No Offence Intended

2007-09-18T12:08:00.000+02:00

What A Shame ...

Top French stuntman, Remy Julienne, was sued by French film producer Luc Besson over the death of a cameraman while shooting the 2nd in the popular 'Taxi' series. Shot in 1999, one particular sequence included a car leaping off a ramp. On its way back down to earth it struck and killed cameraman Alain Dutartre.

77 year old Julienne, who's credits include 7 James Bond films and the infamous original "The Italian Job", was then pursued by film bosses and Besson. The prosecutor had asked for a 6 month prison term and a €6000 fine. On September 11th of this year, the veteran stuntman was sentenced to an 18 month suspended sentence and a €13,000 fine.

The prosecutor accused Julienne of "not taking all the necessary measures for the security of the stunt in question" and notably to have "neglected the speed calculations of the car and the length of the jump".

Funny how lawyers suddenly become experts in any field they see fit.

I met Remy Julienne last year during the 'Salon du Cinema'. Here's the link: http://nooffenceintended.blogspot.com/2007/01/i-need-my-space.html

A charming man with a fascinating back-catalogue of stories and experience of up-ending vehicles. He wasn't very well then and I doubt that he's any better now.

Looks to me as though the money people won ...

Stu

2007-09-06T17:59:00.000+02:00

Rugby World Cup ...

Well, I'm busy again. After a month's retreat in the French countryside, it's back to work and I'm currently in Bordeaux with the Irish Rugby Team. Literally.

There could well be a RWC blog at this rate - we have nothing to do during the day so ... I can only take photos with my telephone (soft focus and huge pixels) but anything's possible.

I'm back up online as LJ from NI gave me a nudge!

Stu

2007-07-11T10:51:00.000+02:00

Cheap, But Funny ...

Nice.

My thanks to MB of the People's Republic of Ireland.

Stu

2007-06-16T07:10:00.000+02:00

Cluedo ...

For anyone following the Michael Barrymore fiasco in the UK, here's how closely the Police are (allegedly) holding their cards;

Stu
(my thanks to DM)

2007-06-13T07:34:00.000+02:00

Worth Thinking About ...

After a little over 10 years, I've kind of had enough of this place, it's mentality, it's inability to adapt and it's petty bloody rules and regulations. Rather like a small child learning to live with the world, whilst constantly being told off by an over-bearing adult: "Can't to this", "can't to that", "that's not allowed" and "don't even think of it" ...

It's not that I want to commit any form of crime, but simply the daydream of 'going postal' in the lobby of some institution brings a smile to anyone who cares to think about it. I even think that some of the locals have often dreamt of it too.

To get anything done around here means collectively raising your voice and your blood pressure. You have to be aggressive if you need anything from a public service provider and you're required to blow a gasket if a supplier spins you a yarn. Posturing like a B-movie mercenary is all they do and I've never seen a punch-up between two aggrieved motorists. They just posture and shout, rather like two warring birds of Paradise.

I was recently told that if I was to move to Rome, then two TV stations would give me as much work as I could handle. The News Editor was semi-serious. Hmmm. A move to another country at my age? With girlfriend and her child? I'm sure my beloved would love to go to Italy, after all, she swears beautifully in Italian.

With the French being quite so difficult to deal with, I fear that hopping over the frontier to mix with the equally highly-strung Mediterraneans may well be a case of "out of the frying pan etc".

But worth a thought. Let's see how the rest of 2007 goes ...

Stu

2007-06-12T12:00:00.000+02:00

Oh No, Not Again ...

Friday, June 8th:

My Mac iBook has been making grinding noises. Time for an upgrade, methinks. I wander over to the local Mac dealership, a large bright space on the other side of the road from the Pompidou Centre. I finally get served by some young whipersnapper, "Yes sir, What can I do for you?"

I replied that I'd like to buy a new laptop and that the Macbook that I'm pointing at would be perfect ... and I'd like a firewire cable so that I can transfer information from the old iBook.

I approach the counter and he slips around the other side to take my details. Yes, the machine is in stock and how would I like to pay? I produced my VISA card. A look of horror hijacked his fizzog. "Non, non, non sir. We don't take those cards". "But", I began, "it a VISA card and accepted all over the world!"

All except France, it would seem.

"If your card doesn't have a chip inside then we can't take it" can the response.

So, how do foreigners around the world deal (or not) with the French retail system? Hotels? Car hire? Food?

Being a clever sort of chap, I wasn't going to have this bugger up my purchase. Where there's a will etc ...

I returned home, logged onto their website and paid for the self same machine with the self same VISA card, the same card as I've had for years. Almost immediately an email came bouncing back saying "you have paid your bill using a credit card" and that the machine was "ready for collection at the shop". Good. I'll pop round in the morning.

Saturday 9th June:

I rang the shop and said that I'd paid online for a machine and could I come by and pick it up? "No sir. All internet transactions must be collected from another branch". The address was then given to me, I thanked the chap in question and rang the other shop (the HQ of the group). Upon answering his phone, I gave the salesman my name, my order number and quoted the two lines which were on the email: "you have paid your bill using a credit card" and "the machine was ready for collection at the shop".

"Well, we're open until 7pm" came the reply. So off I went.

At the other shop, I spoke to a chap who took me to a terminal and typed in my order number, "Oh dear, don't sem to have any in stock. Please call us on Monday". I was more than I little confused, "So why was I told to come here today by your colleague?" He shot me a well-rehearsed blank look.

"If there's a machine in stock in another branch, then can't I go and pick it up there?" I said. A smile spread over his face, "Yes, of course. Just check beforehand".

Wanting to cover my bases, I checked again and asked him "are you sure that they'll release one?" He replied in the affirmative so I called my local shop and explained that I was at their HQ and that they'd given permission for me to pick up a machine down with them. "Well, come on down sir!" came the enthusiastic reply.

I shot down to my local store and explained, at some length, the morning's running around. I was met with a somewhat aggressive salesman who thought I was going to rob the place. "No, I am not going to give you a machine. You have to call our HQ on Monday." I started to get a little hot under the collar. "But I've just come down from there and they told me that I could take the machine from here! Call them if you like."

I paced the floor for a good 10 minutes while the chap was on the phone. He came back with the same answer. I was now getting a tad furious. The machine had been paid for, they had some in stock but refused to let me have one. Once outside, I rang the Commercial Service boss at their HQ and explained everything, including the bit about one of his employees who gave me permission to pick a machine up at the other branch. He was very sorry for what I had been put through and would call me back. He did just that but told me that the money had not been released, that was why I couldn't have the machine. Would I call back on Monday? F**k it. You HAVE my money, YOU call ME!

Monday 11th June:

I wrote to my bank asking then to confirm that the payment I made on Friday had, indeed, reached its correct destination. An email came straight back to say "yes, it arrived in their account on the very day". I called after lunch and the Commercial Service boss said he'd look into it. Three hours later he called back to say that he had not been able to reach the accounts dept (in the same building) and that they would call me in the morning. Just as as throw-away question, I asked if he had any machines in stock? Yes, he did and he expected me to pick one up on the Tuesday morning. I thanked him and put the phone down.

Tuesday 12th June:

At 10h15 the phone rang and it was the Accounts Department of the company. Yes, the money had been released. Released? I told them that their money had been with them since the Friday afternoon and what was the problem? She skipped an explanation but told me that I would have to wait a further 5 days for the machine. I asked to speak to the Commercial Service boss. The line went dead, so I rang him. He seemed both pleased yet nervous to talk to me. Once he'd guffed his way through another explanation, I reminded him of what he had said the previous evening, that the machines were in stock. I asked him to explain why I had to wait a further 5 days. "Ahh, well, the machines we have were reserved." Well why wasn't it explained to me last night? I was lead to believe that machines were in stock available ...

My next line drew a rapid reply and a sense or urgency in his voice. "OK", I began, "I will give you until the end of the day on Wednesday to find me my new computer or I will be cancelling my order." He suddenly started to panic. It's not the sort of thing that they want. He assured me that he'd do his best.

Dicked around on the Friday and told I hadn't paid. Saturday, the same story but as there were no machines, I could pick a machine up elsewhere. I was refused. Monday, my money was still not there (see bank confirmation that it was) and the boss tells me that machines are in stock. Tuesday, told that the money had arrived but they had no machines for another 5 days.

++ Game over ++

Stu

2007-06-11T08:06:00.000+02:00

Sorry I'm Late ...

It's been a long Spring period and with pots going on, this blog hasn't exactly been top of my agenda

We've had the Presidential Elections, preparations for the International Airshow, the Legislative (Parliamentary) Elections and other miscellaneous bits and pieces.

It's now non-stop until the end of the first week of July; the second (and, quite frankly obvious result) of the Legislative Elections next weekend and then 7 days at the huge International airshow. Follow this with 24hrs back in the UK, polished off with 5 days out east on another aviation-related event.

Sadly, I'm not in a position where I can update my miserable existence on a daily basis or bring you all regular postings of fun stuff found in the press. My excuse has to be along the lines of 'time consuming' but that's not to say that I won't be bringing you 'more of the same' in the future.

There's been so much that I've missed out on: Paris Hilton in clink to name just one. Yes, she deserved to be locked up - we would be. And for missing out on such gems, I will be forever kicking myself. But that's what being busy does for you ...

So, as I might say to dear Paris, bide your time and I'll be back ...

Stu

2007-06-07T21:16:00.000+02:00

Only In America ...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6732003.stm

Stu

2007-05-22T00:23:00.000+02:00

An email has come flooding in from 'the discerning'.

Well, LJ from NI, I can only apologise, most sincerely, for not keeping up regular entries (insert actress/bishop routine here). We're all too pooped after the elections to do anything right now. In fact, my aim is so bad I couldn't hit water if I fell out of a boat.

... but we'll be steaming into June with more of the same.

Stu

2007-05-08T15:49:00.000+02:00

It's All Over ...

The right-wing midget won.

He's only 5'5" and currently in Malta on holiday ...

Stu

2007-05-02T08:04:00.000+02:00

Intermission ...

Well, we're half way through the elections. The last round is on May 6th.

Can we please get this over with as we're all tired and have had enough. I could really do with a weekend in the country without having to worry about deadlines and moaning clients.

Stu

2007-04-22T09:30:00.000+02:00

X Marks The Spot ...

So, April 22nd. The French vote.

Will it be the diminutive Hungarian, poof-hating Fascist?
The MILF?
The Man from No-Where?
A stuck-up farmer who smashed up a McDonalds 'restaurant'? (who's parents used to be researchers at the University of California)

... or the former paratrooper and founder of today's National Front Party who was kicked out of the European Parliament in April 2000 because of me?

You decide ... or not, as the case maybe.

Stu

2007-04-17T09:15:00.000+02:00

Blah, blah, blah ...

I must apologise to my reader but I haven't much time to bring you anything new. It's all a bit busy with the elections and other stuff ... normal service will be resumed in good time ...

Stu

2007-04-11T08:17:00.000+02:00

Leap Of Faith ...

Talk of 'making something out of nothing' ...

Picture this: A raccoon has wandered out of his natural habitat and found himself on a bridge over a busy 'freeway' in Sacremento, CA. He peers over the concrete parapet at the cars and lorries passing below. Someone calls the Fire Brigade and soon the 'freeway' is closed with fire crews, the media and local inhabitants flocking to the scene.

'Animal Control' tries to capture the animal with a plastic noose on a pole but the creature shies away and, loosing its footing, falls the 30-odd feet onto the concrete 'freeway' below. However, it survives the fall and all is well ...

Now, enter the media and their grossly inflated story-telling abilities. According to most, the animal 'knew what he was doing'. Crap. It's a wild omnivorous mammal with an IQ slightly above that of a journalist. It did what any scared, trapped animal would do in such a situation - it ran. It did not 'jump'.

Some headlines read "Raccoon's Spectacular Leap" and "Raccoon Survives After Jumping Off Bridge" and even "Raccoon Takes Daring Dive - And Lives!"

OK class, your homework for tonight is look up the definitions of 'jump' and 'fall' ...

Stu

2007-04-06T10:23:00.000+02:00

Pardon ...?

What is going on in the news business today? After all the usual headlines were read out on a national UK station this Good Friday, the following was dispatched with much 'gravitas';

".. and a British couple have been hospitalised in South Africa after falling off an elephant on the first day of their holiday."

With footy fans being beaten up by over-zealous European riot police, the deaths of 4 British Service personnel in Iraq and a list of other more deserving candidates, this was deemed as newsworthy??

Sometimes I dispair ...

Stu

2007-04-05T15:44:00.000+02:00

Ya Boo Sucks ...

The British 15 Navy/Marine personnel are back on home turf. The Americans, naturally, heaped criticism on the Blair government, suggesting that "threatening military action" might have been the answer.

No, Blair claims that diplomacy won the day and no military action was ever considered.

Typical, no? The Americans hit first and then ask questions ... err ... since the war began on 19th March 2003, Uncle Spam has seen 3260 dead service personnel flown home, where as the number of combined coalition troops is a lowly 264.

The last time that an American was taken hostage by Iran, the event played out for 444 days. I wonder how many 'threats' of violence were made over that one ...

Ride 'em cowboy ...

Stu

2007-04-03T06:44:00.000+02:00

Speak Up, Little Big Man ...

My intention was about to sit down a write a piece about the upcoming French Presidential elections. Then I thought "Nah. Sod it."

Stu

2007-04-01T18:29:00.000+02:00

A Little Quiz ...

Firstly, what's this:

Yes, children, it's a pedestrian crossing.

And what's this:

Right again, kiddies, it's a Parisien car number plate.

So, why don't the people who drive these bloody Parisien number plates around know what a predestrian crossing is for? Answers on a postcard please ...

Stu

2007-03-29T06:55:00.000+02:00

Tinpot Or Tosspot

Iran has 'detained' 15 British sailors whom they claim were found inside Iranian territorial water. The British Navy say that their GPS equipment proves that they were 1 mile inside Iraqi waters. The Iranians have said that this whole affair can be ended if the British admit to being in the wrong.

Zimbabwe's pensioner frontman, Robert Mugabe, still treats his political adversaries like terrorists. Morgan Tsvangirai has been beaten from pillar to post just because he believes it's time for change and that he doesn't agree with Mugabe's policies.

Swiss spray-painter, Oliver Jufer, has been jailed for 10 years following a drunken spree when he defaced portraits of King Bhumibol Adulyadej. Jufer, who has lived in Thailand for a decade, knew what he risked and even His Holiness has questioned the laws that protect him.

What a strange place we live in ...

Stu

2007-03-23T07:51:00.001+01:00

Emergency Aid ...

This 'ere blog started in October 2005 and in that time I have introduced you to a multitude of daft stories, idiotic political decisions and my own personal views on a wide variety of subjects. In their brief history, these daily postings had yet to reach the dizzy heights of more than one comment or an unsolicited suggestion ... until yesterday.

The great loss of life attributed to natural disasters, the rich and famous being treated like deities, certain far away secular religious groups acting like children, the general public being held to ransom by an all-powerful local government, even the ridiculous and senseless detention of yours truly in 'Hotel Commissariat' last year - all have been covered here in great detail.

... but nothing can compare to an Englishman who's run out of tea bags - just watch the help pour in.

Just about says it all really ...

Stu

(Thank you to PE who's mid-Atlantic about now and my old flying mucker, LJ in NI.)

2007-03-22T18:31:00.000+01:00

Save The Last Dunk For Me ...

Today marks a very sad occasion, the very last of my PGTips teabags had been brewed and drunk. Lovely.

This bloody country insists on filling its supermarket shelves with Twinings tea (over here pronounced: Twinn-ings), they think that this second-rate copy is IT amongst teas - the tea to end all teas. Sadly, it tastes as though someone crapped in the packet before sealing and shipping ...

Oh, tell me where I can get some PGTips please ... but I'm not going to pay a fortune for some dodgy Chinese import.

Stu

2007-03-20T07:47:00.000+01:00

Gee Whizz ...

Hot off the wires for you this morning ... a genetically-modified (GM) strain of malaria-resistant mosquito has been created that is better able to survive than disease-carrying insects. Gosh.

It gives new impetus to one strategy for controlling the disease: introduce the GM insects into wild populations in the hope that they will take over and destroy the disease-ridden lower classes. These new lab-insects carry a gene that prevents infection by the malaria parasite. In the lab, equal numbers of genetically modified and ordinary "wild-type" mosquitoes were allowed to feed on malaria-infected mice. As they reproduced, more of the GM mosquitoes survived. After nine generations, 70% of the insects belonged to the malaria-resistant strain.

If all goes well with testing, they will soon find their way into the great outdoors.

The only slight hiccup being it that they're 7 foot long and fly at the the speed of an F-16.

Stu

2007-03-16T10:15:00.001+01:00

Bac-on Track ...

Yes, yes, yes ... I know. I've written about daft stories before and this one is no different from the rest.

Honley Junior School in West Yorkshire was getting ready to perform a version of Little Red Riding Hood And The Three Little Pigs but was told to substitute the piggies for puppies by some meddling do-gooder.

The fears being that the pigs might upset the Muslim children in the chorus so the order went out to ban the piggie lyrics from the performance.

Little Red Riding Hood And The ... Puppies? What the heck is going on? Were the school teachers asking the little Muslims to eat pig meat? No, just to sing about them in the Kirklees Primary Music Festival. Council education spokesman Jim Dodds said that "something barmy is going on here and it has happened on my watch. I can tell you now that the three little pigs will be back into the school musical festival." He added that "the decision to ban the pigs was made by well-meaning people - it was the wrong decision, so let's stick with tradition"

Well said Jim.

Surely, with non-Christian kids living in a Christian-based country, now is the ideal time to learn about other cultures. It proves that integration and inter-culture tolerance starts at nursery school ...

Tell me, 2007 is the Chinese year of the Pig. In China, 2.4% of the populous is Muslim. Are they offended?

Err, nope ...

Stuart

2007-03-12T10:50:00.000+01:00

I Feel Like A Piece Of Ass ...

This is too good to re-write, so here it is as it appeared as published:

A man who was found dressed in latex and handcuffs brought a donkey to his room in a Galway city centre hotel, because he was advised “to get out and meet people,” the local court heard last week.

