Early Alliteration

When I was around 13 or 14 I made the schoolboy error of referring to my Grandmother as Grannyguts. Worse, I did it in front of my father.

After asking me to repeat myself to be sure he hadn't misheard, he proceeded to berate me before giving me a smart tap or two to the top of my head.

Naturally I tried to explain myself, rather feebly as it happens, by saying that it "just sort of slipped out like that". That was true. It was in fact totally unrehearsed and I had absolutely no idea what made me say it.

Now I know better. Over the years, I have developed more than a fondness for alliteration. My rude reference to my Grandmother was simply the start.

Poor old Gran. I quite often gave her a hard time, bringing her to the edge of apoplexy. "Tea is more addictive than cannabis" I once told her, urging her to see if she could do without a cuppa for a few days.

It is entirely possible that I was a young pain in the arse.

Not the News

I watch the news on tv most days. The BBC is still the best although increasingly I am beginning to wonder.

The quality of the reporting is still as good as ever. But this need to involve the viewer is what I don't like.

We are regularly invited to post our comments on the Facebook wall or comment via Twitter.

Totally unnecessary in my book. I am not interested in listening to what a few faceless people have to say.

I'm there for the news. Not for the views.

Laugh? Not me.

Every time I see Ricky Gervais on the television he is laughing.

Not just a teeny weeny chuckle. Or even a modest titter.

Instead good old Ricky opens his shoulders and shakes hysterically as he emits a high pitched and excessively lengthy whining guffaw.

It is quite horrible to watch. It annoys me intensely. I can't bear it.

Just thought I would share that with you.

Neoptism is alive and well...

Just noted today that Gillingham's reserve team had one Jake Hessenthaler named as a substitute this week.

Unusual name Hessenthaler. Just happens to be the manager's surname as well.

Last season, the incumbent (or should that be incompetent) manager Mark Stimpson had a young Charlie Stimpson on the books.

Across the Thames Estuary at Southend F.C. Blair Sturrock is in the team. His father Paul is the manager.

I doubt nepotism is confined to this part of south east England. After all, this is football. Should we be surprised?

The 23 Hour Day

I try to live a full and varied life. But things are conspiring against me. At best, each day is 23 hours long.

The lost 60 minutes is taken up by a variety of things that serve no enjoyable purpose whatsoever.

First it's the various operations that involve oral hygiene. My dental hygienist has me flossing, interdenting, brushing and more. It adds up to a good 10 minutes each morning.

Next comes the telephone wittering. Have you noticed how as we get older, people we speak to on the phone take forever to come to the point, they throw in random irrelevances and then start to repeat themselves for emphasis? A good 15 minutes if you are unlucky, which I frequently am.

Of course, no day is complete without having to make a telephone call to a machine spouting options before having to wait, wait and wait longer still before you are connected to a real voice. A charitable 20 minutes.

That leaves 15 minutes which can be taken up by sifting through spam emails offering me viagra, lasting friendships with Russian prostitutes, a win on the lottery and the opportunity to become a millionaire by transferring the illgotten gains of an African Prince or Diplomat through my bank account.

Should I be lucky enough to have saved a few moments of my lost hour, I can always repel doorstep sales people who ignore the large "bugger off" sign on the front door, I can join the queue at the Post Office or I can sit at some temporary traffic lights which blight the roads of South Oxfordshire.

Alternatively I could lighten up a bit, but where's the fun in that?

X-Ray Vision

If you phone the x-ray department of the local hospital for an appointment at the moment, one of two things happen. The line is engaged or an answerphone tells you that there is no-one available to take your call, you can't leave a message so please try later.

I did try later. Around 40 times over 2 days. Judging by the fact that the phone was engaged around 50% of the time, I was not alone in doing this.

Finally I rang the main switchboard only to be told by a harassed and unhelpful lady that the department was a bit hectic and the people who answer the phone also do the x-rays and if I wanted to make a complaint I should write in.

I've got my "what good will that do" hat on at the moment. However I remain decidedly grouchy that I have paid for numerous phone calls to hear the same answerphone message.

