Daleks- Stand Up for Your Rights!!! The unreleased Dalek Episode

Darren loves Dr Who. Always has, and was thrilled when it returned, as millions of other mid-thirties men were who grew up thinking that club-swinging cave-dwelling side-kick Leela would make a great girlfriend when they were nine.

I also, loved Dr Who when I was a dungeree-wearing roller-skating kid- and I have a confession to make- I love the new ones too.

Which is what got us onto a topic of conversation in bed the other night, when, I had one of my usual off-the-wall-lateral-thinking moments...I put the question: would it all have been different if the Daleks had been in a Union?



Scene i:

(Two Daleks come on from Right of Stage into a Wetherspoons pub Interior)

(Dalek 1) Jeff: Alright Pete

(Dalek2) Pete: Alright Jeff

Jeff: How's the missus Pete?

Pete: (wiggles his eye-stalk) Alright thanks mate, y'know. She's a lovely piece of kit- y'know, but she's a Cylon, know wot I mean? Christ those Cylons....they just give you grief, year in, year out...

Jeff: Oh I know mate, oh I know (wiggles plunger in exasperation) - my Pauline, a right goer in the right department, but gawd, she's a real Cyberbabe in the wrong way when she gets off on one, "why aren't you hoovering the stairs, blah blah blah". I hate the bar steward that wrote it in that we could suddenly hover. I pretended that I couldn't make it to the top landing before that.

Pete: Yeah mate you've got the worst of both worlds there mate...emotionless and a woman.


(Jeff and Pete both take a moment to dip their plungers into a pitcher of Lager)


Pete: Burrrrp 'Cuse me. Always catches me circuits that does.

Jeff: Y'know...I do wonder sometimes why we do this job. Davros is always goin' on about 'supremacy' and 'extermination'- but where does it get us?

Pete: Yeah and we don't get paid. But at least we get job satisfaction.

Jeff: Job satisfaction? What job satisfaction? I go home after a day of murder destruction and mayhem and it's always the same. It doesn't make socialising any easier either- I always end up killin' potential mates.

Pete: hmm gotta point there son.

Jeff: (hushed dalek tone) I think we should form a Union.

Pete: WHHHAAATT??

Jeff: Yeah mate...a UNION!!

Pete: Why would I want to be in a Dalek Union?

Jeff: Well. working hours for a start! After 12 hrs me hover laser starts to short circuit. Surely its against EEC Health and Safety Regulations?

Pete: Hmm...

Jeff: AND what about pay?

Pete: What pay?

Jeff: EXACTLY mate. Davros is there, lording it about, fancy buttons to push and everything, and what do we get?

Pete: Errmm...

Jeff: It's all very well for the Emperor to sit on his backside in his fancy spaceship orderin' us about, but whose gonna tell the missus that our two week holiday on the other side of Skaro is cancelled due to "another unexpected attack on Earth"??!!

Pete (sips more lager through his plunger): That'll be you Jeff.

Jeff: Exactly. Muggins 'ere. Another wasted two week invasion of Earth, only to be sent packin' by that bloke in that Blue Box and his latest bird.

Pete (Pauses): I like the curly haired one though- with the scarf. He was alright- he gave me a few jelly babies once. Nice bloke.

Jeff: Yeah, yeah, I'll give you that. Better than that psycho from Salford last year. He wouldn't give you the time of day.

Pete: Yeah. He just had a hissy fit and started flappin'. His bird had to sort that out.

Pete and Jeff (together): Northern poof.

Jeff: But this brings me back to my point. Our working conditions are the worst in the Galaxy.

Pete: Such as?

Jeff: Well as I said- no pay, no contracted working hours, no pension and no sick leave. Davros makes you commit hari-kari if you have a sniffle: programmed to commit suicide if there's a chance you'll be made prisoner! No Geneva Convention for us, mate.

Pete: Yeah look at Mike last year. Poor sod.

Jeff: PLUS plus (sips more lager, getting more and more loud and drunk) plusss...no contract, no bonus pay. No overtime. Infact, no pay at all- supposed to do it for ' The Greater Supremacy Of The Daleks.' Greater Supremacy- where does that get us? My bank manager wouldn't even give me a mortgage.

Pete: No way! After you fixed his sink as well! What did you do?

Jeff (burps loudly): Exterminated him.

Pete: Fair do's. (wiggles his eye stalk)

Jeff: AND we have to put that stupid voice on.

Pete: Yeah- in the 70s they made me sound like Zippy from Rainbow.