Thomas Aloysius McCarney with an address in south Galway was charged with cruelty to animals, lewd and obscene behaviour, and with being a danger to himself when he appeared before the court on Friday. He was also charged with damage to a mini-bar in the room, but this charge was later dropped when the defendant said that it was the donkey who caused that damage.

Solicitor for the accused Ms Sharon Fitzhenry said that her client had been through a difficult time lately and that his wife had left him and that his life had become increasingly lonely.

“Mr McCarney has been attending counselling at which he was told that he would be advised to get out and meet people and do interesting things. It was this advice that saw him book into the city centre hotel with a donkey,” she said. She added that Mr McCarney also suffered from a fixation with the Shrek movies and could constantly be heard at work talking to himself saying things like “Isn’t that right, Donkey?”

Supt John McBrearty told the court that Mr McCarney who had signed in as “ Mr Shrek” had told hotel staff that the donkey was a family pet and that this was believed by the hotel receptionist who the supt said was “young and hadn’t great English.”
Receptionist Irina Legova said that Mr McCarney had told her that the donkey was a breed of “super rabbit” which he was bringing to a pet fair in the city. The court was told that the donkey went berserk in the middle of the night and ran amok in the hotel corridor, forcing hotel staff to call the gardai.

McCarney was found in the room wearing a latex suit and handcuffs, the key to which the donkey is believed to have swallowed. He was removed to Mill St station after which it is said he was the subject of much mirth among the lads next door in The Galway Arms.

He was fined €2,000 for bringing the donkey to the room under the Unlawful Accommodation of Donkeys Act 1837. Other charges were dropped due to lack of evidence.

Good, or what?

Thank you PE for bring this to our attention.

Stu

2007-03-07T00:44:00.001+01:00

Americans are not stupid. Official.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJuNgBkloFE

Yeah, right ...

And this is the modern day Superpower? We're well and truly f**ked ...!

Stu

2007-03-06T06:46:00.000+01:00

Modern-Day Hit Squad

It is a well-known fact that Paris is full of scooters and motorbikes. With the amount of cars and vans blocking up the city roads, it's seem the most efficient and cheap way of negotiating the busy boulevards and avenues.

An example: you will need to pull €8 out of your pocket to fill the tank of a 125cc scooter, which should buzz you around town for at least a week. If you have a 4x4 or a 4-door saloon, it'll be closer to €80.

There used to be a rule that said that 'you can park your bike wherever you want, so long as there's a 2 meter gap top allow pedestrians to pass'. No more, it would appear. The use of scooters and motorbikes is growing at an alarming rate to combat the ever increasing blockages around the city. The Mayor has built '2 Roues' ('2 Wheel') parking spots around town but they are too few and often filled with abandoned bicycles and scooters.

So, on a wide pavement with 2 meters to spare, there's a line of bikes, neatly parked and not scattered about the place. The Hit Squad make their move. Once there are a sufficient number bikes on the horizon, they telephone the removal men and start issuing parking tickets. Three trucks turn up and each take away two bikes. A race bettween ticketing and removal. It seems that if you have you bike attached to a post, or something solid, there is no way they can take it away as they now have sets of 'little wheels' for moving anything that isn't tied down. The bastards.

I know of a bike that sits all day almost in the middle of a pavement in the 8th Arrondissement, a space wide enough for 2 people to walk, yet it receives no interest from the Hit Squad. On a wide and less-busy pavement, you're screwed.

Take a look at the above photograph - even the passers-by can't believe how petty the authorities have become. However, It tells us one thing - a left-over from August 1944: the Nazis never really left.

Stu

* Update *

24 hours later ...

You lucky, lucky bastard ...

2007-03-02T08:28:00.000+01:00

And There's More ...

sigh

This epic continues to roll outlike a never-ending Ben Hur.

Now that I have decided not to invest in any more hardware (what I've already got seems to do the trick), another helpful soul piped up with "Get yourself the new Tokina 10mm lens. However, the sunshield is made of metal therefore harder to saw off. I'm sure the shop would happily slice it off for you".

Tell me, when was the last time you walked into a car showroom and ordered a brand new vehicle but then asked the dealer to vandalise the thing? If he made a mistake, the guarantee would be go up the pictures and he's not going to be overly-willing to put it right at his own expense, now is he?

Silly people.

Stu

2007-03-01T13:42:00.000+01:00

Ready To Breathe Again ...

Following my last entry and buying a Nikkor lens, finding a hacksaw and a 5mm spark plug gauge, then slicing the sunshield off, my Irish Godfather tells me not to bother.

So, I won't.

Stu

2007-02-22T08:17:00.000+01:00

Wallet Wide Shut ...

It is known in certain circles that I have become a dab hand at taking panoramic photographs - from monster flat images to 360º moving pictures. I have only been doing them seriously for the last 4 months and it's a fascinating hobby. However, I can see that in a few more months I should have sufficient experience to offer this medium as a commercial commodity to estate agents etc.

In October of last year, I came across a Hollywood film actor who runs a company which supplies panoramic imagery for just that. His pictures of West Coast property and scenery are quite superb - it got me thinking; "have a crack at it yourself, Stu". Sheepishly, I wrote to him and explained that I was fascinated by this type of photography and where could I learn more? I was stunned when he penned a long-winded reply listing who, where and what I needed to know. Since then, we have continued to exchange emails, thoughts and ideas. He has been of great encouragement and is always very patient to explain where I have gone wrong or what I need to 'tweek' in order to get results. He put me onto an internet group who exchange ideas, help newcomers and critique their work. After 3 weeks of trying to join, they eventually accepted my application, citing the weeding out of loonies and nutters (you mean I'm not a loony? News to me ...).

To begin with, you need a camera, a tripod, a fisheye lens, a stitching programme and bags of patience as the learning curve is as steep as a lighthouse staircase. A majority of the folk in this internet club suggest that I plough through pages of technical drivel, diagrams of oscillating sinewaves, temperature scales, mathematical theory and calculations involving the letter 'x'. Excuse me? When I bought the stitching programme, it simply said "with this, you can do THIS!" and nothing about gaining a degree in calculus. So, €70 later, I installed the stitching programme on my Apple Mac and started to climb the lighthouse.

I began with flat images, initially taking 4 or 5 separate photographs, then stitching them together. When it finally worked, I was stunned. Weeks of playing with 'Gigeresque' looking pictures and pressing buttons had paid off. But, naturally, I wanted more - I wanted to make moving 360s. The online community were a little hesitant to cough up the inside info and I was beginning to think that I didn't possess the right handshake or had rolled up the wrong trouser leg. Finally, someone took me under their wing and explained that I needed yet more software and more camera kit to get perfect results. Sadly, I am not in a position to do either and I'm buggered if any more cash is going to be invested. I have the basics, so let's see what I can do with them.

The more experienced members of the group said "Oh, if you have a Canon 5D, the you should get yourself a Nikkor 10.5mm lens, it's THE ideal combo". Well, I have an 8 and a 14mm so let's get working with those. "Oh", the group continued, "then you'll need this gadget and then this piece of software ..." But the stitching software said "with this, you can do THIS!" and showed a fisheye lens on camera, mounted on a tripod - and that's exactly what I have and all I'm going to use. To make moving images I got hold of a programme that does the conversion through a friend. So, back to the lens ...

The Nikkor 10.5mm costs around €700 but the fun doesn't start there, oh no. In order to get this 'ideal combo' working you should also invest in a hacksaw and a 5mm spark plug gauge. Eh? Apparently, after shelling out nearly a months rent, the Nikkor should be carefully placed in a vice and using the spark plug gauge as a ... err, gauge, saw off the sunshield around the business end of the lens. Then you need to buy the adapter ring that fixes the Nikkor to a Canon. What? "But the results will be fantastic!", the group insisted. But what if I dragged a hacksaw blade over the polished glass of a brand new lens? Guarantee shot to bollocks and €700 down the tubes ... so I started asking around about the 8 and 14mm lenses that I already have. A very helpful chap from Ireland came back saying "Not a problem, I do it all the time". He explained that it simply a matter of doubling the amount of images that you take initially. So much so, he asked that I send him 17 images (ok, you might need a pen and paper for this) with the 14mm lens. With the camera pointing -20º down from horizontal, take 8 images around the circle, then a further 8 images at +20º and a final shot at 90º upwards, the top shot. By the end of play that day, I received a Quicktime movie with the workflow explained with a running voice commentary. Heaven's above, and I've never even met this chap! I watched the little film, followed his every instruction and managed to replicate the result.

A huge weight appears to have been taken off my shoulders, the smoke and mirrors removed and I'm cracking on with a constant thirst for knowledge, taking the lighthouse steps two at a time. What next? I'm off to invade Poland ...

Stu

2007-02-21T17:12:00.000+01:00

6 Nations Shall Speak Volumes ...

BHLC, nice one ...

Stu

2007-02-21T07:32:00.000+01:00

Trouble In The Trussocks ...

Now, here's a film you should buy a ticket for.

"The Last King Of Scotland" is a superb tale, loosely based on events in 1970's Uganda. In reality, Bob Astles was the Scotsman in question, though the film-makers have toyed with the details (naturally). Forest Whittaker is a highly believable Idi Amin with James McAvoy as the young Scottish doctor. Gillian Anderson, known primarily for her role in 'The X Files' is looking more than a little ravishing ...

Stu

2007-02-19T17:38:00.001+01:00

They Say Depression, I Say Who Cares ...?

According to the popular press, diminutive singer Britney Spears seems to have 'done it again' and shocked America with her latest look - her shaved head. Along with this radical hairdo, a tattoo artist at the 'Body and Soul Parlour' explained that Spears had left the premises with something else, "cute little lips on her wrist". It is rumoured that Spears, a mere 25 years old, is suffering from depression. Recently she checked in to a rehabilitation centre on the island of Antigua - but checked out one day later.

In January 2004 she married a childhood friend - an oath that expired two days later. The following year she remarried, this time to Kevin Federline, a former backing dancer (what the f**k is one of those?). Federline, however, was not exactly pure as the driven snow as he left a heavily pregnant girlfriend, Shar Jackson, for Spears. The sun shone briefly on the happy couple until, as expected in showbiz, The Spears-Federline marriage ended late last year after producing 2 children. The second child arrived in September 2006 and this recent headline is, apparently, down to post-natal depression.

Hang on, there are millions of women a day who suffer from this type of depression and I don't see them grabbing the headlines. Not unless they go off 'on one' and kill either themselves, the child - or both. It must be hell being Britney Spears, all that fame and fortune so young and you act like a total twat. Well, you give millions of dollars to a teenager, surround them with a gaggle of people calling them 'special' every minute of every day, and what do you expect?

The papers went on to say that she 'shocked America' with her shaved head. Nerves a bit jittery, eh septics? So, if someone with a personal fortune of $123m shaves their head because 'they're feeling a little under the weather' and it shocks an entire nation, then how would you describe the time that LHO shot JFK? Not quite on the same scale is it.

So, married twice by the age of 25, 2 kids, photographed not wearing any knickers while out on the town and covered in tattoos ... about time she bought a house in Essex.

Stu

2007-02-17T10:14:00.001+01:00

Hannibal Rising? A Matter Of Choice ...

Do not proceed if you haven't yet seen this pile of nonsense.

When you draw on the strings of a classic cult horror film and attempt to rewrite history, the wise would be well off leaving those sleeping dogs snoozing to their heart's content ...

Hannibal Rising is, without doubt, one of the worst films to kick off a new year - and it's still only February. The story is disastrously weak and riddled with nonsensical chance and writer's cramp. With it's forerunner now well and truly on a higher shelf, some bright spark decided that the original story should be told from the beginning. So, along with a financial backer, they set out to recreate the early years of Hannibal Lecter.

Casting a French boy in the role of the adolescent Hannibal only confused the character's Eastern European origins when he spoke. The supporting cast must have been drawn out of a hat at a charity ball and the editing appeared to have been done by a deranged axe-man with a blunt instrument. Where the idea of this Japanese Aunt came from, along with the martial art of kendo and the Samurai mask, I'll never know - and we're only 30 minutes into the film at this stage.

It's a bizarre tale with some truly awful lines, delivered by a collection of character actors who should strike this ordeal from their resumes. Remember Ridley Scott's 2001 'Hannibal' but leave this desparately poor relation to the half-price bins at your local DVD store.

If I were to describe this movie in 5 words, I'd say that it was 'a cow in a tracksuit'. But then I'd be insulting the cow ...

Stu

2007-02-15T08:36:00.000+01:00

Self Abuse And Six Of The Best ...

Back in the 1980's, when governments had us believing that things were on the up, one of those in total agreement was 20-something Jeffrey Harrison from Venice, California. Twice a week Harrison would take a trip to the local sperm bank to leave a deposit for the freezer. Unlike the Boston bar "Cheers", no-one here wanted to know your name - to them, you were a number and Harrison was labelled 'Donor 150'.

Thirty years later, while reading the New York Times, Harrison came across an article in which the Donor Sibling Registry was appealing for 'Donor 150'. It soon became apparent that no less than 6 US teenagers, fathered by 'Donor 150', had made contact and were looking for their father. To begin with, Mr H was hesitant to come forward (a different story back in the 80's, eh Jeff?) but eventually surrendered to the call. Now aged 50, Harrison lives with four dogs in a motor home in Venice on a low income, performing odd jobs. He was concerned as to what the teenagers would think of him, seeing as his sperm had originally marketed as "belonging to a tall, blue-eyed lover of the arts". Mmm, a possible trade's descriptions case?

Harrison was quoted as saying "it's a short life and these children need to have some kind of resolution", and thanks to his solution, they do. One of his daughters, 17yr old Danielle Pagano, said of him "he's sort of a free spirit and I don't care what career he has. I got to talk to his dogs." (fascinating conversationalists, especially to Californians apparently).

"What did your Father do before you were born?" ... "He batted for his country ... err, kind of".

Stu

2007-02-14T20:25:00.001+01:00

Suck It And See ...

With more than 60% of Americans suffering from obesity, it is becoming more and more of a problem for 'Uncle Sam'. To combat the overhang, many have reverted to liposucion, the manual hoovering out of unwanted fat via cosmetic surgery.

One particular Norwegian, however, thinks he has devised a way to recycle the fat from the Superpower gut-buckets. Lauri Venoy reckons that a single weekly harvest of 11,500 litres of body fat (from multiple clinics) can produce a staggering 10,000 litres of bio diesel. Currently, Mr Venoy is in talks with the Jackson Memorial Hospital ... and Mobil.

If you insist on driving bloody SUV's America, then you will give your right arm for them ...

Stu

2007-02-13T21:23:00.000+01:00

Oh Doctor ...

So, Robbie Williams has been admitted to a rehab clinic for dependency on prescription drugs - again.

Who gives a f**k?

I hear the clattering hooves of a personal hobby-horse approaching.

Stu

2007-02-13T12:10:00.001+01:00

They Don't Make 'Em Like That Anymore ...

I met a dear old soul over the weekend: my beloved's Grandmother who's aged 80+. We paid her a short visit over the weekend and as it was my introductory trip, I was on my best behaviour having washed behind my ears and curbing my language. In her bedroom was a rather splendid looking wardrobe, dating back from the year dot. She decided that upon her death, she would like my beloved to have it.

The story behind the wardrobe is as romantic as was the old lady in her former years.

In the 1920's, just before Grandma was born, her father owned a small wood, out in the countryside. He, himself, was married and soon began producing children. He declared that once his daughter was old enough and had found herself a husband, he would chop down an oak tree of his choice, and with the top class wood, build the newly married couple a wedding present; a wardrobe. Over 80 years later, this sturdy and beautifully crafted piece of furniture now stands in the old lady's bedroom. Neither time nor tide unable to dampen its splendour.

Although we don't all own tracts of land, it's rather a nice story, no? These days, it's more of a case of "Ikea hand-me-downs".

Stu

2007-02-09T15:15:00.000+01:00

Bee In Their Bonnet ...

It's interesting to note that when the constantly-happy, red-haired Irish have anything to do with the English, there's always an underlying vein of "you bastards". They harp on about the days when the English Army arrived in their country, hence putting every member of my nationality under the same banner: 'English bastards. You f**king English bastards'. In bars, they will launch into some 'auld country song' at the drop of a hat, all about some local 'hero' who was shot trying to kill the invaders. Oh, such fun for all ...

It seems that in the world of sporting fixtures, these references will crop up. For example, before the Ireland/England game of the 6 Nations Rugby tournament: "Ireland could be without O'Driscoll and Horgan for England's visit in two weeks. That said, England will be without the machine guns and armoured cars from their last visit to Croke Park ..."

However, would it be fair if I were to accuse every Irish person of being a member of the IRA? Pointing the finger at everyone who can't pronounce 'th' properly, denouncing them all of coming to my country and casually bombing the shit out of people and property, causing havoc and death ... do you think they'd take it in good humour? I doubt it. Let alone if I was ask for quiet while I sang a ditty about hoards of dying Republicans to the tune of 'The Happy Wanderer'.

I was not responsible for the problems in your country. I was not there. It's 2007 now and I'm getting tired of this whining. Get over it.

Stu

2007-02-09T09:27:00.000+01:00

Vee Haf Vays ...

A primary school in Wales* has recently banned it's pupils from making Mother’s Day cards. Why would they do this to the little 'uns? Well, it's in case they upset their fellow classmates without a mum.

School Head, 'Oberstabsfeldwebel' Helen Starkey ended the tradition because a minority of children have either been bereaved or separated from their mothers. All 357 pupils at the school were lined up and told "You vill not be making karts fur yer mutters zis year!". The day, which falls on March 18, has now been cancelled for the little tykes. 46-yr old 'Oberstabsfeldwebel' Starkey said: “I have taken zis dezision because it iz inzensitive to pupils zeparated from zer mutters. More dan fife perzent of children here are."

However, one mutter said: “Nobody wants to be hard-hearted to kids without a mum but it means that 95 per cent of pupils are deprived of a traditional activity.”

