Bertie Bassett - The Formative Years

Bertie’s parents had always known that he was a talented child. Quadratic equations, calculus and Junior Mastermind at age 2, multilingual at 3 and astrophysics at 4 were just a few indications. Why, he could even program video recorders without swearing!
They were also the only living beings who knew exactly why their son was such a prodigy…………until now, that is. Here, at last, is the true story of Bertie.

Bertie Bassett – The Formative Years

Many light years away, on the planet of Mah-Lon, a fearsome meteorite was speeding through the atmosphere, only a few days away from a cataclysmic collision.

The tall, aristocratic man stood there and gazed at his young son, gurgling merrily in his bed. He turned to his wife: “Our planet is doomed but somehow we have to save our son. There must be a way!” Suddenly, the man exclaimed “I know, I shall build a rocket and send him to another world – a safe world where he can live a normal life and carry on the traditions of our fine culture. We will sacrifice our present for the future of mankind and our child”

Sometime later, the rocket was ready. It stood there, a shining monument to the sophistication of the Mah-Lon civilisation, awaiting its precious cargo. Soon it would be too late for any launch as the skies darkened under the approaching rocky mass hurtling towards the planet. “We must hurry,“ said the man “fetch the child.” Unaware of his imminent journey, the child looked up at his parents: his eyes seeming to say “I trust you and will make you proud of me.”

Final preparations were being completed. The babe was clothed in the royal colour of lime-green as befits an emissary from another planet and the rocket navigation system of the spaceship Millennium Allsort was programmed to point towards a small planet which, according to data, contained the relevant conditions for existence.

As the rocket sped into the stratosphere, the sky behind it was lit by the brilliance of a thousand suns as the planet Mah-Lon disintegrated into small particles. A civilisation lost – apart from one small representative. What fate awaited him? What part could he play in the new world of his future?

The child was discovered by a kindly couple by the name of Norris and Doris Bassett who had made a great fortune after taking the plunge into the trifle business. They took one look at his sweet cherubic face and immediately decided that he would be brought up as their own and he was soon comfortably ensconced within the West Wing of Bassett Towers. They spared him nothing: gymnasium, swimming pool, everything he could possibly want and were always bringing interesting guests in to entertain him as well as great scholars to educate and refine his burgeoning intellect.

Anyway, one night after a particularly strong curry, young Bertie discovered his remarkable powers of flight and it was then that his adoptive parents told him of his origins.

“You must use your gifts wisely, my soaraway son.” said Norris, “Tomorrow you will begin training for your lifelong role as saviour of the Earth. You will learn martial art.”

“But I don’t want to draw pictures of Wyatt Earp” wailed Bertie as his father snatched the cigars away from his adoptive sister Bunty.

Mrs Bassett decided that she would design her son a uniform to go with his embryonic superhero status and spent many hours poring over the Primark catalogue for inspiration. Bertie however, was insistent that lime-green (the royal colour of his home planet, Mah-Lon) would predominate. All the great couturiers of the world were called in and finally the task was completed.

One little problem that Norris and Doris had in particular was potty training: they enlisted the help of the nice lady from WhoGivesaSh*t Inc. who apparently was an expert at such matters. Although predominantly retired from the business she still liked to keep her hand in. Finally after many attempts (and several cartons of carpet cleaner) she was finally able to pronounce that the only bulges in the Speedos would be intentional ones and was finally paid off by the Bassetts.

Bertie and his sister were very close. They would play rough games together and Bunty was as much of a tomboy as Bertie was a burgeoning male adolescent. Puberty was a particularly difficult time as the thoughts of having to shave came to the fore but, in the end, Bunty decided not to bother.

She was a natural listener and it soon became apparent that she would take a professional interest in other people’s problems. Indeed, there were many times at boarding school when she was intercepting and reading other’s mail before they had actually seen it: a talent which has been put to good use in later life.

As time went by, Bertie became a familiar figure as he swooped through the skies, heading off to avert yet another crisis. Not for him, the high life of celebrity parties: he was content knowing that he was carrying on the noble traditions of his birth planet and the memories of his real parents. Obviously, as a cult figure, he had his moments when the adulation impeded his everyday tasks but Bunty was always there, the sensible tweed suit interposing itself between him and the crowds. The ample bosom thrusting through the masses, like a battleship carving its way through a heavy sea, as she cleared his path.

Bertie had now become the Superhero known and loved by all apart from those who chose a life of crime or evil. For them, he was a scourge to be feared and they tried many ways to bring about his downfall. In their heart of hearts, they realised that good would triumph eventually although they tried many times to destroy SuperBertie, using some extremely strange and horrific means…….but that’s another story.

In the meantime, we leave our hero working tirelessly, Norris and Doris, secure in Bassett Towers, enjoying their dotage and Bunty gazing admiringly at a photo of the Bulgarian Women’s Synchronised Swimming team. All is well with the world, but for how long?

The Pen IS Mightier than the Sword

This writing lark is a bit of a strange thing. Last night I sat here with my mind a total blank whilst all day I had been posting various stories and other contributions on the few Digital Spy forum threads to which I subscribe.

I'm very flattered by what people say yet I seem to be a reactive scribbler rather than a proactive writer. Give me a stimulus and I can write away without even thinking about it, but to sit here and make up something out of nothing is far more difficult. Several people, some of quite high intellectual repute, have suggested I write to make money but I fear that the niche in which I feel I belong doesn't exist outside of my head. I am in awe of certain writers and know that I can't ever aspire to their brilliance - and I'm afraid that I can only do something of which I am 100% happy. Maybe I've said this before, but I neither regret or wish to change anything that I have ever written. I was once asked by a very good friend of mine if I had ever read any Bill Bryson books? When I replied that Bryson was one of my favourite writers, he told me that our styles were very similar. Possibly, my greatest ever compliment.

From choice, I would rate Terry Pratchett as my favourite author. Whilst I have all his books I am presently trying to collect them as first editions. The man is amazing and I would give a lot to have such a fertile, witty and subtle mind. <

I can hide behind all of my personae and, in a strange kind of way, become them for the duration of whatever I am writing. Perhaps I feel it's safer being something other than myself? I well remember, many years ago, being asked to take part in some amateur dramatics. The very thought of appearing in front of several hundred people was sufficient to reduce me to a gibbering wreck but I agreed to do some backstage work.

One evening, I was cajoled into reading a part during a rehearsal and found that I could shrug off my own psyche and become someone else. After that, I was away! I often wish I still "trod the boards" but the nearest I've got lately is writing a pantomime. Who knows what the future holds however?