Jeff: You know, that Davros- he aint so hard y'know. He can't even boast he gets his spare parts from Halfords.

Pete: He thinks giving us a spray-job of metallic car paint is giving us an upgrade.

Jeff: Exactly mate. Although the missus quite liked it, I was council-house grey before. And I had that obvious kitchen-whisk arm replaced by a proper laser, like. So, your missus...did she give you the eye when you came in the house looking like that?

Pete: She loved it- she was bombin' around like KITT off Knightrider. Zoom-zoom, zoom-zoom, her little eye went. So romantic.

Jeff: Aww. Lahhhh-vely.

Pete(looks at watch): Corr blimey, I better get back to her...old Davvy might think he's the Boss, but we know who the real boss is, don't we mate?

Jeff and Pete (in unison): Her Indoors.



Exit Left.

A tirade against a certain pub-chain's clientele in Blackpool

Ok.

Let's get one thing perfectly clear- I usually love Wetherspoons pubs- chain of UK pubs whose main sell is, because they do not pay for overly-hiked royalties to records companies to pump the latest tunes into the pubs ( i.e.they don't play music), it allows them to sell drinks at reduced prices. And it is brilliant. It may be my age, but I adore being out at night, have a drink with pals and able to hear what they're saying, rather than doing a damn fine impression of Gollam as my face contorts in my desperate attempt to hear what they've just said over 93 decibels of Macarena in Yates'.

Decent Wetherspoons in Manchester

I love the Manchester Wetherspoons- two of the most lovely decorated pubs, with atmosphere, buzz and no Gollam impersonations to be seen. Torquay- lovely; Preston; Fleetwood; Lytham; Brixton...ahhh.

But then you visit the Blackpool one.

*WARNING:

THE NEXT TIRADE OF ABUSE SHOULD BE AVOIDED BY PERSONS OF A SENSITIVE NATURE*

Picture the scene.

It is a lovely, warm and balmy evening in July. After a hard day at work, my better half suggests a wee walk to the pub, and grab a bite to eat. He suggests nipping to Wetherspoons in South Shore...not a 20 minute stroll from our home.

Cecelia does an excellent impression of the Incredible Hulk.

There is a reason why cliches and stereotypes exist- they invariably have a grain of Truth lurking somewhere deep inside them. Take Wetherspoons in Blackpool- why is every Wetherspoons I've ever visited have been lovely places to eat and drink? Even Fleetwood?! But in the Blackpool pub in South Shore, cliches abound aplenty.

You approach the bar.
Infront of you, is a young, terrified pimpled youth staring back at you saying in his mind, "please don't want a drink please don't want a drink". His startled Bambi impression reminds you that one week earlier, he'd been in the cellars rolling beer barrels back and forth until the Manager, desperate for front-line help, demands he goes upstairs and serves behind the bar.
You ask for your drink...his trembling hands grasp the beer glass until you think it will shatter; the glass fills with foam as he desperately looks around for help and he thinks he spots it- the supervisor. The 'supervisor', is at least a whole two years older than he is, a sour-faced-looking brunette who runs around behind the bar as if she's terribly busy, until you notice she's doing nothing. Except looking busy. As she darts in and out behind the bar blatantly ignoring his Bambi expression, more and more people descend onto the bar.
They want serving.
Our now flushed and red-necked barboy is now beyond himself with terror- but at least your glass of foam that he put to the side 5 minutes ago has started to resemble at least a third of a pint of lager. He starts on the next lager and does a little better...but he still needs help to serve the next 16 people all now throwing looks to the sky, coughing and sighing loudly. His supervisor, at last, comes back out into the bar area- but with a case of alcopops. She surveys the queue of waiting customers and does what any supervisor does... turns her back and slowly begins to stock the fridge with alcopops.

The 16 'men' who were so blatently sighing and coughing, now turn it up a gear. They are all here on a Stag Night...and their coach arrived in Blackpool 2 hours ago and they're on the pull. But first, they must tank up. This pimple-head is costing them vital drinking time. The 'subtle' cues are obviously being blatently ignored, so they now turn into jeering and shouts of "come on mate we're next", as a few of the men declare their intention of "going for a slash- get us a pitcher mate- we'll get drunk faster". They push against you at the bar, being blatently rude and shoving with their elbow whilst pretending they're doing nothing of the sort. Lots of forced laughter and male-jokes abound as the overwhelming stench of various cheap aftershaves mingle with each other in the confined space, and you start praying mentally for the damn barchild to hurry up.