We're all getting far too sensitive. It's going the same way as Christmas decorations, innit?

Stu

* a small backward enclave in the British Isles, renowned for anti-social behaviour with farm creatures.

2007-02-08T16:00:00.001+01:00

Veritable Theme Park ...

There was once a time when the chest on the left claimed to belong to the tallest woman in the world. In fact, the claim was that this Dutch monster (7' 4" and 320 pounds) had beaten all-comers to the Guinness Book Of World Records. However, it was all a bit of fun. Her name (supposedly) is Heather and she's from the USA. In her stocking feet she stands at 6'5" and in heels, a tad over 7'. The real holder of the record is Sandy Allen from Indiana who stands at a staggering 7' 7". This, and other photos of Heather, were possible because she consistently poses in high heels next to people of shorter-than-average height, thereby enhancing her stature.

Oh, give me the keys to the adventure playground ... with an hour to spare, I reckon I'd be bored stiff.

Stu

2007-02-07T16:35:00.000+01:00

There Was An Old Woman ...

A frightful shuddering came from the 8 year-old washing machine at my beloved's house. As the saying goes, 'water, water, everywhere' but I was in no mood to drink it. Right then, here's the chance to do a little something for the woman I love so let's order a new one - or so I thought.

The machine (and the 'ole it sits in) was measured and a suitable replacement found 'online' at the French outlet, Darty. Within minutes they were on the phone to confirm my order. I thought that this was possibly the best service the French could offer. How wrong I was. 6 hours later, an email arrived requesting that I a) confirm the correct delivery address with a gas bill or otherwise and b) prove that I am indeed the card holder with a copy of my passport.

Hang on, you confirmed the order (including payment) only this morning and now you want me to run around for you, make photocopies and start sending faxes? My beloved faxed her papers and copy of my passport. 24 hours later, she rang to say that Darty were not happy with my passport. Excuse me? Is France's largest domestic electrical consumer outlet now acting as an arm of the immigration service? What was faxed to them was a highly detailed, pro scan of a clean and unmarked passport. I should know - I made it. Apparently, they didn't like the size of it. Despite it fitting perfectly on a piece of A4 paper, they wanted something smaller.

Eh?

I had no idea that the Japanese were producing a pocket-sized A10 (26 x 37) fax machine.

Another clone was made on a photocopy machine with the passport smack in the middle of the sheet of A4 and reduced in size. Apparently, some old grainy black and white photocopy is so much better than a scan at 300dpi. I faxed this new copy with a sneer and rang Darty. "So, about all this faxing crap we've been doing to purchase a €300 washing machine", I began, "do you treat all foreigners like this?" The young man who caught my rage was stunned for a second. "Well, it's all to do with money laundering ..." "FOR A BLOODY WASHING MACHINE?? We want to wash clothes man, NOT poxy bank notes!"

"Well, there's a lot of it about" he proffered. "You see, there was this poor old lady who lost ..."

"Stop right there Monsieur" I snapped back, "I am not going to have you tell me some bloody sob story about a little old lady who lost a few euros on her credit card and someone made off with a teasmade ..." (or words to that effect). This story, strangely enough, was echoed word-for-word by a friend of mine who had the self-same story about trying to buy a TV from another retailer. "There was this old lady who had ..." His girlfriend chipped in with a story about trying to buy a fridge from another 'grande surface' and the old dear cropped up again.

This poor old woman seems to appear in every story from every outlet and, to be brutal, it's wearing a little thin ...

It'll be a little old man next month, just you wait and see.

Stu

UPDATE: the second fax arrived (€13,50 in total for 3 faxes/6 pages) but Darty were still not happy. Apparently, the space reserved for the town I was born was smudged on the fax and they wouldn't accept it. My beloved cancelled the entire order and told them to shove it up their arses. She's French and an 'arse shove' from one of their own probably sounded much better ...

2007-02-07T15:28:00.000+01:00

SAS - Simply Add & Subtract ...

With reference to a previous entry, "From Out Of The Archives", I am indebted to LJ for responding thus:

"I'm sure you are aware that many members of lesser ranks in the Armed Forces were of the opinion that a) Andy McNab (not his real name) should have been court-martialled for the fiasco now known as "Bravo Two-Zero" and b) that due to the literary (I use the term in it's loosest possible sense) efforts of many ex-SAS troopers, the regiment is now a spent force in that every tinpot dictator or lunatic government knows to expect them prior to the opening of hostilities and therefore are on their guard. There's a feeling that perhaps it's time to close down the regiment, simply because their former "mates" and colleagues have completely "blown" the fundamental ethos of the SAS, which is "in and out and NOBODY NOTICES". They have betrayed them to the enemy, current and future, for the chance of a fast buck."

... and have also betrayed their colleagues, their leaders, their country and that little dotted line where they sign their names. It's what happens when celebrity goes to your head.

Thank you LJ. I think we can put that one to bed now.

Next up: why do the French treat foreigners like skant-ridden vermin? Stay tuned for a good old fashioned rant ... but first, some music ...

Stu

2007-02-07T07:12:00.000+01:00

Welcome To Our World ...

First Story: Rich Indian woman is allegedly abused on British reality TV show. Parliament sits to discuss.

Second Story: American pilot kills British soldier in 'friendly fire incident'. US cover-up, MoD light on truth to soldier's relatives.

Which of the above gets more coverage?

You decide.

Stu

2007-02-06T10:00:00.000+01:00

From Out Of The Archives ...

Sitting in a kitchen, the other night, I strained to hear a British radio station crackle and fizz on the transistor radio. The signal dipped and rose with an erratic swell. With a small child recently put to bed in an adjoining room, I stooped my head towards the speaker as announcer read-in the title of the next programme. It was lucky dip time and I had no idea what was coming up. A programme for women maybe? Question time for keen gardeners? A political review? The radio hissed and popped as the following announcement was read out: "And next, on Radio 4, something from our archives. SAS - The Originals".

I have been fascinated in 'modern' history for years: World Wars 1 and 2, for instance. It is not an unnatural interest, nor has it lead to an unhealthy collection of wall posters, or to dressing up on the weekends nor annual trips out with like-minded societies. I just like to read, or in this case, listen. First-hand accounts of historical events are certainly preferable to some 3rd-hand author's account.

Some years ago, it became trendy for former SAS members to spill the beans with their 'publish and be damned' accounts of daring rescues and fire-fights. Since Andy McNab penned 'Bravo Two Zero', I have never been tempted to buy such accounts. I simply can't be bothered with all this derring-do; cover to cover displays of highly-trained yet hair-trigger testosterone, bludgeoning and killing a path across the world's battlefields. The book version of the radio show now on air, however, is certainly one which I would happily entertain sitting in my bookshelf.

Twenty years ago a British author, Gordon Stevens, was tasked with making a documentary about the founding members of this elite fighting force. He dug up not only the man who's idea it all was, Colonel Sir Archibald David Sterling OBE DSO, but also a number of the first men who served under him back in 1941. The documentary was never completed and, according to Stevens, the rolls of film were 'locked away'. Years later, the audio tracks of the interviews were made into a 50-minute wireless treat. With gentle guidance from Sterling's official biographer, Alan Hoe, the radio documentary followed Sir David's childhood, his joining the Scot's Guards, the parachute accident (which led to having a leg amputated), the drafting of a paper outlining this 'special' force and the disastrous first outing for L Detachment, the earliest given name of the SAS.

I was 19 years old when London's Iranian Embassy siege took place. The building was successfully stormed by a group of alien undercover men using high explosives and wearing gas masks. The papers of the day, along with copious reels of TV footage, brought these men in back, these black knights, to the forefront. Britain was captivated by their appearance, delighted with the outcome and even Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher thanked "her boys", personally but privately. This photograph shows 3 of the armed troopers involved in the successful raid on the Embassy with a jubilant (and equally armed with a handbag) Mrs Thatcher during her visit to their HQ. The negative was supposed to have been destroyed but, like all things 'secret', it managed to find it's way into the public domain.

Since then, it's all gone tits-up for the modern Special Air Service. Books, films, accounts, interviews and general unmasking. It's rather like a Magic Circle whistle-blower: take away the myth, reveal once heavily guarded secrets, and all you're left with is a bare-arsed individual running through a crowd. The cloak-and-dagger world has attracted many to dream of living the life of an SAS soldier. In 1995, for example, Christopher Reynolds was fined £250 for impersonating an SAS officer and giving a talk to army recruits and since 1997, all former SAS members who have published books have been banned from entering the SAS Headquarters.

"SAS - The Originals" follows the first men to go deep undercover in the deserts, when the world was in black and white. Sent into battle without Bond-like gadgets, without today's technology-lead trickery, just honest-to-goodness balls, grey matter and equipped with (unlike today's modern arsenal) the bare essentials. I have no idea how long BBC Radio 4 will keep this fascinating story online in their 'listen again' section but if you get the chance, go and find it before it goes back down, deep into the hidden world of the radio archives once again.

Stu

2007-02-05T20:49:00.000+01:00

A Quickie (But Rude) ...

A wife, upon reading an article in National Geographic, announces to her husband: "Wow! It says here that a bull can have sex 3000 times a year! I wish you could do the same ..."

The husband, gripping his pipe between clenched teeth, replies: "Ask the bull if he f**ks the same cow ..."

Stu

2007-02-01T09:21:00.000+01:00

One Rule For Us, One For Them ...

A wide-eyed teenager walked in to police station and waited in line for the desk officer.

"Yes?", said the officer turning to the youth. "Someone's stolen my scooter". The desk officer rolled his eyes, bent down and opened a drawer where the report forms were kept. "Fill this out" barked the officer, "and no, I don't have a pen."

The youth placed his crash helmet on the desk, took the form and pulling a stubby pencil out of an inside pocket, filled it in the best he could. He handed it back and the information he'd given was briefly scanned "So, you left it here?" asked the officer, pointing at the lower part of the form. The youth nodded. "Did your scooter have an anti-theft device? A chain or a D-lock?" the officer enquired. The youth lowered his eyes and shook his head. "Mmm", scowled the officer. "Was it insured then?" Again, the youth examined his €200 Nikes. "Well then, we've got your details and we'll be in touch if we find it." The officer turned and laid the report on a pile behind him. Picking up his helmet, the youth made for the door. "It's a good thing we didn't catch you riding it sonny", called the officer, "because we'd have nicked ya!"

A few kilometers away, another angst-ridden teenager was going through the same process, except for a few minor details ...

His scooter was stolen on January 7th from outside an apartment building in the wealthy district of Neuilly-sur-Seine. House prices start in the millions out here and the sound of jewellery rattling down the streets can drown out birdsong. However, his bike was found 2 weeks later, 28 kilometers away in Bobigny, a poor rundown immigrant ghetto. What a stroke of luck. Well, not exactly. It has since become a national scandal due to the amount of man-hours used to find the bike, the costly DNA and fingerprinting resources employed, the call of "double standard" is now the latest cry. This youth happens to be the son of Interior Minister and Presidential candidate, Nicholas Sarkozy. By the way, Nicky is also the ultimate head of the French police force.

The cops have since arrested and charged 3 youths with this atrocious crime. No doubt, they'll be shot at dawn.

Just so we can put this into perspective, Sarkozy Jnr's bike didn't have an anti-theft device, nor did it have insurance covering theft. Last year alone, more than 85,000 motorcycles and scooters were stolen in France.

On a trip to London, Nicholas Sarkozy was hounded by the French press and quizzed about the events back home. "Leave my children out of all this", he responded.

Why? You didn't!

Stu

2007-01-31T08:23:00.000+01:00

Global Round-Up ...

Bill's New Pane: Gates says that Microsoft's latest Windows platform is "more secure". Than what? The last load of crap you dumped on us?

Hubble Bubble: NASA says that the main camera on their Hubble Space Telescope has broken. What, again?? Hope they kept the bloody receipt.

All Greek To Me: Athens schoolchildren surround the Acropolis demanding that the UK returns the Elgin marbles which were whipped from under their noses 200 years ago. Nice try. As if.

Lost Vegas: Manchester, in the UK, is to become the venue of a new super casino. Cool. Somewhere else to spend that Giro cheque.

Five Ring Circus: Chinese authorities have told Olympic officials not to indulge in corrupt or immoral behaviour during their 2008 Beijing Olympics. Shame it can't be adopted for everyday use.

Crying Over Spilt Milk: A woman sat in a bath of cold milk outside the UK's Parliament building to protest at the price per litre dairy farmers are paid. Silly moo.

In The Nick Of Time: Rock group, 'The Police', reunite to play at next month's Grammy awards ceremony. Gordon must be in a benevolent mood - the other two aren't exactly raking it in at the moment.

A Touch Of The Squits: England's cricket team loose again. When our infamous 11 tour other countries, do they ever go down with a dose of tummy gip? It's about the only thing they're likely to catch and the only runs they're ever going to get.

Old Man Stands Up: Pictures of Fidel Castro standing up and drinking orange juice have been aired on Cuban TV. What a treat. In next week's episode, the Old Man brings the orange juice back up. Stay tuned.

Got To Get A Message To You: David Beckham is going to play footy in the US - a deal worth 193m Euros. I wonder, is this for him to play ball or to stop her from re-launching her singing career? You choose.

Life's a little boring at the moment, no?

Stu

My thanks to DM for the pic.

2007-01-29T08:15:00.000+01:00

It's Bucket Time, Again ...

This year's crop of Oscar nominees have been announced and Tinsel Town is a-buzz with air kissing and copious amounts of fawning. There are more tongues being shoved up more arses than you'd get in a half-decent adult movie. Newspaper, TV and Radio stations are being flooded by film critics, eager to chuck in their 10 pennies worth as to whom they believe will come out on top and walk away with a coveted statue.

This vomit-inducing clap-trap received an early shot in the arm last night with the Screen Actor Guild Awards. If you've been nominated for an Oscar and you win a Screen Actors Guild prize, then your Oscar acceptance speech is in the bag - so they say. Three British women up for an Oscar this year are Dame Judy Dench, Helen Mirren and Kate Winslet. Only one of our three ladies made an splash with the Screen Actors, Helen Mirren. She walked away with another statuette at last night's ceremony and, naturally, has been tipped to collect her Oscar on Februrary 25th.

On a personal note, I'm rather hoping that the grand old Dame of British acting, Judy Dench, finally gets American recognition and picks up a prize. At least she never got her tits out to further her career ... although she's acted with a few.

Stu

2007-01-27T13:51:00.000+01:00

Blinkered Idiot ...

The spoilt little Indian rich-kid who was at the receiving of the 'alleged' racist abuse on the UK programme Big Brother, will (naturally) win the event.

Think about it - OF COURSE she will because if this Shilpa Shetty gets voted out, it too will be seen as an act of racism. Watch as downtown Mumbai becomes fog-bound with more effigy fires. 'BB Burning' might even be added to their ever-increasing list of annual public holidays. Now, there's a thought. Despite being one of India's top models, she is also a black belt karate champion and (apparently) has the best body in Bollywood - but she can't take a bit of teasing. Crap, we suffered it at school nearly everyday and we had no-one to fight our corner.

She starred in an advertising campaign for PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals), dressed in leopard camouflage and photographed in a cage. Somewhow, PETA's slogan in the campaign, "Beaten, lonely and abused" is something her 'fans' will ,ost probably latch onto. According to her 'fascinating' bio, "she is also a huge fan of prints, especially Tiger and Leopard prints. Her room is filled with all the different kind of prints. Even her pillow case." So, we now know the age group we are dealing with.

Beside her native language Tulu, she speaks English, Hindi, Kannada, Marathi, Gujarati, Telugu, Tamil and Urdu ... and she still couldn't tell those teasing her to 'shut up'? Probably employs someone for that ...

Stu

2007-01-27T07:03:00.000+01:00

It's Quiz Time ...

While we're all sheltering from the current cold snap, here's a wee quiz to get that grey matter churning over. Ready? Then here we go ...

Question: who is this man?

Hint: he was born in 1944 in a place called 'Eumseong', if you want to write his name, it's spelt like this 반기문. Oh, and he's dekofinated ...

Answers on a postcard to the usual address please.

Stu

2007-01-26T18:47:00.000+01:00

Cooking Lessons ...

Raytheon have just announced the arrival of a breed of rioter repellant - both singular and plural.

"The Silent Guardian is", say the manufacturer, "revolutionary less-than-lethal directed energy application that employs millimeter wave technology to repel individuals or crowds without causing injury." They carry on with some superb 'wordsmithery', explaining their new weapon (sorry - deterrent): "Silent Guardian produces precise effects at longer ranges than current less-than-lethal systems and provides real-time ability to establish intent and de-escalate aggression."

The idea is that this truck-mounted piece of trickery sends out a 360-degree mini-microwave signal that heats the skin of an individual up to 54C (130F) which penetrates less than 0.5mm of skin. They claim that it avoids injury, although long-term effects are not known. Goodie. Makes me feel SO much better as the French will probably give their police force take-home versions.

So, anyone going to an anti-G8 or WTO rally in the future, here's today's top tip: while shouting your hate-ridden slogans at the intended government minister/CEO or billionaire, keep some microwave food in your inside pocket ... let it cook while YOU do!

Stu

2007-01-26T07:46:00.000+01:00

Can't Go Out Today ... Can't Get Back In ...

It's coming up to 08h and, already, today is shaping up to be another day from 'shitsville'. The building was rudely awoken at both 01h30 and 02h30 when some arse started using a electric power drill in the adjoining building. There was much banging on the walls from neighbours but I doubt that the arse heard.

I finally surrendered to my broken night at 06h30 and got up and was the first customer through the doors at the 'Panoramix Coffee Emporium' at 07h. Then round to the bakery for a fresh baguette. However, on my return home, I was in for a surprise ...

The security key for my front door (apartment, not building) has stuck fast in the lock. I cannot turn it left nor right. It won't come out of the lock. It will not budge. So, the door is left open ajar because if I close the door, the handle on the inside won't move either and I'll be trapped inside - if I go out and close the door, I can't get back in. Thankfully, the owner of what is now my temporary prison cell, is back from Canada and residing in the apartment below. Emergency locksmiths, as any 'artisan', cost a fortune and with a 'porte blindee' (heavy metal security door), it's around 500 beans to change the lock tumbler.