The hospital must be aware of this. Not just the cost to me and to countless others but also the time wasted and the inconvenience. Yet it does nothing.

Why can't I leave a message? Why can't they announce a good time to call?

It's another of life's little mysteries I shall almost certainly never solve.

Those Silky Soccer Skills

Go to a college reunion and meet people you haven't seen for 40 years?

I must confess to a little trepidation. Would we have anything in common? Would we have anything to talk about?

Happily it all went very well. Enormously enjoyable.

One of the bonuses has been the circulation of old photographs.

Today I received images of myself playing football against another London college. There I am, a George Best almost lookalike, demonstrating those silky skills long abandoned.

Whilst it was an enormous pleasure to look at old forgotten faces on the field of play, it also shows what a fragile thing my memory is.

I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of the event. Were it not for the fact that the photos prove otherwise, I would have confidently said that it never happened.

Makes me wonder what else I did at college!

Bonkers Train Fares

You really couldn't make this up.

If I was to catch the 13.01 train from Oxford to London Paddington on Tuesday, I could take advantage of the special fare of £4 single. However, if I caught the next train to Didcot at 13.07, going around 50 miles less will cost me 90 pence more.

That's right. Oxford to Didcot is £4.90.

It has also come to my notice that it is around 13 miles between Oxford and Didcot. However, the cost of a single train ride to London from either station during peak hours is £24.00.

Is that a fair fare? Of course it isn't. If I had a case, I would rest it.

It's a stick up!

I can't help wondering what possesses people to have one of those hangers or stickers attached to the rear screen of their car. They say something like "Tiny Person on Board" or "Baby in the Back".

If it's a safety issue warning drivers to back off, then I think it's hugely misguided.

I doubt that I am alone in driving closer to the car in question so that I can read what the sticker says.

That's got to be more dangerous hasn't it?

Surprise Surprise!

Genuine surprises are few and far between these days.

So it was an absolute pleasure to be out walking on The South Downs at the weekend to chance across an alternative to the planned pub lunch ahead.

In the village of Southease, (no pub, delightful chuch and a population of just 37) there was a small village green. On it for this Saturday only was a real ale tent, music and a chili festival.

There were bales of hay to sit on, food ranging from the wimpishly mild to the bonkers hot and a cracking relaxing atmosphere.

Naturally we stayed far too long and ended the walk much later than expected.

But it was one of those surprising marvellous moments you wouldn't miss for anything.

The Train Now Standing...

I'm old enough to remember steam train travel quite clearly. I unashamedly admit to collecting the numbers back in the fifties.

Then the engines had marvellous evocative names. Abbeys, Cathedrals, famous people, royalty, wars and battles, mountains, hills and glens.

Captions in magazines and books would always name the engine in a photograph. "The Earl of Mount Edgecumbe hauls a 10 coach passenger service up the incline from Sprodsbury Bottom." "Pendennis Castle eases out of Paddington with the 12.45 Bristolian Express."

And today? Give me strength. Trains no longer generate the same kind of excitement. Very sad. But from a names of engines point of view, it's just as well.

These days, locomotives have names like "Sir Peter Parker 1924 - 2002 Cotswold line 150", "Spalding Town", "Dartington International Summer School", "Oxfordshire 2007" and wait for it, I'm not making it up, "Helston Furry Dance".

Unbloodybelievable!

Thank you so very much...

And another thing...

I'm fed up with stopping for people at pedestrian crossings who walk across but don't have the courtesy to nod a thank you.

I'm equally hacked off with giving way to drivers who don't have the decency to acknowledge my politeness.

It seems to be happening more and more. And it makes me very cross indeed.

Phone Sex

I refer in my headline of course to the differences in phone usage by men and women.

I favour the quick call mostly to make arrangements. Say what you have to say and that's it.

Others like to talk, talk and talk more.

Whilst this is only an opinion, I believe that men tend to prefer the first route and more women the second.

I don't have a problem with this. Each to his or her own.

But one thing I have noticed and I believe it to be a "women thing" is this. Having a long conversation with someone you are about to meet. I cite Mrs. Crimper here.

