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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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!

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 russian gangster businessman; hardly any english players; heap of shite
** 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...

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.

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---