And now a song, in the key of Yale and Chubb ...

Stu

2007-01-25T15:37:00.000+01:00

That Is Illogical, Captain ...

This cold weather is causing merry hell with all forms of motorised transport ... and it hasn't even started snowing - yet.

In recent months, my little 125cc scooter has been working fine. Firing first time and giving a good return for its money. Last night I was out of town and so it was left in an on-street parking bay. The temperature plummeted. At 07h45 and as good as gold, she started first time and off we went on our 45-minute trip into the centre of town. However, four hours later she wouldn't give so much as a cough when I pressed the electric starter. I kept on trying just in case she fired, but no. The battery finally gave up the ghost, drained and exhausted.

So, straight onto the insurance company who sent round the 'depanneur', the breakdown people. I related this morning's story to the mechanic as jumped down from his cab. He took the keys and tried to start her up. The engine whined, all the energy had been supped. "Of course it won't start", he began "the battery's flat."

Well, f**k me! Really? I wonder how that could have happened.

I sighed a really big sigh and looked his in the eye ... "Well of course the battery's flat", I replied "I've just spent the last 15 minutes trying to start the f'ing thing so, voila, that will account for the flat battery." He looked at me somewhat puzzled. I don't think that he was expecting anyone with half a brain to have figured it out. He 'jumped' the battery and I rode off into the freezing Paris air. If it's starts next time I'll be sodding lucky but if not, at least I'll see my newest best mate again ...

Answer me this, what happened to bikes with kickstarts?

Stu

2007-01-21T19:31:00.000+01:00

Three Strikes Of Wildlife ...

Our first dip into the animal kingdom comes from the UK.

An 18-month old Staffordshire Bull Terrier (the sort of ugly looking creature that is paraded on the end of a studded lead by an equally ugly, bald-headed thug) almost came to a sticky end while out on a walk with her owner. Bella (Bella? Don't see anything 'bella' about this creature) was out chasing seagulls along a clifftop footpath, with her owner Dave Sneap, when her footing became a little unsteady. She lost her paw-placing and fell onto the beach below, some 200ft (61 meters). After a 40 minute search by the coastguard, the revolting square-headed jaw-monster was found safe and well. Naturally, Mr Sneap was delighted. "It's fantastic that she came out of this unscathed, it's unbelievable", said Sneap. Yes. Terrible. I almost care.

The second story, thankfully, is much more 'fluffy'.

Whilst out on a killing spree, a Tallahassee hunter shot and (so he thought) killed a duck. Believing the bird was dead, he went home and popped it in his fridge. Two days later his wife opened the fridge door and received the shock of her life - the duck lifted its head. The natural-born killer took the plucky duck off to a local animal sanctuary where a local vet took a gander at it. The duck is not expected to live out its days in the wild but will remain in the centre. "This shows how tough and adaptable wildlife are" said vet David Hale ... or just how stupid men with guns can be - or how often rednecks open their fridges.

Our third story involves a cat that survived 3-weeks as a stowaway on a trans-Atlantic jet, popping between the US of A and Europe. The poor creature was initially on a US flight bound for Munich when its cage was broken in transit. The moggy escaped and hid in the cargo hold for the next 21 days. No-one saw it and no-one heard it. The 'puddy tat' was eventually found when the aircraft landed in Denver and taken off to the vets where it received a clean bill of health. Ring an airline and tell then there's a bomb on the plane and they'll unload every last bag - loose a cat and they won't even bother. It says more about crappy baggage-handlers and the responsibilities of airlines than anything else ...

Got a cute animal story?

Good, then keep it the bloody thing to yourself as I'm sick of them.

Stu

2007-01-19T11:08:00.000+01:00

eh ...?

According to an online list of phobias, Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is the fear of long words.

Go on! Really?

No doubt there's a shrink somewhere in the US of A making a bloody fortune out of that!

Stu

2007-01-18T00:06:00.000+01:00

Papadumb ...

The latest battle of words over the alleged racist remarks during a UK TV's reality show to an Indian Bollywood actress have, yawn, dominated all newspapers and radio stations. OK, I live abroad, but you cannot avoid the coverage of this story - even the French morning news radio gave it prime-time coverage.

Here's some food for thought.

Today, on a well-known UK government funded radio station that play re-runs of classic comedy programmes, a show from the 80's was re-broadcast. The show is based around a fictitious radio station in which the Managing Director of the station, Sir Norman Tonsil, opened with the following lines;

"I am aware that we live in an uncaring society ... my first suggestion was that we run an early morning show fronted by our Asian and African friends, catering for their special interests called "Breakfast With The Bimbos"... I then suggested that as we broadcast over 8000 hours of radio a year, we could allow all the different minority groups in the country to share a 30 minute slot ... it's a marvellous opportunity for you to hear a whole range of poofs, wogs, wops, spicks, Greeks, junkies, psychopaths and, of course, Welshmen ... "

Naturally, I laughed. It's comedy. But for those of you now furious and writing to your MP, the facts again; the show was made in the '80s and was re-transmitted in 2007.

However, when you think that during a reality TV show (which in itself is supposed to mirror, err, reality), a few remarks made to someone can cause a huge outcry, ruffling the feathers of 2 national governments (the UK and India), it's all come down to a sorry state of affairs. All because some jumped up little sleeze-bag of a 'celebrity' says something a little risqué, the entire Indian nation now think that Brits are not tolerant and are nothing more than a nation of racists.

So, the entire subcontinent willingly believe that one stuck-up little rich kid is a prime example of Britishness and that she speaks for the whole nation?

India? You've just proved to everyone exactly how dumb you can really be ...

Stu

2007-01-15T16:50:00.000+01:00

No Hanging Around The Bar ...

For anyone who's heard the story about the hanging of Barzan Ibrahim and Awad Hamed al-Bandar, were probably shocked to hear that one of them was decapitated during the process - it was Saddam Hussein's half-brother Barzan Ibrahim. Well, for a start, the rope was too long for his height and weight - although there are a few other factors that had to be taken into consideration.

I have suggested that the Iraqi's get a copy of a book which will explain where they went wrong ... badly wrong.

Stu

2007-01-15T10:55:00.000+01:00

I Need My Space ...

Without a doubt, the French are a nation of film fans. On TV chat shows, across countless magazines, you name it and ‘celebrity’ is splashed across the lot. Last weekend, the French capital hosted the first ‘Cinema Show’, giving the public a behind the scenes look at everything to do with the big screen.

The sprawling Porte de Versailles exhibition centre, in the south of Paris' 15th arrondissement, has played host to many a trade show, business convention and political rally. During the city riots of the early 60's, it's sister building, Le Palais des Sports, was used as a detention centre. Nice. Last weekend, however, the mood was 'entertainment only' as the doors of hall 6 opened for a first-timer - Le Salon du Cinema.

Jonathan Bryant, one of the show's organisers told me that "the show gives the general public a chance to look behind-the-scenes of movie-making. Everything from cameras to audio dubbing, make-up and special effects to editing and stunt performing". Indeed, the public did arrive - and in their thousands. At one point, on the Saturday afternoon, they had to shut the doors, such was the demand for tickets. As I waited at the cloakroom to leave my jacket, I could only feel sorry for those in the huge lines before the cash tills. My press card gives me a continued source of free entry to anything I care to visit.

From the sheer size of the crowds and how difficult it was to negotiate the show's narrow avenues, I couldn't help but think this was going to turn out to be another 'dog and pony show'. After my first tour around the booths and exhibition areas, I was beginning to think that I ought to turn tail and head for the nearest café. There were too many displays, too many stands, not enough space, nowhere to breathe and tunnel vision had begun it's forward march, so I headed back to the wide open spaces of the press area.

Rather than wander aimlessly around the show, I sipped a tepid coffee and scrutinised the press pack. Who's here, who's doing what, when and where. As I was writing a piece for British consumers, I donned my detective hat and looked for logical connections and links to the exhibitors on the floor. Fat lines of yellow dayglow marker sliced through items that interested me. Before the show opened, the organisers had e-mailed a data sheet to the pre-regisitered members of the press, listing all and sundry in the smallest print they could possibly find. I had scanned it, glasses perched on the end of my generous nose, but got terribly lost in it's complex layout.

One thing stood out, however, which I had already pinned down. On the Sunday afternoon, a public Q&A session had been confirmed with a certain French hero of mine. I had found one of those 'British links' and a thick yellow line went through the programme. Rémy Julienne is not a name I would expect anyone to immediately register, but anyone who knows his/her stuff would. As it happens, I do. In 1969 a British film was released that was to change the radiator grill of car chases forever, the benchmark which would dictate vehicle stunts from that date onwards. In '68, the American's came out with "Bullitt" (directed by a Brit) and it's famous San Francisco hill chase, but a year later we had "The Italian Job". Julienne devised and, with his team, had performed the sequence in and around Milan, Italy. "Such was the complexity of the sequences" he told me, "Paramount had to double the duration of my contract - which was a bonus!"

Now a veteran of six James Bond films, the sprightly 76 year-old and been joined in the family business by his sons, Dominque (pictured) and Michel. Although semi-retired, he still has fond memories of the good old days. Julienne admits that filming "The Italian Job" wasn't always easy. "The British production team were far too pragmatic", he explained with a grin, "the assistant director and I were not the best of friends". One particular obstacle, which led to a heated dispute, was how to get the Mini's up a ramp and into the getaway coach. "To begin with", says Julienne, "the engineers insisted that it would be better if they put the Minis on a rolling conveyor belt which was being pulled behind the coach. I insisted that their idea wouldn't work and that the Minis could be driven straight in, from off the road". Many years before, Julienne had tried this with a low-loader back in his native France and knew that it would work. "Eventually I convinced them. They took the conveyor belt away and with the production team crammed into the drivers compartment, the coach was driven at 80kph and I drove it the Mini in myself at 120kph! After that, a bond of trust was forged between us". If Julienne says he can do something, he'll work it out and come up with the goods. He is currently working on building a stunt school in the French countryside where the next generation of dangermen will study under the grand master. I was delighted to receive an invitation to visit ...

Other professionals who work in French film almost fell over themselves to appear at the show. Jonathan Bryant went on to explain that "the response has been remarkable, we even had people ringing us to ask if they could participate. There are people out there who are really keen, they want to meet the public and talk about their art".

Another dayglow stripe ripped it's way through my programme when I stumbled across Wallace & Gromit producers, Peter Lord and David Sproxton. They'd flown in to give a 90 minute forum, answering a barrage of questions from animation students keen to learn from their heroes. As the session drew to a close the stage was mobbed as Messers Lord and Sproxton were gently led away to the Aardman booth - where the mobbing continued.

The one thing that struck me, as I watched the duo patiently listen to their visitors, is that if you make a rather handsome living from playing with plasticine, then you retain certain childlike qualities. Peter Lord (on the left) was only too enthusiastic to chat to me about the new workflow that the Aardman Studio has adopted; "We're using everything from High Def video to pro stills cameras", he said. pointing the chunky black box slung over my shoulder. "With all this new technology we've kept everything in-house. We've managed to speed up the entire process, from initial filming to post production is now all under one roof - a good working production line". Tired and perspiring after their grilling from the public, Lord and Sproxton remained forever smiling. Despite a heavy schedule, the pair happily popped into an adjoining booth to watch an animation made by students of a Paris film school. The men from the West Country were obviously impressed.

Bollywood also did it's best to be noticed. The French distributor, 'Bollywood Zone', arrived with a catalogue of Asia's finest sing-along dance numbers, all 'ready to watch' with added French subtitles. Although lacking the viewership of, say, the UK, they we keen to emphasise that the French were already buying and enjoying Bollywood classics. However, bringing a quartet of dusky maidens along would have certainly been key to a successful sale - or two.

As the public milled around the booths and exhibits, some found their way into a purpose-built studio where a short film was being made by Nils Tavernier (son of Bertrand). Tavernier Jnr and his team of actors and technicians were busy making a 'short' during the run of the show. As we all know, film-making is not exactly the speediest of processes and the public, from behind a control barrier, were often left in total bewilderment as to what was going to happen next. No-one ever took the time to explain to the masses what was involved and what exactly going on. Very much a case of 'them and us' - we get on with what we're doing and they stand and gawp.

Those interested in how animals are trained for the big screen could form and orderly queue to pet a python, eyeball an eagle or oggle an owl. A wildlife studio had brought along a veritable menagerie, though 90% of it's exhibits were motorised dummy lions, polar bears and alligators. I spoke with the 'head-keeper' who was ecstatic to have found a Brit to chat to; "Oh, we've worked at BBC Bristol many times - but they have such a small studio at their wildlife HQ!" Obviously, he hasn't tried living in a Paris apartment.

How about a broken nose then? I should add that this wasn't an option I gave the animal man but something that was going on in another booth. Some of the industry's best make-up artists were happily administering gore and gashes to those members of the public who fancied going home on public transport. As I wasn't in the mood to surprise my beloved by returning home with a fresh compound fracture, I headed out into the winter sunshine and fresh air.

All in all, it wasn't a bad show. The organisers realise that it was cramped but seem happy that it had been a success. The salon looks as though it has built a future for itself and judging by the mass of humainty that crammed itself through the doors, it'll be some years before someone finally shouts "it's a wrap!"

Stu

2007-01-11T13:15:00.000+01:00

Reasons To Be Locked Up ...

In 1935 Fred Ahlert and Joe Young wrote a song with the snappy title; "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter".

I heard it the other day on the radio and the first two lines made me think:

"I'm gonna sit right down and write myself a letter,
And make believe it came from you"

... it's no wonder, frankly, that people like these should be allowed back out into the community.

Stu

2007-01-09T09:19:00.000+01:00

We'll Tell You When To Panic ...

MI5, the UK's domestic spook brother of MI6, has come up with a fantastic idea ... how to empty the shelves of a local supermarket in 30 seconds. No, this is not a new daytime TV game show.

Basically, people in the UK now have the option to be informed as to when the threat level in their country changes. So, you log onto the MI5 website, leave your name and email address and when some half-wit is thinking of donning a bulky waistcoat, MI5 should have picked up on the plot and be emailing the country with the change in security status. At present, says MI5 chief Dame Eliza Manningham-Buller, they're tracking at least 30 terror plots against the UK.

Initially, there will be two types of service on offer;

1) 'Threat Level Only'. This will inform the public if the nationwide terror threat level changes (as of today, the current condition is listed in the UK is 'severe').

2) 'What's New'. This will be a digest of the latest information from MI5, including speeches made by the director general and links to relevant websites (golly!).

The third option (currently under discussion) is a mobile telephone SMS text service - this will be called 'Start Panic Buying Now'. This will involve hundred's of thousand's of people being run over by 4x4's as folk rush to supermarkets to stock up on Sainsbury's cream cakes and Earl Grey tea.

It seems to me that the only winners will be the numerous terrorist organisations out there who will be able to tell if their threat is being taken seriously or not.

Everybody down!

Stu

2007-01-08T09:59:00.000+01:00

Noodle-Head ...

Sionara then to Momofuko Ando - the inventor of the infamous Cup Noodle.

Born in 1910, Ando-San founded Nissin Foods after WW2 in order to provide quick and inexpensive food for the masses. His dehydrated people's favourite was launched in 1971. Talking of launching, Nissin also came up with the idea of supplying Japanese astronauts with 'space-age' Cup Noodles for their Discovery trip into the galaxy in 2005. His company has lead the worldwide instant noodle industry selling 85.7 cups a year. Just add boiling water and, hey presto, good as new and ready to eat!

Let's hope that his family have decided against an open casket, covered only in a thin film of plastic and a boiling kettle alongside ...

Stu

2007-01-06T13:42:00.000+01:00

An Absolute Shower ...!

This Monday marks another anniversary of the death of another of my childhood heroes - Terry-Thomas. A favourite of the classic black and white comedy era, a cad, a cheat and an absolute shower!

Born Thomas Terry Hoar-Stevens in Finchley, London July 1911, he began his career as a cabaret artist and film extra. Following the end of WW2 he gained employment in both radio and variety but it wasn't until the mid-1950's that his famous persona was born. With his trademark gap in his top teeth, the phrase "you're an absolute shower" came from a character in 'Private's Progress', in which he played Major Hitchcock. Over the next decade, Terry-Thomas was to star in numerous films but always as a toff, the bounder, the cad.

In 1966 he starred in a French film, La Grande Vadrouille, a film that became synonymous with holiday viewing - much like 'The Sound Of Music' has become in the UK. The film was seen by 17 million people in France and stood as a box-office record in the country until Titanic in 1997. Other memorable roles included 'Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines' (here pictured with Eric Sykes) and 'Monty Carlo Or Bust'.

Nothing was heard of Terry-Thomas for some time as he was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease in 1971. He disappeared from public life altogether until his cousin, Richard Briers, brought the old man's illness into the limelight with a benefit concert. T-T was living in obscurity and terribly ill. He died on the 8th January 1990.

On a final note, and just to confirm his immortality, the gap in his upper teeth was so famous that in British medicine there is a Terry-Thomas sign - the gap between the scaphoid and lunate bones (scapho-lunate disassociation). However, these bones are in the wrist ...

Oh, good show!

Stu

2007-01-04T11:45:00.000+01:00

All Bets Are Off ...

I am now 45 years old and since 1962 there has been, on average, one James Bond film every 2 years. Bond has been a permanent fixture since my birth and, like a British institution, is regarded as such. Enter Bond number 6, Daniel Craig. Last year, in this blog, I was critical of those who poured scorn on the Cheshire lad even before the cameras started rolling. I suggested that they might like to give the boy a chance before sentencing him to death by box office. Then I went to see Casino Royale for myself ...