She is perfectly capable of a 40 minute conversation with a friend she will see the following day. Occasionally she has been known to call someone whilst I am driving to say "we are on our way". And chatting for ages.

I just don't understand it.

I read with interest...

It's a small thing but it brings out the "old grump" in me.

The number of times you look at the letters page in a local newspaper and see the following opening to a letter:

"I read with interest that....

Talk about a statement of the obvious. If they weren't interested, they wouldn't have bothered to write in.

Quite.

On the Buses

People who write things for a living often make the mistake of assuming that if they understand what they are talking about, everyone else who reads it will too.

Not necessarily in my case.

The quote below comes from the back of a packet of Sainsbury's Fruit Muesli.

"If every Sainsbury's customer recycled their cereal box, 750 tonnes of cardboard would be reused every year. That's the equivalent to 101 double decker buses."

Apart from the superficial use of the word "the", try as I might I can't see the connection.

The worry is that the next bus I catch will be made of cardboard.

Advertising is Dying...

The golden age of advertising was when people used to say that the tv ads were better than the programmes.

Over the years though it has all changed. The internet has distributed the advertising pound into many interesting and varied media.

The advent of Sky Plus has meant that we increasingly record programmes rather than watch in real time and then hit the fast forward button to avoid the commercial breaks.

And with many different tv channels to choose from, a drop in viewers watching each commercial break inevitably follows.

All in all, there's less to spend on making tv commercials. And where there are low budgets there are also low standards

Yet every once in a while there's a commercial that bucks the trend. Step forward and congratulations to Magners.

There's life in the creative art yet!

You Couldn't Make It Up #3

I am sure that the Sunday Times is a reputable newspaper and doesn't need to fabricate quotes from celebrities.

So I'll take the following from Jordan (aka Katie price) as absolute gospel.

"My worst holiday was when I went to Disneyland Paris recently with the kids. That was really bad. Everything was in French....You had to queue forever to do anything and it was full of French people."

What in Paris? Really? No further comment necessary.

Poles Apart

I can be a bit bloodyminded some of the time. Alright, most of the time.

But when your local power company come and plonk a wooden pole on your grass verge and tell you there's nothing you can do about it, it's fair to say I am not happy.

All to do with new rules and regulations about raising cables higher and I don't doubt it has to happen whether I like it or not.

But when the same company bang on the door and tell you they would now like to connect a new cable and could I turn my power off, a chap can get a tad cross.

So I told the chap. When someone from your organisation has the courtesy to write to me and tell me what is going on, why it is necessary and sorry for the inconvenience, then I'll happily allow you to step onto my property and complete the job.

I feel better now.

Is farting healthy?

Call it what you will. Fart, crimp, trump, parp, poot, guff or thrapper. It's not a popular action.

But is it healthy?

According to the NHS, "The body needs to get rid of the build-up of excess gas" while the NHS24 website states "the large majority of cases of excessive flatulence are harmless".

Dietandhealth.net offer reassuring words. "Undigested food passes from the small intestine into the large intestine, where harmless and normal bacteria break down the food, producing hydrogen, carbon dioxide, and, in about one-third of all people, methane. Eventually these gases exit through the rectum."

In other words, it is entirely normal.

I only mention this in case Mrs Crimper should happen to be casting an eye over these words. She should be reassured.

Happy Birthday

Congratulations to Alice Nott of Bexhill on Sea. She's 101 today.

This fact, along with details of a couple in Ashford Kent celebrating a big wedding anniversary and other birthdays and anniversaries were featured at the end of Meridian News on ITV this evening.

Have they gone completely stark raving potty?

How can this be considered newsworthy to everyone watching the local news across South East England?

Mind you, most of the programme defies the description "local news".

What goes on in Ramsgate, Hastings, Brighton and all points west is of no interest here in Oxfordshire.

This is a programme that while calling itself local features a pair of presenters sittting in front of an image of Maidstone bridge in Kent. A modest 100+ miles from Crimper Towers.

Is it any wonder I get grumpy?

On yer bike!