Writing is a powerful medium and newspapers abuse their privilege enormously. Some time ago, when there was still MIRAS tax relief on mortgages, the Telegraph had a long and vituperative article on how the threshold of £30,000 should be increased. It was a little while later that I was told that the author of the article had just applied for a mortgage of £40,000!

Again, a classic example is on this year's Big Brother. One contestant, Carole, is portrayed by careful editing of the Highlights Show, as a caring, motherly, figure who spends her time selflessly looking after the others. The truth, if one watches the actual events as they occur, is that she is a scheming, possessive, controlling person who tries to influence and play off everybody to her own advantage. For reasons best known to themselves, the production team choose to favour her in this way and therefore totally mislead millions of people. I know that, in the general scheme of things, this is of little import but it takes on a greater meaning when you place writing in the context of history.

History is written by the victors. We read of past events and believe what we read. Just imagine if WW2 had turned out differently. What would our generation believe, because it sure as hell would be a completely different set of words than those we see, and believe, now?

Words are powerful and, far too often, abused, manipulated and distorted. The words I tend to write create enjoyment and happiness. God forbid that I should ever have the responsibility of using them as a serious tool.

Amsterdam - First Thoughts

Well, this time last night (12.40am), we were sitting in a bar listening to an Aruban jazz guitarist, an American bass player, a Dutch drummer and an English keyboard player. None of us knew what they were going to play and neither did they: it just kind of evolved.If you ever go to Amsterdam and like music then the Waterhole at Leidseplein is as good a place as any. We spent many happy hours there and watched many, many different musicians with sometimes as many as 20 different personnel changes in an evening. Emerging from the bar at 2 or 3am, there were still hundreds of people sitting around in, and outside, the bars, enjoying the atmosphere and generally having a good time.

Amsterdam is a wonderful city. Forget the image of the red-light district: this is a small part of a city full of beauty, vibrance, tranquility and, above all, a real feeling of cosmopolitan acceptance of anyone and everything. It's also a very small city, and 5 minutes walk can see you move from a small cafe, in a pretty, tree-lined avenue alongside a canal, into the tawdry streets around Damstraat with their tacky souvenir shops, sex boutiques, strip joints and crowds.

As you can probably figure, I like Amsterdam. I wasn't over-enamoured with the arriving and departing however. On arrival, either Gatwick or Schipol baggage handlers had decided to do a suitcase-destruction test: guess whose suitcase they chose?! This was after the assisted passage request for Mrs B turned from the luxury of a golfcart trip straight to the aircraft at Gatwick, to a harassed woman at Schipol shoving a wheelchair at us and wandering off again. Of course, I had to walk what seemed like several kilometres in order to sort out the busted case and made the mistake of trying to take a short-cut. Three heavily-armed police approached and I explained that I was trying to save my legs. They were less than impressed and intimated that I might lose them altogether unless I went the correct way!

On the way home, we had excess baggage of 7 kilos and the check-in clerk (after explaining that there were no wheelchairs available) suggested we could remove some and take it on board as cabin baggage. I explained that I had deliberately packed everything in order to keep my hands free to help Mrs B and questioned how I could take some on board as cabin baggage as I had no bag in which to place anything? I also venured to suggest that if I was allowed it as cabin baggage then where did the word "excess" come into it? The delightful Debby at check-in is obviously the only female impervious to my charms and I duly paid €63. The journey to the EasyJet biplane was long and difficult as L's arthritis was really not good but we finally arrived on the plane and settled back thinking of good old Blighty and a nice cup of tea.

After landing, all was well and my son had even got the right day to collect us. It was then that I noticed that the other case was now missing it's lock and some of the contents. The apartment is still strewn with dirty clothes and the assorted purchases of the week but it seems that they have only got away with some cigarettes.

We sort of spent a bit more than we expected (well, actually, a hell of a lot more) so it's hard to remember what should be there. The fountain pens, inks etc for Mrs B. are all OK as are all my banknotes so hopefully life is now back on an even keel. Talking of banknotes, I am now the proud owner of a 1986 250 guilder note which I have long lusted after - a mere snip at €230!

There's a lot to tell and I've been very good and kept a journal of it all. Whether I blog it all, I haven't yet made up my mind but it's late now and time for a bit of shut-eye. Sweet dreams of pannekoeken, slagroom and strong Dutch coffee and then tomorrow, back to the real world.

Thank you Amsterdam: and to the caring people of Gatwick Handling and EasyJet - a different phrase altogether!

Going Dutch

Well, the holiday officially started today when I eschewed the diet and chewed some calories instead! For your information, I've been eating sensibly for the last month or so. Partly in support of Mrs B. and her diabetes-related healthy eating, partly because I wanted to get back the non-pregnant look but also because I was eating all the wrong things at the wrong time and I was conscious that even I am not immortal.

Anyway, a stone in 4 weeks and not one single Haribo has passed my lips.

Holidays are a bit different and, to celebrate its start, I had a wonderful chorizo and melted mozzarella on ciabatta whilst sitting in the sunshine in Brighton watching all the weirdoes.

Bought a couple of hemp shirts (large, rather than my previous extra large) and was vaguely amused by the labels which read something along the lines of "Please don't try and smoke this shirt, it won't have any effect". Mrs B went into her favourite shop and bought a few new tops as well (smaller size also!)). It's called Hampstead Bazaar and Rula Lenska wears their stuff almost exclusively. Not necessarily the greatest endorsement after her appearance on Celebrity Big Brother!

Anyway, packing is done, apart from a few odds and sods in the morning, and hopefully, this time tomorrow night, I'll be in Amsterdam. For anyone who hasn't been there before, I heartily recommend the city. Forget all the stuff on TV that implies it's one big red-light district, there is so much more to it. Pretty, friendly, small enough to get round easily and absolutely full of life.

For inveterate collectors and browsers, there are several big flea markets, art markets, food markets and flower markets. For those of a cultural bent, a wealth of museums and for those, like us, that just want to chill for a week, there are few better places to just sit with a drink and watch the world go by.

Last time we were there, we found a great bar which has live music all evening and way into the night. Nobody knows who is going to play or what they're going to play, as musicians just turn up and jam. You might get an hour of blues, then some of the personnel will change and we're into jazz funk. In fact, any type of music with guitars and drums can be heard there. It's about 5 minutes from our hotel so we may well pop in once or twice!