With a feeling of expectation we settled down into our seats. Behind us, a pair of American men noisily wrestled with the hinged cushions and, once installed, a conversation started up between them. From what I could gather, they were both 50+ years old a piece and had travelled the world, though not necessarily together, now finding themselves in France. They began by discussing cinema advertisements and how they wished there weren't going to be too many before this particular film started. One of them began a story about a cinema in South America where he had seen a commercial for Range Rover. At this point American No 2 piped up; "Oh yeah, Range Rover ... that's the British equivalent of Land Rover, right?" I tried to cover up my laughter by lowering my chin into my chest but that only made it worse. Then they discussed Paris and what they thought there highlights were. The Eiffel Tower came into play; "Well," began American No 1, "I was surprised to see how many people were there in the winner-time". Not to be outdone, No 2 chipped in with "yeah, but I feel that the Tower is really over-engineered". Over-engineered? Completed in 1889, it was built by people called Jean-Claude with rivets hammers and not by people called Baab with oxycetalyne blowtorches and dental care. It was, and still is, a marvel of human achievement. I gather that the American's have their own Eiffel Tower in Las Vegas made out of empty cereal packets and poster paints. But we're drifting away from the story here ...

The film started in black and white, as if to give the effect of 'earlier in time' but the Americans were not to be fooled by anyone; "Baab, it's in black and white ...". Thank you Baab, we can all see that. Just give it a chance and pipe down, there's a good chap.

Casino Royale starts from the beginning, from when Bond gains his 00 status. Even now, I'm still trying to figure out why the film makers decided to roll back the clock just because there was a new actor in the leading role. After all, they never did it with the others. Maybe Fleming's back catalogue of original stories had dried up and they needed an excuse to rewrite and re-jig the character. In this Bond, 007 is the caring, loving human being - a bit of a tree-hugger. Then the story unfolds which explains how and why JB became what people know him as today, the love 'em and leave 'em type, a carefree bad-boy killer. Some old favourites crop up too. For example, Felix Lieter, a CIA contact and close friend of 007's. However, this time around he's a black man. I know the CIA are cunning disguisers, but changing a white character into a black fella isn't going to cut the mustard with Bond aficionados.

The first action-packed sequence is superb - beautifully executed and superbly edited. However, after that, I got the impression that I wasn't watching a Bond film but had stumbled into the wrong cinema where they were projecting some awful Catherine Cookson story. Too much slush, too much kissing, too much ... well, modern man. OK, I understand that it was necessary to explain why Bond was once a caring/sharing type who only needed the love of one woman, but come on ... you could have shaved 30 minutes of the film, saved us the long and possessive love sequences and cut straight to the chase.

For 2hrs and 27mins I sat, almost riveted to my seat. The Americans were still nattering on like a pair of old women (that's why I rarely go to the flicks - a cinema auditorium is just an extension of some people's living rooms). The over-long poker scenes were simply over-long (unless you understand poker), the crash that lead to Bond being taken captive and brutally tortured was far too quick (to think they got into the record books for 7 cannon-rolls in a car, I would have paced it out a bit longer for a bigger effect). The actual torture scene was something that should never have been in a Bond film, there were no gags and no flippant remarks.

If you're going to start from the beginning of a story, then M should have been a man, Moneypenny should have been present, Q should have figured in the story, Felix should have been white and today's modern technology should not have been included. Confused? You bet I was. I am not surprised that 'Happy Feet' took more in the US box offices - it's more their thing and easy to understand. Daniel Craig looks like he's going to be a superb Bond - if only the film makers would hurry up and let Bond do Bond-like things.

Apparently, Casino Royale is the first of a 2-parter, the second being 'Bond 22' due for release in November 2008. It takes over from where the latest Casino Royale leaves off. Well, it had better get back to being a proper Bond film - the Bond we all love and the Bond we flock to see. If not, that'll be the end of a beautiful relationship.

Bond will return - and this time, let's hope and pray, with his bloody homework done.

Stu

2007-01-01T15:25:00.000+01:00

Start As You Mean To Go On ...

So, a New Year has arrived and we look forward to more of the same rants and insults. However, there are times when you have to think "why do we bother?", especially when it's handed to you on a plate;

The New Year came in without much ado. Those I wanted to be with when midnight arrived had already left the party we were attending, so we were left with the B-Team. We did our best to circulate and chat. I was (un)fortunate to meet a young American woman who, every time someone cracked a joke, her face beamed into a smile and she said "that's SO funny!" What got under my skin was the fact that she never really laughed, she just kept repeating "that's SO funny!" Can you imagine, for example, a comedian on stage at the London Palladium. Just as the punchline is delivered, instead of the place roaring with laughter, 3,000 people shout back in unison "that's SO funny!" Odd, innit?

Then there's the story of those idiots back in the UK who insist on abusing the Ambulance service. Over there you dial 999 for all emergency services. A call-centre in Birmingham received a call from someone who said he "couldn't walk from too much dancing". Then someone in Woverhampton (not too far away from Birmingham) who rang to say he had injured his finger. Once the story had been checked out, it appeared that he had sustained the injury two days beforehand. However, my favourite was the guy who rang 999 because he had lost his trousers ...

Finally, and quite naturally in France, a group of protesters held a midnight demonstration against 2007. In a typical Gaulist way of saying "non" to absolutely every-bloody-thing, the group called on governments and the UN to stop time's "mad race" and declare a moratorium on the future. So, with the tension mounting as the minutes ticked away, the arrival of 2007 did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm. At which point they started chanting "No to 2008!". The same group have vowed to stage a similar protest on 31 December 2007 on the Champs-Elysees.

So, why do we bother??

Happy 2008, you bunch of losers ...

Stu

2006-12-31T12:10:00.000+01:00

And So ...

2006-12-30T18:30:00.000+01:00

Meed-ja Frenzy ...

Cast your minds back to 1991. Does anyone remember 5-yr old Stuart Lockwood? He was paraded before Iraqi television cameras as a human shield - a guest of Saddam Hussein. Stuart must be about 20 by now. I wonder how long it's going to take the western press to dig him out of his private life and parade him in front of their cameras ... just for a reaction to his former gaolers execution, you understand.

The clock's ticking chaps ...

Stu

2006-12-28T09:38:00.000+01:00

Look And Learn ...

I received a certain pressie this year, something that was originally published in 1941 and something very few could do without. At that time aircraft recognition was far more than just a pleasant pastime, it was often a matter of life and death. R.A. Saville-Sneath set out to classify and catalogue all planes of both the friendly and enemy stables. Basically, anything you expected to find over British skies during the Second World War. For a pocket-sized handy guide, with many diagrams, a full glossary and some useful mnemonics, each type of aircraft can be identified quickly and easily.

Schoolboys would have found this fascinating - as do I. With scraped knees and a conker in their pocket, a snot-nose would have spent many happy hours atop a grassy hillside spotting the difference between Albacores and Ansons, Beauforts and Blenheims, Heinkels and Hurricanes, Spitfires and Wellingtons. The Observer Corps in a half-pint.

However, modern recognition hasn't changed. In fact, it has continued in the same vein - cross-sections, plane-sections and silhouettes. The only thing that has changed is the height at which they fly ... you're not likely to spot a modern-day fighter-bomber with the naked eye.

But for those who lived through one of the most glorious episodes in the history of air combat, Saville-Sneath's guide is evocative of those extraordinary days way back when ...

Quick ... the French are headed back into their basements!

Stu

2006-12-27T08:44:00.000+01:00

Hello, Goodbye ...

In the early 90's, back in the UK, I was working as a tape editor at one of Murdoch's news organisations. All the edit suites were situated along a corridor adjoining the newsroom and, as is the case with 12-hour shift patterns, once you were there you generally stayed within the confines of the suite - a head would pop out at times and take a look up and down the corridor, either looking for the next job or trying to avoid it. With a regular and steady flow, journalists and producers would drop in to get one of the 6 lab rats on duty to cut, re-jig or craft a new piece out of freshly shot or library news footage. It was the fastest I have ever edited - it simply didn't get any faster on tape. In all, it was a fun place to work. Except, that is, for nightshift - 6pm until 6am.

Before Christmas came around, we would have a small wager as to which celebrity or world leader would take his or her leave and pass away. The list was, predictably, made up of some old favourites; The Queen Mother and The Pope. As it happens, Her Maj hung on until March 2002 and Karol Wojtjla (the man in the hat) until April 2005. The two favourites stumped the lot of us and, individually, could have made a bit of cash had they been in on the sweep.

As the last days of 2006 countdown their own demise and we prepare for a fresh crop of 365 on 'planet unpredictable', a number of people have bid their final farewells to terra-firma - and in a way that could have earned someone more money than God, had there been a bookmaker around to take the bet.

On Christmas Eve, English comic Charlie Drake decided that enough was enough at the age of 81 and slipped away. The poor old chap had been ill for some time and the stroke he suffered in 1995 forced him into retirement. On Christmas Day, James Brown wound up his sex machine, put it in Papa's brand new bag and checked out once and for all. The 73-yr old's heart just couldn't take it any more. Then, on Boxing Day, former US President Gerald Ford took his final salute at the grand old age of 93. Ford was the only man to serve as both Vice President and President without being elected to office. Trivia buffs might also like to know that Ford died on the 34th anniversary of the death of another US President, Harry S Truman.

As I look back at 2006, what can I say about it?

Well, in no particular order; I had a blast on the French Helicopter Championships, turned 45 years old, forged new working relationships, was locked up by the cops for 24hrs, photographed 2 fantastic weddings, got into panoramic photography, bought an Apple Mac (superb machine) and (most importantly) am still with my beloved, her daughter and I are getting along much better and the 3 of us have started negotiations along the lines of "living together".

If I start thinking positive about the New Year then all should be well ...

Stu

2006-12-23T13:05:00.000+01:00

2006-12-19T07:22:00.000+01:00

While No-One's Looking ...

In the days running up to Christmas, here are a few off-the wall stories have brightened up my day ... and a sad one;

Let's start with the news that Joseph Barbera, one half of the Hannah-Barbera team who brought us cartoon classics as The Flintstones, Yogi Bear and Scooby-Doo died yesterday, aged 95. Most news organisations are running with this one - which only goes to show how popular culture still holds dear childhood memories.

Then there's the frankly odd story of a Devon man who hoped to get into the record books by eating the most Brussel sprouts in a minute. Richard Townsend, 24, of Exeter in the UK, fell seven short of the target of 43 which was set back in December 2003. Mr Townsend, who had eaten a plate of sprouts every day for the last six months, said he just "lost it". Open a window, for heaven's sake ...

A word about next year's French Presidential Elections ... veteran rock-and-roller Johnny Hallyday and staunch high-profile supporter of little Nicky Sarkosy has decided that French taxes are too high and is upping-sticks and running off to Switzerland. To avoid French taxes, Hallyday, who has sold around 100 million albums during his 40-year career, must spend six months and a day each year in Switzerland. Earlier this year, Hallyday made a bid to aquire Belgian nationality - they refused him. Meanwhile, back in the smoke, Francois Hollande, leader of the rival Socialists and husband of political sex-kitten Segolene Royal, joked that it was "a really nice way to support his chosen candidate". Mr Hollande went onto say "If he really thought Nicolas Sarkozy could win, and was so convinced by his policies, he only had to wait four months." He's got a point. Ta ta Johnners ...

However, the man who first started the commercial side to Bungy Jumping, AJ Hackett, did get into the record books. He leapt off the Macau Tower in, err, Macau. He fell 200 meters in 8 seconds. He should have called Richard Townsend - he could have rocketed down ...

In the good 'ole US of States, a portly gent paid a visit to Disney World. James Worley, 60, just hapens to have white hair and a fluffy white beard. Soon children were stopping him and asking if he was Santa Claus. Not wanting to disappoint, Mr Worley played along for the kiddies with a few "ho-ho-hos". Disney officials soon descended and told him telling him to "stop the impersonation or get out of the park". They said they wanted to preserve the magic of Santa.

Now, rug-rats, we wouldn't want that Disney Magic to ruin Christmas for you, would we? ... well not unless they had total control.

Stu

2006-12-16T22:54:00.000+01:00

Lost Weekend ...

Oh crap.

Stu

2006-12-14T07:27:00.000+01:00

I'm Sorry, We Haven't A Willie Rushton Anymore ...

Before we bully-off, I should warn you that today's entry is about another of my comedy favourites who has since died. So, if this is not your thing and were expecting a side-swipe at the Americans or a dig at the French, then you'd best click Google on your browser and go and look up something like 'the world's funniest penis jokes'. Only those who remember 'That Was The Week That Was', 'Private Eye' or 'I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue' will find this of any interest.

So, off you go ...

Willie Rushton was born in Chelsea, London, in 1937 and his parents sent him off to Shrewsbury School (though not immediately, you understand). Whilst growing into a young man, Rushton met Christopher Booker, Paul Foot and Richard Ingrams. The schoolboy 4-some began writing and editing the school magazine. After the best days of their lives, they went off to do their National Service and in the mid-1950's, the famous 4 teamed up again in London to start the weekly satirical rag, 'Private Eye', which is still going strong. Initally, Willie was in charge of the magazine's layout.

He enjoyed the fringe comedy shows and was often found on the circuit doing impressions of the Prime Minister of the time, Harold Macmillan. It was at one of these fringe shows that Ned Sherrin watched Rushton go through his routine and immediately snapped him up for the BBC show 'That Was The Week That Was'. It was the beginning of a relationship with the BBC that was to last for more than 30 years.

Willie was a cartoonist, a writer, lyricist and top-class satirist with an unmistakable voice used for trotting out the driest humour. During his time at 'Private Eye', he fought the the Kinross and West Perthshire by-election. Under the banner of "Death To The Tories", he stood as an independent candidate. On the eve of poll he decided to retire from the election to endorse the Liberal candidate but it was too late to take his name from the ballot paper - Rushton received 45 votes.

Over the years, Willie illustrated many books and, after the 'Spycatcher' controversy, wrote a piss-take Spy Thatcher: An Insult to British Intelligence. He became a voice-over artist on claymation shorts, read children's stories on television and, more than anything, spent 22 years on the BBC panel game 'I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue' (ISIHAC).

Willie was working right up to his death, on December 11th 1996, recording an episode of ISIHAC two days before he was admitted to hospital. He had gone in for a heart operation and subsequently died from complications. ISIHAC, which is also still running, have never replaced Willie with a full-time panelist. Opting instead to partner Tim Brooke-Taylor with a different guest for each edition. The most famous game played on ISIHAC is 'Mornington Crescent' - an underground tube station in London. Such was the game's popularity that after his death, Willie was honoured by a blue plaque on the station's wall.

BBC Radio 7 are currently playing a week's worth of 'Willie Rushton ISIHACs' in tribute. Go and listen ... unless, of course, you've found that long-lost penis joke ...?

Stu

2006-12-13T08:30:00.000+01:00

A Flickr Of The Wrist ...

Hello fellow villagers.

It's not often that I find people with the same warped, and frankly odd, sense of humour that I have. After trawling through a number of daily news pages, I found myself linked to a particular site. It started with a report about people in the UK who have been caught not paying for train fares or those drop litter and divorced or separated fathers who do not keep up their child payments. Individuals names and part of their addresses are being published on the net (and on public posters) so that others may heap shame on them.

One article had used an image from the site I am about to direct you to and, as you will soon find out, should you continue through the image site you will find that the owners have a particular sense of humour. This I enjoyed. They may not be the best photographers in the world but they do possess a keen eye and a knack of finding things that some would simply not notice. I'd like to drop them a line to congratulate them but I cannot be arsed to sign up for a free account and suffer a constant flow of ad-filled spam mail from the Flickr site administrators. Whatever happened to 'to leave a message, click here'. Now it's 'to leave a message, click here and we'll send you hourly unwanted crap telling you you cannot live without our product and the only way you will ever be able to get away from us is by changing your email address and moving to Alpha Centauri'.

But that's another story.

Cut and paste this link into your browser:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/emmaandlorenzo

and flick through the photos ...

Stu

2006-12-12T07:38:00.000+01:00

Behind Bars ...

Fancy a change this Christmas? With the 'pigging out' season just ahead, I thought I'd bring you news of something just for you. None of this bloody sharing crap. No, this is something just for the adults and for them alone - no kids involved. Besides, they wouldn't appreciate it. On a recent trip to the supermarket, my beloved discovered a bar of chocolate, the likes I've not seen on the shelves before. I'm not saying that it's going to turn the chokkie world on it's head, but it tastes delicious and is very more-ish.

From the Callier factory in Vevey, Switzerland, comes FRIGOR - in both milk and plain varieties. As the bar we munched on over the weekend was so good, I bought another one on my way into work yesterday. I am pleased to say that my friend and colleague, TS, also put his stamp of approval on it (mind you, he's a bit of a cullinary pushover at the best of times).

I am sorry that all I have to talk about is a bar of chocolate, but the rest of the world is far too miserable right now. Pinochet is dead, the report on the death of Lady Diana comes out on Thursday (and we all know that the driver was pissed), Segolene Royal cannot speak in public (if you heard her 'speech' yesterday, you'd agree), Baghdad is still a mess, the Lebanon is on the brink of civil war and the Palestinian child-killers have gone nuts.

Talking of which (and taking a leaf out of an earlier entry in this blog), *WARNING* - Frigor chocolate contains nuts.

There, you've been told.

Stu

2006-12-08T08:00:00.000+01:00

Get 'Em Off ... Including The Tax ...

The French have a knack of finding reasons to tax you - I'm talking about financially. Wasn't it Chirac himself, who insulted the great Northern European nation over their food? The French have a tax for everything, you name it. Not only a high rate of TVA (VAT) but a wide range of civil and social charges, levied on the individual and companies alike. However, those happy Norwegians have recently changed the way people look at naked women - especially those who peel off their outer garments for money. Yes, I'm talking about stripping.

Earlier this week, a Norwegian appeals court ruled that striptease is an art form and, therefore, is exempt from value-added tax (VAT). The overbearing tax authorities had demanded that the owners of the Diamond Go Go Bar in Oslo had failed to charge and subsequently declare 25% VAT on entry fees. The tax authority then took the bar to court over the issue but lawyers for the bar argued that striptease artistes were stage performers, just the same as sword-swallowers and comedians and, thus, deserved the same status. The Diamond Go Go Bar, who are to be found on the 2nd floor of Tollbugt 8 B, Oslo, were delighted at the outcome - especially when the court ordered the state to cough-up for the bar's court costs.

