Name: Paps
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Let's start with a quiz. What do Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Robyn Hitchcock, Benjamin Zephaniah and Papmeister have in common? A clue? It's something, or rather someone, who we all like. Answer tomorrow. Now back to the ususal pub-based shite. My local pub's lease is up for sale and apparently last week they took some prospective buyers to look around the place. Now a little bird tells me that two of the prospective customers were none other than G and G . Now this is interesting to me because these chaps already own one pub, drive top of the range cars and yet seemingly have no visible means of income. In fact, it would appear that they have never worked. They are, of course, what passes for organised crime round where I live. I thought to myself, surely this can not be true that they are taking over the pub although it would perhaps be interesting. Then when I popped in for a quick pint on Saturday afternoon I saw them in there, which I haven't for years. So naturally I had a chat with one of them, although I am far too polite to ask direct questions. And find that this sometimes results in sudden pain when dealing with certain types. So, as one does when one is sat with a gangster, we discussed Maradona's weight problem. Further probing interviews to be conducted by Paps will be, "Saddam: My Love of Baywatch," and "Gambino Picks Songs For Swinging Lovers."
In which I am listening to a reggae version of The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carrol performed by Michael Rose of Black Uhuru. Interesting. And kind of chuckling about a friend who left her mother babysitting the kids while she went out. She put a DVD on for the kids and grandma before going out and all was well with the world. Except she hadn't told grandma how to work the DVD player or TV so when she came in Granny was sat there and uttered in her mournful Mayo accent, "I've been staring at a blue screen for two hours." This story can be filed alongside the one about the automatic car windows.
So it's like this: I have a lunchtime meet with MC Hammered and I walk into the Prince because, as I say to the Wakefield Sage, as well as being Princes amongst men, we may as well be men amid the Prince. So I walk in and amble up to the bar, in the relaxed style for which I am known, and as I walk up there a voice says, "Paps..." (actually they use my real name but you get the drift). And I look and who is it but G C , who I have not seen for the longest times and what's more, dear reader, I have not missed in the slightest. But as you know, I am nothing if not Kofi Annan-like in my diplomacy so naturally I chew the old fat with him while I wait for an actual friend to walk in. And I have to say that the experience turns out to be rather rewarding, as I get to hear the story of the male stripper and his snake who come unstuck in the pub nearest to where I grew up. Apparently there is some dispute concerning a banana, and its use thereof, and a loyal customer decides that it would be more than hunky dory to deliver a short, sharp blow to the head of the male stripper. The stripper is dispatched without further ado, and the customer, who is thorough, if nothing else, then punches the snake. Now, of course, I cannot use this platform to advocate cruelty to animals, which I am of course against (except in the case of slow running chestnut three-year-olds, but that is another matter), but there seems to be something rather stylish in punching out a snake in my opinion. So the accidental meet is not an absolute failure. He then goes on to tell me another story that's even better but I think I will drip-feed you this good stuff lest you become spoilt.
I was in the pub on 9/11. I'd finished an early shift, got the bus home and called in at the local on my way back. When I walked in, a drunk and a woman were arguing at the bar about the best place in Spain to go on holiday. They were the first thing I saw. Then I noticed Cyril, a World War II veteran, and a cantakerous old bastard at times, sat there in the foreground. "Alright, Cyril?" "Sound." Having his seven pints prescription. I nodded at him and made my way to the bar. The drunk and the woman were stood at the bar. Benidorm, Majorca...firing names at each other. On the telly above the fruit machine I could see a skyscraper trailing smoke like a giant cigarette. "What's that?" "Dunno." I swear to God that at that moment, and in that pub, I was the only person who had any idea what was going on and even I didn't grasp it at first. And why am I telling you this now? Well, I've just watched part one of The Rotters Club and it made me think that I have seen all sides of these things. If you saw it, and you know me, you'll understand.
I got an e-mail from Peter Hitchens yesterday. Next week I'll be taking tea with Auguste Pinochet at this rate.
"Telephone call for Paps." "He's not here." "Where is he?" "He's going to be freaking up and down hang-up alleyway." "I see. With the groove his only guide, we shall all be moved." "That's if his feet don't fail him now." "Indeed. It's his chance to dance his way out of his constrictions."
Wake up feeling that the world is full of possibilities for one such as I. Last night Bez won Celebrity Big Brother, indicating that the British public are capable of taking a drug-addled madman to their hearts. I hereby resolve to stand in the next General Election. I shall, of course, have to give up my seat in the House of Lords; my title, Lord Papmeister of Beeston, Duchy of Miggy, will pass to my eldest heir, who is a cat. No need for the ermine robes there. I will run for office on a platform of issues loosely based on those that Jello Biafra espoused when he stood in California many years ago - namely that all businessmen would be forced to wear clown suits and that cars would be banned. To this I would add several of my own. Some of these involve the reinstatement of droit-de-seigneur, which I think was a lovely old tradition; a repeal of duty on cigarettes and alcohol, and a plan to move pornography off the top shelf and onto one of the more accessible middle shelves to prevent me getting a crick in my shoulder and simultaneously enabling easier furtive browsing. All I need to do before I put my name forward is find and destroy all those photographs showing me naked except for suspenders, a stocking over my face and a slice of orange in my mouth.