It'll be strange leaving my alter egos of Bertie and Bunty behind. They have become so much more a part of me since Big Brother started. I'm not sure how Bunty came about? It just sort of happened. I picture her as a rather large, vast-bosomed, loud lady in tweeds and sensible, lace-up shoes and feel that she might have an affinity for dogs and "gals", rather than the male of the species. Prefect at boarding school and captain of the hockey team, she uses her bluff skills helping other people, drinks pints of real ale, smokes the occasional cigar and has the social skills of a Taliban freedom fighter.

I have to say I've already become rather fond of her and I think she may well be here to stay.

Anyway, back to Amsterdam. My lasting memory of our last visit was a really old rasta guy with grey dreadlocks wobbling along the road on his bike, a seraphic grin on his face and the biggest spliff I've ever seen between his lips. Sure, there is a drug culture with what are euphemistically called "coffee shops" legally selling dope, hash cakes, mushrooms etc but these are readily identifiable and not sordid in any way. They have full menus offering a vast variety of "wares" as well as normal food and drink. A real must for Pink Floyd fans!

The red-light district is very overhyped, Walked through during the day without even realising, although it's a tad different at night. There is a wonderful shop called The Condommerie selling,apparently, the biggest selection in the world. It's also a museum of prophylactics and really entertaining (as well as eye-opening).

Sorry, I'm going on a bit aren't I?

Right, that's it. Blog hiatus time. I'm taking my best Sheaffer Imperial and a journal so, hopefully, I might have a few stories to tell on my return.

The Bassett has left the building!

Trout for the Count

Bit of a late night last night. After the Biker Day and then writing it all up, I was still fairly wide awake and eventually hit the pit about 3.30am. I then had the last couple of chapters of the latest Lynda la Plante thriller to finish so eventually tucked down about 4.30. By 6.30, I was awake again, got up, had a snack and went back again until the alarm went off at 8.15.

The reason for the early start was our friend Stef coming round to fit some shelves we'd had custom-built, and he is one of these annoying people who think mornings are a time when people should be awake. Sure enough, he arrived with 9 year old son in tow and 2 hours later, we had a posh new alcove. This was at the cost of £50, me playing Uncle for the duration and a kitchen about 3 inches deep in sawdust after he had to make several "adjustments".

Job done, we tidied up and did some the 1001 things needed prior to a holiday. These included a half hour panic when I forgot where the passports were. After searching the apartment, these were eventually traced along with 100 euros left over from a previous holiday (who says it's an ill wind?).

Now the reason I've wittered on about this is because this evening was going to be a gentle time of relaxation but the best laid plans etc.............

8.30, the phone rang. It was Stef asking if we fancied a couple of trout as he'd gone fishing after finishing the shelves? Not wanting to sound churlish, I thanked him and these were duly delivered. Now, I have always enjoyed cooking and apparently am more than reasonable, but I have never been that good with fish.

I stood there with these 2 trout gazing at me. I gazed back, reluctant to do anything to them in case they were still alive. Eventually deciding that, at best, they were in a very deep sleep, I consulted Mr Google on what the hell I had to do with them. My first thought was just to bung them in the freezer but apparently they had to be gutted and various things removed before I could do this.

Taking my best knife, I put my hand down on the first fish. That slight pressure on its slippery body was enough to send it across the room like an small torpedo! Right, time for action: I stabbed its tail with one knife to hold it down and, with it pinned to the chopping board, tentatively started cutting.

Realising that a cascade of trout viscera would best be done in the sink, I transferred it there, closed my eyes, shoved in my hand and pulled whatever I found.
Surprisingly, things came out quite easily and I started to feel confident - bad mistake.


Back on the chopping board, I started trying to cut off fins, heads, tails and whatever else I fancied. It was still incredibly slimy and I felt that, had there been a referee, I was losing on points at this juncture. This book that I finished in the early hours had been about a surgeon who killed and then skilfully cut up the bodies - oh, how I wished for his expertise. Having watched the TV chefs fillet fish many a time, I started the practical exam.

The theory is knife flat against the spine and cut, but it's a little harder than it looks. In the end I had 2 very skinny pieces of the most irregular shape and still full of bones. The head of the fish gazed at me reproachfully and seemed to ask the question "Was I put on this Earth just for this? Why couldn't you be Gordon Ramsey and at least let me go out in style?".

Right, change of plan for fish #2. No filleting, just clean, de-fin. top and tail and leave the thing like that. Into the freezer and then take it to the fish restaurant next door for them to do the tricky bits at some later date. All went blindingly well (compared to the first one) and it ended up looking rather neat and professional.

At this point, Mrs B wandered out (not being able to face the tricky stuff) to pass judgement. She seemed to not notice the slimy, blood-spattered kitchen, the stink of fish and Captain Birdseye covered in fish scales and sweating profusely. "Gosh," she said "aren't you clever."

I looked at her and shrugged "Piece of piss really. Dunno what all the fuss was about."

Sex and Blogs and Rock & Roll

OK, two out of three's not bad when you reach my age!

Today's been a day I've been looking forward to for a while. The Motorcycle Club had organised a a day of music down at my local with live bands from 3.30 right up until 11pm. They are typical bikers with loads of leather, piercings and tattoos and they certainly don't look the sort of guys with whom you'd want to get into a serious argument. However, their looks belie reality insofar as these events are all for charity, with kids hospitals, the local RNLI and other worthy causes benefitting.

The day dawned bright and fair and everything was being organised with military precision. Large marquee in the car park, barbeque and outside bar set up in the beer garden, entrance all manned and Nick (the landlord and Mrs B's employer) with staff aplenty. I wandered down at 1ish for a coffee and a natter before it all kicked off, only to be told the coffee machine was broken (a usual ploy when it's a busy day)! Now, all the staff there know I live for my double shot latte and I was surreptitiously passed a mug of the same whilst I wandered around gazing at the bikes already there.

As a biker boy myself (Honda VFR 750), I gazed enviously at some of the machines whilst (making sure nobody saw me) sneering at the Harleys, of which there were plenty. The air was filled with noise as more and more bikes arrived and it was really the perfect recipe for a good day. The sun was out, the river shining in the sunshine and the occasional boat slipping in and out of the harbour.

With the exception of the main band, all the others were local guys who are friends and acquaintances so there were plenty of people to chat to. One particular band, Tasteless, for whom I've done some PR stuff, are friends of mine so I was looking forward to their set.

