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.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
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.
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