It's still the same. All the floors and all the walls and all the rest remains...tiredness could kill a man; kill him stone dead. Between that and the monotony and the neverending sameness of everything and everyone and the need to break out sometimes gets so strong that it feels like a pain in your head or your chest and if something isn't done then that'll kill you too...We're all exchanging pleasantries no matter how we feel...and you know that you're on the verge of something, anything, anyone. One of these days you'll explode. One of these days you'll start drinking and won't stop till you're dead. Bang! Yearbooks with their autographs from friends you might have had. These are your important years...Dead, over and out, and some fucking peace at last.
Well, I know I'm not super-hip...but I am achingly beautiful, so allowances must be made. It's Saturday night and I'm sat at work, ploughing my lonely furrow until one in the morning. Except it's not lonely at all because there are about 15 other poor souls here with me, trapped at work when really we all feel that we should be out there because it's Saturday. So, we make the best of it and we'll send out for takeaways and we'll watch Match of the Day and when we get home some of us will have a little drink. Just a little one. I can see two TVs from where I'm sitting and one is showing the Tsunami Benefit Concert from Wales and the other is showing a dramatisation of the eruption of Krakatoa in the nineteenth century. Disaster and response in stereo. It will probably be a quiet night and that will give me time to think I suppose. I've been thinking about the Hip Priest today after seeing him last night. So drink the long draught, Dan, for the Hip Priest. And then I think, what am I talking about? Of course I'm super-hip. And I start to yodel like I live in the Alps and I'm liable to take a slip and I don't care how cold you are...
And, after those horses have run backwards and you have lost your money, you will be able to leave comments on here such as, "Paps, what did you wear to your father's wedding?"
Here's a new and occasional feature for Paps. Paps' Ante-Post Betting selection. Today, I'm suggesting a Cheltenham double of Kauto Star for the Arkle and Beef or Salmon for the Gold Cup. An outlay of £10 would net the Corals' punter £300 if these two came up trumps. Turn the bet into a treble with Back In Front for the Champion Hurdle and you will win over £2000 for your £10 stake. Although that would just be greedy.
These days of flexible working patterns and shift work mean that taking the kids to school is no longer a mother's preserve. I've just got back from taking The Kid to school and it struck me just how many dads are there these days. I chuckled to myself to see us all there and thought that your average granny probably looks at us, holding hands with our small charges, and thinks, "How sweet!" The reason it makes me chuckle is that, by sheer coincidence, a lot of the parents of the kids in my son's class happen to be friends and acquaintances of mine. And I know that we have one convicted drug dealer, two guys who run an illegal gambling syndicate, a variety of drinking professionals and the man with the largest penis in the Leeds 11 postal district among our number. Maybe it's a Catholic thing. So anyway, I drop The Kid off and on the way back it starts to snow but I have just been telling the aforementioned Kid that it doesn't snow like it used to. And it really doesn't. Global warming as seen from a very personal level. When I was his age I can remember weeks of snow on the ground, feet deep. Now you're lucky if you get one day's worth of snow that's gone the next morning. I really think that anyone under the age of 25 doesn't know what snow is all about. If you're reading this in Lapland I apologise for my wild generalisations.
I couldn't agree more with all the commentators who are saying that Prince Harry should join the army to get some discipline in his life. It'll be the making of him. Make a man of him. Just like it did Corporal Hitler of the German army in World War One. You never saw him going daft and wearing swastikas after his time rallying to the colours. Oh, hang on a minute...Still, he was a one-off. Most soldiers are great people and never transgress again once they've been in the ranks. Well, except that one who murdered a girl on Boxing Day then threw himself out of a window in Glasgow. But he was an exception. Most people having had the benefit of square-bashing, pointless drills and being taught to kill are wonderfully well-adjusted. Just ask anyone who's been on holiday to Cyprus and mingled with the fine body of men stationed there. Or, if you need to see for yourself, have a night out in Catterick or Aldershot. My chest swells with pride at the very thought.