As you try to patiently wait for your two pints of beer to emerge, you turn your head and catch the look of a old man sitting at the bottom of the bar. He sits alone, smoking a pack of Hamlet cigars, drinking bitter and has spread his newspaper out over two feet of the barspace on the Horse-racing pages. It is at least 30 degrees in the shade; but he is still wearing that old tweed discoloured jacket over a grubby-collared shirt and a yellowing vest. He has never heard of deodorant- B.O. is that woman who was in that film called 10 with blonde dreadlocks.
He catches your look: you smile at him in acknowledgement, and he returns a burning look of hatred that you are in His Local. You are ruining the quiet order of things. And he detests you. The barboy isn't listening to his inane drivel of the 1966 World Cup or of the odds on the 3.30 at Aintree and he doesn't like it. He hates you and blows foul-smelling smoke your way before returning to scanning the horse fixtures.

Meanwhile, back at the table you picked whilst waiting for the better half orders the drinks, you casually read the Menu, and decide on your order. Your better half returns with the wet and foamed lagers and places them where beer-mats should be. A typical family of Blackpool holiday-makers enter the public bar, and plonk themselves not 6 feet away from you. The wife, sunburnt red because "it's the first day of the holiday innit" shouts shrilly at the two E-number addict children running round the table before someone hits the other and screams and shouts begin.
You try to hide your face in your beer glass as you note her arm-pits aren't shaven, her bright pink sweat-soaked strapless t-shirt rides up over her stomach (as she's a size 20 but buys 16s) and her home-bleached hair "because she's worth it" is turning green. The husband- usually rake-thin- sits slovenly in his Adidas bottoms, paying little attention to the bedlam surrounding him, except when one of the kids knocks the table where his beer sits. Then he hollers, usually with expletives "sit the f**k down" etc etc and child crying and tantrums ensue. His tattoos, pierced ear and his spikey haircut from the '80s remind him he's still a stud, but you can see the hunter became the hunted when he got her up the duff.

As you sit and eat your cooling food and foam-ridden Grolsch, surrounded by pimple-laden barboys, stinky old men, alcohol-ridden stag night yobs and holidaying families, you wonder why you came in.

And that, my friends, is why you should NEVER EVER go to Blackpool Wetherspoons.
It's so sh*te that even WetherspoonsPlc haven't taken a photo of it for their company website.

Be warned.


Fin.

Italy Wins the World Cup- Zidane a Disgrace

Well, there we were, sitting in the livingroom, glued to the TV. I was so wanting France to win...afterall, it was Zinadine Zidane's final international game, a player who came out of retirement to serve his country, a player whose ability and talent I have respected and admired for many years was to once again, serve France.


Nearly 2 hours later, I was sitting hunched, shocked, watching a mature and respected footballer act like a twelve year old, head-butting an Italian and subsequently being shown the red card in the final 10 minutes of extra time.



This wasn't a hot-headed young Beckham of '98 or the Rooney of 2006 being sent-off through their immaturity and inability to control their passion for the game.

This was a highly respected footballer of another generation, the French captain, the one person who all the French players look to for guidance and with respect. And he, in full view of officials and the world-wide audience, exchanged words with Materazzi, then turned round, and squarely and with full intention, head-butted the Italian in the chest, with full venom and no apology.

He didn't just let himself down. He let his players down, the French fans down, and above all, his country down. His red-card secured Italy's victory and was the final nail in the coffin after Henri was substituted, ensuring that when it reached penalties, France would fail.

He failed himself and he failed the World Cup. An amazing player who should have bowed out with honours, will be written in history in a different light.

No mention will be made of the European medals he has won, no mention of the caps he earned, no mention of the international respect he achieved.

He will just be remembered as 'the one who head-butted that Italian in the 06 World Final' in years to come.

What a way to finish your career.

What an idiot.

Shady Days

Qiuck update, as you may (or not) have noticed a quiet few weeks on the ol' Blog.

Things that went well:

Finally saw the Chiropractor (Dr of nervous system and spine), who I was referred to by my GP. Final diagnosis of trapped nerve at C1-C2-C6 (top of neck) and irritated nerve at T9-T11 (between shoulder blades). Had neck cracked four times so far (rung like a chicken, so loud that Darren heard the cracks and snaps) that forces the nerves back into place.

It was amazing- the pain that has been there 24/7 for 15 months has suddenly reduced.

