Job application to Loaded

Where the magic happens

Continuing the theme of rehashing old shite from my huge teetering 'REJECTED' pile, I found this application I sent when Loaded was looking for a feature writer five or six years ago.
There was the usual guff about my work history and then I had to come up with some feature ideas, which are printed below.
(The idea in 'the pitch' has now been superseded by the insaness of telly with the likes of ITV's 'so you think you can spaff'. Also the boyand model appears to have been dismantled now in favour of under-age or ancient talent show horrors. Were we ever so young!)


Loaded feature ideas:




The pitch:
Take an idea - say a tribute album to rock’s great moustaches - and pitch it to a record company. Explain why it is precisely what the industry is missing (this works as well for even more bankrupt-of-ideas industries like TV) and how it is a sure-fire winner. 
These companies are under so much pressure to get new stuff out it seems they will consider anything so long as it is well presented. 

Print a transcript of the whole thing - from first call to an actual meeting right through to, if incredibly lucky, the thing getting made. It is a bit Alan Partridge ‘monkey tennis’ but still has cracking comedy legs. Basically you can pitch anything to anyone if done with enough front. 

I have two TV pitches to start with: Duke Clancey Disco Cop (a cartoon) and Box Fresh (a show about a boyband whose own tribute band overtakes them after their first single.)

Other examples: 
a: Footballer’s hats (book).
b: What’s in my sandwich? (Radio 4 quiz).    
c: The last page - a compendium of last pages of books
(book).

The yellow bib capers. 

This one has been slightly gazumped by the man who recently robbed a Glasgow post office dressed as a builder, wearing a yellow fluorescent bib and hard hat. Admittedly it was topped off nicely with a gun.

Put simply anyone can do anything if wearing one of these things, especially if they wear a hard hat and carry a clipboard at the same time. 

All it takes is brass neck of the sheerest kind. Even if this was not enough for a feature - although I really believe it is - the sight of the bib-wearer having made it to their goal would make a good photo. A series of tasks would be good too, with security and refreshments at various venues rated.

Queens Day and the pursuit of pleasure

Pleasure

When I was freelancing a few years ago I used to have loads of ideas, most of them completely unworkable, like the 'yellow bib challenge' where I'd put a high-vis bib on and see what I could get away with before the police stepped in. 

Taking the royal horses for a walk was one idea, announcing a terror scare in a department store was another, while holding a clipboard to look doubly official. They were innocent times. Not like now with your Ay-rabs making everyone twitchy.

A better one concerned an idea for a pleasure machine me and a pal had. The product was a thing which had massive feathers on it, from which bird we knew not. 

It would be powered via a system of pulleys and chords with your feet while lying on your front and the feathers would brush your back and hopefully bum. Sounds ace, doesn't it?

We took pictures of us trying it out - a very early stage effort was built but it didn't work, which didn't really damage my artistic vision of the story. 

Because we didn't have photoshop we put black strips of paper on our eyes so it would look like the people in those 'contact' mags from the 90s. As I understand it. I've still got the pics somewhere but you've got no chance. 

We thought we could try and flog it during Amsterdam's Queen's Day, a 36-hour drinking festival held in honour of the current queen's mother.

Queen's Day is summed up by an Amsterdam resident like this: "If it was held in England there would be a rough survival guide published beforehand, then it would be banned the following year."

To me this one seemed a real goer, and I pitched it to FHM in the form of the opening 300 words or so, as you can see below (they passed). Anyway, here's the pitch:

Queen's Day

Queen's Day

“If blokes are prepared to pay good money to mount this… thing…” FHM’s Amsterdam contact is in full, scathing flow as he points at a blow-up doll. “They’ll defo buy this,” he continues, waving a poorly sketched blueprint at no one in particular. His face screws in disgust until all that remains is a nose, prodding at

the air like an old man’s foreboding finger.

“You couldn’t poke that - it’s a dinghy with a badly sketched woman's face on it,” he concludes. It’s hard to argue with pure logic – especially when it comes from a man in a bathrobe. On such moments revolutions are born.

Summer 2005: The world is plunging headfirst into a chasm of crud and it hasn’t packed a mac. Leisure and relaxation have become more sought after, and more important, than ever before. Won't someone deliver us from this hellish existence? Yes. Yes they will.

