When The Routine Becomes The Sublime

This is way more persuasive than a frog bin. As a kid I was pretty certain a frog didn't want to eat sticky McCowan's fudge wrappers but I'm enthusiastic about feeding Tom Hanks greasy food cartons. There appears to be another life form in the background, but then again, extra-terrestrial life can be spotted in Sauchiehall Street's branch of Burger King. I don't know, coming from different planets, stealing our jobs.

The Great Depression



Staffroom conversations are a lethargic business, peppered with weary mutterings. They usually kick off with Teacher fave "In my day" which can encompass a time period between 1936-1999. We've moved on from the catastrophic weather conditions of middle England, staggered by the thought of upturned trampolines, onto the topical cost of living. To illustrate just how bleak things are for blighty, someone piped up that their friend has recently nested with their bloke and it's now dawned on them just how much food shopping rapes the wage packet. I've been fortunate enough to hear this epic twice. In Tescos, bloke reaches for value multipack fishfingers. Girlfriend complains only the very best, the champion of fishfingers, 'Birdseye' will do. Several wage packets later, the woman grimly acknowledges brand name fishfingers are a luxury for the lucky few. Oh, isn't the cost of living high?
When we are back in the caves and I'm teaching 'Holes' through wall drawings, I'll tell this story and think back to when I knew the golden age was slipping through our (fish) fingers.

I am most envious - although my talents might extend to being able to smash all the bottles in one clean swoop.

At work I have to read a lot of terrible things and be enthusiastic about it. I knew I should have been an actress.




The Midnight Fox by Betsy Byars

Just like a slice of rotten apple pie. Tom is staying with his aunt for the summer, but this city boy soon enough realises that being a lazy assed city kid is rubbish until he meets a black fox. I see foxes around all the time and seeing a black one wouldn't be enough to cheer me up about being dumped in the sticks all summer with The Waltons. But then again, I'm one of those cynical hardened city folks Betsy warns against.  His aunt is called Millie and yes, she makes cookies. Betsy Byars has also written a play called 'The Computer Nut' which is Richie's new moniker. 




Black Harvest by Nigel (I only remember the author's first name. The book is very Nigel)

Any drama bar 'Bugsy Malone' for young uns is dire and there is clearly a gap in the market for those that like to capitalise on education - greed can be good if it means I never have to teach this again. There are stacks of coinage to be made. Copies of this tripe are festering in school cupboards everywhere just waiting to inflict mental torture on our nation's youth. Plot summary: It's the Irish countryside and a wooly, English middle class family have embarked on a charming tadpole collecting holiday. Things go array when Prill and Oliver discover while staying at the cottage, the milk keeps turning sour and the potatoes are always rotten. Shame mum has a ban on processed foods so the kids are left starving. The rotten mystery is revealed when a couple of skeletal, Irish Potato Famine ghosts reveal themselves and lecture the kids about the bad old days of no tatties. It's up to Father O'Hagan (a character created using "How To Create An Irish Stereotype In Five Easy Steps") to put them to rest. The Irish are portrayed as good-natured simpletons while the children run about quoting Hamlet and cursing "Golly!" or "My word!". The audience are dreaming of You Tube. 

The Terrible Fate of Humpty Dumpty by David Calcutt

A anti-bullying fable that is about as subtle as an elephant tiptoeing past your television. The money shot is on page 1 when hapless Terry Dumpton (or rather, Humpty Dumpty) is electrocuted to death, courtesy of a very child unfriendly pylon. He really should have listened to the old adage "Well, if they jumped off a cliff would you?". The eyeballs roll back after this catastrophic incident and everything thereafter is a massive slump. The bully is called Stubbs though and is a dab hand at throwing piddly insults about, yet, unrepentant about Terry's demise. Almost as crazy as Javier Bardem in 'No Country For Old Men'. 

I found a play in the cupboard I really wanted to teach called 'Billy Liar' and several copies looked liked they had been re-drafted by Ricky from 'Trailor Park Boys'. It might ignite some interest.

Thriller dance on the tube - Michael Jackson thriller

Some people are cursed. I get bat shit crazy old dears, junkies and trannies and these lucky people get 'Thriller'!

Steve Perry - Oh Sherrie

I found this record in a charity shop a few years back. I may not have found suitable rich old lady castoffs but I did discover Steve Perry's "Oh, Sherrie". A hit with my name as it's written! So, I pop it on the turntable in anticipation. My reaction wasn't dissimilar to the geek in the video when he wheezed out that refrain. My name was mud. I thought about contacting deed poll.
Like his sneaks though.

Amy Winehouse and Blake Fielder-Civil need to face up to their responsibilities and call an Ophthalmologist.

The Christmas Tree

This is worth a chortle even if yer maw isn't from New Jersey. ""And pick up all that shit".

Mr Guttenberg's Household Management





That new sparkly shirt shedding glitter all over the place? Spray with aerosol hair spray to make it stay put. Wash separately from other clothes, or at least wash it inside out if you must wash with other articles of clothing. I learned this nifty trick on the set of 'Law and Order'. It was good for something.

