Did you ever see a television series called, The Grimley’s?  It was a comedy set on a housing estate in Dudley at the beginning of the seventies.  The heart of the show was centered around a local school where student, Gorden Grimley carried a torch for his gorgeous English teacher.  It was a superb piece of writing and it captured the essence of the era perfectly.  The cloths, the kids, the parents and the teachers, all in a well chosen cast, were cemented together by a dry, humorous and sometimes dark script which was complimented by the music of the day. 

Noddy Holder played the headmaster, and Amanda Holden provided the eye candy playing the role of the school’s English tutor, delicately named, Miss Tittley.  Throughout the series she was wooed by the sadistic PE teacher, Doug Digby, right up until his untimely death in a javelin accident in the gym.  As I got to know the characters it wasn’t long before I recognise a similarity between the casts roles and some of my old teachers, particularly the part played by Brian Conely as Doug Digby.  Like the character in the programme, my PE teacher was a pig of a man and was built like a brick outhouse.  Unlike all of my other lessons physical education was encouraged by applying humiliation, pain or fear, and in some cases all three in the same lesson in a bid to spur on the bloaters, weaklings and the thug elements to join in.  

Mr Evans was an overbearing Welshman who had Gazelle like ankles, thighs like a brace of tugboats and was, at the very least, the width of a healthy Ox.  Quite why he joined a football playing school was never disclosed but I think that was the reason he used to take out his wrath on the pupils, so for him at least it seemed the perfect placement for a practising sociopath, who may have been ejected from the Welsh Guards and was unable to find a rugby playing post.

All we  ever seemed to do in his lesson was running.   Cross country was most popular when it rained, and in the summer we could be found circulating the track while Evens sunbathed.  At the end of each session in, how to sweat, we were, how can I put this – coaxed towards the communal showers by two verbal directives.  “SHOWERS BOYS,” was bellowed out first, followed by, “LAST WARNING,” two minutes later.  If you weren’t under, or heading towards the showers a ‘persuader’ was employed to ‘encourage’ you forwards, and this came in the shape of the knotted cord which was attached to his whistle and by God it stung if it made contact with your arse. 

There were days of change to our routine over the course of the year which strangely coincided with the weeks that the education board were in the area!  At that point every piece of field equipment we had on campus came out on show, and we were let loose with long pointy sharp things, bloody great dinner plates and cannon balls, all of which apparently had to be lobbed manually!  It was a concept some of the pupils weren’t adapted for.  You knew there was going to be an element of danger surrounding these pieces of shrapnel, especially if they were handled by the planks amongst your class.  This worrying thought was back up when the most vital piece of instruction stamped on each box was, MUST BE THROWN FORWARDS! 

Give him his dues, Evans could chuck a javelin and a discus a hell of a distance, but with his build his was much better equipped for the shot putt, and believe me, he would be the last thing you’d want to see charging at you if you were holding a rugby ball.  He chose a victim for the tutorials in all things to be thrown that afternoon, and his first choice was the speckiest swatoid in the school.  He was an absolute wonder with a writing implement and had many, many brain cells, but his eye to hand coordination left a lot to be desired.  Imagine, if you can, a javelin left in the hands of Frank Spencer!  

Evans gave student Yelland a few pointers in throwing the discus and then lobbed one down the field.  Mark then picked up his projectile while the class took three paces backwards.  As it happens he did okay for a first try, it didn’t go to far but at least it went in a forward direction.  Next up was the sharp stuff.  Evans pulled a javelin out of the ground and handed to a shaking Yelland.  As before Evans went first and then gave Mark a pep talk before letting him loose with this potentially dangerous piece of equipment.

A sweating swat stepped up to the plate and tried desperately to physic himself up for the job in hand, but he needn’t have bothered.  Evans was on hand to inspire the last few seconds of his warm up and bellowed, “Right Yelland, what’s the most critical part of throwing a javelin?”  “Err, timing sir.”   “That’s right boy, okay class stand well back, this fucker could go anywhere!”   What Evans didn’t know was the kid he’d just left in charge of the aluminium spear had been taken out of his music studies in favour of an extra physics lesson by his parents, as he had no natural sense of rhythm!

We all took several steps backwards.  Some, including Evans, took a few sideways just in case, and we watched as the gangly student began his run up with a spear that was trailing along the grass behind him.  Seagulls parted in the sky above him as the javelin left his hand, but no one could see which direction it was headed.  I mean, we saw it leave his grip but that was it!  We all scanned the field to see if his spear was still in the air, or had  stuck in the grass at a jaunty angle, but nothing was the worrying sight we saw. 