What if a product came along that, at a stroke, could banish the cares of the day and deliver the user to Xanadu – and all in the comfort of their own home? Wouldn't you want a bit of that? And what better place to introduce this new gadget than Amsterdam – don’t answer that, you’d cheapen us both.

The scheme is simplicity in its purest, most beautiful form: Turn up, buy the ingredients, make the thing, take if to those Queensday-addled Amsterdamers and empty their pockets. All in time for happy hour at the Flying Dutchman – home of the drunken fatty.

We hit the streets with a plan, a pocket full of Euros and a shopping list:

Fishing wire

Fishing weight

Screws

Washers

Wall brackets

Clock motor

Three big feathers (extra-fancy kind)

Pole (snooker cue, telescopic shower rail or similar)

On Leidseplein in central Amsterdam people stroll through the crisp, bright day – smiling and chatting as another afternoon drifts aimlessly by. Two Englishmen cause no stir as they walk through the crowds towards Blokker – your one-stop-shop for household goods. 

Ends.

And that was it - shame on you, FHM! You had a corker right there in your hands.

Leon Osman and the cry-arsing of an iddy-biddy girl

Looking good Ossie! Feeling good Billy-Ray!

"If Leon Osman was Spanish and a few years younger he'd be worth £30million." So roared a message on an Everton supporters' site this weekend. 
It continued: "Iniesta and Xavi wouldnt be as good or as brave as him in this league." Predictably, this drew hefty criticism from crusty-underpanted correspondents.
It probably is bollocks, although I wonder if the Barcelona pair would be quite so good in another team - Xavi especially who seems to define the is-he-really-that-good type of player. 
But I've been saying for a while now that if Osman played in Spain he'd be a star. He's quite similar to Xavi in terms of size (is Xavi quick?) and touch. Osman rarely miscontrols the ball. His passing is sharp and quick and, more importantly, his team-mates know they can twat it at him and he'll control it. 
The two things that have stopped him from really cracking it in this country, aside from injury, are he's not quite big enough and he's not quite quick enough. Because of this he's seen as a "tidy" player. 
But the last few months has seen Osman, who doesn't score enough, emerge as Everton's key midfielder, popping up in a number of positions. And last Saturday he scored a superb winner as moneybags Manchester City did their usual against Everton, prompting this wonderful response from some snotty little rat.
What I like about this story is the way the author, who goes by the moniker CiTyBlUe, makes some good points but completely buries them in a storm of "it's just not fair mum!" type cry-arsing.
I assume it's a lad writing because only males can sound like little girls when bleating about something so inconsequential, cosmically speaking, as football.
He's right about some Everton supporters' bizarre "love-in" with Manchester United supporters, based presumably on United's success winding Liverpool fans up. Who fucking cares about that? 
And there's something in it when he says Everton are United's feeder club too - there is a certain inevitability about any decent Everton player ending up at Old Trafford now.
But how can anyone take this seriously? "I cannot bare Everton for their pathetic style of heavy handed rough play, it is honestly a wonder how they have not already subjected opponents players into critical injury."
This is a team whose midfield included Osman, Mikel Arteta and Jack "after you" Rodwell. Terrifying.
And who were they up against? Patrick Viera, Yaya Toure, James Milner and that yard dog Nigel De Jong.
I think this comment under the story, by Anonymous, sums it up well: "This is fucking hilarious. Do people like you really exist or are you just one big wind up? I refuse to believe anyone can be this stupid. I mean, how do you even remember to breathe? By the way, 'The Poznan' is massively, massively gay. You fucking windowlicker."
I'd take City's season over ours any day, but that doesn't diminish the laughable dribblings of CiTyBlUe. If he gets that upset by raggedy old Everton how's he going to feel when Stoke City fuck them all over Wembley on Saturday? Because that's what's going to happen, and anyone who's paid even the slightest interest in Manchester City over the last 30 years, deep down, knows it.

Mooching about - picture special!