I spend a lot of time on trains. Here are my top five train journeys.

1. The Train Trannie.

I had set off for a driving lesson. I was mentally preparing myself for Instructor Jim - a jogging bottoms fan who enjoys 'rearranging his credentials' in plain sight. Blackpool is his mecca. Anyhow, I plonked myself down in the carriage with the booked seat, betting on the fact nobody ever bothers to sit on them. I heard a growl...

"You're in ma seat doll".

I looked up and saw a six foot 1980's hairstyling and make-up head doll that looked like it had been over enthusiastically ratted by 8 year old girls, high on 'Love Hearts'. I bundled over apologetically to the opposite seat and tried not to gawk. Tinny Abba blared out of a pink mobile which he silenced with garish talons and then began noisily arranging business for the weekend. In his best 17-year-old hotel receptionist voice he described himself as "a stunning, well endowed She male, ladies size eight complete with implants (cup size C no less). "Oh yes, I'm very discreet". I had a great time surreptitiously watching him knock back miniature vodkas while crudely attempting to woo any male that dared to walk past. I loved the recklessness; it was 8am.

What was even more compelling was the number of Granite City residents interested in romancing a She male for the night. He/She secured more orders than Dominoes. I discovered £80 covers a "full session" while 'Roberta's' business associate who was also along for the ride (your bog standard lady of the night) charged a lesser £50. I think the £30 surcharge for the 'little extra' he can provide is unambitious. Most of the glass-eyed (deafened by MP3s) commuters were oblivious to the spectacle and I pitied them for missing out on this tawdry awesomeness. The old lady next to me however, looked like she had been duped into watching "2 girls, 1 cup" and searched my face for answers. For the first time ever, I was happy to forget my i-pod.

2. The Samoyed dog.




A white cloud of fur and teeth bounced on to the train, followed by two couples merry and red from booze. Amusingly, the dog started to sniff some geeky, nervous guy's crotch who then, was pulled into lively and nonsensical banter with the steaming Samoyed group and all was well; until the group assembled to get off at Dunblane and chaos ensued. They failed to paw the door open and were left frantic, pulling away from Dunblane, banging the doors frantically shouting.

"THE DOOR! THE DOOR! WE CANNAE GET AFF!!".

The dog, sensing panic lumbered up and down the aisle woofing loudly, while the group turned into screaming, weeping schizoids, fearing this "Nazi choo choo" was going to cart them off to a chilling end. I almost expected to hear Commander Adama call out "ACTION STATIONS! ACTION STATIONS! A jaded Polish steward was unsympathetic and indifferent when threatened with guerrilla tactics.

"The dog is going to SHITE on the floor cause WE CANNAE GET AFF! HE"S GOING TO SHITE ON THE FLAIR!".

In the end, a dad was called. 911 in slippers.

3. The Dodgy Fare Dodger.

My old wanker radar flashed as soon as I saw the wrinkly old goat at the adjacent table. He was lewdly intimidating two Chinese girls that sat at the same table, refusing to believe that it was possible for them to have Western names, while stressing how multi cultured he was being able to find a different ethnic race attractive. Anyway, he reached the height of his wanker status when the female ticket inspector came round. He refused to buy one, being arsefully cryptic and pig-headed about the whole thing, stating his intentions in a skin flint Rosa Parks manner. Thanks to his futile protest the train stopped dead and for the next twenty minutes he ranted and raved guttural insults. The train driver even appeared but the captain was no match for this scallywag drunk on grog and he lashed out at the inspector. The old bill were called and there was applause as he was escorted off at Perth in handcuffs.

4. The Junkie.

Feet on seats is strictly a no, no. Invalid ticket? - a heinous crime. However, if you're in the mood for some smack to help break up the journey, come aboard! After all, you're only smoking it.
Said Junkie got his tin foil out and went about the whole thing blase, yet conscientious enough to have a valid ticket ready. The Inspector stopped to check this, but alarmingly turned a blind eye to the crooked act. "Junkie Derren Brown" made his way off the train, clear of the barriers blissfully revelling in the best orgasm he's ever had timed a thousand. Meanwhile, Will Self is arrested for shooting up in the privacy of an airplane toilet. Who's the genius?

5. The Old Lady

I have "batty old wifies, tell me your thoughts" tattooed on my forehead. I fell into the infamous "It's awfy cold" trap while waiting for the train and was suckered into half and hour of dementia. To this day, I'm still thankful she got off at Stirling. My time spent improvising at Youth Theatre is of some use at least. I'm John Simm in 'Life on Mars'. It's 1973 and am working at the same glass factory in Wishaw.

"Jeanie threw herself in front of a bus?".

"The boss reprimanded you for not re-ordering typewriter ribbon?"

I really hope I don't await the same fate and ramble on to some cyber punk about my tragic past, including the time my mum mistakenly picked up a Betamax version of "Charlie Brown".