Even Evans was beginning to show major signs of concern.  By pure chance I looked directly upward and against the dark clouds I could see a silvery object hurtling its way back down to earth, and standing right underneath it was the kid that threw it.  I pushed my way through a still confused crowd and knocked Mark out of the way and the javelin missed him by a split second.  I believe he was the only athlete in the history of the school to have recieved an award for throwing a javelin the highest rather than the furthest.   It makes you wonder how we survived our education… 

Hope you all have a blindin’ weekend, and let’s not  forget… 

“Never make an important decision on an empty stomach or a full bladder.” 

All material copy written.  Copyright 2006

Are you a fan of car-crash television presenters?  Specifically the ones where the hosts think that baiting a predatory animal makes great TV.  Steve Irwin got away with this cringe-worthy style for a while, and there’s another berk (Bershire Hunt) out there, a South African guy, who delights in saying, “Look at that, look at him, look how aggressive he’s getting.”  Well of course he was getting agressive, the bloody idiot had just picked it up by its tail and was shaking his hand in front of his head! 

Enter, Timothy Treadwell.  I’d heard about this bloke, but I didn’t know anything about him until I watch a documentary about his life last week.   What a knob!  It’s no wonder he came to a grizzly end, but the real tragedy about this story was so did his girlfriend…

Let’s look at the person first and what shaped him.  Treadwell was born on Long Island, NY.  He was an average student in high school and was Connecticut’s star diver, but to the public he claimed he was a British orphan who was born in Australia!   He went on to described himself as an aspiring actor.  However, after failing to get the role as the waiter behind the bar in the hit American TV series, Cheers he turned to substance abuse.  He then described himself as a recovering alcoholic, drug addict, and eco-warrior.  Can you see where this is yet going chaps?   To a degree it’s as bizarre as the Michael Jackson death saga. 

He turned his attention towards environmental film making, and picked up a girlfriend along the way, and she loved him to bits (no don’t laugh), and when he decided to live among the bears of Katmai National Park she went with him.  Which was  bit of a bastard really, because she stated somewhere along the line that she had a fear of bears and felt deeply uncomfortable in their presence.  So where did Treadwell chose to set up his campsite?  A salmon stream where bears weighing just under half a ton would come to feed on a regular basis!  Now call me stupid, but I don’t think that was his smartest career move.    

Anyway, he got away with it for 13 years on the trot, but God knows how, because he seemed hellbent on self destruction.   Was he on the old Persian rugs (drugs) while he was out and about with with his furry chums?  Hmmm!  Well it does seem as though he was getting a bit slapdash with his life out in the wilderness.  He accrued six violations from the National Park Service.  One citation was for storing an ice chest filled with food in his tent!  Oh dear!   Another was for using a portable generator!  Why not just buy yourself a loudhailer and shout out, “Come- an-git- it!”   The citation I was most alarmed about was the one he racked up for guiding tourists around. [Note to self: if your going to take the bears some lunch make sure you apply for a license first!]   And I don’t think it was a good idea to keep open snack packets in the tent either.  Just an observation you understand! 

In the documentary Tim baby was, ‘praying for rain.’  He ranted at the sky shouting, “I want rain Jesus boy,” and eight hours later, it turned up.  “It’s a miracle,” he said.  No. no, the weather change mate!  The bloke was completely off his trolley and was a section paper short of a ward.   He slept with a toy bear.  He used to crawl, on his hands and knees, towards a female bear, with cubs, and start talking to them in a young girlie type voice.  When asked in an  interview, was he ever afraid he replied, “They wouldn’t hurt me.”  In the 85-year old history of Katmai  National Park there had been no fatalities, none, none until soppy bollocks turned up!   Why, it’s as if the animals just want to be left alone!

Right I’m off, I’ve got a bear baiting class at the Haringey civic centre.  Well it beats wicker work classes hands down…  BB

A new post will be added on Saturday guys; I need to research some more information before I can go any further so I apologise for the delay, but I think it’ll be worth it.  I’ve heard about the person I’m going to write about before, and last week I watch a documentary about his life to make sure I had some facts straight.  Oh dear oh dear… it really does seems that there are more out than in, in the mental health sense.

