Gail Trimble: Fox or Minger?

With total recall and lightning buzzer finger, the classically trained Portia single-handedly dragged the dolts of Corpus in her wake.
How long before we see her in Nuts or FHM? Wouldn’t it be great?
What about a flash of her knickers as she disembarks a limo, out on the town with Lilly Allen?

Or a tasteful bikini series, rolling on some beach in Antigua with her boffin boyfriend?
I can see it now:
Gail’s Hunk Gets A Starter For Ten!

She will be on the cover of the Oxford prospectus for years.

Full-time team analysis.

Kay: 3/10 his wrong answers and gormless expression were a joy.

Swartzman: 7/10 contributed well in the final but definitely cross-eyed.

Trimble (cptn): 10/10 tactical maestro gave Manchester enough rope then crucified them.

Marsden: 4/10 foppish hair and total ignorance, a throwback ripe for ridicule.

Back down to 12 followers?
Who baled on me?
Come back ya bastard.

You may be interested to know that I stayed up late last night to watch a biopic of Jackson Pollock. It was très bon. The actress playing his wonderful talented wife was magnificent and heid-the-ba was good too, although he relied on his physical resemblance a lot.

Look, never mind about that. The point is, I am one of very few people I know, who get his pictures. Ha! How cool is that? I know, it’s fantastic isn’t it?

It is because I was exposed to them at something like three or four year old, followed by seeing film of him at work in his studio on TV when I was about seven, followed by a TV discussion where he was rubbished when I was nine and then that unfunny prick Tony Hancock spoofed him in some shit film too.

I am not a critic so I can’t communicate what he has communicated to me, but there’s an emotional reaction, then a realisation that it’s the intended emotional reaction and then when you realise that, there’s a third layer when you say fuck! It’s at a machine code level so all I can say is it is fantastic and mesmerising and overpowering and all encompassing in some telepathic miraculous way. See? I told you I couldn’t tell you, and now you think I’m mental and a patronising wanker to boot. Tough.

I have never read any criticism of his work in case I’ve got it all wrong and the philistines burst my bubble; I don’t have the strength of my conviction.

Anyway, I say he was a giant and a genius and he was overwhelmed when he discovered his technique. I have seen some originals in Glasgow, Liverpool, London, New York and Washington so I know what I’m talking about.
If I were a millionaire I’d buy one and stare at it.

Air navigation

Sales of Fray Bentos steak pies and Bisto are up. Ahhh, Bisto, pass the gravy boat. You shouldn’t be sniffy about it. In toxic times we reach for the consolation of the breast, get over it.
My mother of yesteryear would often bake pies for us. All from scratch of course, (never EVER Fray Bentos) not even jus-rol pastry.
Steak, apple, you name it; mince rounds…

Man walks into the butchers….
“Can I have a mince round?”
“Yes, but we’re closing in 20 minutes.”

Anyway, were we happy? Were we buggery.
We wanted the new fangled pizza pies, Dream Topping, Instant Whip, Cremola Foam, Kia Ora, and Irn Bru.
That’s right, shock horror, we were allowed fizzy drinks, diluting drinks, cremola foam, and frozen florida orange concentrate, the lot; all at the same time.
It was never either or.
Same with biscuits; there was no biscuit hierarchy in our house, everything was fair game.
We had a breakfast, lunch at school, and a compulsory carnivorous evening meal at the big table and no mucking about with your cutlery. We were never thinner or fitter.
We had no teeth right enough, but so what, the dentist was a sadist, everyone said so, even his poor wife.
Can’t remember my point, oh yes, no it’s gone, sorry.

The Florida orange came frozen in a tubular thing. This was pre ringpull so I can't remember how it opened, anyway, Mater would put it in a big glass jug with water, to dilute and thaw it out for us. It was a treat.

We didn't like it , we thought it was shit. "Is there any pineappleade left?" we would moan.

Still can't remember the point, sorry.

Not a dry eye in the house.

(it's a slow day.)

Don't mind me, I just like to sing this next one when I'm pressing my simmits.

British snow for British workers

“...and that floating hotel they’ve got? Five star."
“um, it looks like a prison barge to me…”
“It’s a palace. Cinema and everything.”

Lloyd has that way, that signature way, of the drinker, smoker, and cod philosopher of holding a glass of whisky and cigarette in the same hand.

“Some of them are on two and three hundred pound a week, all found."

He is my host and a generous one. He has given me use of cruet and included me in tonight’s lock-in so I must hide my lack of grace. It would be bad form otherwise. It would be shocking bad form, even for me. The fact I have a bar tab has nothing to do with it.

“Lazy shiftless bastards the lot of them…”
“The Italians?”
“…no! Those Bolshie union men from Lincolnshire. Never liked Wiltshire neither, don’t ask me why.”