As I was cycling on a disused railway line today, I saw quite a few kids messing about.

Doing the sort of thing kids do on bikes...wheelies, no hands on the handlebars. Nothing wrong in that. Except they weren't wearing helmets.

It reminded me that kids may be the worst offenders, but there are plenty of people who don't wear helmets whether they are on pathways or roads.

I can't understand why this hasn't been made law. I really can't. No-one can travel by car without being strapped in. But anyone can ride a bike without any protection at all.

Accidents will happen. For some, the thought of wearing a helmet will come too late.

A Great Year...

1951 was the best possible year to be born because it meant that I left school in 1970.

Out of the school gates and off to the best music festival Britain has ever had.

Bath and West Showground, Shepton Mallet, 27th and 28th June.

Beefheart, Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, Jefferson Airplane, Hot Tuna, Santana, Byrds, Flock, Johnny Winter, Canned Heat, Pink Floyd, John Mayall, Colosseum and more.

It was the most perfect lineup ever. Far, far better, much more memorable than Hendrix at the IOW a few months later.

So often people ask the question "If you could go back in time..."

No contest. I'd be there again like a shot.

Keep Taking The Pills

There are rather a lot of pills dotted around the Crimper household and most of them seem to be taken by yours truly.

A list would take up far too much space but suffice it to say they are for a variety of ailments, real and imagined.

As a result, I am a dab hand on the pillpopping front. Open mouth, swallow. Simple as that.

I've never bothered with a little water to wash them all down, because I've never needed to.

A few days ago though, after a swift swallowing session, I noticed a rather unpleasant and slightly burning sensation in my throat. I didn't connect it to the aforementioned until I realised that there was an exceptionally pungent garlic taste appearing in my mouth.

Yes indeed, one of the little blighters had got stuck. Awful, awful, awful. Moral learned. Take water after taking pills.

Stanley Penn

In the late 1970's I wrote an article for Creative Review Magazine about Stanley Penn who had been responsible for writing Guinness advertisements for around 30 years.

He was a lovely old chap of around 80 when I met him and I discovered he had been hugely talented. His home was absolutely full of Guinness memorabilia. I got paid £50 for the article and blew the lot by taking him and his son out to lunch.

A few years later he passed away. The story as told to me was that his wife died and he was absolutely brokenhearted. A couple of weeks later he went to his local pub, bought everyone a drink and said "Goodbye". The locals thought he was going away somewhere.

In a sense he was. He went home, got into bed and closed his eyes.

The post mortem gave cause of death as "natural causes".

Sing up England

I watched the Italian football team take to the pitch in Cape Town tonight. When the national anthem was played, the team linked arms and sang it with passion.

Contrast that with the England players a few days earlier. No linking of arms. No passion. I can't be sure that they even knew the words.

What does this say about our footballers? They should be proud to represent their country and they should darn well show it.

Just as well I'm not Fabio Capello. Because I wouldn't play anyone if they didn't sing the anthem out loud.

And what do you do for a living?

At a drinks party on Saturday I asked a guest what he did for a living.

He told me he was a solicitor and went on to say that very often people would hear that reply and go on to ask for advice.

A computer engineer who came to the house today confirmed that whenever he admitted his job to strangers, they frequently asked what they should do about a problem with their PC.

I suspect this is a common practice and I don't need to guess what happens when someone admits to being a Doctor.

When I worked in advertsing and admitted as such, people always had the same question for me. Not can you advise me but "Tell me something you have written." When I told them, they used to shake their heads.

It made me very cross. Because it confirmed in my mind that despite my wish to become a world famous copywriter producing memorable campaigns...I never quite made it.

Memories

It's only party true that you can remember what you did years ago but haven't a clue what you did yesterday.

I have a problem remembering the 1970 Isle of Wight Rock Festival. So I thought a side trip whilst on the island would help me remember the event. Some hope!

Despite the fact that no drugs or alcohol were involved, I have no idea how I got to the festival site, where I slept, what I ate or indeed who I saw (except Hawkwind who played in a tent).

I do remember that Hendrix came on at some ridiculous hour before dawn and I slept through the entire set.