In the meantime Greenland needs your help.   As I mentioned last week they are a bit short in the ice department due to global warming, so here’s how you can help.  You have two main options.  Option 1 (for large companies only) : adopt a freezer for a kipper a week.  We will send you photo’s of your freezer and you’ll receive a letter once a month tracking its progress.  Option 2 :  send as many ice cubes as you can to, Burt the Inuit c/o the fourth iceberg to the left of the first igloo the post person comes across….  Oooh, here comes the Lithium lady!

Catch ya on the morrow playmates… BB

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4xlNXYCQKM

Errrrrrm…, apparently we’re a bit short in the ice department?  Well it’s the first I’ve heard about!  But the Inuits of Greenland say that they were the first ones to notice the problem.  Burt Inuit, a renowned painter and decorator, was at work one day painting a neighbour’s igloo, when he noticed that his first coat of paint wouldn’t dry.  He went back the next day to find that all of the wallpaper he’d put up had fallen off as well.  Burt is the first casualty of unemployment in that area, which is a bit of a bastard really, as the nearest social security office is 5,433 miles away!

But there is some good news in the offing, the locals can now grow their own vegetables – whoop-de-fuckin’-doo!  Mind you the affiliated union of, Polar bears, Seals and things that flap about a lot, are up in paws and flippers over the issue.   Another problem that is a concern for the Inuits nation is the discovery of gold, diamonds and platinum in the area.  They say their land could be overrun by prospectors and they’re worried that the natural habitat and wildlife will suffer as a consequence.  I’d say that’s the least of their worries, you wait until Ronald McDonald and Pizza Hut turns up mate!  Mind you they’ll have to rejig their menus to accommodate the locals.  “Blubber and chips for table three Vera, and don’t forget the Whale sauce luv.”  

Dear Inuits, have no fear, Bipolar Bill is hear…  Over the last week I’ve spent literally seconds devising a, two point, full proof plan for which I want no thanks or remuneration, unless you can rustle up a fridgefreezer large enough to accommodate one small Blue Whale?   My first stratagem is to place a ban on all motor sports that heavily reply on a circular track.  This will reduce the use of fuel being wasted and the amount of carbon emissions too.  Drag racing will then become the number one motor sport, which will be a sight more bloody interesting than seeing a F1 car for just 1.2 seconds shoot past you after you’ve just spent 60 quid for a ticket at Brands Hatch! 

Ploy two, and this is where it really starts get interesting, would be to target all commercial fights and change the way planes fly.  If the trial works that’s up and running in Jersey as we speak, I hope to roll the scheme out all over the country, and then pass on my findings to the international circuit.  We all know that planes use an immense amount of fuel when taking off, so how can we minimise this waste?  Well I’ll tell you.  Coasting, or gliding if you will! 

We all know if you coast down hill in a car with your foot on clutch you use less petrol, well my plan adopts that idea and applies it to the multitude of planes that fly above us at any given time.  A 100,000 tons they maybe, but even if they run out of ‘go-juice’ the buggers will still drift into an airport near you at some point.  A lift will be erected on a runway, a big one, big enough to take a Jumbo jet.  The elevator will raise the plane to a height of about three miles where it can be aimed at it’s destination.  Then, the platform supporting the plane tips forward and jettisons the flying beast into the wild blue yonder.  This radical piece of engineering will reduce the use of fuel, and the carbon footprint in one fell swoop.  No, no, don’t thank me, I’m just here to help.   

You know the worrying part about all of this is, MY DISORDER IS IN REMISSION!!!

Hey there my invisible chums. 

Well, I was stuck for a subject this weekend and thought I’d have to miss a blog update, but then the Gods of humour, Gigglus Muchus and Lottus Laughious came unto me and handed over a topic from comedy heaven.  Yes, we’re still with the Michael Jackson case, but I couldn’t resist making  my comments known to the world after I heard the line, “Michael Jackson’s nose is missing,” emanating from the flashing coloured box in my front-room.  Thank God for the BBC News24…

I don’t know how the announcer kept a straight face when uttering those words.  I burst out laughing.  According to a ‘witness,’ he had a false proboscis that was missing as he lay in the morgue.  As a follow up Jackson’s housekeeper is reported to have said, “He had lots of false noses in a jar.”  Well, she would say that, she needs the money!  However, it poses the question, which other bodily parts were false? 