In one week:

• I was able to drive down to West Mids to see Karen and Stef, and then be driven back by Darren (over 200 odd miles)

• Go to Cardiff for an overnight stay for a business meeting (7 and a half hr drive there, 4 and a half back)*

* this is funny...I was NOT driving thankfully lol...8 officers from work in two cars, went to see the Welsh HQ of DCS and how they work, share best practice, etc...I fell asleep to find that the car I was travelling in, had stopped at a service station at COVENTRY?! WRONG WAY NEIL! Thankfully as I'd lived in the Midlands, I knew the motorways, and was able to re-direct us back onto motorways that would get us to Wales and then Cardiff. Hence the shorter time back, as I was voted in as Navigator after that lol.

The other car wasn't so fortunate...they ended up in LONDON on the M25 LMAO (laugh my arse off!!!)

• Go to Leeds for a meeting with the Head of DCS Internal Communications (just under two hundred return trip)

• Drive to Liverpool the same week to see the Pet Shop Boys gig.

A big difference from Jan/Feb when I was medically forbidden to be in a car, never mind drive, for longer than half an hour!


PSB...


Felt so much better, that I was able to go to see the Pet Shop Boys at Liverpool SummerPops 2006, who incidentally, were fantastic. I bounced around like a nineteen year old flinging arms in the air and joining in- Neil Tennant said we were the best audience on the tour so far!

• Painkillers reduced by 200%

• Able to lift my God daughter for the first time in 6 months last week!!

Daddy and Charlotte at her Christening in May xx

• Germany beat cheating slimballs Portugal ( Ich bin glucklich! Deutchland gedemutigtes Portugal heh heh heh!!) Humiliated! Heheheheheheheheh!!!!! No 'wink wink' now Ronaldo, eh mate?!
  

Things that didn't go quite so well:

• England kicked out of the World Cup by cheating Portugeuse slimeheads (see above; danke Nici!)

• I was warned by the Doc that the inital part of the treatment would be up and down...pain kicked in big style earlier this week, resulting in being driven home early by Darren Tuesday, and eventually having to bow to pain pressure and be off friday with pain (Freitag mit schmertz)

• I woke with stinking hangover this morning after going out with Darren last night to catch up with our mate Pete- also a Wolverhampton Wanderers fan! He also went to Wolves Uni but we met at work years ago. He's mint and gets us tickets to the matches when he can (his missus Laura works in the Wolves FC office!). It was Nathan's 18th birthday (Pete's brother) and an excellent night was had by all. 'The Doc' ( Steve-he's a Wolves fan and a GP in Poulton) was there of course, who we meet at a game. And he's off his head too. Cracking night- highlight being Laura's mum who used to live in Wollaston Stourbridge and we were reminiscing and chatting all night! (I'd love to live there again).
  

So overall, although the pain is sometimes goes and then returns, it's reasonably bearable to live with and I know that one day I shall be how I was at PSB, all the time...pain-free, happy, able to use my left-hand properly- important as left-handed!- and counting myself lucky that the pain wasn't forever... thanks to a decent GP who referred me to a Chiropractor able to force the trapped nerves back into their rightful positions xxxxxxx

Visiting Karen & Stef

23-25th June: It's the weekend where Karen and Stef usually go to Glastonbury. Sadly, this year, the 'ground is resting', and so it's not on. Celia decided that bein' a psychology graduate 'n' all, that her best bud required emergency counselling and support. She rallied all her shady business chums from her times as an Insurance Advisor in Solihull to throw Karen a party!

Thus, Shifnal Carnival was born!!!

Celia smug infront of her carnival



Nah not really. And I bet you knew I was lying. Nevermind.

Well D and I made it down to KC and Stefs, and a grand time was had by all. They took us out to Cadbury's World in Bournville Birmingham (ahhh...yum yum yumm)...it's the main factory in the UK where Cadbury's chocolate is made, and it was pretty interesting! It was, of course, pushing the Cadbury's Is Best marketing, but that's to be expected. They gave away free choccie bars and the factory shop was v good! We all came away with lots of chocolate- not all of it for me lol! I bought some for my work colleagues and staff (they were very pleased), as well as Dad- and of course afew for me tee hee!

Celia and Karen-KC-in Cadbury's

There was a small nugget of truth in the first paragraph...it is the weekend KC and Stef usually go to Glasto, and it does fall on the same days as the Shifnal Carnival- so we had a peek as you can see!

KC and Stef then had a fab BBQ where we had a lovely night eating al fresco, nibbling and drinking outdoors on the patio as the light faded, warmed by the BBQ coals and warm soft night breeze...


and then these barm-pots below turned up and spoilt everything.










Darren and Stef compete in the "Impersonation of the Hammer House Butler answering-the-door Competition"

Fab weekend!