems - that'll sort them out.
There's probably hordes of drugged up scotch marketing executives heading over the border at this very moment, intent on thieving their way across the country to feed their interior design habit. No wonder the government's given us all the green light to set about intruders with a well-oiled cricket bat. Well, I can tell you that security will be upped Chez Grope. I've got my mum out in the garden at the moment on sentry duty as we speak and I'm giving the old sports bag an airing. If all else fails, I'll read them some of El Magnifico's poems - that'll sort them out.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
In Vino Veritas
Reuters
2 Feb 2005 12:00
Britain's newest political party, In Vino Veritas, was launched today on a populist platform of "straight-talking" under global mega-star Vernon Grope.
In a 15-minute debut speech to reporters in the Hanger and Flogger Wine Bar, Mr Grope lambasted all politicians as "liars" and said his new party would be looking for the votes of those who had previously been unrepresented.
Mentioning only 'all-day opening hours and spliffs for all' as policy areas, the charismatic rock star bordered on ranting as he repeatedly dismissed the entire British political establishment as liars, before saying the British public were "tired of yahoo politics".
With only Mr Grope and Iberian poet El Magnifico so far signed up as the public face of the party, the new leader did not explain who would fund his 'straight-talking' party, or how many candidates it would put up at the next election.
Unrolling a scroll of paper symbolising the "lies and broken promises" of the Monster Raving Looney party , Mr Grope said: 'The British people are fed up of being presented with candidates dressed as mythical animals with big heads'. He promised to bring a breath of fresh air into the stuffy world of UK politics.
When pressed on his policies, Mr Grope did admit to free drum-kits for the under-fives and establishing the University of Road Management or 'Roadie Uni' for nurturing a new generation of fat sweaty blokes with long hair and a drink problem.
Mr Grope was then whisked away by Datsun Sunny to an undisclosed address for a lie down in a darkened room.
----ends---
2 Feb 2005 12:00
Britain's newest political party, In Vino Veritas, was launched today on a populist platform of "straight-talking" under global mega-star Vernon Grope.
In a 15-minute debut speech to reporters in the Hanger and Flogger Wine Bar, Mr Grope lambasted all politicians as "liars" and said his new party would be looking for the votes of those who had previously been unrepresented.
Mentioning only 'all-day opening hours and spliffs for all' as policy areas, the charismatic rock star bordered on ranting as he repeatedly dismissed the entire British political establishment as liars, before saying the British public were "tired of yahoo politics".
With only Mr Grope and Iberian poet El Magnifico so far signed up as the public face of the party, the new leader did not explain who would fund his 'straight-talking' party, or how many candidates it would put up at the next election.
Unrolling a scroll of paper symbolising the "lies and broken promises" of the Monster Raving Looney party , Mr Grope said: 'The British people are fed up of being presented with candidates dressed as mythical animals with big heads'. He promised to bring a breath of fresh air into the stuffy world of UK politics.
When pressed on his policies, Mr Grope did admit to free drum-kits for the under-fives and establishing the University of Road Management or 'Roadie Uni' for nurturing a new generation of fat sweaty blokes with long hair and a drink problem.
Mr Grope was then whisked away by Datsun Sunny to an undisclosed address for a lie down in a darkened room.
----ends---
Friday, January 28, 2005
On the Road Again
The 2005 Comeback Tour looks as though it's on and so begins the painful process of - REHEARSAL.
Now, to the uninitiated, this may seem like a simple process. It is not. The collision of massive egos combined with short term memory failure makes for a major pain in the Grope posterior. First off, we have have to have a planning session. Custom dictates that this occurs in the Banjo and G-String in the VIP corner. This is how it goes. The drummer's late (natch), the bass player NEVER buys a drink and the meeting deteriorates into a drunken, group reminisce about how good the old days were and travelling really in an ancient Transit was really good. Bollocks!
Next, we turn up for the first rehearsal. This is always a shambles of epic proportions. The guitar player usually turns up without either: a) his guitar; b) his amp; or c) his brain and often all three. Nobody, but nobody, can remember either the words or the music to any of the songs we have spent the last umpteen years playing. So, we do what any self-respecting bunch of rock professionals would do, we launch into a 20 minute 12-bar blues.