By 4, the place was pretty busy and the crowds had spread to the other side of the road, sitting on the riverside wall. The first band were playing and everyone was enjoying themselves. Big, hairy bikers were wandering around carrying their smaller offspring whilst the older ones ran gaily around the bikes and played in the garden. It had become a family occasion as well as a social mixture of ages, cultures and tastes.Tasteless came on and played as good a set as I've ever seen them perform. I had my digital camera with me so shot a bit of video (which I'll upload soon) as well as quite a few pictures. The video is their encore of "I'm Gonna be (500 miles)" by The Proclaimers, which isn't a favourite song of mine but it captures the moment and even I was singing along. Their music ranges from Cream to ZZ Top via The Who, Billy Idol and T Rex - much more to my liking. If you're ever around this way, check them out: guitarist Carl with magical fingers, Geoff, bass player and wearer of the tee shirts which I am sure inspired ther name, Nick on vocals. a gentle man but a presence on stage and Matt (The Animal) on drums. A superlative drummer with a fashion sense all of his own!
By now, being real rockers, we decided to go home for a while for a nice cup of tea! Having sat down, my eyelids got a tad heavy and next thing I knew it was 10 o'clock. The main act was due to start so I beetled off down there once more.

Of course, darkness had descended and the place looked amazing. People everywhere, music blasting from the marquee and lots of smoke and flashing lights. The poor bar staff were looking fraught by now and the pub was awash with people trying to get drinks. Firmly believing that rank has it's privileges, I dived behind the bar and got my own and then wandered out to watch the set.

I don't know if many have heard of Peter & the Test Tube Babies (http://www.testtubebabies.co.uk/) but they are a punk-orientated band who had success in the charts in the late '70s and are now firmly part of the professional circuit. Last night, they played an audience of 3000 people and today they played for us. Reason: Peter's a local "boy made bad" and he fancied a return to his roots.

I knew little of them and didn't really know what to expect but they were absolutely amazing. The marquee was totally packed and I was immediately absorbed by the music. OK, so they aren't now the archetypal punk rockers but the energy and humour was totally apparent and, chatting to a couple of them afterwards, they had a really good time and want to come back next year.

Music over, the pub was still heaving and I decided to call it a day. With the exception of 2 local kids who tried to come in and cause trouble, the day had passed off without any hassle at all. Everybody had a good time and a shedload of money was raised for charity.

It was one of those days that summer is all about.

From Bad to Verse

I've always liked playing with words and the nice thing about verse is that you can let your mind wander free. Am I strange in that I have favourite words? Throb, schadenfreude, syzygy, dichotomy and cotyledon are my current ones although trying to put them all together might just be a bit tricky!

Here are some other examples of me playing with words:

Philosophical Ramblings

E=MC2 said Einstein one occasion.
Depression and repression (cubed)
Is my own life’s equation.
Nietzsche, Hobbes and Wittgenstein
Philosophise all day,
Why can’t I put it all in place
And find the words to say?
I really feel I’ve got no choice
But Yes! That’s it, of course -
Forget the loss of voice, just put
Descartes before the hoarse!


UFO

Rejection gives dejection and ejection of direction.
No direction needs correction
Not circumspection, but perception.
Without this vast collection
Is contraception of the mind,
Which leads to close encounters
Of the most unpleasant kind.

I remember at grammar school, the only educational book I was ever remotely interested in was a dictionary and I can still remember the first sentence I ever read on my own as a young kid. It was in a Dan Dare book and it said "Look out, Dan, or they'll fry us into crisps." Mind you, this thing with words has had its embarrassments.

I can recollect at infants school, I was very proud to be the first one who could spell a swear word. Of course, I told all my friends and we embarked on a campaign of chalking it throughout the school. Sadly, I hadn't quite got it spelt correctly and I still picture Miss Palmer, Miss Conn et al, sitting in the staffroom and wondering why the word "sit" was appearing everywhere?

Nuff said!

I'm Not a Celebrity - Keep me out of there!

Why do so many people thirst for the lives of the rich, the famous and the infamous? Magazines and TV are full of their most intimate details:one week building them up and the next knocking them down. Is it an inherent inquisiteveness, a wish to see how others live? Maybe it’s just an interest in what makes others tick? Sadly, I think the main reason is a desire to escape from their own lives, a general dissatisfaction with one’s own lot. Ironically, it’s probably the everyday person who has the real stories to tell. Not about the jet set living or the relationships of the so-called "stars" but the sheer bloody effort of ambition, achievement, frustration and the eternal search for that special something that makes us all think that our life has some sort of purpose.

I was like many people before Big Brother 2007 commenced. Outwardly ridiculing the concept of a bunch of people desperate for fame and fortune, whilst secretly looking forward to see the mix of social misfits, emotional cripples and assorted freaks that were being prepared for public humiliation.

I've puzzled for ages about why these people would wish to subject their lives to such a microscopic examination? By now, they must know that, whilst they are incarcerated, the media will crucify them with facts, both real and imagined, about their lives, their habits and their past. Is it because they really believe that they will become famous or is it just a desire to be part of the media spotlight for a brief moment of time?

My television appearances have been few and far between: the back of my head when I was a choirboy during a Songs of Praise back in the early '60s, part of a crowd in an Eric Sykes show and an afternoon of TV glory once at Hickstead when I was standing by the show ring entrance. I have to be honest, that's been quite enough for me. I have no desire to scream and wave at a camera as it pans past me, no lust for stardom as the next Sir Trevor MacDonald (and that's another thing, why in God's name do newsreaders achieve celebrity status?). OK, I'll admit I would kill to be a panellist on Q.I. but that's another story.

Maybe I am just as much a seeker of status otherwise I wouldn't publish a blog? This is something I do because I want to , possibly even need to, but I don't seek superstardom as a result. I do it because I enjoy it and because there are lots of thoughts I need to unload for the sake of my own (dubious) sanity.

Anyway, back to Big Brother: On the forums (fora?), that have sprung up on the internet, many words are written about the programme. Digital Spy tends to be one of the best apparently (by reputation - I've never dared ventured elsewhere) and there are undoubtedly some extremely thoughful and intelligent contributors. There are plenty of others that put in their sixpennorth who can also make a valid point but there are two other (small) groups with which I have problems.

The first of these are the posters who seem to harbour a fierce loyalty towards one housemate or another, almost transferring their own lives into that of their chosen one. Again, is this a dissatisfaction with their lot to such a degree that the transference, in some way, provides them with an escape from reality? These are, after all, mere people in the house. People just like themselves, apart from the fact that they are now on Big Brother and therefore they have attained the Holy Grail of "celebrity".

The other group are also seekers of fame. Their search for this is manifested by deliberately provoking reaction by their words and I find that remarkably sad. Maybe because I love words, I love to write and I love humour and the pleasure it can bring, I get very vexed by people using words to upset others merely for the sake of it.And another thing whilst I'm on the subject! Why, when an opening post is so obviously stupid or a wind-up, do people respond to it? OK, some will post a dismissive or funny comment but others just propagate the whole thing by getting on their high horse about it (a bit like I'm doing now - sorry!). I know about freedom of speech etc. etc. but aaaaaaaargh! It's getting late and I think it's time for my Horlicks, hence the rant.

