The tingle

You live through the last ten years of lying politics and suddenly things go a bit tingly.

Barak Obama is undoubtedly the most exciting introduction to the Western political world since Clinton (Mr , not Mrs) and some.

And in Scotland we are graced by Alex Salmond.

In between times Bush bombs; yes, I know, it’s a pun.

Brown just goes pear-shaped – but what can you expect when his boss/predecessor was an inveterate liar?

So.  Bring it on.  The Presidential election I mean.  Because, although I am massively predisposed to Obama, I think we all need to see the debate unfold.


You wonder whether the fight to beat Clinton has taken too much out of him.  OK, America probably wants a break from conservatism, and McCain is about as enticing as Hilda Ogden in a rainstorm but it’s still a big ask.

And, oh it’s been a right riveting nomination campaign.

But let’s not forget he is black and there is a mountain of opposition to that.

However, I think it is a rather exciting political development and that he is, potentially, the man.

Bring it on.

(This is clearly the sort of post that one might look back on in years to come as supremely visionary or supremely foolish.  Pray God it is the former.)

The Apprentice . Week 11

And now, the end is near and so we face the final curtain.

Regrets, we’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention.


Life as an Apprentice candidate is little to do with regret and all to do with opportunity.

I thought Paul Whitehouse’s review of Sunday night’s insight into the finalists’ psyche was remarkably close to my own opinion of the veritable tosspottery that this year’s candidates is. And yet, it is the most compelling television that this nation produces.

In effect tonight was the season closer.

It is all too clear that Clur has won. Next week is simply the crowning of the mockit monarch. Surrounded by her working class guard of honour.

The dismissal of Lucinda tonight merely proved the fact that Sir Alan is a class warrior and can’t abide posh. I have been accused through my commentary on this series of being anti-posh but this simply isn’t true. I’ve supported Lucinda throughout – she has a brain after all – but titty-boy Raef and his clueless lover Michael Sophocles gave poshness a bad name.

For posh, read dim – in their cases.

Anyway, the final four at least represents the best of a bad lot.

As discussed, Clur will win handsomely (that was irony). She proclaimed last night that she didn’t want to be a “big fat lemon” which begged the obvious question; “Well, why are you wearing a yellow top then?”

Lee can’t win because he was duped into being

a) a Pterodactyl and

b) a liar (about his education)

in last night’s interviews and is lucky still to be in it.

Helene has dragged herself out of the mire but can’t win because Sr Alan absolutely hates her.

Alex can’t win because he is a wee wankypoo.

“I’m only 24” he keeps proclaiming. 24 what? I wonder. 24 times the national average irritation factor.

So, it’s Clur all the way for me.

Gobby, lemony, irritating bitch that she is.

We luv u Clur.

(Oh fuck. Big Brother starts tomorrow night.)

The rise and fall of the adman

Last night Peter York, in his uniquely obsequious way, demonstrated how well he has made a career of commenting on people with talent (advertising, TV programme making, fashion, publishing) whilst showing little or no ability to do anything other than be a posh tit on call to the BBC (or C4 when he was a bit of irony).

He sploshed on about the ad industry in a rather unbeguiling way in “The rise and fall of the adman”.

Frankly it was all a bit

a) tedious

b) predictable

c) unimaginative

d) Pish

e) yadayadayada

f) wank

g) tedious

h) predictable

i) unimaginative

j) Pish

k) yadayadayada

l) wank

m) tedious

n) predictable

c) unimaginative

o) Pish

p) yadayadayada

q) wank

r) tedious

s) predictable

t) unimaginative

u) Pish

v) yadayadayada

w) wank

x) tedious

y) predictable

z) unimaginative

In the meantime we continue to do really interesting and creative things in the advertising industry.

Unlike Sir Peter York. (Not!)

When dogs go human. Only quicker.

Emily, my bambino sis of bear and cheetah fame, sent me this little treasure.

A family friend of hers, in Jersey where she oft lives, was fortunate enough to have a pool in their garden, but every time they went out of a day they came home to wet decking and splashed furniture.

They suspected the brats next door but could never catch them red handed. So, one day they hit upon the idea of hiding a video camera and see what happened…

Britain’s got talent

The final was fab.

We were out at a party on Saturday night and had to sharp exit for a bit to see who landed the spoils.

The wee gadgey that won it must be freezing though.

He wasn’t, for me, the best by a long way. Ultimately Andrew Johnstone ousted Amazonio by virtue of being better (but I think they split each others’ vote) and Michael Jackson and the Sique Janny just about did the smash and grab.

Here’s Andrew in his qualifier. He was much better in the final but of course it has been sequestrated on youtube for a bit.


And the second best thing was Amanda Holden’s dress.

bon iver

Ian D gave me a copy (sorry, I’ve only spent £500 on music this year) of this guy’s much lauded album this morning and I’ve listened to it all day (between phone calls).  I can’t honestly say that it’s the album of the year so far, but it is very interesting

The story behind it; man loses girl and goes off weeping into the outback to rant about it makes for a good creative schticke.

The critics are, of course, mutually masturbating.  I think it’s rather good but time will tell…

Here’s a wee taster.



My annual golf trip to Arran, two weeks ago, was a curate’s egg. Good in places. In fact I shot my best ever scores on Corrie, Lamlash (76) and Shiskine (81) and won the 4th and 6th rounds.

However, I was docked a stroke for coming second last year so played off 16 (two below my handicap) meanwhile Wee Bobby got a four stroke raise for playing like Stevie Wonder meets John Merrick for the last three years.

Trouble is, he played like Sevvy Ballesteros for two rounds and despite his colonic syphilitis (or something) hung on to play five rounds. He was coming back to the field like nobody’s business, but his first round five under par was enough to win the day.

I came in a respectable second, three adrift with a pile up in and around me for the places.

Had I have played off my national I’d have won by miles but hey, that’s goilf.

Good on ya Bobby.

Did I tell you he’s 73?