After walking the coastal path, I went to Dimbola Lodge at Freshwater Bay to view the Festival exhibition there. It stirred no memories although I was stunned to read the line up and realise who it was I just can't remember seeing.

As I drove the car ferrywards, I looked to the right at East Afton Down. Here was the festival site. I just knew. I remembered the high ridge towering above so very clearly.

A shame that nothing else sprang to mind.

Disappearing Britain

Well Isle of Wight actually. I've just returned from walking the Isle of Wight coastal Path and was rather shocked.

An awful lot of it isn't there.

In my research for the walk I had heard that this was an area of coastal erosion but I had no idea just how bad the problem is.

Fences hover in mid air. Detours are not uusual. In places the sea is a mud colour where earth has plummeted down. Close to Freshwater bay, there is now only a part of a car park left. The rest is no more.

The cause is the weather. Just one more example of global warming. Amazingly there are still doubters.

You Couldn't Make It Up #2

Having had a little, no massive pain on the joint of my big toe, the good Doctor decided to offer me some painkillers should this occasional occurence visit me again.

Naproxen tablets is what she recommended. Before a prescription could be printed, I asked if they were available over the counter as it might save a few bob.

Indeed they were. So off I trotted to the chemist who promptly refused to serve me.

It turns out that Naproxen are exactly and I do mean exactly the same tablets used to relieve period pain. Yet they are not to be dished out to all and sundry. Just to women in need.

She made the point that I didn't appear to be showing any signs of menstrual tension (admittedly difficult in the case of a grumpy old man). Which I suppose was my opportunity to say "While I'm here, I'll have a pack of Feminax for my wife"

But even if had chosen this option, there's always the possibilty of an embarassing moment down the pub... your big toe starts throbbing and in front of all your mates, you reach for the Feminax.

Not quite the solution I was looking for.

American English

America and Britain are two nations divided by a common language. It's been said many times and once again we have proof.

This time it comes from a U.S. Government spokesman at a press conference regarding the attempted bombing in Times Square.

He said "This investigation is ongoing, multi-faceted and aggressive."

Well I'm sure it is. Although I can't help feeling that this statement of the bleeding obvious doesn't really give much away.

Plain speaking that's what we need. Or do we? The Labour candidate for Norfolk North West who in the same news bulletin, calls Gordon Brown "Britain's worst ever Prime Minister" has left no room for ambiguity. Interesting timing though

More education needed

So a schoolteacher has gone on trial for attempted murder after removing an unruly kid from class and hitting him with a dumbell.

Weak teachers have always been considered fair goading game to kids in class. I can think of a few episodes many years back that make me wince.

This story though reveals two victims. Not just the boy that was assaulted but the teacher who hit him. For sure, no-one can condone such actions no matter how stressed the teacher may have been.

Yet kids will always test the boundaries. And sometimes, as in this case, when you push people too far, they can suddenly snap.

Maybe more needs to be done to educate people that unpleasant actions can have appalling consequences. The place to initiate that would seem to me to be in the classroom.

Ravy Gravy

It doesn't matter which brand of cat food we buy our moggies, nor does it matter whether it's the gravy or jelly version, their eating habits are maddening.

They completely lick off the gravy (or jelly) and leave the meat. Occasionally they return for a little of what they left, but the amount of wastage is staggering.

I'm sure they are not alone. Which begs the question "why don't cat food manufacturers produce a gravy only version?"

I'd be first in the queue.

Gobbledegook

On this morning's news it was announced that Wightlink have cancelled ferries from Portsmouth to Fishbourne due to "Operational Reasons".

Well that explains absolutely nothing.

What's the problem exactly? A flotilla of seagulls blocking the harbour entrance. The captain and his crew have scurvy. Volcanic ash threatens to fall and clog up the Solent.

Why can't people who put out statements announcing bad news be honest and give a sensible reason why something isn't happening?

Is it any wonder that the public get angry about a lack of information?

You Couldn't Make It Up #1

When your mother-in-law is not as fleet of foot as she once was, it's comforting to know that the Social Services are on hand to take her shopping once a week.