For all those weekend fun seekers, entry to the bar will put you back a mere €12 but a private dance will lessen your wallet by €123. In total, the tax authorities loose €3 per person. Any reason to deny a government their cash should be celebrated - and now with value-added Nordic beaver.

One return ticket to Gardermoen International please Miss ...

Stu

2006-12-07T09:30:00.000+01:00

Ridi-Yule ... Part Deux ...

Yes, it's finally happened! As my tail-out of the previous entry said (this is a direct quote which you can check for yourselves): "next, they'll be saying we can't put up festive decorations because it'll upset the non-Christians."

Before you could spell the word 'bauble', Christmas decorations have been banned by almost three out of four UK employers. Why? Well, for fear of offending staff from other faiths.

So, as a white European from the Christian world and, in say India, do you think that the locals would keep Diwali (a national Hindu 5-day holiday) under wraps just because they thought it would offend me, would they? Would they f**k! If I went to live in any Arab country and on April 10th, the Prophet’s Birthday, would they tone-down their festivities because of the thought of upsetting someone from another faith? Would they f**k - again.

I agree that this is a right-wing view (but that's free-speech for you) but I have to say that people 'of other faiths' now live in a country which is Christian-based and has the right to celebrate their national holidays. What next then ... no more Easter eggs? The UK puts up public and private decorations once a year - at Christmas. Take a look at any 'other faiths' national holiday and you'll see regular colourful decorations and huge public celebrations.

Fine, if there's discontent in the UK among the immigrants and those of 'other faiths', then put a cap on Diwali being celebrated in Southall - if the Brits have to limit their national holiday in their home country, then you lot can go and have a knees-up back where yours came from.

There was I thinking that the UK was a model nation for multi-faith tolerance, but a joke is a joke.

Agree or disagree? Suit yourselves.

Stu

2006-12-05T14:47:00.000+01:00

Ridi-Yule ...

A Christmas beer brewed by an Oxfordshire brewery has been banned in parts of the good 'ole USA because, on the label, is a picture of Father Christmas. Official loonies in New York State told the English brewers, Ridgeway, that the image on bottles of 'Santa's Butt' could encourage under-age drinking. Although the ban was challenged by the beer's American importer and lifted (all good chaps, we understand), it has now been imposed in the state of Maine.

Ridgeway say that the decision is "ridiculous". Ridgeway continued; "They said the label is attractive to children but you cannot go into a shop there that sells alcohol until you are 21." This is now the third time that Ridgeway has fallen foul of state authorities in the good 'ole USA. Last Christmas two of its beers - Seriously Bad Elf and Warm Welcome were banned in Connecticut on the same grounds.

So it has nothing to do with the fact that a large majority of American beer-guzzling males look like the pictured Santa?

Most boxes of Christmas Tree lights have some form of Santa-realted imagery upon them ... shouldn't they too be banned in case they attract underaged electricians?

This is all getting out of control ... next, they'll be saying we can't put up festive decorations because it'll upset the non-Christians. But how out-of-character would that be?

Stu

2006-12-05T07:35:00.000+01:00

Give Us A Bloody Break ...

Do you remember the good old days days when we weren't being cosseted by those in the public service industry or the government? The days when we just got on with things? As daft as it may sound, let me run this by you:

A long long time ago, when television really WAS television, there was a famous comedy series, "Only Fools And Horses". In it's heyday it drew millions of viewers and went straight into the 'classic' drawer of unforgettable television. Today, it's showing it's age somewhat but the re-runs are still a joy to watch on BBC Prime. Which is where I draw the comparison. Back in those fun-filled 80's, "Only Fools" was enjoyed by the entire family - from kids to grandparents. Everyone could relate to it. When Del Boy and his brother Rodney were selling all sorts of crap out of a suitcase, the language used on the box was regulated and word 'bloody' was in everyday use. Bloody-this, bloody-that ... and no-one raised an eyebrow.

Now along comes the age of 'being overly PC'. On BBC Prime the other night, the continuity announcer began with "the following programme may contain language that some viewers may find offensive". The announcement was then followed by the theme tune to ... "Only Fools And Horses". But hang on ... what language in that show could possibly upset anyone? Plonker? Wally? Dipstick? Nope, the word "bloody". This is beyond a joke, no? I don't remember any continuity announcer in the 1980's telling us that the word "bloody" might cause nationwide horror as women covered their children's ears and beer-swilling navvies dropped their tankards in shock. Anyhow, later the same evening Prime showed a medical drama entitled "Bodies". It contained a liberal sprinkling of the words f**k and w**k, yet the only 'warning' that was given prior to the programme being shown was "this programme contains close-up medical procedures which may offend some viewers".

What next? "This programme may contain everyday language, including verbs, pronouns and adjectives that some viewers might find offensive".

In the picture-postcard Yorkshire Dale village of Embsay, poor Steve Dobson is trying to organise a free Christmas Party. He applied to the local council to use a municipal car park for the event and received a daunting reply from the council offices. He has been told that the organisers must carry out a risk assessment of their mince pies or their festivities will have to be cancelled. Council loonies have insisted that posters will have to be displayed warning the villagers that the mince pies, made by the Embsay and Eastby Women's Institute, may contain nuts. They have also advised his that the cocoa content of the hot chocolate and it temperature must also be checked. There's also a fireworks display, mulled wine and a Santa's grotto.

"It is bureaucracy gone mad", Mr Dobson said. "Everything we do, from putting tinsel up to providing refreshments has to be assessed. We have to consider the dangers involved, that someone might choke on their mince pie or have a nut allergy. I also understand that Santa may need a Criminal Records Bureau check." Mr Dobson added that he was now considering moving the party to private land elsewhere in the village.

Craven Council's director of community services said "We support these community events and we try to help local communities organise them and make sure they are as safe as possible."

I'm off for a coffee and yes I KNOW it's likely to be bloody hot and got bloody caffine in it! OK?

Stu

2006-12-01T08:02:00.000+01:00

Fancy A Quickie ...?

So, the photo exhibit is up and today is the start of the Paris Boat Show. It's also World Aids Day. Now, which event am I going to cover?

Oh, and the Christmas lights were switched on the other night ... anyone feeling in the mood?

Nah, didn't think so ...

Stu

2006-11-29T08:30:00.000+01:00

Just A Half, Please Barman ...

'The Star' pub in Doncaster has a new barman.

12yr-old Chris Hardacre convinced landlord dad David, to send off for the examination forms and sat down for three weeks of revision. He passed his National Licensees' licensing certificate and, as the law states, is now legally allowed to work behind the bar serving drinks - but only under adult supervision. His proud dad said that his son had approached him with the idea and they took it from there. "I just like being around the pub," said Chris, "It's a good atmosphere and the people are nice".Regulars at the pub say they like the father-and-son combo, though all said Chris was better-looking than his dad.

Fu ...!

Stu

2006-11-28T08:00:00.000+01:00

Not 'Arf ...

Just as I remember one deceased childhood hero, another one slips his moorings and sails away.

As a lad at boarding school, I spent many happy hours with my head pressed against a battery-powered portable radio listening to (hang on, I started yesterday's entry with the same line) ...

Each and every Sunday afternoon we schoolboys were keen to learn which group or singer had crept up or fallen down in the music charts - 'Pick Of The Pops' as it was known. 'At The Sign Of The Swinging Cymbal' theme announced the beginning of the show and the smoothest and most recognisable 'cool cat' voice on radio opened the mic; "Greetings, pop pickers!" Alan 'Fluff' Freeman was it's presenter and he presided over the rundown of chart success or popular flops. Such was his following, another of his verbal trademarks is still mimicked by the nation "Not 'arf!"

Freeman was born in Melbourne, Australia, in 1927. He started his radio-life as a radio announcer (and occasional singer) in his home town. His baritone was voice ideal for singing too but as he said, "it was good, but not that good". In 1957 he took a holiday in the UK - a holiday which lasted more than 40 years. He started working as a relief DJ on Radio Luxembourg and transferred to the BBC in 1960. As for his nickname, 'Fluff' ... according to sources, his BBC colleagues gave him his monika early in his career because of his habit of turning up for his show in woolly jumpers.

He was associated with chart-based shows over the coming years, whether they be on BBC Radio 1, London's Capital Radio or Virgin Radio. This overshadowed his tireless championing of other music styles - heavy metal and classical. In May 2000 he was presented with a Lifetime Achievement award at the Sony Radio Academy Awards.

Cut and paste this link into your browser to hear Fluff at the mic: http://www.radioacademy.org/halloffame/freeman_a/sounds/clip6.mp3

See? There are good things that come out of Australia.

Oh crap, now I've pissed off the Aussies. Here we go with the hate mail; cricket, weather, pommie bastards. Yeah yeah. Change the tune ...

Stu

2006-11-27T09:21:00.000+01:00

Potty Time ...

10 years ago today, a comic hero of mine finally gave up a fight with cancer and disappeared into comedy legend.

As a lad at boarding school, I spent many happy hours with my head pressed against a battery-powered portable radio listening to comedy shows on the BBC. I had a collection of favourites that spanned generations; The Goons, Morecambe and Wise, Harry Worth, The Two Ronnies, Tony Hancock and Hello Cheeky. Unless you know what the hell I'm on about, then this little entry isn't going to mean a great deal to you. Such was the diverse and off-beat comedy at the time, it either clicked or it didn't.

This particular personal favourite of whom I talk was Michael Bentine, one of the original Goons and a comic writer and performer of enormous talent. However, there are many other sides to Bentine ... as I shall now relate;

Michael Bentine was born in Watford, England, in 1922 and to Anglo-Peruvian parentage. In the Second World War he served as an RAF Intelligence Officer and took part in the liberation of the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. In one of his many books, he later described what he found there; "Millions of words have been written about these horror camps, many of them by inmates of those unbelievable places. I’ve tried, without success, to describe it from my own point of view, but the words won’t come. To me Belsen was the ultimate blasphemy."

Bentine was a marksman with a pistol and came up with the idea to start a counter-terrorist wing within 22 SAS Regiment. In doing so, he became the first non-member of the SAS to ever fire a gun within the confines of the close-quarter 'Killing House' training establishment at their Hereford camp.

He had dallied with acting before the War and after being demobbed, decided to retrace his old roots and take it up as a career. He was one of the founding members of The Goons but left after a disagreement with the BBC. In the 1960's he took part in the first hovercraft expedition up the Amazon and in 1995 received a CBE for "for services to entertainment". Shortly before his death in 1996, a fan and close personal friend paid a special visit to his home - Prince Charles. Despite him being lampooned and ridiculed by comics, HRH (along with many others) had clicked with Bentine's humour and was sad to see the old man of British comedy fading.

As Bentine departed the comic world, he left behind a vast back catalogue of fantastic scripts and sketches - most of which have helped to mould today's comic turns.

Stu

2006-11-22T09:06:00.000+01:00

Daniel In The Lion's Den ...

OK, so the new Bond movie opens across France today. Whoopie.

Frankly, I'm delighted. However, I dismiss criticism from purists who log onto Bond websites and bang on about 'this Bond has blue eyes ...' and 'this Bond has blond hair ...'. Who gives a monkey's? I certainly don't and neither did the Broccoli people who made the decision to cast Daniel Craig. The mere fact that 38 yr old can act seems to have been overlooked.

Last year, on this blog (Mother's Pride - Oct 14th 2005), the announcement was made that Craig had been blessed with the role of 007 and, as of that date, his financial and professional future had been secured. So popular is young Daniel that as we speak he is currently involved in 4 other productions - 3 outside the role of Bond. Where 'Casino Royale' picks up again is 'Bond 22', in it's pre-production stages at the mo.

So, cut the crap with 'he's blond with blue eyes' and celebrate that after 22 films the enigma which is Bond is still around to thrill and entertain. At least he isn't Roger Moore or Timothy Dalton ... or an American.

Stu

2006-11-21T07:19:00.000+01:00

I've Just Arted ...

I've been neglecting this column for a while as other events have taken priority.

A very kind owner of a bar/restaurant has 'given' me a space in his cellar to convert into a photographic studio. Measuring 7m x 3m, it's a gift which I now have to get working. It took 2 days to clear tables and chairs out of the way, and then there was all the building mess they left behind when they converted the former cheese emporium into the bar/resto. Spare doors, aluminium ducting, air conditioning vents. You name it, it was there, but now it's all stacked in another part of the cellar. I then washed the floor. What a cow of a job. Anyway, it's now all spick and span, housing my tripods, lights and stands. I can log onto the bar wifi system and have run out an electrical cable. It's now just a case of finding clients ...

On a slightly vainer note, the bar have also asked me to display a number of photos for an 'expo'. Back in October I chose what I wanted to show and had them printed up to 30 x 45 prints. I look at them now and one word comes to mind; "crap". So, a quick re-edit is required and more will be blown up by those helpful people at the lab.

Yesterday, I bought 10 frames and will spend today smothering them with brown goop to change their colour - dark staining. I hope to have them up by the end of the week.

Pass the drill.

Stu

2006-11-16T14:40:00.000+01:00

It's Because They Can ...

It's the 3rd Thursday in November so ... out comes the crap. You think I'm kidding?

Every year, on exactly the same day, the first bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau are uncorked. The grapes were only harvested a mere 6 weeks prior and people go nuts over it. Tomorrow morning, many offices will be devoid of workers as hundreds of people have arranged to take the day off in advance ... and hundreds more will be ringing in sick.

Just the process of making the stuff is enough to put you off drinking it; carbonic maceration followed by pasturisation ... smashing.

It's rough stuff and always reminds me of Sarson's vinegar. Consumed neat, Sarson's would probably pip Beaujolais Nouveau in a winos drink-off. I do my utmost to avoid this revolting wine but, naturally, chefs all over the place start making stuff with it; sauces, pâtés ... anything. I had a very enjoyable onglet for lunch but it was spoilt by the bitter vinegar taste of bloody Beaujolais Nouveau.

The release of this wine means that all those who've worked in the fields and in the plants can relax - the season is over. However, I cannot see the point of drinking this crap. They'd do better filling car batteries with it. In fact, Charles de Gaulle once said: "I have tried to lift France out of the mud. But she will return to her errors and vomitings. I cannot prevent the French from being French."

Nicely said. Pass the bucket.

Stu

2006-11-15T08:19:00.000+01:00

One Swallow Doesn't Make A Relationship ...

A group of excited birdwatchers in Lunan Bay, on the coast of Angus in Scotland, were overcome with emotion when they spotted an red-rumped swallow. Apparently, this creature had not been seen in the area for some 20 years ... phone calls to fellow twitchers were hurriedly made, messages of joy were transmitted at lightning speed.

However, the swallow, which is usually to be found in the southern Mediterranean, did not last for long. With utter horror the group watched as a sparrow-hawk dove down and snatched the rare swallow off a roof-top.

Gulp.

Sadly, sparrow-hawks do not belong to any organised conservation group and, therefore, cannot tell the difference between a rare sighting and lunch.

Life's tough enough.

Stu

2006-11-13T08:26:00.000+01:00

More Thanks Due ...

Sunday was not my day. It started with a visit from the cops who stopped at my scooter and slipped a €35 parking ticket onto the windshield. Funny thing but during the week they tell people who park on the wide pavement "You can't park here. It's not a Sunday you know ..." Yet Sunday rolls around and wallop ... ticket. Thanks, tosspots.

Then I'd like to thank 'Lariviere Organisation', the company responsible for the staging and press handling of events like La Ferte Alais airshow and the annual Supercross at Bercy. For the Supercross you have to apply for a photographers vest in order to get onto the track - that's where the best action shots are to be found and there's not much point in taking a shot of the back of the winners head (see photo opposite). I wrote and email to them on the 2nd November requesting a vest. By the 10th I had not received a reply, so another email went out. Yesterday, I arrived on-site at 2pm (an hour before the show began), picked up my press accreditation and asked about the vest. "There are no more vests", I was abruptly informed. I explained that I had requested one on the 2nd of this month. They denied receiving my email so I gave them the copy of both the original and the automated response from their server. Naturally, being French, they didn't feel even one percent embarrassed. "It's not our fault" (standard answer from anyone French, trust me). I won't even begin to tell you the trouble they caused during the airshow ...

I wandered down to the press 'seated' section bordering the track, mixed in with the public and was met with a sight which confirmed my suspicions. Japanese, American and another British photographer had been banished to these seats like naughty schoolboys. It would appear that all the photographer vests had gone to the French. I took half a dozen shots and went back to the press office and confronted the old bitch who was explaining her version (in terrible English) as to why a Spanish sports photographer wasn't going to get a vest.

As I listened to the Spaniard, I gathered that he had done the same thing as me. An email, weeks in advance, had been sent to the organisers. They denied all knowledge and told him that no more vests were available (there was a pile behind her and the event had already started). He threw his arms up in frustration and turned round towards me. "Look," I said to him in loud, precise English, "they do this year after year. If you're French you get a vest, if you're not then not then there's no point coming. An English word you should learn is 'xenophobic' ..."

My final thanks go to the wanker who, at 5am, woke me up by pushing my scooter over and into the road. A nasty sounding crash had me leaping to the curtains. He did the same to another one further up the road.

Isn't this city great? Come and join me ... there's always room for 2 in my own personal hell.

Stu

2006-11-11T08:50:00.000+01:00

Thank You SO Much ... But You Shouldn't Have ...

We can be thankful that the French have given us so many things in life; wine, cheese, baguettes and the croissant, the 'Emmanuelle' films, café society, French fags and the French letter.

But imagine yourself at a Christmas office party or a wedding and the DJ slips on the dance-hit that (when sober) we could never see ourselves 'getting-down-to'. It's the tune with a life-long guarantee and which only takes one person up on the floor to get a crowd together; The Village People's 'YMCA'. Yup, and because of a Frenchman, Jacques Morali, the producer and driving force behind the band and their music.

Morali began his musical career selling records in a shop at Orly airport. He fell in love with the 'disco' sound in the early 70's and felt that he just had to be part of the action. Philadelphia International Records were the label who produced many of the 'hot toones' of the time so Morali jumped on a plane for the US and soon found his way into a job at Sigma Sound where most of the Philly classics were recorded. He began co-writing and co-producing a number of hits.

