Ding dong

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

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 north drying 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...

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

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

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 my fancy 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.

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...

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

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.

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

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.

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?

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.