Comforting and baffling.

It transpires that Graham who accompanies "the Duchess" has been given a new set of rules to follow. There is no difference to routine. It is still the Post Office for pension and Sainsbury's for food.

However, Graham has announced that it is no longer permissible to purchase birthday cards at the Post Office. This must now be done at Sainsbury's.

Naturally he is unable to offer a reason why this is so.

So no browsing at cards in the queue at the Post Office (where there is a better selection I am reliably informed). Instead there is to be a detour between fruit and veg and household cleaning to Sainsbury's rather average card department.

Perfect logic to absolutely no-one but the person who dreamed this up.

Cricket It Most Definitely Was...

Back in 2006, my village cricket team managed to get a charity fixture against Lashings who are made up of ex professional International cricketers.

The difference in class was more than obvious after we took to the field as six after six and occasional four was scored. In many cases, the ball went out of the ground never to be seen again. In fact 28 were lost that day.

I came on to bowl at Phil Simmons (West Indies) and Greg Blewitt (Australia). After having the special moment of getting Phil Simmons play and miss to an outswinger, runs followed with ease.

At one point during one of my overs, Greg Blewitt approached Phil Simmons who was about to face the latest new ball that had been introduced.

"That ball is an orangey colour and I don't like it" he said. "Get rid of it." After I bowled the next ball, I turned to look over my shoulder as a straight drive, soared out of the ground far, far further than any other ball that day.

1-48 from 4 overs. I got off very lightly.

Driver Danger

Yesterday's fearsome wind almost removed the overhead electricity cable from the pylon over the road to our house. It came to rest on top of our hedge and it was a clear case of "get in touch with the emergency services pronto".

The message from on high was "wait for someone to come and don't let anyone walk or drive under it in case it comes crashing down on top of them".

Perfectly obvious and sensible advice you would think. But not to many of the car drivers entering the village.

Standing outside Crimper Heights, I waved down car after car. Some heeded the advice, others thanked me for mentioning it and then drove under as they were in a "bit of a rush".

A few clearly weren't keen on stopping for a stranger attempting to stop the traffic and tried to drive round me. When one woman screeched to a halt to abuse me because I was in her way, I called the police and asked them to sort it out.

They promptly closed the road. I'm not as popular as I once was.

What Rubbish

Living in the country, it should come as no surprise that I like to see it looked after. But it seems plenty of car drivers have other ideas.

Now when I'm driving the Crimper roadster here and there, it would never cross my mind to get rid of any crisp bags, sweet wrappers, sandwich wrappers, plastic drinks bottles anywhere other than in the plastic carrier bag attached to the glove compartment door.

Others though think it's perfectly acceptable to open the window and lob things to the side of the road.

As you drive, you may not notice the result too much. However, if you walk as I did recently, you may be in for a surprise. On a mile walk along an A road between two villages, I counted 396 items of rubbish...on one side of the road.

Keep your rubbish in your car or lower your window? For many it's not a tough decision. I despair sometimes, I really do.

Sport Relief

Having slimmed down to a point where the word "Lardyboy" no longer applies, I surprised myself and many sponsors by going from 0 to 3 miles in 30 minutes on Sport Relief Sunday.

To put the achievement in perspective I haven't done any serious exercise except walking and fielding at first slip since 1985.

But that is absolutely nothing compared to the totally barking Eddie Izzard who chalked up 43 marathons in the ludicrously tiny time of 51 days.

He raised over £1 million. Heroic is an understatement.

Skid Row

Most of us have a claim to fame. Mine is that I was responsible for one of Gary Moore's first ever concerts in England.

In 1970, I was in charge of booking a band for our school dance. As luck would have it, the son of the deputy head was a booker in London and this led to a phone call at home.

It was Clifford Davis who managed Fleetwood Mac. He told me he was bringing a band over from Ireland called Skid Row and wanted them to do a few warm up gigs. He said we only need pay £50.

On a thursday evening, the band went out on Radio One as part of the "In Concert" series. Two days later the Rochester Mathematical School watched Skid Row and a guitarist called Gary Moore who was younger than most of the sixth form who made up the audience.