In New York, Morali found himself at a costume ball at 'Les Mouches', a gay disco in the Village. Apparently, as he gazed around the room, he was overwhelmed by the amount of male stereotypes portrayed by the invitees. His idea was to bring together a group of dancers and singers, each one to play out a different gay fantasy figure. The rest is history.

The only bun-mote being that in 1980 a feature film was made starring the Village People - 'Can't Stop The Music'. It was a critical and commercial failure.

Morali's life was ended by AIDS on November 15th 1991 ... his anniversary is next week.

See? I bet you didn't know that when you woke up this morning?

Stu

2006-11-08T08:00:00.000+01:00

Hairy Little Blighter ...

As time ticks by and we all get increasingly older, as a 45-yr old I am constantly reminded that time is not on my side. Any 65-yr old, however, will save my feelings by telling me that I am still full of youth yet a 5-yr old will have pronounced me dead in an instant; "Wow, you're reeeeeally old!"

Thanks, pip-squeek. You want to see your 6th birthday?

For those of you who do not know me, the hair on my head began it's downwards tumble once I reached the age of 19. A small parabolic disc began to appear and, since, a smaller one has joined just below the original. This gives anyone following me the impression that I have a rather neat figure '8' carved into the back of my nut. However, I am unable to see it myself without the use of a pair of mirrors, so it doesn't really bother me.

One of the worst things about sailing through nature's little voyage is (and this is merely a personal note) the amount of secondary body hair my system is producing. Yes, ladies, I am talking about nasal and ear hair. Being blessed with a hooter of over-average size means that it has as many drawbacks as it does advantages.

Advantage 1: air is free, get it down you.
Drawback 1: this city stinks, therefore I cop more than normal proboscis.
Advantage 2: I can get up to the 2nd knuckle of my index finger up either nostril.
Drawback 2: it produces random nasal hairs the size of cocktail sticks.

One of my pet-hates it the sight of other men with what appears to be an exploded feather pillow growing out of each ear. I cannot imagine what it does for their women folk. In wuieter moments I am often to be foundwith a finger exploring my own ears and nostrils (come all, we all do it). Great tufts of hair seem to be gathering within - but what has given rise to this sudden bumper harvest? Why, as you get older, do men start inwardly sprouting? A hair up my nose begin to tickle so it's a quick trip into the bathroom for an internal investigation. My poor hooter is put through a series of articulated bending exercises - the sort that gave rise to various horror masks for the film industry. The end of a hair pops out into the bright light and is immediately seized upon by a pair of tweezers. A good firm grip and a sharp tug is followed by a pain which makes one's eyes water and an outpouring of colourful language.

Look at the size of this thing! At an inch long and with of the same density as a tooth-pick, I scrutinise this freak of nature with intense fascination and wonderment. What's happening to me? Out with the torch and a few more nose bending manoeuvres later and I am met with a vision that could put the fear of whatsit up any man. It looks like an Amazon jungle spiders web up there - all that's missing are the inhabitants. My ears seem to be in league with my nose as they produce another form of follicle; light blond hairs in a neat display fit for any 'Chelsea Flower Show' arrangement.

To save my embarassment, I believe that I have found an answer; a compact, battery operated trimmer. Three years ago I spent a week in Germany filming a Christmas Special for a business programme (no dancing girls or top totty in this show). Between takes I would wander around the city of Nürnberg when stumbled across a large chemist's close to the main square. I had no idea what 'nasal hair trimmer' was in German, so spent a while cruising the electronic goods shelf. In a small wicker bin I found my €2 Holy Grail. Powered by a single AA battery this thing grinds, plucks and gorges itself senseless on nature's little thatch. The only marking I can find on it are the initials 'AFK' and have come to the conclusion that they stand for 'A F**king Kurse'.

Following a short search on the interweb, I've have tracked them down; AFK are a German outfit who pride themselves in precise grooming tools. Their market stretches from their homeland to Denmark, Holland and Belgium. Three years later this hungry little beast is still working it's way inwards.

I am now looking at taking over the French distribution of this amazing motorised muncher. All those in need, drop me a line. But when it finally packs up, I may well be investing in blowtorch technology ...

Stu

2006-11-07T07:27:00.000+01:00

Get Flushed ...

The Bolzano Museum of Modern Art in Italy have recently lost a prize possession - a toilet that, when flushed, plays the national anthem. It caused so much offence that those fine members of the Italian Police impounded the musical crapper.

Prosecutors claim that the Fratelli d'Italia anthem is a national emblem which should be protected and not openly ridiculed. The rolls of judicial paper hold questions that need to be asked, like: who owns the national anthem? Is it unpatriotic to play it in a context in which it could be ridiculed? Judges are sitting and an announcement should be made later this week.

Who gives a shit? Well, a handful of Italians for a start. No news agency will dump this story so it is expected to run and run ...

Stu

2006-11-06T16:10:00.000+01:00

Let's Get It On ...

With an HIV capacity of 5.5 million people, South Africa have become record-breakers; the fastest shag in history.

There's some (mass) debate over exactly when the condom was invented. There's an Egyptian drawing of some chap wearing one which is over 3000 years old. However, it is unknown if the device was intended for use in contraception or for ritual purposes (and here I was thinking that Saturday night was a ritual?). Moving up to the 16th Century, Italian Gabrielle Fallopius wrote the first-known description of condom use - disease prevention. Gabby recommended soaking cloth sheaths in a chemical solution and allowing them to dry prior to use. No doubt the ladies of the day complained that they were left with a chuff like a Wizard's sleeve ...

So, back to the new condom and 2006's South Africa ... Willem van Rensburg, the condom designer at 'Pronto' claims that "Using an ordinary condom is a real pain, by the time a normal condom is on, the mood is halfway out the window". The thing about Pronto condoms is that they do not need to be unwrapped, well not in the conventional sense of the word. One viewing of the company's 'how to slip one on' video was enough to send my mood window-wards. Much like spearing paper onto an office paper spike ...

http://www.prontocondoms.co.za/demo_mov.htm

Imagine if you had one that was reluctant to come out of it's packaging? With all the time you'd save, ardour in stiffened readiness, your manhood could end up half an inch high and four inches wide ... so, no change from the norm then?

Pronto condoms are, for the time being, not available to buy outside of South Africa. It'll be an Olympic Sport come 2012 ... look out London, you could get f**ked after all ...

Stu

2006-10-31T10:08:00.000+01:00

Now Then Sonny, What's In The Bag ...?

I popped down to Porte de Versailles yesterday for the 'Salon du Chocolat' - wall to wall cocoa and chocolate products. Naturally, the public were tucking into everything like there was to be a world shortage any second now.

On one lap of the exhibition hall I got chatting to one particular French producer who was knocking out some rather fine sugar-free chocolates - and jolly good they were too. Pertinent questions were asked, was the price of sugar-free chocolates not unlike bio products elsewhere? Pricey? Apparently, not. Almost the same price as run of the mill chocolate bars etc that you find on the shelves in your local supermarket.

After 2 hours I decided that I had seen and tasted everything I wanted, so I left with my camera bag bursting full of paperwork and info packs. I arrived home and discharged the overflowing bag only to find this;

Christ on a bike! With my recent brush with the law still firmly in my memory (see "Banged To Rights", below) I was near touching cloth when I feasted my peepers on this - a small transparent bag containing white powder. Was this planted on me for PC Bulldog to find? What would have happened had I been stopped and searched!? Panic surged through my body and scenarios flashed before me.

Thanks to the sugar-free chocolate producer, deep within the press pack he had thrusted into my mits was a sample of the product they use to replace sugar; MALTITOL and in supicious powder form to boot.

Sadly, I will not be sprinkling it onto my cornflakes but tipping it down the bog. Just when I thought I was getting over the whole nasty experience ... it's back on the tranquillisers then ...

Stu

2006-10-30T07:49:00.000+01:00

Not A Lot Of People Know That ...

I have always said that if I learn a new word in French everyday or an interesting fact, my life will be better off for it. It's only 07h45 on a Monday morning and I have just discovered why the good old British sausage were called 'bangers'. Apparently, during WW2, sausages of the time were so full of water that they exploded when cooked. However, I have also learnt that the humble sauage was invented (according to somebody or other) by the Sumerians in what is modern-day Iraq in 3000 BC. Furthermore, the word 'botulism' is derived from the Latin word for sausage 'botulus'.

Well, don't say I never teach you anything ...

Stu

2006-10-25T07:19:00.000+02:00

It Could Happen To You ...

In the 10 years of being in Paris, my adopted city, it is impossible to avoid the sight of individuals in the process of being arrested by the Police. Handcuffed and humiliated, surrounded by officers, the prisoner is forcibly lead away to a waiting vehicle. Spectators keep their distance and gloat over the proceedings with "well he probably deserves it", knowing nothing about the circumstances nor the individual in question.

Until now, the only real direct contact I had with the cops was being stopped on my scooter and asked for my papers. Yes, they were always abrupt and to the point but so long as you were honest and respectful with your answers, they normally handed the papers back and waved you on. France has always been a revolutionary country and to control the revolutionaries comes a security force ready to stamp on any fresh spark. Riot Police in plastic body suits armed with pump-action shotguns, strike an aggressive pose on their blocking lines. From dawn to dusk, Police vehicles wail through the streets with their blues and twos blaring, armed officers hanging out of open doors with guns at the ready and gesticulating at other road users to "MOVE ... NOW!" With such an arsenal on the loose, all this noise and hostility, it is hardly surprising that the locals call them 'Starsky et Utch'. Even beat-bobbies hunt in packs and especially around the area where I live, the Les Halles district of Paris. It is renowned as a haven for soft drugs so the law is forever present. The place is simply crawling with uniformed and plain-clothed officers, armed to the teeth and in possession of a bad attitude.

Following a recent brush with the Police, I now find that my respect for them has declined to a thundering 'zero' which, as far as I am concerned, is well merited. It was an event I would rather forget ...

------------------

A mate of mine had been arrested and about his person the Police had found a very small quantity of a controlled substance. Had this happened in the street, the offending article would have been viewed as 'for personal consumption'. It would have been confiscated, and after he had supplied proof of his identity to the officers present, he would have been sent on his way and that would have been the end of it. Now enter the Brigade Chief who we'll call 'The Bulldog'.

Along with my friend I was given a thorough searching. I ought to add that I do not partake so, as expected, I was hardly likely to be in possession. The Bulldog decided that as no incriminating evidence was found about me, I was free to go. With a pounding but relieved heart, I made my way to the leave stopping only to ask The Bulldog where were taking my friend so that I might inform his wife that he was in custody. The Bulldog smiled and gave me the address. At the same time a rather over-enthusiastic officer slapped me in irons. That, boys and girls, is privileged information and I did not have the right to know, so I too went along for the ride.

With our hands behind our backs, wrists clamped in vicious steel, we were marched towards our transport, paraded before the locals. Upon reaching the convoy of Police vehicles I was searched once again by an officer who I imagined worked as a melon squeezer in a former career. Thorough, absolutely. Delicate? Well, a bit rough for a first date. He asked me what I had been arrested for but as I was still in a state of shock I really couldn't tell him. The officer with the shotgun kindly replied on my behalf; "Drugs".

I'm sorry, what was that?

Another officer took a long thespian-esque drag on his cigarette and told me to get into the back of a marked Police car, sit in the middle seat and "shut up". Two chunky lads played at bookends and with a childish amount of wheel-spinnning, off went the 3-car convoy - lights and sirens working overtime. Within a few minutes I began to regain some form of real-time consciousness and as the screaming cavalcade made its way down towards the city centre. I could only imagine that the general public thought that 'Starsky et Utch' had nabbed the entire Escobar family. I was aware that this situation had turned nasty but knew I was completely innocent but couldn't help grinning at this ridiculous show of testosterone.

As we neared our destination, bookend No 1 struck up a monotone conversation; "How long have you been in France?" and "What do you think of our country?", polished off by bookend No 2 chipping in with "Do you think you will like French prison?". A first-rate attempt at Police humour, I think you will agree. All the vehicles came to a halt outside the Commissariat in Les Halles and I was bundled out of the car. The Commissariat bears the impressive title of 'Service d'Accueil, de Recherche et d'Investigation Judiciaires (SARIJ)' and is slap-bang in the middle of a huge shopping/metro complex. The Parisien equivalent of London's Oxford Circus or New York's Times Square, only not quite so awe inspiring. We were now being guided through the fortified doors of the Commissariat. I had never seen a couple of white guys cuffed and escorted through these portals but now I was one of them, I can tick that off my 'to do' list.

We were booked in and asked if we wanted a lawyer (but only a one who would confirm that the cell was in a habitable state for our stay), if we wanted a doctor and if we'd like to leave a phone number with the Prosecutor. There was no guarantee that he would call but I gave them my girlfriend's number anyway. At no time, as a foreigner, was I asked if I required the services of a translator. As I had been brought in speaking French, the assumption had been made thast I didn't need one. Despite the basic Human Rights were introduced in 1948, the chapter entitled 'your right to a phone call' seems to be missing from this particular Commissariat's user guide. If you have been booked on a drugs charge, your right to a call is not valid until the first 72 hours of custody have passed but as I had been found with nothing illegal about my person, how could I possibly be here on such a charge? No phone call and no sense. In fact I had been taken into custody as I had requested the location of where they would be taking my friend. The Bulldog thought that that if I was released and managed to warn his wife, any massive drugs find could be scuppered.

Down in the cells I was ordered to strip, turn all my clothes inside-out, turn around, bend over, touch my toes and cough. You could try kissing me first, you bastard. Some arrogant toad with rubber gloves gave me 30 seconds to take the laces out of my boots - "or else". Nice.

For the next 25 hours we would be locked up as guests of the Interior Ministry, housed in far from hygienic surroundings - as people, we no longer existed as free citizens. No contact with the outside world whatsoever - we had simply ceased to be. However, during that time, many clues were given as to what The Bulldog was hoping would happen and what he was really after. It is a well known fact that squads such as Bulldog's are on a financial bonus scheme for arrests and convictions. Fair enough, he was now in line for his arrest money, but now he had to justify it. Meanwhile, there were people on the outside who were looking for us and, in turn, the same people knew other people who were calling his direct line one after another. He could take no more of it and went home.

My girlfriend had not heard a peep out of me all evening and as I was supposed to pick her up from work at 5.30, was getting increasingly worried. She contacted another of my friends and after several conversations, a connection was made - someone else's husband had gone missing at the same time. My cell door had a large double glazed clear(ish) panel through which I could see all the going's on at the front desk and, if their door was left open, they could see into the reception area. Through the windows of the front desk I could see that it was dark outside but as I watched, I saw something which filled me with hope. My girlfriend had marched into the Commissariat and demanded to know if I was being held. "Non, Madame, we cannot tell you". She demanded to know why. "Non, Madame, we cannot tell you that either". I could see that she was getting more than a little heated and the exchange between her and the desk sergeant was one she was up for. As the door to the front desk was open I tried to catch her attention by rolling up my sleeves and waving my white forearms around in the gloom of the cell. The line of sight was perfect as I was directly behind the sergeant's head. I continued waving and eventually she saw me! Gasping in horror, and pointing in my direction, gave the desk sergeant the old panto special; "You don't know where he is? Look, he's behind you!" It was then that one of the desk staff moved in with the order for her to "fuck off". This, I thought, was a great PR exercise on behalf of the Police. Not wanting to be outdone, she side-stepped one of the larger officers, rushed up to the desk and waved at me.

The officers working the desk at this particular station were a particularly obnoxious breed of individual. In fact, station-bound officers in general tend to be plucked from the back row of the remedial class. For anthropologists, they'd make a fascinating study; weight-watchers meets Laurel and Hardy, Jacques Clouseau and a touch of Forest Gump thrown in for good measure.

In the cell I was joined by 'G', a 24yr old Romanian lad who, along with 3 other friends, had come to Paris for a week's holiday. They had bought a number of tourist T-shirts from a street vendor. The vendor had spotted the Police and made tracks and left the Romanians standing around admiring the gifts for their friends back home. In went the snatch-squad, on went the cuffs and 'slam' went the cell door. Then there was 'C', a 23yr old boy from Guadeloupe on a charge of possessing €40 worth of cannabis. For the first 2 hours of being in the cell, he had pleaded for his phone call. He was told to "sit down and shut up". None of us, including the Romanians, were ever given our phone call. In reality, you are granted a call before you reach the Commissariat but upon arrest our rights were not fully explained hence we were not made aware of this.

Ventilation in the cell was minimal. In fact, it stank. During the night, as and when the Police fancied it, they'd shine torches in our faces or switch on a powerful halogen lamp directed towards the cell interior. No water was ever offered to us and in order to stave off headaches and dehydration, I would knock on the cell door and request to be taken to the bathroom. Begrudgingly, anyone in need would be lead down the corridor. No matter your requirement within, the toilet door was always ajar. For myself, I frequently cried wolf and used the toilet trip simply to drink as much water from the tap as I could, then wash my face, arms and neck. With no toilet paper or hand towels available, personal hygiene was another basic facility we would have to wait for. I remained courteous and always thanked my escort for the trip and thanked then again at the cell door. The night shift appeared to have very little to do, except eat take-away food, read newspapers, answer the phone and listen to the radio. So, I thought, let's give them something to do that they actually get paid for.

Since I had never visited the 'Custody World Adventure Playground' before, I was unsure as to what to do. There was nothing I really could do. Sleeping was out of the question as my heart was still racing like a Gurkha Parade Ground and the thoughts in my head were coughing up images of ... well, you can imagine. This was the condition the Police wanted you in and expected you to crack and spill the beans - were there any to spill.