Philip Marlowe's plaque at St Nicholas' church, Deptford 

Had a mooch round Deptford the other day, starting off with a disappointing sarnie.
Took some pics including a bit of poetry and a nice commentary on whether Chelsea is a gem or a 'sket' - what the hell is a sket? Those pics are up a sort of tunnel on the side of a building site on the Thames Path.
The other pics are of some street between Bermondsey Street and Waterloo.
To surmise, Deptford is an ace place that I don't really make the most of, and the Waterloo area is ace for cycling round when it's a bank holiday and the nobhead quotient is reduced by about 8zillion%.

Racey!

Chelsea - the case for...

...and against

Fucking ledge!

Darth Vader's coming!

A big door - halfway up a building!

Dear Mars

devastation

I got a choc bar out of the machine just then, a Twix Fino (sounds like a Chilean gigolo, a chicoglo?). It felt smashed when I held it but I ludicrously hoped it might be encased in some kind of futuristic choc-bar-inner-sleeve-bubble-wrap. But it wasn't, as you can see from this shocking footage shot at the scene.
I've sent it back to Mars along with a note which I've added below as I want the internet to think I'm as funny as that prick who sent the smug letter to Branson about the toilets on Virgin rail or something.

3/5/11

Dear Mars,

I bought this the other day and thought you’d like to see it. It was from a vending machine but the bloke who fills them up isn’t around so I thought I’d go straight to the source.

No idea what happened to get it in such a state but I was forced to purchase an alternative bar, made by what I thought was your arch rivals Galaxy. I see however you make them too so you’ve got me there.

A mate of mine years ago said his dad sent back a busted Mars bar and received a massive box of chocs in return. I’m not after that but I would like a different bar to the smashed one enclosed. I took a punt on buying the less fat option and it’s backfired horribly.

Yours,

Biff Bifferson III

A dead bad sandwich in Deptford

Marks out of 8billion

Sarnies rule. They are one of the greatest things ever - so why is it so hard to get a good one?
I went to the reasonably-vaunted Deptford Project for a bank holiday treat of a cup of coffee and a bit of dinner (lunch if you're posh). The coffee - cappuccino with semi-skimmed milk - was fantastic, but the sandwich was an abomination.
First off they didn't have any chicken - the sandwich choice was basic at best: egg, bacon, ham - so I went for ham salad on thick white bread. The ham and salad wasn't awful but the bread was almost stale. If I dished this up at home it'd get lashed in my face, and rightly so. Normally I'd send it back but they were short staffed and it had took about 30 minutes to arrive and I couldn't be arsed waiting for another.
I ate it like. I was starving, and to be fair I was offered reparation when I pointed out after that the bread was rubbish, but it's what this represents that's the problem. The Deptford Project sells quiche apparently, but I don't want quiche - I want a sarnie. A big one. On event bread.
So why couldn't I have one? Because there is a fundamental, cultural problem in this country. The sandwich should be cherished, revered. It should be every bit as important as a good cup of tea.
As it is, sarnies are the runt of the commercial grub world, chucked out with contempt on shit bread with piddly fillings.
New York has it right, and it starts with the bread. If you're selling food and your sarnies are on basic sliced bread - brown or white - then you're a disgrace. Yes, YOU Peter de Wits cafe in Greenwich with your 'best ingredients' piffle - FIVE POUNDS for a chicken salad sarnie? For shame!
You are out of your mind - if I pay a flim for sandwich then it better be one of the wonders of the world. I want people gathering round it in awe, talking in hushed tones. And let me tell you, food-fans, the chicken salad one I had at de Wit's was moderate at best.
That was a year ago, and I'm still livid about it. The Deptford Project said they'll sort me out next time I go, which is nice, but the problems run deeper than that. Sort your act out, food sellers of Great Britain.