Once this is over, we look pleased with ourselves and repair to the boozer for a well-deserved libation.
As Dick Emery once said, "It's only Rock and Roll but I like it!".
Now, to the uninitiated, this may seem like a simple process. It is not. The collision of massive egos combined with short term memory failure makes for a major pain in the Grope posterior. First off, we have have to have a planning session. Custom dictates that this occurs in the Banjo and G-String in the VIP corner. This is how it goes. The drummer's late (natch), the bass player NEVER buys a drink and the meeting deteriorates into a drunken, group reminisce about how good the old days were and travelling really in an ancient Transit was really good. Bollocks!
Next, we turn up for the first rehearsal. This is always a shambles of epic proportions. The guitar player usually turns up without either: a) his guitar; b) his amp; or c) his brain and often all three. Nobody, but nobody, can remember either the words or the music to any of the songs we have spent the last umpteen years playing. So, we do what any self-respecting bunch of rock professionals would do, we launch into a 20 minute 12-bar blues.
Once this is over, we look pleased with ourselves and repair to the boozer for a well-deserved libation.
As Dick Emery once said, "It's only Rock and Roll but I like it!".
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Vote for Grope
All the great diarists - Pepys, Jonson, Adrian Mole, Mrs Dale - must have had a bit of difficulty at some time or other keeping the old creative juices flowing. Now I know you might find this hard to credit, but yours truly's hit a bit of a wall, blogwise. Le bloc de l'auteur est arrivé.
Anyway, I was passing my latest oeuvre over to the spotty herbert that looks after the technical wotnots when he muttered something about awards. As I haven't had much luck in this department recently, my ears pricked up. Apparently, there's some sort of poll going on for the 1st European Weblog Awards so I shoot over there for a butchers. Imagine my déception that Vernon Grope: Diary of Rock Star is not galloping away in all categories except maybe Best Weblog from Germany.
So after a bit of research, this is the Grope recipe for Getting an Award:
1) Crack on you're living in parts foreign and make suggestive lingerie-related comments to rack up the votes
2) Bang on about living in the middle of nowhere and how good it is to have herds of fluffy animals knocking about in your back garden
3) Have loads of links to other people's sites
I suppose that's that me out of the running then?
Bitter? Mine's a pint.
C'est lui pour maintenant
Auf Wiedersehen
Anyway, I was passing my latest oeuvre over to the spotty herbert that looks after the technical wotnots when he muttered something about awards. As I haven't had much luck in this department recently, my ears pricked up. Apparently, there's some sort of poll going on for the 1st European Weblog Awards so I shoot over there for a butchers. Imagine my déception that Vernon Grope: Diary of Rock Star is not galloping away in all categories except maybe Best Weblog from Germany.
So after a bit of research, this is the Grope recipe for Getting an Award:
1) Crack on you're living in parts foreign and make suggestive lingerie-related comments to rack up the votes
2) Bang on about living in the middle of nowhere and how good it is to have herds of fluffy animals knocking about in your back garden
3) Have loads of links to other people's sites
I suppose that's that me out of the running then?
Bitter? Mine's a pint.
C'est lui pour maintenant
Auf Wiedersehen
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Win an Escort
Now, the Grope coffers are looking a bit empty at the moment so a bit of entrepreneurial spirit is called for. So, after a copious amount of vino collapso I came up with ...
The Win an Escort competition
Before you start getting the wrong idea, we're not talking motor cars but genuine personal escorts of the rock 'n roll variety. It came to me in a flash - I know all these celebs, why not spread 'em around a bit? Who wouldn't want to spend a day in the company of a fabulously talented rock god (or goddess, if I can get Irma von Eisberg out of retirement)?
So, I get on the blower and start doing the rounds. For some reason I can't fathom, Mick Jagger, Bono, Macca AND Sir Cliff all appear to have full diaries right out to 2009. I finally managed to snag El Magnifico once his two-stretch is over and Snakey Pete provided his eczema clears up.
I haven't ironed all the wrinkles out of the offer yet but I thought the Day of a Lifetime would go something like this:
12:00pm: Collection by limo (or Mum's Datsun Sunny whichever is available) to be whisked to a watering hole personally selected by your's truly, namely the Cockroach and Groupie.