Did he have a special nose that he used when he went to the corner shop for example?  Embracing that thought for a moment, perhaps he had an occasional conk to match his evening wear?  I mean, if you had a whole range of new body parts you’d want to show them off on special occasions wouldn’t you?   Easter ear lobes maybe, or a Passover penis perhaps?  I know have!  And why stop there.  You might as well have an extra set of ribs for Ramadan, a range of hair for Honneka and a set of birthday bollocks too!  I know I have!  

I can see where all of this is leading, and it’s going to be the mother of all funerals.  Have you spotted the comparisons between the death of Michael Jackson and a young Egyptian king?  The gold coffin.  The missing body parts, which, as we speak maybe being placed in storage jars for his journey into the after life?  So here’s the crux of the matter, where will his remains be buried?  There’s no way they can be placed six feet under, it wouldn’t be deep enough to put off the ardent  idiot fans digging him up and sticking him on their mantelpiece would it?   So here’s my forecast.  There will be an extra passenger on the next NASA mission and Michael Jackson will the first person to be interred on the moon!  Far fetched?  No more far fetched than what’s going on here on earth at moment…   

Right, I’m off, I’ve got to wrap up a present for my mum, I bought her a Bank holiday buttock!

Bipolar Bill (“,)

Just before I begin, has anyone seen Michael Jackson’s doctor?  Apparently he’s done the off!  Well hang on a minute, how many doctors did he have?  If you had that sort of cash flying about you’d have a spare one wouldn’t you?  Oh I can just see the headlines tomorrow.  Ooooh, so many more column inches to come chums… 

 

Well, the boys and girls of the Post Office are up against it, and it’s technology that is their greatest foe, that and the money grabbers above them.  I’ve been in the same situation back in the last recession when dear old Thatcher (spit, spit, spitty) was in power.  She, and some friends of hers, namely, Maxwell and Murdoch, got together to and devised a plan to smash up the print union and a few others besides.  She was in power, so all she had to do was push a few bills through and hey presto all of the unions power was taken away.  I could cheerfully slap everyone of them with a heavy object.  

And now it’s the turn of the postal workers, but more so on the technology front.  Back in the early days of the 70’s they must have believed they had a job for life and they did, but now they’re up against texts, email, Gmail and social websites some of which are free, a concept which is totally lost on ardent capitalists.  These are the boys that are on top of the pyramid and they only care about hard cashy-wonga – not people.  What they have to remember is, if they crush the grafters at the foundation of the pyramid who the fuck is going to hold them up?  The time will come, and I hope I’m there to witness it.  As an over view, let’s see where we are in say, 2012 – watch this space….   

Back in the day the penny black system covered nine or more collections a day, so maybe to spread the cost of deliveries that system should reintroduced, a sort of jobshare if you will.  So what could we do to update that?  Email?  Gmail?  Hmmm…, okay, it’ll be a little radical but I’m willing to give it ago…  Old people won’t be using a computer so there’s a constant source of income for the Royal Mail.  So there’s two options right there, Frail Mail, and Snail Mail.  It doesn’t matter what time it arrives they’ll be pleased that someone is thinking of them.  They could adopt the supermarket scheme and call it, BOGOF or Sale Mail.  Dale Mail will cover the countryside addresses and Air Mail will now be known as Dart Mail.  The sender will make a paper dart out of their correspondence and throw it to another person who lives near to the addressee.  All you’d have to do is form a link of users to enable your post to reach its destination.  Why, you could call it Chain Mail I suppose!  It will be aslower delivery obviously but it will greatly reduce the carbon footprint of the Royal Mail.   And finally…  Twat Mail will replace Junk Mail, and it will be redirected to the money grabbing twat that sent it, moreover, their addresses will forwarded to Green Peace along with the amount of trees they’ve had cut down to produce their naff leaflets, magazines and books. 

Sane & sober signing off…

Well nothing grabbed my imagination in the news this week except maybe the fact that Michael Jackson has gone missing.  What that actually means of course is that the media vultures don’t know where his body is being kept until the day of his funeral.  Aaah shame it’s none of their business really is it?  So this weekend I’ve decided to write up a section from my forthcoming book.  It’s only at the fourth draft stage at the moment so no doubt it will change but this is the bare bones of an episode I witnessed during one lesson at my last school and it’s called…

THE BINDING OF HOWERD

Well for a start with his name was actually Heywood but our deputy head, a Welshman, would insist on calling him Howerd at registration and the name stuck.  As kids go pupil Howerd didn’t have a lot going for him, he did flourish in swat circles however but really that’s as far as it went.  Everything about him seemed out of proportion and without doubt he was the most gangly kid in my year and the lower years come to that.  He was tall for his age which didn’t help matters and to top up his mounting problems his bonce was the length and shape of a rugby ball.  He also appeared to have sunbathed under a colander on a regular basis because his entire face was covered in a mass of dark freckles.