Money

Fucking ace

As one of the least whelming Everton seasons of recent years plods to a close David Moyes has been flapping his gums. 
Whatever his motives, the gist is once again what is needed to get the Toffees to the much-vaunted 'next level' - ie fourth.
Unfortunately, as Moyes says, no one is going to drive past Goodison and sling a bag of readies in at reception with a note saying "get yourself something nice" in return for nowt. 
So it doesn't really mean anything when he says: "Everton could be very close to being very good for not an awful lot of outlay. It might not be one of those clubs that needs £300million-£400million to turn it around."  
Everton might "only" need, say, £50m to make a real difference but as it stands it might as well be £500m, because it isn't going to happen. 
No one's going to "invest" in Everton because they're not going to get any money back - we're looking for someone happy to throw money away. Or as someone put it on a supporters' website: "We need a pissed up warlord who's trying to stash some blood diamond money."
As Moyes says, new money tends to come with new owners. But he's wrong when he says the ownership at Everton isn't the problem. Not necessarily because Bill Kenwright hasn't sold up, if no one's come in to buy him out there's really no argument there.
It's the way Everton is perceived which is the problem, and that comes from the top of the club. Over the last 15 years or so Everton have somehow managed to make themselves a "considering" club. 
We do well:
considering the lack of money.
The injuries
The lack of facilities at Goodison
The lack of money
The poor start to the season
Because of the injuries
Considering the small squad
Which is down the lack of money
These things get trotted out when discussing Everton as a matter of course and have become accepted. How can it be "just the way it is" for Everton to start every single season shite?
There's no witchcraft involved so what's to blame? Things don't just happen, except cause and effect. As for our strong finish to the season when there's once again fuck all to play for, does anyone really give a shit about finishing ahead of Liverpool when there are plenty of other teams who will do that too?
But you can't get away from the money issue. Everton as a club is improving commercially - you can see that all over - but there are still problems, like when they run out of ale at half time.
They only play at Goodison about once a fortnight - running out of beer is inexcusable. The place has been there for nearly 120 years, working to roughly the same timetable - you can't be surprised when a crowd shows up.

Hyped

But there are bigger problems than half-time supping at a club now just shy of £45m in debt, with player wages swallowing up 69% of turnover. One solution offered seems to be selling either Marouane Fellaini or the ludicrously over-hyped Jack Rodwell, with prices optimistically pitched at between £15m and £25m for either.
Some people say, shift one and settle some of the debt. But the problem is we're losing money every year, so this plan relies on Moyes selling quite a few Rodwells and Fellainis over the next few years, while still building a team.
Then there's the season ticket money for the next few years which the club has already spent. So how do we plug that hole? Or do we keep borrowing against it, driving up interest payments as we go?
If we sell Fellaini or Rodwell, and I'd be amazed if we don't, then there's a real danger we'll be doing it merely to stand still. And then Kenwright will have trouble because surely Moyes will walk, if he doesn't this summer. Yes, he's on a good screw but the contract chucked at Alan Pardew by Newcastle suggests there's still plenty of money in top level togger managing.
On the stadium issue - and whatever your sympathies, Kenwright has been involved in two fuck ups there - Moyes suggests redeveloping Goodison, possibly one stand at a time, but again money is the issue.
He mentions Blackburn's recent takeover and says "they have a stadium that’s already in place" as a factor in that deal. And yes they do, but compared to Goodison it's shit. There's no comparison between the two but many people won't see it that way because of their perception of Everton. 
And that is what needs to change. How? Fuck knows. We've got some good players and Moyes says “that’s maybe why we don’t need a zillionaire.” But he's wrong. Look at some of the players recently tied to long deals - Phil Jagielka (28), Mikel Arteta (29), Tim Cahill (31) - three key players on presumably big money. None of whom, if they see half of their deals out, is going to have any real sell-on value. How do we replace them?
A zillionaire is exactly what we need. Someone with the money to buy a team to compete at the very top - like what's happening at Manchester City. 
But assuming we still need to build a stadium, the danger is we're going to need a mere billionaire - or at least someone with a lot of millions - just to keep the team where we are now. 

piss take

Red light

This is the bit of road where a couple of years ago I got a fine for parking in the red zone while I nipped in the shop to buy some ice cream (Hagen Daz fancy pants stuff). Sixty bastard quid it cost me.
Not only have these coppers in their unmarked car done the same thing (except the ice cream bit) but they were rubbing it right in by having their blue and red lights flashing - you can sort of make it out on the pictures - while they were in the Chinese on Lee High Road.

Blue light

Double rubbing-in points for the parking - look at it! Right in the middle of the bay, thus negating it as a space for whoever the crap it is gets to park in red zones. I don't know if the police are allowed to park there or not but having the lights on when it did not look like they were 'attending' (below) seems a bit rum.

