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---

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!".

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

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.

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!

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...

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 ----

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.

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...

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.

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!)