Predominantly though, the forums are a great place.Where else can you safely discuss whatever you want with whomsoever you want? The anonymity of sex, race, age, creed or colour is an empowering thing and I am sure many friendships have been formed which have enriched lives to some degree or other. I write there because it's safe. If I were to write a book, for example, there will be tangible proof of success or failure whereas the threads provide a medium for expression from which one can withdraw without any further effect.

But still I sit here, watching the House and waiting for something to happen. I still don't know why I do it but I will stand up and say " My name is Graham and I watch Big Brother"

No Sh*te & the Several Dwarves

To anybody that stumbles across this and doesn’t watch Big Brother, it does make sense – honest!

Cast List:
Carole - No Sh*te
Brian – Dopey
Laura – Sleepy
Nicky – Sulky
Liam – Horny
Tracey – Gravy
Chanelle – Whingey
Charley – Stroppy
Ziggy – Sleazy
Amanda – Tweedledumb
Sam – Tweedledumber
Gerry – The Fairy Godfather
Pauline – Sleeping Beauty

Once upon a time, in a faraway land called Endemol there was a House. Not just an ordinary house, not even a gingerbread house, but a magical House made of grass (Be patient, you’ll find out why later). And in that House lived a strange wild woman who went by the name of No Sh*te. She lived in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning and running a correspondence course for her pupil, Cinderella, trying to coach her in her Skivvying degree. Unknown to anyone else, she was also custodian of Cinderella’s pumpkins, a secret which she kept close to her chest.

Some naughty little dwarves also lived in the House and she spent many hours trying to make them behave because they were always getting up to tricks. At this moment, she was cross with Gravy: “Yes, I know it’s a House made of grass but will you PLEASE stop trying to smoke it!” she said patiently.

Now, like all good stories there was a villain. His name was Big Brother and he spent his time trying to bend them to his will. He had a special place where he made them come and talk to him, called the Fiery Room, where a special throne was installed for them to sit on and he would make them do strange tasks and ask them to tell tales about each other.

The dwarves hated Big Brother and as they marched around they would sing their special song:

Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho
We really hate Big Bro.
Sweet F.A. to do,
Where’s a task or two?
Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho

Stroppy stood in front of one of the many Magic Mirrors in the House. “Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” The Mirror replied “I know you think you’re quite a wow, but it ain’t you, you mouthy cow.” Dopey pushed her out of the way as he tried his luck with one of the other Magic Mirrors. “Mirror, mirror on the door, please let my schlong touch the floor”. He looked aghast as his legs dropped off!

In the kitchen, there was an outcry. “Someone’s been eating my crisps” said one of the big dwarves. “Someone’s been eating my crisps” said a medium dwarf. “Someone’s been eating my crisps” said a little dwarf. They all turned round and looked at Sulky, sitting trying to look innocent, amongst a large pile of empty crisp packets. “No need to think it was me” she said petulantly “I had a meal 10 minutes ago so I’m not even that hungry at the moment.”

There was a sudden flash as the Fairy Godfather appeared in a cloud of hair clippings. “Where’s Sleepy?” he asked, looking around in astonishment. Whingey looked up from the flower from which she was pulling the petals and saying “He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me...oh who cares anyway. I really hate him” and explained, in a gleeful tone, that Sleepy had been sent to the land of Oz, flown on a magic dressing gown (which could actually have walked should it so desire).

“Anyway, why am I Whingey when I wannabee Wannabee?” she whinged. Getting no reply, she stomped off to bed. Horny was there having a Widow Twankey . “Ey oop, bonny lass, Fancy gan foor a tab?” Whingey looked at him in amazement. “ You know I hate cigarettes, I’d rather eat a……..” she searched her tiny little mind for some awful comparison………..” a carrot!”

Sleazy was in the garden playing with Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber. Oh how they screamed as he picked them up and carried them over to the pool, his hands “accidentally” reaching (how can I put this politely?) the parts other beers cannot reach. Pausing to flick back his blonde locks, he put them down and wondered why they were still screaming? He wandered in and went to the freezer for a Cornetto . Returning to the garden, he remembered his manners and turned to the twins. “Ice cream?” he asked politely. “So do we” they replied “loads and loads” and then ran off to bounce on the beds.

One day, there was a surprise in the House. From the Fiery Room emerged Sleeping Beauty and all the dwarves danced around excitedly whilst No Sh*te hurriedly recalculated the portion control projections. What they didn’t know was that she was actually from the Land of Oz on a spying mission for Big Brother.

She had brought all sorts of goodies into the House and Stroppy’s face was a picture as she thought she would have to eat armoured dildo. No Sh*te was able to tell the dwarves about the magical land of Oz and such delights as tim tams and..er……tim tams and she spoke authoritatively about her friend, Ma Supial, who had made her fortune there. “She’s not the only one who’s cleaning up” said No Sh*te. “Look at the state of this place. Filthy, dirty, full of noisy children and who’s going to clear up all this hair?” The Fairy Godfather looked at her, embarrassed, as she stomped off to check the state of the art Towel Security System she had recently installed.

Horny gazed longingly at Sleeping Beauty as she spoke of the wondrous delights of the Land of Oz. She obviously fancied him too as she idly asked him about his billabong. Later that night, she drifted off to sleep and he stole over to wake her with a kiss. As he bent over, his lips brushed hers and he suddenly recoiled in horror! “Wayay, man, you stink of crocodile semen paste” he cried and ran into the garden where he sat with Dopey and discussed witches. “Wicked” said Dopey. “Talking of wicked witches,” said Horny "whatever happened to Emily?" Dopey replied that she had been banished to Never Never(to be heard of again) land.

The dwarves were bored. “Why can’t we do something exciting?” whinged Sulky. “Well, if this is story land, I could do with Aladdin.” said the Fairy Godfather hopefully“. I know,” said Sleazy “let’s go and nick Big Brother’s throne and hide it somewhere.” Stroppy looked at him. “Oh you always have to be the centre of attention.” she snarled as she peeled off her clothes and started drawing pictures of Humpty Dumpty on her naked body. “That looks nothing like Sulky...........hmm, I dunno though.” sneered Whingey and burst into tears. Nobody took any notice assuming it was that time of the day once more.