Like all Other People, he has no rigour, he is unfamiliar with parallax let alone method, to him, it is axiomatic. Thankfully the news screen has changed to Africa. Quick drag on his Lambert & Butler;

“He’s another one. I’ve gone right off him.”
“Mandela?”
“Yeah, look at him, bloody rolling in it, he’s minted that one.”
“Well, I don’t know…
“AND him!"
“Morgan Tsvangirai?”
“That’s him. Shandy Rye! Yeah, coining it in, he is. Smith was right. Look what they’ve done to the place, bloody shambles. From your neck of the woods too, I believe.”
“Never!”
“Yes! Smith’s father was a jock butcher from Kirkintilloch, I’m telling you…”

With the ease of a boy playing cowboys and Indians, he can extend his first two fingers, Superking and all, and make a gun to aim in my face to emphasise the points as he goes; “That’s… what… I’m… saying…” ( bang… bang… bang…)

Pair of Collared doves snuggling up in the cold in Perthshire.
Click on the picture to see the pair of them. This is all Sarah's fault.

It’s strange but true.
If I had any guts I’d shoot myself.
You may be interested to know I have an unlicensed Brno rifle and a side by side multichoke. My kitchen drawers are swimming in shells. So much for “Responsible Keeper.”
My best friend, now dead and buried in the ash pits of God-awful Lanarkshire, explained it to me:
“ He was too old, it was too much, he couldn’t start again.”
I am a first rate shot.
In the school’s corps in 1971 we were given WD 303s and two-foot bayonets. We loved it. We couldn’t run. We fell over our webbing and the bayonets were longer than our thigh bones and dug into our calves yet we were ready to shoot any bastard (German) that dared to take us on.
Another dead friend visited me out of the blue in 1980. He was RUC. Can you believe it? He had medals and a citation and a Colt 45 automatic in his pocket. I was on that long vac between first and second year at Trinity. I had returned in triumph. I didn’t tell anyone the truth. That it was shit; a disaster.
Easter and summer, I had come back to Perthshire , I was 21 and what a conquering twat I was .
We walked to a field and let off at the rabbits and rats.
Twang!
It’s a cross between bang! And twing!
The shell came out the side and hit me in the head.
I never understood it.
I thought he had shot me in the head.
Eight moths later he was “killed in action.”
They tortured him and booby-trapped his body with gelignite.
He was the Catholics’ Catholic.
You could not have met a bigger Pape.
They sent a robot out to collect his body. The robot cut the wires and brought him back.

Gone to Tahiti.

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Byron or Arnold Bennett?

My glasses, that is, spectacles, are the best in the shop. They are called Byron. A more inferior model would be the Arnold Bennett, or even Milton.
D’ye see the pattern?

I intend to open my own marketing service giving everyday items more exciting names.
For example, the top of the range ice-making machine is not called the Viking 3000 or even the Frostmaster Delux, no it is called The Scotsman!

Who would have thought?

As a start, I am looking around, and I see my little computer speakers, I shall call them the Cicero. Big sub woofer would be…the Churchill?

I dunno, I’m losing it a bit. Help me out.

Dishtowels! The Yasser, or the Mother Theresa, or top of the range, um, the Molly!

What you reckon?

Cleanliness is next to godliness & manners maketh the man.

Below, are the replies I lost to the ether. See? I’m not a total asshole.

Pat, you would think that those privileged enough to attend such tirribly, tirribly elite institutions as Trinity and the LSE would be fiscally independent by the time they were 45 wouldn’t you?
I mean the very idea that on the other hand one might stagger out of them into the real world at 26, desperately trying to remember one’s own name, having a half-assed mental breakdown at 27, then too quickly marrying an unsatisfactory wife, and then being honey-trapped by a Mossad agent at 49 (49 ferchristssakes) when one was on one’s uppers would be enough for any over-matched man, but apparently not.
Spies? I should live so long.

Savannah What happened to Syrup Sex? I’ll just tell you. I put the lid back on the tin when I wasn’t thinking , but guess what, I’ve got a new spoon, and I shall have my syrup, yes Sir, every day if I am spared.

Scarlet I knew it would be jazz number threes, I knew it in my marrow. And you are posh. Anyone says different gets a punch up the hooter.
Ax

Boyo! It is Popery. You are right! Ask three economists for a forecast, you get four answers. Badoom tish. Btw that bridge you shoed me, yeah that one…stay off it on the 25th , just sayin’ that’s all. Even that most tedious of heroes Welshmanman cannot save you.

Sarah, Inkspot, Pat Never trust a bank. Like, never. My word is my bond? Yeah, rightsville. They are run by the global anti-Semitic conspiracy.

Eryl Cheery is as cheery does.