I've seen coppers, presumably from nearby Lewisham nick, come out of Nando's with a bag of grub, get in the van parked outside and whack the sirens on before roaring through the lights. Presumably they want to get their food back to the rest of the chaps nice and handy, and that's fair enough, but this is just taking the whatever.

"And some prawn crackers, love"

#Meateasy

Yummo!

"What's the grub like," I demanded of the woman kindly offering her chair. She looked at me, then at her fella, then back to me, and said: "You know when you have a dream and..." before tailing off in apparent delirium. The bar was set high.
And justifiably so. What was a few weeks ago London's hippest gaff (my visit means it's clearly passé), nestling on top of the former Goldsmiths Tavern in New Cross, is fantastic (if you want the back-story about the van and that, google it, lazy arse).
From the moment you walk in you can tell it's a bit good, the service is spot on and the waiting staff excellent. You get a number, get a drink, (eventually) get a table then put your order in when your number's called. It's a nifty trick to make something which, on the face of it looks fairly shambolic, run so smoothly.
But this is a slick operation - and it starts with the bar. Bottled Meantime lager, and fair play that amber stuff is nice, or cocktails. You tell them the sort of stuff you like and they knock something up. Mine, some sort of whisky sour thing with an egg in it, was ace.

I dined with a guest, it's not all mine

And so to the food. Pictured right is a bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, and a cheeseburger (chilli chips are out of shot). Taking them in order, the burgers are amazing - big and not remotely greasy, despite how they look in the pics. Really well packed so there's no collapsing like you get in some big burgers. And the taste - man alive, they're superb.
The onion rings are great too, really light and tasty. If you go, you have to have them. The chips are last - a real afterthought. I'd seen a few plates of these skinny wretches being dished up so went for the chilli-cheese option, which was - again - delicious. The chips become something for the chilli to stick to. Probably the chilli was the thing that pushed me over the edge. We ate at 8pm and I was still stuffed at 1am.

It had an egg in it! It wasn't this bright though

An interesting crowd in there, and pretty much as I'd expected. Seemed Goldsmiths-ish but the prices are not really student friendly (£7 for a burger, similar for a cocktail, £3.50 I think for a bottle of beer).
On my visit, the punters were almost exclusively white. There were a lot of thick-rimmed specs on display and, I suspect, a lot of people drifting down on the East London Line.
One lad said to his chum, whose haircut was the equal of any CBeebies presenter: "At last! New Cross is connected to the rest of London!" Ignoring the high frequency train services which take five minutes to get to London Bridge, by "the rest of London" he meant "Highbury & Islington".
Apparently they're finishing for good on 16 April, with rumours of a switch up the road to Greenwich (but that's not even on the tube! How will Dalston Ted get there?), but Lewisham council should be moving heaven and earth to keep this thing in the borough. To let something as good as this slip away would be insane (you can follow them on Twitter, @themeatwagonuk, to get the latest). Recommended.

Eccles cake or egg custard?

An Eccles cake

An egg custard (pen not included)

Yonks ago I had this ace idea for a running magazine feature called Eccles Cake or Egg Custard? Basically it involved ringing round celebrities - and this was when the tag was earned as opposed to being a lazy-arse job description - asking them which of these wonderful treats they preferred.
The results would then be printed verbatim. None of the mags I approached - including the Loaded, the FHM and the Sunday Times one - went for it, even though I'd already done a few to get the ball rolling, reproduced below:

Ditherer

Richard Whiteley
Biff: Hi Richard, my name's Biff and I'm calling from **** magazine. Which do you prefer, Eccles cake or egg custard?

Richard Whiteley: Oh, egg custard. Definitely. Although there's a lot to be said for an Eccles cake. All that flaky pastry and currants. Mmmm! Can I change my mind? I'm going for Eccles cake.

Biff: Are you sure? Mike Reid went for egg custard.

RW: Oh Mike!

Decisive Brett

Brett Anderson from Suede
Biff: Hi Brett,  my name's Biff and I'm calling from **** magazine. Which do you prefer, Eccles cake or egg custard?

Brett: Eccles cake.

Biff: Cheers Brett.

Brett: You're welcome.

Get the kettle on Steve!

Keith Burkinshaw
Biff: Hi Keith,  my name's Biff and I'm calling from **** magazine. Which do you prefer, Eccles cake or egg custard?