They decided to go along with Sleazy’s plan and sneaked quietly into the Fiery Room (obviously leaving the twins behind). They took the throne and were looking around for a place to hide it when the voice boomed out:

“THIS IS BIG BROTHER. I AM DISPLEASED WITH YOU AND YOU WILL BE PUNISHED FOR WHAT YOU HAVE TRIED TO DO”

The dwarves were petrified and ran away and hid. When they finally emerged, they realised the extent of their punishment. A pair of figures stood before them, evil emanating from every pore. The younger one pursed her rather overlarge lips and uttered the chilling words………..
“’Ello, my name’s Jade and this is my Mum”

Well, boys and girls, that’s the end of the story. Nobody lived happily ever after but, like all good children’s stories there IS a moral: People who live in grass Houses shouldn’t stow thrones.

Night night, children. Sleep tight.

Vive le Difference

Some little while ago, Britain made a small faux-pas. Democracy being what it is i.e. a small minority of the committed leading the vast majority of the politically and sociologically lazy, we entered into an agreement with our European friends to live as one big, happy family. Never mind the fact that for the last 500 years we’ve been beating the living crap out of most of them: we were told that we were heading for a land of milk lakes and honey mountains.

OK, so we fell for it and our lives are now governed by faceless bureauprats in places last seen being bombed by us in the Sunday afternoon war movie - but at least we still had control of our currency. It was bad enough when £sd was replaced by the “new pee” (it’s pence, people, pence!) but now there is talk of Britain changing to Euros.

Since Roman times we had stuck with Librae, Solidi and Denarii albeit with the far more British names of pounds, shillings and pence but, because it appears that the whole of Europe is incapable of counting in twelves, we had to go decimal. Being of more mature years, I still hanker for the feel of a good, solid half crown, no longer is there the anticipation of a 10 bob note falling out of the Christmas card from Auntie Gladys. Instead we became used to paying in pees! Whereas once upon a time one bought a pint of Watneys and a cheddar ploughmans and still had change from a shilling, we now have Katzpissbrau lager and quiche lorraine - all thanks to the EEC.

Since our ancestors first bought their bear skins at Prehistoric Man at C&A, we have needed currency. Granted, it comes in all sorts of forms, metal, cowrie shells, wampum, even plastic: but they all have three things in common:

1) You can never get enough
2) There is no finite limit to the number of ways in which we can be relieved of it
3) It needs to be accepted by the populous as the agreed method of payment.

For some of us, it has another quality. Banknotes through the ages have some beautiful designs, fascinating histories and are immensely collectable.

When the Euro was introduced, it completely decimated a European art form and substituted a bland piece of paper which means nothing other than a means of paying for something.

Banknotes have always been used to commemorate people or events. The French have always been rather good at banknote design and a few examples are shown here. Compare those to the Euro and even the philistine can see the difference.

France 50 franc 1994	France 500 franc 1953	France 50 franc 1947

(With thanks to Owen Linzmayer, www.banknotenews.com for the use of his scans)

Take the German currency during the terrible hyperinflation period of 1923: Defeat in WW1 meant that Germany was forced to make vast reparation payments to (predominantly) the French. With the country already on its knees economically, manufacturing and imports were low and goods suddenly became scarce. People therefore tried to hoard supplies, supplies became scarcer….shops therefore increased prices more……people hoarded more etc, etc. The Government tried to print its way out of inflation by creating more money, but without the financial reserves to back the issue, thus creating a spiral of hyperinflation. Even Railway Companies and local areas used to print their own notes – all with no backing.

History comes alive by example and illustration, so here are a few to think about:

• The number of notes in circulation at the peak of inflation was sufficient to give $2 trillion to every person in the USA
• Suitcases replaced wallets as a means of carrying one’s money
• In October 1923, 1 billion marks would buy 3 eggs
• The Reichsbank printing bill for 1923 reads “32,776,899,763,734, 490,417 marks and 5 pfennig” (not like the Germans to be precise!)
• In Nov. 1923, a single match cost 900 million marks!

To me, the (true) story that sums up this whole tragic era goes like this:
Two women carried a large laundry basket to the bank filled to the brim with banknotes in order to deposit them. Seeing a crowd standing round a shop window, they put down their basket for a moment in the hope that there was something that they could buy. When they turned round a few moments later, they found the money still there untouched ….. but the basket had gone.

Despite all this, despite the fact that the Reichsbank would revalue as often as 6 days, necessitating yet another banknote issue, the vast majority of notes were incredible examples of the engraver’s art. My own collection has 140 different versions from this period and I am well short of completing even the National issues.

There is one particular note called the “Devil’s hair” note, issued by Canada in 1954 where the image of a grinning demon appears within the Queen’s hair. Some say it was the work of a French-Canadian engraver who hated the British although the truth will never be known.

Oh dear, I’m getting carried away here. If anyone who has managed to plough their way through this has any old notes they want to sell, swap, donate, identify or whatever, please feel free to email me. I’ll always be pleased to help – or even just talk about paper money. As you can probably tell, it’s a subject dear to my heart!

Fair's Fair

Today was a red-letter day! Not just because the sun shone but also because it was the local RNLI Fair.

Now, I don't know about you but I am the eternal optimist when it comes to local Fairs and Carnivals. I know it's going to be boring because it is every other year but I still wander down there - ever hopeful of an amazing transformation. This year's Lifeboat Fair had an added attraction insofar as I knew the people running the beer tent so off I went. The girls behind the bar greeted me warmly and quickly briefed me on the stalls to visit. Well, I say "briefed" me: it was more "There's a hog roast over there but the rest is the usual crap". I thanked them and dutifully queued for my pig roll (a reward for losing over a stone in the last 4 weeks - it's only a 9 pack now). Then it was off for the grand tour. Oh the joys of the Treasure Map, the ecstasies of the 5 different tombolas offering knitted loo roll covers, scented drawer liners etc., the excitement of the Hook a Duck stall. My world was suddenly transformed into a mini Vegas. I got to the obligatory Police car swarming with kids and the officer decided to sound his siren. There was a lady clutching her Zimmer beside me and it made her jump so much she almost fell. I went to grab her and stopped, thinking she had recovered only to find she had rocked the other way. Once more I started towards her and once more she recovered and this went on for some considerable time. She was rather like a weeble insofar as she wobbled but just wouldn't fall down. Grinning ruefully at her I travelled on, tempted by the miniature train, tantalised by the Guess the Weight of the Lifeboat stall but remaining aloof until I had completed my circuit and arrived back at the beer tent.

At this point, the band started. Now, we have a marching band who are not too bad. It keeps the kids off the streets which is good but the down side is that they appear at every single function within a 10 mile radius. Massed glockenspiels playing the Theme from 633 Squadron is only exciting for the first 400 times but then it gets a bit tedious. I cursed my luck at this unfortunate timing but the girls told me this was about their fifth appearance of the afternoon!