12:15pm: Lunch with refreshments - mingle with celebs
5:00pm: Lunch ends.
5:05pm: Carried by top roadie to premier cocktail bar for pre-dinner drinks - mingle with celebs
08:00pm: Gurney arrives to whisk you to dinner
08:01pm Aperitifs in the Starlight Cafe, Ballspond Road - mingle with celebs
09:55pm Dinner followed by after-dinner mints and brandy
10:00pm Transportation by Turkish mini-cab driver to glittering 'nite spot' for drinks in VIP bar - mingle etc.
04:00am: Bow Street Police station - mingle with ... who knows?
05:00am Night bus to the destination of your choosing
The Competition
Vernon Grope is:
a) Global mega-star of eyewatering proportions
b) A washed up no-hoper with delusions of grandeur
c) None of the above
Terms and Conditions
Answers on a £50 note to Grope Promotions Ltd PO Box 69 N23 2ED. Judges decision (i.e. mine) is absolutely final. No correspondence, threatening phone calls or paternity suits will be acknowledged. Your home may be at risk if you fail to abide by the rules of the competition.
Dry cleaning is NOT provided as part of the prize.
The Win an Escort competition
Before you start getting the wrong idea, we're not talking motor cars but genuine personal escorts of the rock 'n roll variety. It came to me in a flash - I know all these celebs, why not spread 'em around a bit? Who wouldn't want to spend a day in the company of a fabulously talented rock god (or goddess, if I can get Irma von Eisberg out of retirement)?
So, I get on the blower and start doing the rounds. For some reason I can't fathom, Mick Jagger, Bono, Macca AND Sir Cliff all appear to have full diaries right out to 2009. I finally managed to snag El Magnifico once his two-stretch is over and Snakey Pete provided his eczema clears up.
I haven't ironed all the wrinkles out of the offer yet but I thought the Day of a Lifetime would go something like this:
12:00pm: Collection by limo (or Mum's Datsun Sunny whichever is available) to be whisked to a watering hole personally selected by your's truly, namely the Cockroach and Groupie.
12:15pm: Lunch with refreshments - mingle with celebs
5:00pm: Lunch ends.
5:05pm: Carried by top roadie to premier cocktail bar for pre-dinner drinks - mingle with celebs
08:00pm: Gurney arrives to whisk you to dinner
08:01pm Aperitifs in the Starlight Cafe, Ballspond Road - mingle with celebs
09:55pm Dinner followed by after-dinner mints and brandy
10:00pm Transportation by Turkish mini-cab driver to glittering 'nite spot' for drinks in VIP bar - mingle etc.
04:00am: Bow Street Police station - mingle with ... who knows?
05:00am Night bus to the destination of your choosing
The Competition
Vernon Grope is:
a) Global mega-star of eyewatering proportions
b) A washed up no-hoper with delusions of grandeur
c) None of the above
Terms and Conditions
Answers on a £50 note to Grope Promotions Ltd PO Box 69 N23 2ED. Judges decision (i.e. mine) is absolutely final. No correspondence, threatening phone calls or paternity suits will be acknowledged. Your home may be at risk if you fail to abide by the rules of the competition.
Dry cleaning is NOT provided as part of the prize.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Cruisin'
Ahoy there!
Due to the wonders of modern technology, for the past 10 days this diary has not been emanating from chez Grope but from the depths of that luxury liner Aurora because yours truly's been on his winter travels. Well, I don't mind telling you that this was the ultimate experience. As you can imagine, every one of the 12 bars was given the full-on Grope treatment. Nothing was too much trouble staff-wise, they even had a post-libation wheelchair on standby to get me back to the cabin for a few hours of well-earned. Needless to say, I didn't show my face on deck for the whole trip. I did notice while I was on various bar stools that some of my fellow shipmates weren't in the best of spirits. Can't think why.
So I'm back refreshed and raring to go. Mind you, there was a bit of fracas on the quay when we docked this morning. Some people are never satisfied.
Avast behind!