He was rather good.

The Royal Mail Delivers

The Royal Mail may deliver, but does it collect?

There's a sign on the main post box in the town centre that says the Royal Mail are always striving to offer the best possible service to their customers. A comforting thought.

However, it goes on to say that as a result, the last post will be changed from 18.30pm to 18.00pm.

Quite!

Get Rich Quick

There's a gap in the market and I'll mention it here in case anyone wants to do it and get rich in the process.

Birthday cards for kids. That's it. Simple.

If you currently want to send a card, good luck. Kids like music, skateboards, graffiti...well loads of subjects.

But what you'll find at most card shops are Doctor Who and the Simpsons. Or cards that say Happy Birthday Son/Daughter...well that's brilliant if you're not the parent. Or Happy 13th/14th/15th/16th birthday. Like a kid wants to be reminded. They know how old they are!

So a new range of cards for kids needs designing and into the shops pronto. Please do it someone. Your first customer is waiting.

Our Cat Supports Liverpool

Mabel lives 200 miles from Anfield and wears a red Liverpool Football Club cat collar. She's never ever shown a flicker of interest when the team she allegedly supports are on the tv.

And the reason she's wearing the collar in the first place is because Mrs. Crimper who was swayed by Kevin Keegan's short shorts in the dim distant past, has decked certain parts of the house out in red. This was viewed as a "must have" item.

If it was possible to buy a Gillinghgam cat collar, it's possible there might be a heated discussion on the subject.

Seriously though. Has the world gone raving bonkers? A cat collar in team colours!

And jut how many smartly turned out moggies are there roaming the streets of Liverpool? Probably quite a lot.

Live with Led Zeppelin

I've not mentioned this to many people but I appear on a Led Zeppelin CD.

The 2nd CD in the BBC Sessions compilation was recorded at the compact 200 seater Paris Theatre in London's Lower Regent Street for "In Concert" on 1st April 1971. I was in the audience to hear John Peel introduce the band before they launched into "Immigrant Song".

Not broadcast nor on the CD 3 minutes and 20 seconds later was the audience reaction which could at best be described as a light ripple of applause.

Decidedly unhappy with this response, Robert Plant asked us what our problem was. In fact, he may well have put it more forcefully than that. The answer shouted back was that the music was so loud that we couldn't actually hear it as a song.

The engineers then toned it down and a jolly good time was had by all. But in terms of loudness, this first number was without doubt painful. Never heard anything as loud in my life and don't want to ever again.

Of course, once recorded and edited, the broadcast sounded perfect. Today it is all the more enjoyable because there I am, close witness to a cracking concert.

How good was it? At the time I often used the phrase "Aural orgasm". True enough then. Still is.

Utter Rubbish

If I was an inventor, I know what would be number one on my "to do" list.

I'd invent a rubbish disposal and recycling system with various compartments. That would stop me dragging assorted boxes out to the front kerb on different days of the week.

At the moment, it's a black sack for landfill on one day of the week. A green box for paper, cans and plastic bottles on another. Once a fortnight I can have cardboard and garden waste collected if I'm prepared to pay £34.50 a year to the local council.

I'm not. I take those items to the tip along with soft plastic and waxed drink containers which can only be disposed of there along with pressurised cans, oil, fridges and goodness knows what else.

Talk about complicated. Mrs Crimper long ago abdicated all responsibility, assuring me it was all too much to remember. Imagine instead, a once a week collection unit with various compartments standing outside the back door. You could even add your own labels.

Come on designers of Britain! Even if the waste industry isn't waiting for your solution, I am.

Who You Poggin' Chav?

People often say to me "Redvers, you're from Kent, is it true that the word Chav is derived from that neck of the woods?".

Surprisingly the answer is "pretty darn right it does". If you happened to be growing up in the Medway towns of Rochester, Chatham, Gillingham, Strood and Rainham in the 1960's, it was a word you used all the time. Today its meaning has changed.