I had missed the helicopter/lifeboat exercise by now but I was ever hopeful that the chopper was an Apache gunship and might yet reappear, blasting them off the face of the earth. No such luck.

I trudged back home having been out for exactly 43 minutes: once more, my optimism dented and disappointment etched across my face. Mrs B was far more sensible than me and stayed at home. She didn't need to ask how it was - but the hog roast was lovely!

Talking of lifeboats, I was lucky enough to blag a trip on it a couple of years back. It's the biggest class of lifeboat there is, exercising every Sunday morning and the Coxswain gave permission for me to come along. It was a chilly, blowy day and I was told that there was going to be an ashes scattering in the harbour mouth followed by their normal training exercise. Provided I looked as if I was up to the conditions whilst we were in the lee of the breakwater then I was OK to go with them.

There was a party of people gathered at the stern of the boat clutching a brown cardboard box as we set out and I (being a sensitive creature) went and sat in the wheelhouse whilst the ceremony took place. Ashes scattered, we turned round to drop off the mourners and I re-emerged. The lifeboat was covered in a fine powder and the mechanic whispered to me that they had scattered the ashes against the wind, covering both themselves and the boat.

When they disembarked, Frank the mechanic, who is a mean-looking guy, gently patted one little lad on the head. I said to him it appeared out of character and he explained that he was merely trying to get the brat's granddad out of his hair.

Anyway, I was told they were more than happy to take me out and off we went once more. Once we rounded the breakwater, we travelled along for a while and then they tossed this dummy overboard to simulate a body recovery.

I come from a long line of sailors and have absolutely no problems when the sea is lumpy but boy, this thing was rolling through a massive arc. One moment I was looking at the sky and then the sea as we rolled motionless whilst the guys did their stuff. Job completed, it was time for some fun! Twin V12 diesels equivalent to a 54,000 c.c. car engine opened up as we turned out to sea and and suddenly we were powering through the waves at 25 knots. Now that feeling alone was worth 100 visits to the Fair and I returned, wet but more excited than I ever thought possible. I've got a lot of time for the guys on the lifeboat. Normal men who literally risk their lives at a moment's notice to help others. Believe me, some of the stories they tell prove it's not all heroic rescues and swashbuckling action and when I saw the supply of body bags on board, this brought that brutal fact home in a big way. I take my hat off to them, every single one.

Beware the Front Row!

Recently, Mrs B was diagnosed as diabetic. Part of her "treatment" was an invitation to go to a seminar on all aspects of the illness including cause, types, dietary changes and even podiatry (I didn't know either - it's feet!).

Being the wonderful man I am, I volunteered to go with her and we accordingly arrived for what was billed as several hours of lectures but with tea/coffee breaks. Chairs were arranged in several rows and we, of course, headed straight for the back and sat waiting for this exciting event.

As I idly glanced round, I noticed that most people had eschewed the front row and I mused briefly on the reticence of people. What I didn't realise was that one should watch out for those that deliberately go to the front row. I knew this within minutes when a Front Row-er starting harping on about how some low-fat yogurts are 0.2gms higher in sugar than normal yogurts. He followed this with "I've been speaking to lots of people about diabetes". You could hear the collective sigh from the other rows as he launched into a long, rambling anecdote about how his diabetes was discovered, and there was no way he was going to take medication as he was going to fight it himself, and was drinking 11 litres of water and eating 274 bananas a day beneficial as he'd read this in a magazine?

The other Front Row-er had her daughter with her who was taking verbatim notes and asking all sorts of questions about as relevant to the rest of us as nuclear physics to an iguana so, of course, I got the giggles. The poor nurse chappie was desperately trying to move on and in the end had to just ignore them as he nattered about glucose and beta cells etc.

By this time, I was getting fidgety and spent my time doing origami with the little paper cups from the water dispenser and longing for a coffee, as promised. The nurse finished and passed us on to the dietician without any break.

This poor girl was talking to us like a bunch of 5 years olds as she explained the right types of food compared to the bad stuff. To demonstrate the bad, she showed a slide of a massive plate of fried eggs, bacon, mushrooms, fried bread etc which of course made me hungry. I had to do it: I sloped off to find some chocolate from those wonderful ladies at the WRVS kiosk in Out-Patients. I was a bit reluctant to wander back in with it but needs must and Mrs B was salivating as well. Of course, the kiosk had closed and I trailed sadly back, just in time to find Front Row-er 2 bitterly complaining that it was all too speedy and she couldn't write fast enough. Front Row-er 1 was then in earnest discussion about the merits of Tesco "I Can't Believe It's Not Melted Whale Oil" versus Asda "Utterly Crap" low-fat spread and which should he use on his Mighty Shite toast?

We had just about given up the will to live at this point and were deciding whether we could slide off and then it came to Podiatry.

Now, this intrigued me. Why should diabetes affect one's feet? However, with still no break in sight, Mrs B said words to the effect of "Well, golly gosh, I need a cigarette". We accordingly wandered out and were followed by another defiant smoker who was obviously of the rebel persuasion also.

We trooped back in once more, just in time to hear Nurse Feet thank Front Row-er 1 for his podiatological anecdote and thanked our gods that we had escaped the gory details. Front Row-er 2 had by now had a choking fit, rushed off to answer her phone and was still muttering furiously about people not talking more slowly. Well, I don't know whether Nurse Feet had a bus to catch but she regaled us with comments about how diabetes can lead to loss of feeling in feet, so don't walk around without slippers, followed by a cautionary tale about athlete's foot and dashed off.

We were left sitting there and, as if by some telepathy, we decided enough was enough and legged it. The rest of the people started getting up also - except for the Front Row-ers who remained sitting there, hoping against hope for an encore.

God forbid, but if anyone out there has the misfortune to be diagnosed as diabetic, don't go to the education session. 5 minutes on Google will be just as informative. If you do decide to go, take a hot drink or 3, a couple of magazines, I-Pod etc. and keep away from the front row. Better still, if you see anyone sitting there, tell them it's the ante-natal clinic and send them as far away as possible.

Geek or What?

As I've already mentioned before, my first computer was a Sinclair ZX Spectrum bought some 25 years ago . The reason I bought it is still very clear: I wandered into Dixons one day and saw some snotty little kids playing with the dispay model. Curiosity aroused, I gazed at this small black "thing" and realised that I has absolutely no idea what the hell to do, and that wasn't a good feeling. Payday came and I left the shop with a box tucked under my arm, convinced I was now part of the new techno revolution. More importantly, no more would I have to be envious of small children who knew more than me.