Keith: Egg bloody custard. *hangs up*

Steve Harris from Iron Maiden
Biff: Hi Steve,  my name's Biff and I'm calling from **** magazine. Which do you prefer, Eccles cake or egg custard?


Steve: Ooh, now you're asking incha? Can I say both?

Biff: No. It's like a war. You have to take sides.

Steve: Hmm, I suppose it depends on circumstance. If I'm having a brew, then probably the Eccles cake, but if I'm out and about, the egg custard. Because that's easier to eat on the hoof.

Biff: Well, where are you now?

Steve: At home.

Biff: Have you got a brew on the go?

Steve: No, but I've got Wolfsbane coming round in a bit to put some shelves up so I'll probably put the kettle on.

Biff: So are we saying Eccles cake?

Steve: I think we are!


(Next time: Rock's greatest moustaches)

(I think the Richard Whitely pic is in the public domain - if it isn't a thousand apologies. I'll remove if it offends)

Why is Meantime draft lager so bad?

Schonramer - as it arrived

Meantime is a Greenwich-based brewery that has two pubs in the area. I've been to both a few times, and I really want to like them, but I just don't.
Actually it's not the places themselves - the Greenwich Union on Royal Hill, and the Old Brewery at the Old Naval College - because they're both smart. Really nicely done out and the Union, which for me used to have a bit of a pong about it, is a really nice pub.
It's the draft beer I don't like. Maybe I'm doomed to suffer because I don't like ale and stout and all those drinks that beer bores slurp down. I like lager.
I went to Bruges recently and one of the things that sticks out is how much better the beer is there - all kinds of beer.
They take it seriously, and the people at Meantime clearly take it seriously too, but their lagers - and variants thereof that I've tasted - are hopeless. At best, not bad-ish and at worse, really, really awful. And expensive.
When I was in one of their gaffs the other day I started with a pint of Schonramer (£4.35, I know) and it was alright. Mrs Biff had a Meantime Helles, which in her words tasted 'like water'. I had a sip to confirm. So far so ho hum.

Five fucking quid

Next up we went for broke with a trappist beer cos we're mad like that. Westmalle to be precise and it was ace - 9.5% and a cool five pounds a bottle (I assumed the glass was a prezzie). It seemed to work at an accelerated rate as I had a monster headache two hours later. 
The grub is ace at the Union by the way, although it's not cheap at £11.30 for a burger and chips. But back to the beer, lastly I had a London Lager, a Meantime-brewed beer. I'd had this before and didn't think much but I gave it another bash.
This was the worst of the lot. It tasted like a bad Kronenbourg - no life at all. That seems to be a trend with the Meantime lagers, they're dead flat and have that sort of bad-Stella taste to them.
These places are charging top dollar for what is, in my opinion, mediocre at best lager. You can get a good drink there, and the Westmalle was spot on, but why should we have to pay a fiver (!) to get a nice beer? It's insane. I don't want much and I don't claim to be a beer expert, I just want want the Belgians get. And that's not a phrase you hear often.

London lager

For the prices they're charging (Meantime, not Belgium) - and getting, these places are busy - I can go elsewhere and get a crap lager for cheaper.
And I don't want to do that. I want to support places like this, and I don't mind paying for good stuff, but I always feel like I've been mugged after a visit to either of Meantime's gaffs.
These pretzels are making me thirsty.

A massive nosed thalidomide victim hailing a cab

Libya to 'come back fighting' in ratings war

Gaddafi - even his pyjamas have medals on

Security experts have warned 'Libya will be cooking up something big' to get itself back on top of the news agenda.
Events in Japan, and that royal wedding cup being printed with the wrong bloke on it, have led to immense news fatigue among the public, leaving last week's chart-toppers Libya on the outside looking in.
Felicity Iron of the International Security Council said: 'At the moment Japan is the only show in town - Colonel Brian Gaddafi won't like that one bit.  But you can be sure he'll have his top men working on something to wrest the initiative back.'
PR guru John Palms added: 'It just goes to show how quickly things can change. One minute you're the lead, the next you're below a Youtube clip about cats.'
The knock-on effects of Libya's demotion are being felt in Britain too. Protestors, led by Jez Briefcaseatschool, have been occupying Gaddafi's London house for the past fortnight. But for the past week no one has even pretended to care.
And with 98% of the world's news crews now encamped on 'the highest ground Japan has to offer' there are concerns for British stories - you know, proper news.
'We could really do with Princess Diana coming back from the dead, or maybe Fergie lezzing up' admitted Daily Express political editor Max Scissors.
With viewer fatigue now reaching critical mass, there are also fears for  Friday night's Comic Relief. A Red Nose Day spokesman said: 'Really, unless we turn all the money over to Japan, is there any point us fucking bothering?'