Due to the wonders of modern technology, for the past 10 days this diary has not been emanating from chez Grope but from the depths of that luxury liner Aurora because yours truly's been on his winter travels. Well, I don't mind telling you that this was the ultimate experience. As you can imagine, every one of the 12 bars was given the full-on Grope treatment. Nothing was too much trouble staff-wise, they even had a post-libation wheelchair on standby to get me back to the cabin for a few hours of well-earned. Needless to say, I didn't show my face on deck for the whole trip. I did notice while I was on various bar stools that some of my fellow shipmates weren't in the best of spirits. Can't think why.
So I'm back refreshed and raring to go. Mind you, there was a bit of fracas on the quay when we docked this morning. Some people are never satisfied.
Avast behind!
Thursday, January 20, 2005
BRIT Awards shock
As you might imagine, yours truly is not best pleased to be overlooked yet again for a gong at the Brits. Matters were not improved by the news that soap-dodger Sir Bob is getting something for an outstanding contribution to music. What's all that about? When he last made a record, most people were listening to them on a Dansette. Even then it was with load of ragged-arsed Oirishmen who made the Muppets look positively comotose.
Strikes me that there needs to be some perspective applied here. What about my outstanding contributions to music? Granted I've been going through a fallow period but the new album's nearly about to go into pre-pre-production if I can find the microphone that my mum used at the last Gay Pride end of march karaoke evening. Right palaver that was. After two alcopops and three choruses of I Will Survive she stage dives into the audience and emerges sans sound equipment. I blame the parents...
Strikes me that there needs to be some perspective applied here. What about my outstanding contributions to music? Granted I've been going through a fallow period but the new album's nearly about to go into pre-pre-production if I can find the microphone that my mum used at the last Gay Pride end of march karaoke evening. Right palaver that was. After two alcopops and three choruses of I Will Survive she stage dives into the audience and emerges sans sound equipment. I blame the parents...
Monday, January 17, 2005
Grope removes Deadwood from All Star XI
From the desk of Vernon Grope
For Immediate Release
As manager of the Grope All Stars Soccer XI, I have decided to remove that antique-dealer turned cowboy, McShane, from the team for the unacceptable use of the mullet in a sporting context. That'll teach him to get above his station.
---- ends ----
For Immediate Release
As manager of the Grope All Stars Soccer XI, I have decided to remove that antique-dealer turned cowboy, McShane, from the team for the unacceptable use of the mullet in a sporting context. That'll teach him to get above his station.
---- ends ----
Browser beaten
There's a foul rumour circulating that this diary is not all my own work but is produced by a top ghost writer. Well, I'm here to assure you that these are mine own thoughts as written by me, in crayon on the back of a tax demand.
However, all is not well in the publishing house of Grope. Apparently, there have been gremlins in the technical gubbins and a large portion of my adoring public have not been able to read my pearls of widsom due some argie-bargie with something called Mozilla. Now I always thought this was a dinasaur that trod on Tokyo but apparently it's a popular means of reading web pages favoured mainly by our transatlantic cousins who as always do the opposite to everyone else in the world - use Macs, eat big Macs, remove letters from perfectly good words, invade countries etc, etc. Needless to say, yours truly was not best pleased to learn this and there a couple of extra computer anoraks on the job market as we speak. I'm told that normal service has resumed and that the whole world is now able to benefit from being just that little bit closer to a mega star.
However, all is not well in the publishing house of Grope. Apparently, there have been gremlins in the technical gubbins and a large portion of my adoring public have not been able to read my pearls of widsom due some argie-bargie with something called Mozilla. Now I always thought this was a dinasaur that trod on Tokyo but apparently it's a popular means of reading web pages favoured mainly by our transatlantic cousins who as always do the opposite to everyone else in the world - use Macs, eat big Macs, remove letters from perfectly good words, invade countries etc, etc. Needless to say, yours truly was not best pleased to learn this and there a couple of extra computer anoraks on the job market as we speak. I'm told that normal service has resumed and that the whole world is now able to benefit from being just that little bit closer to a mega star.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Pressing matters
It seems my little party visit in the Osama Bin Laden outfit didn't go unnoticed (Desperately Seeking Publicity) and I am now under some pressure to issue a public apology. Apparently, I am not deemed suitable to represent the world of rock and that I should behave more responsibly.