I have to be honest and say that I remember very few of the games but I next upgraded from my beloved Speccy to an Atari 520STFM. Oh, the joy of having a real size keyboard and the amazing games that now filled my world. I was Manager of a building society branch based in a sleepy little seaside town by now and, after the customer had been and gone, I would tell my staff I was off to see such and such a solicitor/accountant/broker and hurtle home to get another fix of Jet Set Willy. I was still amazed by the things this box of tricks could do and started experimenting with MIDI ports and synths. The living room slowly filled with discs, cables, books and all the detritus associated with my new addiction. Nights were spent pounding a hot keyboard and that's when I discovered desktop publishing and started a somewhat scurrilous journal for circulation amongst all the local branches of the firm. I suppose it was one of my greatest moments when my Regional Manager asked me if he could put something in it as he would then know everyone had read it.

Then came the first real, grown-up PC! Over £1000's worth of kit with such amazing spec. as 8meg of RAM and 256megabytes of memory. I know it sounds silly now but that was some hot mother of a PC. Well, time's moved on now and we currently have a setup of 2 PCs with 3 inline screens plus Cortez the laptop. I know enough now to be able to get my kit custom-built but am still a mere amateur compared to so many out there on the interweb.

The reason I suddenly thought of all this was because I decided i wanted a counter on my blogsite and came across the dreaded HTML. Now, I can speak a few languages enough to get by and can even say "Keep off the grass" in Urdu but HTML scares the wotsit out of me. I don't know why it is: I have nerdy friends who can reel off all sorts of programming language like C++. Perl and Java but I just seem to have a mental block. Perhaps I was scared by a syntax error as a child? What IS syntax (apart from yet another way for the Government to make money)?

However, you may well note a small counter on the blog now. The Great God Google quickly led me to a wonderful site that gives small fry like me , not only a customisable counter for free, but also does all the Java script and is really easy to install. Hail to you, StatCounter.com. It currently shows about 139 hits - not because I've had that number but because one is given the choice of a number from which to start. My pride wouldn't let me start at 1 because it looks like I'm Billy No-Mates and I thought 6,000,000 might be viewed somewhat cynically, so I chose 135. Reasons? Well, I know about 7 people have looked at it definitely and Zoë, my daughter (who demanded a mention tonight - Hello sweetie!) said even she had read it. That makes 8,which is pretty near three figures, so 135 it was.

Now I can rejoice if there are any more hits or dust off my Leonard Cohen collection if the counter remains stubbornly still. More importantly, Ive learned a bit more and am possibly now at Geek (Third Class) status.

You know the old phrase "In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is King"? My little computer knowledge elevates me in the local community (well, down the pub, anyway). People mention computers and I can drop in an occasional comment about overclocking or ISP configs whereupon they gaze at me in awe. Of course, they don't know I have no idea what I'm talking about but it means I can handle the simple questions and bullshit the hard ones with technical gobbledegook and my status as a total geek is assured.

God forbid that I ever come across someone who really knows what they're talking about!

Confession Time

I have a confession to make! It's not something I am proud of and I try to limit it to the secrecy of the bedroom. It's not something I've done for a long time either but, remembering the pleasure I used to get, I just couldn't resist it.

Let me explain: I was in the local Help the Aged charity shop looking for an application form when I espied a Famous Five book. After going home and creating a spreadsheet to justify the outlay of 20p and extrapolating the knock-on effects of such extravagance, I returned and later emerged triumphant with the book safely hidden in a plain brown wrapper. As a kid, you see, I can still remember discovering the joy of reading and this whole bookcase of rather boring looking books in my bedroom, which I had previously ignored, suddenly became my escape from the trials and tribulations of childhood. There was the whole series of Just William, the whole series of Famous Five as well as stories of pirates, cowboys and all sorts of other thrilling adventures.

I was all set to be disappointed when I opened the cover but, to my astonishment, I still loved every moment of it. Suddenly, Aunt Fanny, Uncle Quentin, Timmy the dog and all the rest of them came flooding back and I finished the book in a day.

I am now an inveterate collector of both William and the Famous Five once more, although the very books that lay in my room for all those years now cost up to £35 each depending on their condition.

It's a strange thing.....all of the amazing effects in movies these days, all the engrossing entertainment of computer games, not to mention the TV programmes available and yet I still get the utmost pleasure from the one thing that life has taken away from us - simple imagination.

It's like when I was a kid and I played constantly with my toy soldiers. My slipper was a boat, the rug was an island, the carpet was a sea, the armchair a mountain. Simple things where there were no limits apart from one's own mind.

Maybe that's where I get my love of books from and this apparent ability to draw pictures with words. A few years back I wasn't very well and I wrote an awful lot as a sort of therapy. Lots of writing, lots of poems. All of which I still have and still get something out of reading. I was told at the time I ought to write professionally but that's the paradox. If I write because I have to then it becomes a pressure. If it becomes a pressure then I lose the joy of writing.

I've written some pieces for a local magazine which are, I suppose, journalistic and written to order but the thought of getting up and thinking "I have to write" is not something to which I relate. That's one of the purposes of this blog, so I can see if I can discipline my writing and make my fortune. There again, what if I wrote and it wasn't accepted? Would I lose the confidence and enjoyment in the one thing that I feel I can do?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

Who am I? WHO AM I?

Why Bertie Bassett, I hear you cry? Well, I suppose I needed an alter ego and as I just happened to be tucking into a large box full of liquorice allsorts at the time. I guess, had circumstances been different, I could have been John West or Aunt Bessie or even Dr White!

Bertie sort of evolved from a name into a whole persona who inhabits certain portions of the Digital Spy forums where he is identified as an unassuming forum member who transforms into SuperBertie in times of world crisis. Wearing his lime-green Speedos, he zooms across continents salvaging near-disasters, righting wrongs and generally being a thoroughly good egg.


He has attracted several followers including the inimitable Reg McDuff - a ginger haired Scot with an unfortunate aversion to personal hygiene and a penchant for a certain lady poster who continually rebuffs his attentions. Reg's hobby is compost heaps and he is now a world authority on the subject. It goes to show that a failed Wimpy employee can make good, after all. This is Reg:


It's rather nice having Bertie to hide behind but I feel it's time to bring Graham into the open. People appear to enjoy my humour but i can't promise a laugh a minute. This blog is going to hopefully show the many facets of my convoluted mind: the good, the bad, the indifferent and maybe even the bits that I don't know about.

We shall see.