Conan My bile is spent. (just like me money) Oish.

Conan Drumm said...

The only thing to pour on his grave would be a bottle of Milton.

11:24 AM, January 07, 2009

Conan Drumm said...

...that's Friedman, not Keynes...

12:25 PM, January 07, 2009

scarlet-blue said...

I'm rubbish at economics.
Apologies for my brief privatisation, I was wondering what it would be like to be proper posh... it was lonely.
Sx

12:38 PM, January 07, 2009

Sarah said...

i've had Guinness in an English pub.. i prefer stella artois, even if this guy from Liverpool told me it was "cheap". lagers over stouts any day.. but that's probably my "yank" upbringing, with the beer that's like water. if i wanted a full on meal, i'd eat one.

11:06 PM, January 07, 2009

Sarah said...

economics is best left to people who bother balancing their checkbooks.. i don't, not because i don't have to. but because i'm lazy.

11:08 PM, January 07, 2009

Comment deleted

This post has been removed by the author.

12:32 PM, January 08, 2009

inkspot said...

Sarah is spot on. Thank god for transatlantic insight. Balancing chequebooks is the bank's job. Of course, if you have two and a piece of stick, then they'll balance each other quite nicely.

3:49 PM, January 08, 2009

PI said...

Inkspot and Sarah: you trust the banks to balance your cheque books?
Blimey!

4:04 PM, January 09, 2009

Eryl Shields said...

It does seem awfully cheery Doc.

5:46 PM, January 09, 2009

Sarah said...

PI: i didn't say i trusted them, you underestimate my laziness.

Maroon: "you have mail."

6:17 PM, January 09, 2009

No Good Boyo said...

Economics is Popery. Your hocus-pocus comment is all the proof I need, Maroon.

The K Man, my legal advisor, also studied at the LSE. Not law, I hasten to add.

11:15 AM, January 10, 2009

scarlet-blue said...

I play a Yamaha Alto, YAZ 52, Dr Maroon. I'm on Vandoren Jazz reeds - no.3. You'd best start on something weaker though.... you have to learn Dr.

Oh, sorry, I'm replying to your question on an earlier post.
Sx

10:58 PM, January 10, 2009

savannah said...

three things:

online banking works.

maroon reads his email?

what happened to syrup sex?

xoxox

12:46 PM, January 12, 2009

Comment deleted

This post has been removed by the author.

11:10 PM, January 12, 2009

PI said...

I used to think that everybody who went to the LSE ended up a revolutionary - rather like Cambridge and spies. Am I wrong?

3:30 PM, January 13, 2009

Tamla Motown is 50 today!



Got my link up again. Sorry all for the delay. I will reply to my wonderful commenters forthwith.

You may be interested to know that among the many things thrown in my face recently, perhaps the most and yet least discouraging is my economic past.

If you have ever owned a BMW or drunk Guinness in an English pub, you will know what I'm talking about. Nobody but nobody can let it lie, they MUST comment.

"Guinness eh? Can't stand it meself."

"BMW. Not all they're cracked up to be. My brother-in-law had one, secondhand right enough, not a new one like this, but he said they were shite. He's a mechanic."

Same with economics.

I'm bringing it up because Walters has died.
Tell me where he is buried and I will piss on his grave.
In fact I will go to Liverpool and run a bus and we shall drink beer on the way and all of us shall piss on his grave.

Then I will move on to the West Midlands, East Midlands, Northumbria, Central Belt, Cumbria, Derbyshire, West Country, in fact, all the bits he shat on.

I'll be a millionaire in no time. It's an ill wind.

A Guid New Year!

Remember when British TV was the best in the world?
I've just spent an improving hour watching some unknown naturalist climbing trees.
It used to be about the bugs and stuff up the tree, now it's about her climbing up a rope.
Why don't they just throw a bucket of shite over the screen and be done with it?

I think I shall bathe and change the bed linen whether it needs it or not.

I Know, Let's have a party. A summer one. Yay.

Rock on, me bredren.

2008,
So farewell then…
It’s been a funny old year. Bit too bloody funny if you ask me. Still, horizons broadened, no arrests, met Boyo: Yeah, all things considered I’d say it was on the credit side.
And, there was the odd touch of genius about the place.

Which was nice.

Here’s one here;

Why does everyone have to bang on about sex the whole time? There are other things, you know, and I don't mean food or sums.
Here is a list of other things:
The M25 upgrade
Co-ordinated half-point rate cuts
The Clone Trooper Helmet
Salford Quays
Noble rot
Jonathan Kelsey for Mulberry
Foinavon
Broviac catheters
Arnold Palmer
Ambre Solaire
The Hillman Husky

Oh, before I forget, If God spares me, I SHALL. Every single day.


See you all in 2009.