Well, up yours! If I want to go to a private fancy dress party dressed as the scourge of the western world, then I think that's my business. At least I wasn't wearing see-through pants like Iggy Pop or frocks like Dame Reg. It strikes me that these tabloid scribblers ought to be focusing on real issues like Geri Haliwell's escort business rather than harrassing hard-working mega stars like your truly.
So, I've decided I'm going to form a new protest group Stars4Justice which will highlight the plight of global personalities constantly badgered by the world's press. What I need now is a high-profile stunt to bring our cause to the attention of the general public. I'm thinking we'll gate-crash the next do at Buck House. Come to think of it, I may have the right costume...
Well, up yours! If I want to go to a private fancy dress party dressed as the scourge of the western world, then I think that's my business. At least I wasn't wearing see-through pants like Iggy Pop or frocks like Dame Reg. It strikes me that these tabloid scribblers ought to be focusing on real issues like Geri Haliwell's escort business rather than harrassing hard-working mega stars like your truly.
So, I've decided I'm going to form a new protest group Stars4Justice which will highlight the plight of global personalities constantly badgered by the world's press. What I need now is a high-profile stunt to bring our cause to the attention of the general public. I'm thinking we'll gate-crash the next do at Buck House. Come to think of it, I may have the right costume...
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Desperately seeking publicity
I'm in the A&R Man and Plugger in Soho having a quiet libation with 2/5ths of Girls Aloud when the old mobile starts warbling. It turns out to be my accountant calling from Barbados who proceeds to give me a right ear-bashing. I listen to him whinging on about liquidising this and leveraging that for a few minutes and then I ask him what his point is. Apparently yours truly's down to his last few mil and has got to 'raise his profile' otherwise it's goodbye to the good life.
So I seems I've got to be seen out and about so that my adoring public doesn't think I'm sitting in chair in front of Trisha dribbling. Now I'm nothing if not resourceful so I blag an invite to this party in the back-end of nowhere where apparently there might be a few celebs. I pitch up at this gaff to find a right ruckus in progress. There's a ton of snappers from the red tops flashing away like mad. I'm thinking that I've hit paydirt as I head for the front door. Anyway, it turns out that some toff's got everyone fired up because he's wearing some sort of WWII uniform and the doors were well and truly barred. Well you can imagine that I was not best pleased since I'd spent a fortune on my Osama Bin Laden costume. Needless to say, the whole weekend was a washout AND I got charged for returning the costume in an 'unacceptable condition'.
Being a world-wide mega star is not all it's cracked up to be, I can tell you.
So I seems I've got to be seen out and about so that my adoring public doesn't think I'm sitting in chair in front of Trisha dribbling. Now I'm nothing if not resourceful so I blag an invite to this party in the back-end of nowhere where apparently there might be a few celebs. I pitch up at this gaff to find a right ruckus in progress. There's a ton of snappers from the red tops flashing away like mad. I'm thinking that I've hit paydirt as I head for the front door. Anyway, it turns out that some toff's got everyone fired up because he's wearing some sort of WWII uniform and the doors were well and truly barred. Well you can imagine that I was not best pleased since I'd spent a fortune on my Osama Bin Laden costume. Needless to say, the whole weekend was a washout AND I got charged for returning the costume in an 'unacceptable condition'.
Being a world-wide mega star is not all it's cracked up to be, I can tell you.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
I'm a Celebrity Big Brother Deathmatch victim
Now I'm not a great fan of the haunted fishtank but I came home yesterday afternoon after a meeting with my creative team at the Roadie and Strumpet to find my old mum glued to the box. She'd turned it on to get her daily fix of Pimp My Ride and Countdown - two programmes that are easy to mix up if you're on medication. One is a kind of automotive Changing Rooms with a geezer called Xzibit playing the floppy Lawrence role and the other is a series that looks as though it was made in 1957 with a bloke wearing a jacket that even LL-B wouldn't give house room.