I am starting to think that the "Diana was murdered" conspiracy theorists may have a point. The reason for this turnaround in my opinion? Well, 24 hours after criticising the royal family I awake to find myself stricken with some sort of virus. I know it's a virus because my doctor told me so. In fact, his exact words were, "It's a virus. I can do nothing for you." The fact that he said this in an Italian accent added a little humour to a generally mirth-free morning. You don't go to the doctors for a while and you find they have replaced the old one with an EU import. To be fair to them, my doctors did need some new blood after two of them died within the space of a week last year. Negative publicity at its worst, I thought. Anyway, the new Italian chap seems a good egg. He's a step up from one of the other doctors at the surgery who's a sports injury specialist. He's so specialised that unless you have a sports injury he doesn't care. I would have had to tell him that I thought I'd caught the virus whilst playing rugby to get him interested. Even he is an improvement on one of the ones who died, who after listening to me list my many ailments for a full five minutes looked at me like the snivelling weakling I am and said, "You'll live, son." The upshot of all this illness is that I am unable to go to work and the real proof of my illness is that I have no appetite, which only happens when I am close to death, as I am generally noted as a first-class eater. So I am confined to the house for the evening. I intend to spend the time pricing geese and ducks online, as it is my intention to win the lottery tomorrow night and the first things I will buy will be several hundred of those fine winged fellows. And several white horses. Then I shall ride through the centre of the city driving my flocks of ducks and geese down the main thoroughfares of the business district whilst several paid accomplices, dressed in gaudy rags, run a few hundred yards in front shouting, "The ducks are coming!" I believe every man should have an ambition.
This month marks the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau. And so it goes that Prince Harry goes to a fancy dress party dressed in Swastika armband. I get up and see that some apologist for this appalling young man has sent an e-mail to Sky News saying that we, as a country, are losing our sense of humour if we are offended by that. I really don't know how to respond to that. Except to say that nothing that Harry's family do surprises me. This is the family that allegedly cried for the victims of the tsunami then went out to hunt wild animals unto their death. Does anyone really believe that we need this arrogant mob of lowlifes as our "First Family" anymore?
It has often struck me that life seems to be some sort of game wherein I am not in possession of the rules, whereas everyone else is. I am one of life's clueless bastards. However, I am kind to children and small animals so all is not lost. Having said that, Hitler was kind to animals so I suppose we can't really use that as a barometer of goodness. Still, what I do know, on this wet Wednesday, is that if I lived in Bolton I would be saying, "There goes the neighbourhood." And that if I was in the Felons Club I'd be saying, "Bobby, none of your funny money in here, thank you."
It's me, Pap-ee, I've come home now. So cold, let me in at your window....
This Day Is Over and I am sat on the stoop again...listening to Little Anthony and The Imperials and listening to the wind. Peace unto you.
I looked to the right of the computer and there was a mail-order catalogue sitting there. The model on the front was her. Will I never be free?
It's just like old times. I'm on the back doorstep with a pot of tea and cigarettes. Watching the police helicopter circling for joyriders like a hawk looking for mice and I'm listening to Fats Domino. I'm gonna do a lot of things I know is wrong so I hope that I'm forgiven before I'm gone and it will take a lot of prayers to save my soul...You and me both, Fats. Music has always been my magic carpet. Old ones this morning. Let me introduce you to my Rocket 88. Maybe some Ray Charles later. But I've got to listen to The Fall as well; more out of shocked sympathy after talking to someone my age last night who'd never heard of them. It got me thinking back over 20 years to first hearing them. They were, and still are, like no other band. If you're stealing, erm, downloading some tracks any time soon, I recommend you listen to New Puritan, Kicker Conspiracy, C.R.E.E.P, and City Hobgoblins as a little taster. Meanwhile, I'm drinking more tea and slipping Roger Miller's King of the Road onto the turntable. And testing my telekinetic powers by trying to bring the helicopter down.
Please Try This At Home: if you buy a new car and the windows are operated by pressing a button, give a lift to an elderly relative and tell them that the windows are voice-activated. Tell them they have to face the window and say "Down" or "Up", all the while pressing the button to make them move. To add to the fun, tell them that because it is an American/Japanese/German car (delete as appropriate) they have to say "Up" or "Down" in the correct accent. This will provide hours of endless delight for all concerned.
Well, lawdy, lawdy, lawdy Miss Clawdy and, in fact, good golly, Miss Molly. You sure like to ball. And you Christians, you sure like to issue death threats. Good golly. And a democracy incarcerates people without trial. Indefinitely. Lawdy. Come on over baby, there's a whole lotta shakin' going on.
I am weary of hearing stories of people's dietary excess at Christmas. Culinary-wise, things were hardly more extravagant chez moi on the big day than they normally are. Have you ever eaten swan? Served on a platter comprised of medallions of Giant Panda, a l'orange, if you will, it's simply divine. Bon appetite!
Papmeister II: The Return of The King
Rather like the Risen Christ, I have returned to you, my people, to spread the Good News. And today the Good News is that Celtic have beaten Rangers. But enough of that. Word reaches Papmeister Manor that several of you denied me, or turned against me, or even stopped believing in me. Hang your heads in shame, unworthies! This time I return with a sword of fire and a shield of impenetrable beige moleskin as my aegis. None shall be spared my wrath. Except the very pretty. And the barmaids. If you care to take up arms and join me in my quest to rid blogland of decorum, sobriety and common decency then you know where to find me. Bring a bottle and a bird....
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