At 2am, my mate in the adjoining cell was taken upstairs to give his statement. As he stepped out of his cell he threw me a glance. Grey and drawn. They brought him down sometime later and soon my name was called. The difference between the staff on the ground floor and the interview room upstairs was extraordinary. "Hello", said a young female plain-clothed officer, "please take a seat and let's get this sorted". I told the young lady that I had a few questions for her, but first, would she be so kind as to give me a glass of water? A full tumbler was swiftly handed to me and she sat down and began her questioning. "You can read French?" she asked me, "Yes, of course", I replied. Behind another desk sat a male officer with a perma-tan who was busy working through a pile of papers. The entire interview was conducted in French during which I asked her a few questions about the technical words she was using. Throughout, she remained courteous and attentive. Perma-tan chipped in with a few questions and soon the 3 of us struck up a convivial conversation. The interview was over and the hard-copy placed before me for approval and signing - timed at 04:30 - a full 12 hours after I had been taken in. Once that was over with, I was allowed to proceed with my questioning. Of course, the first one I came up with was "why am I still here?". The young lady explained that as far as she was concerned, my account of events matched that of my friend, there was no reason to keep me here but I would have to wait a few hours for a urine test. After that, she saw no reason for me to stay. A further 3 glasses of water later and Perma-tan took me into another room to take my finger prints and mug shot. He even allowed me to go to the toilet unsupervised. My stay on the first floor was soon over and I bid the 2 officers 'good morning' and was escorted back down to my concrete gloom.

Time passes so terribly slowly. You have no idea as to what time it is and you start imagining what's happening in the outside world. 'G', 'C' and I tried sleeping on the floor. We made a mattress out of a flea-ridden blanket and covered ourselves with another. 'G' asked for another blanket as 2 was not sufficient for 3 people. "This is not an hotel!" came the reply. Really? And there was I about to book and alarm call and a continental breakfast. The desk staff were noisy and, as expected, seemed to get a kick out of dropping heavy items and turning up the radio. Sure enough, our 'continental breakfast' was delivered; a small carton of orange juice and a biscuit. Yummy. That'll keep the wolf from the door.

The Commissariat started to buzz with the morning shift and those leaving conducted their official handover. The crew who had arrested us the day before clocked-on and got busy. My friend was removed from his cell and cuffed. It was still early but they were off to search his apartment. He was gone about an hour and The Bulldog took the dreaded dope Poodle along for a sniff but, naturally, nothing was found. Following the search at his apartment and the fact that our individual statements matched, it became clear that my mate and I had been honest and truthful all along. To quote my friend, if you know how to make a one-egg omelette, it doesn't make you a grand chef de cuisine, now does it? Upon his return to the nick he was brought into my cell, bringing the guest-count to 4. He slid down the wall and sat on the floor, "Morning". I introduced everyone and we began a good old chat. "If any of this ends up on your blog," my friend began "I'll fucking kill you ..."

Next on the agenda was a urine test. I was sure that once this had been conducted, we'd be out. Again, we waited. To keep spirits high in the cell, I suggested a game of 'Charades' - it seemed appropriate given the circumstances. My friend and I explained the rules to the others and we were soon raucously laughing at 'Jailhouse Rock' and the like. With the dawning of a new day, humour in the cell began to increase. Nervous laughter, maybe, but it was a whole lot better than moping around.

Comedy Hour came to an abrupt halt as the pair of us were called and removed from the cell. Cuffed and under the supervision of 2 officers, were taken outside. Outside! Fresh air. Fill those lungs. It might be the air of a city filled with dog shit and petrol fumes but it never tasted better. One of the officers told us that it was 12:30 and it was the best 12:30 I had smelt in a while. As we drove through the traffic, it became obvious that our escorts were not entirely without compassion. After a while they appeared to relax and we began chatting. At the hospital, the pair of us sat on cold metal seats while the officers lounged on hospital trollies and shared an in-house joke. The pee test was the first process that had happened with any degree of urgency and as my cuffs were being replaced, I cocked my head on one side and asked the officer "not too tight if possible, sir ...". He barked his reply "Rues are rules ...". What no one else saw was his wink and grin, the ratchet clasps were looser than before and far more comfortable. Within the hour we were back in the cell at the Commissariat.

Lunch was served and my friend, being a vegetarian, received a surprise gift. His wife had popped by and delivered a salad sandwich and a can of pop. Once the items had been searched for the ubiquitous file, they were brought through to the cell. To show what a mate is really is, he immediately started ripping the sandwich into 4 and shared it and the plastic cup of pop with his fellow cell-mates. This act of selflessness is typical of him. We were filled with a sense of camaraderie ... and the sandwich.

'G', the Romanian, became agitated as his 3 friends who were being held in other cells were being released. We calmed him down, telling him to remain composed. When it was his time to be called 'upstairs' to sign out, we told him to just look The Bulldog in the eyes, say "yes sir" with a degree of sincerity and to get as far away from here as he could. Sure enough, he was called. A round of hand shakes later and he was out. I was next. Lead upstairs by a young a young Belgian officer, he spoke calmly to me "it's OK, it's all over ...". The Bulldog was in his office and on the phone. It was obvious that he was talking to someone on the outside, connected to us. A sheet of paper was slid in front of me. It had my name on it. I signed it and turned to walk away. "Monsieur!" called The Bulldog, "You do know why you were brought into Garde à Vue, don't you?" As I had signed my release papers, I considered telling him what I thought of him of his bullying tactics and and this system's lack of civil rights. He had me pinned as a fool but I replied with him "yes, because I asked you where you were tasking my friend". He smiled, "Exactly!".

My friend was next for the off.

As a child in the UK I was taught that the law is to be respected and that "if you ever need anything, ask a Policeman". In the France of 2006, things are very much different. If I ever want anything in the future, I will do all I can to avoid asking one as now, apparently, asking a simple question can get you locked up.

+++++

In summary, yes, I know there is nothing I can do about any of it - best to let it go - but it does make you stop and think of our Rights as people in France. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Article 63/1 of the CPP states that; "placed in police custody all those presumed to have committed or attempted to commit an offence". Informing the next of kin is a basic civil right which, according to The Bulldog and French Law, was deemed as an attempt to commit a crime. I know my friend and I know he is not a drug dealer. He is a normal run-of-the-mill chap who enjoys a bit of cannabis from time to time. The Bulldog thought he was on to something big as there'd been a white foreigner picked up in Calais the day before with kilo's worth of stuff in his possession. He assumed that we were connected. Where my charge of drugs came from, I will never know but it appears that The Bulldog moved the goal posts to suit his needs.

We all left the Commissariat without charge (the Romanians included). It was a total farce from start to finish and as The Bulldog failed to get a single result, a uniformed Grand Fromage would have most certainly rapped him over his knuckles. French law states that the 'Garde à Vue' act can detain people for a minimum of 24 hours. This can then be extended to 48, then 72 hours. From conversations with people in the know, within 10 minutes of picking us up it was obvious to the entire snatch team that we were not who they were looking for. The man behind the music was clutching at straws and bowling down each and every avenue. Sadly, each and every avenue lead to a dead-end which only fuelled his frustration. We knew we were innocent as did his crew. The Belgian officer has previously visited the cells to assure us that "everything was going to be OK, just be patient". Such is the high level of confidence they have in their leader.

When The Bulldog realised that he had backed a looser, he panicked yet continued to use the Interior Ministry's power to make an arse of himself. This diminutive control-freak is dangerous and believes that he is above the law. His crew knew that he had missed the mark. It would have spoilt his image to admit that he had made a mistake.

No drinking water was ever offered throughout our stay and I have seen a greater level of toilet hygiene in a Kosovan public convenience. The food was minimal and not sufficient. The desk staff addressed us in a highly discourteous manner and on requesting one particular toilet trip I was told to "shut the fuck up".

I could not wait to get out of there. From the moment I had been brought in, all I could think about was being released, free to see my girlfriend, to sleep, free do what I wanted. It may well have only been 25 hours, but it fucks with your head and if you have not experienced the same situation yourself, then how can I expect you to understand. I am an affluent middle-classed white male, with friends. I have thanked those who worked on our behalf, those who bombarded The Bulldog's direct telephone line and those who saw the futile injustice of it all. As my friend was signing out, the pressure on The Bulldog was showing. He passed him the phone saying: "ring your wife, it's zero for an outside line ...".

It is precisely because I am white and middle-classed that I can empathise with those who are not - the frequent raids on housing estates in the Banlieue and for those who get caught up in this bully-police-state ... and for those who haven't a hope in hell.

2006-10-16T08:25:00.000+02:00

Watch It ...

Until this morning, I did not have a watch that worked. If I do, then the strap is broken or the bracelet securing pins are bent out of shape.

Until I could lay my hands on a timepiece where everything was in good working order, I went to the market in Montrouge over the weekend to buy something 'pro-tem'. It was there that I fell upon the French version of Del Boy Trotter and his young assistant. I made my selection of montre, handed over €10 and walked away with this fine example of oriental craftsmanship - and a free battery.

One hour later it was still working but a housefly farted in the next apartment which caused the clasp to break. Back to square one. This morning the watch is still keeping good time and, with a bastardised first aid job with an old leather bracelet from Stu's Watch Museum, all seems to be back to normal.

The name on the face of this watch is ATIM. Not exactly a well known name and certainly not for €10. So, what does ATIM stand for? Well, there's;

Announcement Traffic Indication Message
Association of Title Information Management
Automatic Ticket Issuing Machine

or

A Tia I Mua (a trade union in Tahiti)

and my favourite;

Association Of Translators and Interpreters of Manitoba

I wonder what the time is in Churchill, Manitoba ... and do they know who Derek Trotter is?

Stu

2006-10-16T07:21:00.000+02:00

Garage Sale ...

Despite the Mayor's Office in Paris screwing everyone with a motorised vehicle, issuing parking tickets like sweets and removing everything to the pound, they're still claiming poverty. In an effort to make more filthy moolah, around the 23rd of this month, they're holding a sale ... of wines.

Let's just say that the 'caves' below the Town Hall probably hold some of the best wines known to mankind, dating back to even before Jacques C was in residence.

What will the out-spoken Mayor do with the cash? Probably put it towards more projects to turn the capital into a traffic-unfriendly place and painting the town pink.

Stu

2006-10-13T12:06:00.000+02:00

Keep It To Yourself, Please ...

So publicity-shy Madonna has adopted a one-year old boy from Malawi ... and?

Personally, I am delighted.

But I'm also sick and tired of these poxy bloody celebs seeking publicity when doing such things. Why is it deemed necessary to class this as headline news?? The poor little sod will probably be raised by a nanny and then trotted out in the arms of 'Super-Mom' at film premieres, prize-givings and the like ... but only when 'Super-Mom' needs the attention. And then there's her own political views on a variety of subjects ... save us from those, for heaven's sake!

Maybe the adoption world might benefit from the occasional helping hand from the 'odd celeb', but there are many level-headed adults out there who are more than capable of making a realistic decision without the rubber stamp from the self-publicising super rich.

Children are adopted from all over the world by loving childless parents everyday, without the need for displays of vanity and self-adornment.

Madonna, shut it ...

Stu

2006-10-13T08:07:00.000+02:00

Teaching Your Grandmother ...

There's no real proof as to where the expression "Teaching your grandmother to suck eggs" comes from. The presumption being is that your grandmother has no teeth and therefore prefers raw eggs to the hard wholemeal-mixed-with-barley bread. In the 18th/19th centuries that was the staple diet of British peasants - and dental health at the time was truly awful - so it was taken for granted that old people were toothless. Who knows.

So, why and where is it used? Well, here for a start ...

In 1999/2000 the Kosovo War was underway and yours truly was in the thick of it, filming in Pristina, Mitrovica and all compass points that sounded like a prescription drug. My translator/fixer at the time was in his mid-20s and a local Kosovan. He was fantastic and we shared private jokes for as long as possible, which is necessary in such a situation.

We watched as homes and lives were destroyed and we also watched as a so-called 'truce' was called. K-FOR (the multi-national Kosovo Force) had to keep the peace between the warring Serbs/Kosova Albanians and UNMIK (the multi-national Police Force) looked after the civilian population and tried to put a stop to insurgents chucking hand grenades into packed restaurants. We ate fairly regularly and despite the hotel in Pristina being in a terrible state, slept reasonably well.

Six years later and my former translator rings me up and says that he is in town and now serving as "an advisor to Agim Çeku, the Kosovo Prime Minister", here to plan a trip to France for his boss. The French were open supporters of the Serbs during the Bosnian and Kosovan crises and have forever despised Albanians (Kosovars are Albanians but with autonomy), so their knowledge of Kosovars is limited. So, over comes this chap to set-up meetings for a goodwill official visit.

Now in his mid-30s, married and with a small child, I met my friend in a café near the Luxembourg Gardens and we 'caught-up'. He regaled me with stories from home and his visit to France - and this is where the grandmother line came to mind.

The morning before our meeting, he had been taken to the CRS training ground - the CRS being the French riot Police. Once there, he was given a pep-talk by the Major IC and then shown the tactics of a group of CRS 'under attack' by a bunch of rowdy French protesters. All this just incase there was a disturbance during the Prime Minister's stay. The CRS, unless you didn't know, are a bunch of racist thugs, dressed from head-to-toe in protective plastic. My friend giggled at the theatricals as they unfolded before him.

"So what did you think of the fat men striking the defensive pose?", I asked him.

"Look", he began and placed the palms of his hands on the table, "I am from Kosovo. We KNOW how to riot. We do NOT have Policemen dressed like Robo-Cop. Bricks, bottles and petrol bombs are for pussies. People in my country, as you know, use other methods and people die. A Policeman in Kosovo has a nightstick and a pistol. Grenades are thrown by the rioters and bullets are returned by the Police. If someone wanted to have a go at my boss, do you think the French have the situation under control? F**k off!?"

I began the "Don't teach your ..." phrase.

"... grandmother to suck eggs?" he concluded.

He's from Kosovo and he knows the very same expression. How fantastic is that?

Stu

2006-10-11T08:39:00.000+02:00

Bugger Off And Sort Yourself Out ...

Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou, along with a legion of fans, was in Paris this week for two nights of live performances. Georgios, as you may know, is the real name of multi-millionaire pink George Michael.

But all is not well in the Michael camp.

This year alone, George had hit the headlines for drugs no more than 3 times. In February he was arrested for possession of class C drugs. In May, he was found slumped and unconscious over the steering wheel of his Range Rover. He was woken by a member of the public knocking on his window (for five minutes): "George was sweating heavily and had his iPod on". He got the car started and drove off weaving up the road, then collided with a traffic bollard. Then, at the beginning of October, he was found by the police, again, dozing in traffic. He was taken off to hospital, then charged for the offence by the boys in blue. Strangely enough, George's 'life partner' and Cheerleading Coach Kenny Goss, checked into a rehab centre in the States ... on George's word. So, why doesn't the silly bastard listen to his own advice? We all know that he has a problem but why can't he bugger off and suffer in silence, treat himself far away from the eyes of his fans and the press ... as normal people do.

"But why do photographers need to know what I'm doing at 2.30 in the morning?" said George. All the photographers need to do is wait at a busy London road junction in the early hours and this stoner will turn up and stop right in front of them. However, I refuse to feel sorry for someone who has more money than God, yet does his best to get into trouble.

We all remember the 1998 'toilet affair' when George got his knob out for a total stranger. Of the event he said "Well, I was followed into the restroom, and then, this cop – well, I didn't know he was a cop at the time obviously – started playing this game. I think it's called ‘I'll show you mine, you show me yours and then I'm going to nick you!'" Well, George, why did you whip yours out just because he did? Now, he regularly drives stoned whilst wearing an iPod. Just another couple of items for the charge sheet.

George, please don't even think of waking me up before you go-go into rehab ...

Stu

2006-10-09T14:25:00.000+02:00

Pout, Pout, Shake It All About ...

The latest round of fashion shows have now, thankfully, drawn to a close. One can now let out a sigh of relief and begin the pleasant task of invoicing ... no more early morning starts and stressed-out journalists.

Like any fashion season you care to mention, it was nothing out of the ordinary - but don't forget that this is the rant of a troglodyte who has no artistic flair or appreciation of the 'fash-industry'. To me, it's all a total waste of time and is simply a vehicle designed to pander a mass of over-paid nancies who 'create' articles that can never be mass-produced, let alone worn with any degree of comfort in public.

Then there are those who are invited to witness the mentally unstable and physically awkward 'mod-uls' who parade before the World's cameras and industry critics. The socialites, who's sole 'raison d'être' is filling their electronic personal assistants with as many invitations from other socialites, make up the bulk of the audience ('bulk' being the operative word). In they come, a rush of badly dressed wannabes, hoping that they've got a reserved place in the front row. "Will the cameras stop at me for a shot of my newly inflated chest?" and "How about my beautifully sculpted tropical fish lips?" Flash go the teeth and flash go the cameras.

43yr old Demi Moore (who's not averse to having pictures taken of her with her kit off) arrived at one show with her new husband, 16 years her junior. In 1997, Christopher Ashton Kutcher was a Biochemical Engineering Student scraping together a few dollars sweeping biscuit crumbs off a factory floor. Now, 11 years later, he's married to one of the World's most beautiful women - though he now gets to handle a much better class of brush. Naturally, The press were all over them like a rash. Janet Jackson, the sister of the guy who has that terribly debilitating skin complaint, showed up. Her minder, a 20-stone failed ex-boxer, repeated the only phrase he can remember "back orrf", whilst pushing the ladies and gentlemen of the press in all directions. These 'stars' are here to be 'seen' but their so-called security insist on getting in between their bosses and the lenses. Fat chance of good coverage ... but a good chance of 'fat'.

We now turn our attention to the 'mod-uls' themselves. Outside of their professional arena, they look terrible. I very much doubt that anyone would cast them a second glance in the street. Great tall streaks. The last time the World was subjected to images of miserable starving people, the BBC claimed a scoop and without it, Live Aid would never have happened. Honestly, what future do these girls have? With a maximum professional career span of 'years', these self-starved waifs drift off into design, management or the back-of-beyond, never to be heard of again. Unless, of course, they are lucky enough to become a 'Supermod-ul', when the combination of a explosive temperament and the command of a 6-figure sum to act as a clothes horse sees them into their 30s.

Lie a catwalk model on her back and you'd have a relief map of the Benelux countries, stand them up and you run the risk of running out of clean needles.

Stu