Anyway, she was tuned into this Big Brother show which seems to feature two old-age pensioners. One was banging on and behaving like something from the Dark Ages and the other one was that bloke from the horse racing. So I am watching this unfold and I suddenly realise that one of these old ducks is Germaine Greer! Now me and Gerry go back a long way - she was a right goer and no mistake. Having retrieved my jaw from the Axminster, I ask my mum how long this has been going on and why didn't I know about it. Apparently there's been loads of them - in the jungle, up a gum tree and all sorts. Even little Johnny Rotten and that DJ with the syrup** who used to be on Radio 1 have been on one!
So I'm straight on the blower to my agent and I give him a massive rollicking for not expoiting this potential publicity opportunity to the max. It turns out that he's been trying for ages to get me on but they're not interested. Something about corrupting the viewing public or some such nonsense. It's beyond belief, isn't it?
** For the benefit of our Transatlantic cousins: syrup = wig (syrup of fig) Explanations of what a Hampton is will be forwarded under a plain brown cover (only the Brits will get this gag!)
Anyway, she was tuned into this Big Brother show which seems to feature two old-age pensioners. One was banging on and behaving like something from the Dark Ages and the other one was that bloke from the horse racing. So I am watching this unfold and I suddenly realise that one of these old ducks is Germaine Greer! Now me and Gerry go back a long way - she was a right goer and no mistake. Having retrieved my jaw from the Axminster, I ask my mum how long this has been going on and why didn't I know about it. Apparently there's been loads of them - in the jungle, up a gum tree and all sorts. Even little Johnny Rotten and that DJ with the syrup** who used to be on Radio 1 have been on one!
So I'm straight on the blower to my agent and I give him a massive rollicking for not expoiting this potential publicity opportunity to the max. It turns out that he's been trying for ages to get me on but they're not interested. Something about corrupting the viewing public or some such nonsense. It's beyond belief, isn't it?
** For the benefit of our Transatlantic cousins: syrup = wig (syrup of fig) Explanations of what a Hampton is will be forwarded under a plain brown cover (only the Brits will get this gag!)
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Viggo Mortensen reveals secret inspiration...
I suppose it had to come out eventually. Ever since Johnny Depp confessed that he used Keith Richards as the model for his part as Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean, the meejah has been curious to know where heart-throb Viggo gets his ideas. Well, I can be silent no longer and reveal that it is yours truly. If you think about it (and squint your eyes really hard) the resemblance between Aragorn and Vernon Grope on the 1974 Broom Cupboard Comes Out tour is uncanny.
As you can imagine me and Viggy are like that, although he pretends not to know me but that's just to throw the tabloids off the scent. I've already sent him a treatment for a new LOTR film - Lord of the Rings IV - Rockin' all over Middle-Earth with me in the role of his handsome older brother Oregano. It doesn't have all that Gandalf and the 7 Dwarfs stuff in it, just a lusty tale of two rock-meisters travelling through Middle-Earth high on weed with loads of chicks playing monster riffs wherever they go. I'll be booking my table at the Oscars, I can tell you.
As you can imagine me and Viggy are like that, although he pretends not to know me but that's just to throw the tabloids off the scent. I've already sent him a treatment for a new LOTR film - Lord of the Rings IV - Rockin' all over Middle-Earth with me in the role of his handsome older brother Oregano. It doesn't have all that Gandalf and the 7 Dwarfs stuff in it, just a lusty tale of two rock-meisters travelling through Middle-Earth high on weed with loads of chicks playing monster riffs wherever they go. I'll be booking my table at the Oscars, I can tell you.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Swanning about
So somewhat caught off guard in the slow bit after the New Year shindig, yours truly gets dragged off to Swan Lake. Now this is not normally my cup of Camellia sinensis but there was an offer of a few glasses of bubbly in the sundried tomato belt of N1. I don't mind telling you that I needed it after finding out that bloody Daltry's got a gong in the NYOL. Why he can't stick to fishing and leave the rest of us to get on with it, beats me.
Whilst we're on the subject, I seemed to have missed my invitation to Holland's annual TV rockfest. I get in from the boozer to find my mum glued to the bloody thing because she wants to see Basement Jaxx. I'm just about to stick a size 9 Patrick Cox through the screen when Clapton appears. The man's never off the telly! Bring back Moira Anderson, I say.