If you ever watched Stingray as a kid you’ll probably remember the aquatic puppets that used to ride around in a huge fish chasing Troy Tempest about, the ones with the speech problem.  Well Raymond’s barnet was fashioned in the same way, straight across at the fringe, straight down at the sides and straight across at the back.  Between his well spaced eyes lay a nose that could’ve easily been used to steer a small boat and below that were a set of railings that a beaver would’ve been proud of.  In a cruel twist of fate God had seen fit to endow Howerd with a pronounced overbite too, and the only advantaged of this strange arrangement nay gift was it enabled him to bite off the back edge off a crusty pie!  He also had a whiny, nasal sounding voice which led me to believe he might’ve been a relative of Janet Street Porter.  Poor sod, he might as well  have been born with a target on his back.

On the day of his binding my class were making their way to the science lab for an afternoon lesson.  When we arrived we were greeted by an open door and no teacher so we piled in and did what most unsupervised kids did in that situation.  Gas taps were lit and turned up full blast, all ten of them.  Fish were frightened in their tanks and paper darts were made and lobbed.  Asbestos was licked only to discover it was in fact tasteless and there was always one kid who would pick up the armadillo shell and use it as a hat for as long as he could get away with it.

The larks and japes carried on but as we clipped the ten minute mark we found we were struggling to keep ourselves amused.  It was then we realised that this was the longest period of time we’d ever been left to our own devices but as is usual in a situation like this you could always rely on the class thug to come up with some new form of entertainment.

The order was passed to a thug subordinate on the back bench and he walked over to the bench in front and said, “Give us yer tie Cassidy, pass it on.”  Within a matter of  minutes the lower ranked thug  had enough school neck wear to rope a Giraffe and then he dutifully handed them over to his leader.  He sat there rocking back an forth on his stool surrounded by his loyal group of Jackals and they were grinning mischievously waiting to find out which weakling was to be persecuted in the name of boredom.  There was an air of mystery around the lab as the reason for the collection wasn’t immediately apparent but it didn’t take long to work out once operation Howerd got underway.

He was unwillingly plucked from his seat at the front of the class and dragged to the back of the room by Nottley’s hoods where he was bound, gagged and finally lashed to a radiator out of view.  At the very point the raiding party sat down the deputy head walked in and informed us that our science teacher had phoned in sick so he would be taking the lesson instead.

The atmosphere was tense to say the least as we knew Roberts was a stickler for the rules and would insist on reading out the register.  Names were called and answered as slowly as possible to put off the inevitable but it was no good he was always going to reach the letter ‘H’ no mater what we did.   “Howerd?”  Nothing!  The silence was deafening.  “Howerd,” he said with a bit more attack in his voice.  In the pin drop silence you could just make out a muffled whimper and the sound of a rubber soled shoe kicking a radiator pipe.  There were a few stifled sniggers from around the room but Roberts hadn’t heard the desperate signs of a school boy gently roasting at the back of the lab.

He boomed, “Where is Howerd, has anybody seen him?”  The class fell silent again.  Well at this stage Howerd must have broken free of some of his restraints because now you could hear the vibrations of the side of a shoe being strummed up and down the length of the radiator like it was a harp.  His mumbling became more audible and so did the laughter from around the class.  Roberts strode up the length of the lab, clipboard in hand, to  the scene of the disturbance with his quarter tips accenting every step he made.  ” Howerd,” he bellowed, “What the hell do think you’re doing down there, get up and don’t be so stupid.   Naturally the whole class erupted in fits of laughter which was only made worse when Roberts informed pupil Howerd that he would be joining him later for a detention.

It was a priceless school moment and I swear it’s all true.  I have no idea what the teachers were on back then (1972) but it seemed the case that if you were a swat you got more detentions than the class oik.  I mean, Roberts didn’t even bother to ask Heywood who tied him up in the first place – unbelievable!

Enjoy the rain at the weekend.  BB signing off ’til next time…