Some ace things about Bruges (in Belgium)

An alley

Gruuthuse Hof, Mariastraat, is where we had our tea the first night. Very nice it was too, although I got the idea the waiter was growing weary of his lot in life. Not helped by me swinging my arm into the too-low light-shade and bringing a massive card disc tumbling out of it. I caught it because I'm ace, and it was mildly diverting I suppose, but not as exciting as the assembled diners' reactions suggested. 

Probably out with their husbands or wives as part of a last-gasp attempt at saving something that's been dead for years - trying to use the electrical charge of my presence to reanimate the corpse of long dead love. Yes I saw you, sitting in silence, praying for something to happen. And then you saw me with a sleeve-full of light shade and thought 'this is it! Look, Sheila! Sheila! Did you see that? That bloke just hit the lampshade! Ha ha ha! You see - life isn't so bad after all! Look at him! He's trying to dislodge himself and he stood on that woman's foot! Now the waiter's involved and he's saying the bracket's missing and the shade won't go back in without it! He has to find the bracket and the bloke's saying well he hasn't got time for that and the waiter's saying he can't get another one because they don't make those shades any more! Sheila, are you watching this love? Oh I do love you, my darling! I've been a fool to doubt it. To hell with it, let's have pudding!'

Sheila's leaving you.

Look at the flash on that!

It's obvious but bears repeating - the ale is so much better than the shite we get served in this country. You can order a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g in a Belgian bar and it will be, at worse, half decent. 
That cheap stuff they have - Jupiler - is better than the draft lagers in our pubs. Step up to the local brew, Bruges Zot (the only one brewed in the city apparently) and it's miles better. Up it again to any number of ace ones - just take a punt, you can't miss - and you see just how shit British pubs are. As Mrs Biff said, beer in British pubs is merely functional. Cue some beardy nob, saying 'actually that's not beer, old titsonians scribbleplop is beer, you're on about lager.' Stick it up your tank top, wanker.

Tom's gaff

Tom's Diner, West Gistelhof 23, is spot on too. Small restaurant out of the city centre (about five minute walk north from the market square) which does a small selection of top grub. I had the meatloaf because it said 'LOCAL' next to it on the menu, and it was ace. Good starters and pud, nice beer, good service.

Also ace for beer, but less so for the beer-bores it attracts, is t Brugs Beertje (beerhouse, I think that means), Kemelstraat. They have tons of beers, including some real super strength gateway-to-hell stuff. There was a real disparate bunch of English oddballs when we were in there. One lad, as soon as his beer came (in half a coconut shell) declared the smell alone was 'to die for'. Don't be fucking stupid, egghead. 

A canal

There were five lads and one girl and each was more nerdish than the last. Slightly disappointed they didn't try and recruit me. Only downside of this place was the lad serving - he seemed a bit of a nob. 


And lastly, cycling is ace beacause it's actually pleasant. It would never occur to me to ride my bike in this country for leisure, at very low speeds. But it's perfect in Bruges, big old cycle lanes with plenty of room for walkers and bikes. And, like Amsterdam, the cars give way to you because the law's on your side. Biking round by the windmills on the east of the city and then coming back into town was just brilliant. 
There's a bike hire gaff on Mariastraat, it's €4 an hour, €8 for four hours, and I think €12 for the day.

Curried mussells and chips

Oh aye, I got to see Arsenal tumble out of the European Cup with a typical display of grace and dignity from Arsene 'it wasn't me' Wenger. And there seems to be a fair bit of free wifi around, if like me you don't fancy paying O2's outrageous rip off roaming prices. They also sell Bugles - dead nice crisps - and the people seem to be generally friendly too. Also ace.

A thing for horses to drink from that's shaped like a horse's head