Anyway, feeling fairly sociable after a bucket of Moet, I'm getting balleted-up . Needless to say, I'm a bit disconcerted when the show kicks off and the swans are all blokes dressed in hairy jimjams! Now call me old-fashioned but I thought ballet was all about posh birds in fluffy frocks having a bit of a prance. The next thing you know, Keira Knightly'll want to be a brickie. Having got over the shock, I managed remain awake for the remainder. I don't think I'm spoiling it for anyone if I tell you that the swan dies. That's culture done for another year...
Whilst we're on the subject, I seemed to have missed my invitation to Holland's annual TV rockfest. I get in from the boozer to find my mum glued to the bloody thing because she wants to see Basement Jaxx. I'm just about to stick a size 9 Patrick Cox through the screen when Clapton appears. The man's never off the telly! Bring back Moira Anderson, I say.
Anyway, feeling fairly sociable after a bucket of Moet, I'm getting balleted-up . Needless to say, I'm a bit disconcerted when the show kicks off and the swans are all blokes dressed in hairy jimjams! Now call me old-fashioned but I thought ballet was all about posh birds in fluffy frocks having a bit of a prance. The next thing you know, Keira Knightly'll want to be a brickie. Having got over the shock, I managed remain awake for the remainder. I don't think I'm spoiling it for anyone if I tell you that the swan dies. That's culture done for another year...
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
From a devoted fan...
I well remember hearing Vernon Grope's seminal Magic ***** ** my ***
it changed my life. It made me who I am today. And if I ever get hold of the bastard Grope I'll kill him. I could have been famous, I could have been rich, I could have been happy.
But because of that bloody song I am emailing this to you from HMGs long term residential home known in the catering trade as The Scrubs. But I'll be out soon and I am coming to get you Grope.
[This is what makes it all worthwhile - VG]
it changed my life. It made me who I am today. And if I ever get hold of the bastard Grope I'll kill him. I could have been famous, I could have been rich, I could have been happy.
But because of that bloody song I am emailing this to you from HMGs long term residential home known in the catering trade as The Scrubs. But I'll be out soon and I am coming to get you Grope.
[This is what makes it all worthwhile - VG]
Grope - The Musical
You heard it first here. Grope the Musical will be hitting the West End in 2005. Makes sense, doesn't it? We've had We Will Rock You and Tonight's the Night so what better way to celebrate yours truly's illustrious career than a spanking new musical. So I get on the blower to Andrew Lloyd Webber who pretended he'd never heard of me for the first 5 minutes - he's a card isn't he? Anyway, he asks me who's writing the book. I gently pointed out that there's no book just the musical and he tells me that's what they call the story in musical-land. Strikes me that they need to get themselves sorted out terminology-wise. So I say it writes itself, doesn't it? I mean tales of Vernon Grope are legendary - all he needs to do is string a few tunes together and we're laughing all the way to the bank. Upshot is he says he wants to 'consider his options'. I say if he wants to get some more art on his walls, he needs to buck his ideas up.
Next stop is casting someone to play me which is another mess of potage. By this time, Ron Edmunds has got wind of the project and seeing that he's about to be booted out of his current job playing the back end of a lion or some such, is much enamoured of treading the boards under the old Grope persona. Now, I'm not so keen given that he's not as young as he used to be and has got a voice like coal under the out-house door. Need to work on a plan to let the old boy down gently - maybe I'll cast him as Roadie #1 . That's should do it - just as long as his back holds out. I bet Carmen Mackintosh never had it this hard - god rest her soul. That's an idea - David Soul. I bet he'scheap available...
Next stop is casting someone to play me which is another mess of potage. By this time, Ron Edmunds has got wind of the project and seeing that he's about to be booted out of his current job playing the back end of a lion or some such, is much enamoured of treading the boards under the old Grope persona. Now, I'm not so keen given that he's not as young as he used to be and has got a voice like coal under the out-house door. Need to work on a plan to let the old boy down gently - maybe I'll cast him as Roadie #1 . That's should do it - just as long as his back holds out. I bet Carmen Mackintosh never had it this hard - god rest her soul. That's an idea - David Soul. I bet he's
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