Originally, "a Chav" was definitely a bloke, but you could apply it in different ways. For example, you're in the pub loo, someone comes and stands next to you. Potentially a tricky situation but then an "Alright Chav" might then be exchanged. This could confer respect as in "You OK there Geezer".

But if you happened to be waiting for the bus home in Military Road, you might glance at someone at an adjacent bus stop who is not happy with your glancing technique. A "Who you poggin' Chav?" levelled in your direction was more of a "Who do you think you're looking at pal?" and your answer and ability to "look 'ard" would certainly have a bearing on whether you might need to call in at the A&E on your way home.

Is there a definitive word for Chav? I like to think "Mate". Just because someone calls you Mate, it doesn't necessarily mean he is one.

*Poggin" verb, pog, to look at.

A True Genius

Of all the guitarists I have had the privilege to see, few can have been so talented and deserving of the label "genius' than Rory Gallagher. Maybe I like him that much more because back in 1970, he took to the stage at the Village of the Damned Blues Club in Gillingham leading his band Taste. It was the first live music I ever saw.

Then and later he played the blues with such passion. According to fan memories on the website of Sinnerboy (a band who keep his name alive), he was also a thoroughly nice bloke.

The last time I saw him was at the Electric Ballroom in Camden Town. Pint in hand, he stood in the audience almost next to me, watching Albert King then George Thorogood and the Destroyers.

He later died of liver failure. Such a waste of a true talent.

It's Not Cricket

On a cricket tour of Devon some years ago, one of our batsmen survived an appeal for caught behind. The snick could have been heard in neighbouring Cornwall but as I was the Umpire and I have a hearing impediment, I didn't hear it and therefore gave it "Not out".

I know. I shouldn't have been out there in the first place, but village cricket often survives on the rule that if you can stand unaided, you can play (and Umpire).

The bad feeling this decision caused could have been avoided had the batsman decided to walk. But he didn't. Nor could he understand why I told him he was a cheat.

"If the Umpire doesn't raise his finger, I'm not out." Well that just about sums up what is wrong with the game today. Too many people believe that it's OK to win at all costs.

On a happier note, our batsman was later pushed into a red telephone box, rope was tied around the outside and he was left to repent for the entire evening. No food, no drink. He deserved far far worse.

Before and After the Commercials

Can there be anything more aggravating than watching a documentary on TV than the nonsense that happens before and after a Commercial break. A voice announces ""After the break..." and proceeds to tell us what's about to follow. Really! Well if I stay tuned I'll be watching so I don't actually need to know. Worse follows. As soon as the commercials are over, a voice tells us what we've just seen as in "Previously we saw..."

If I wasn't a cynic I'd say that it was done to stop us switching to another channel or to inform us if we've joined half way through the programme.

But I am a cynic. Surely this is done because it eats up time before and after each segment. So programme makers can get away with around 5 minutes less footage per hour long programme. Think of the money that can save on the production budget. Shameful I call it.

The Man on the Clapham Omnibus

When I used to work in advertising, there was an often used phrase bandied about. "What does the man on the Clapham Omnibus think?" In other words, what's the opinion of your average member of the public?

I offer this thought to the leader of whichever political party wins the forthcoming general election. Maybe David or Gordon (that's alphabetical not assumptive) would like to amass a busload of normal people and ask them for their thoughts from time to time. They'd get some forceful suggestions from those who actually know what is going on in Britain today.

I'd better stop there. The idea is quite ridiculous!

Shame on You: The O2

On Saturday I had a ticket to see Eric Clapton and Jeff Back at the O2. And awfully good it was too.

Luckily I got to see the whole concert which is more than many who were relying on public transport to get them home. The concert finished around 11.10 and with a 30 minute walk and wait to get into the unsurprisingly busy tube station and around another 25 minutes journey time into Central London, it should have been obvious to the O2 that catching your last mainline train home might be a touch tricky.

So why, yes why indeed, start the concert at 8pm? It was a Saturday and an earlier start might have meant far fewer people rushing for the doors during the latter part of the event. When you've paid £75 or more for a ticket (I kid you not), you deserve better organisation.

As it was, I thought the timing might work against me, so I went through the bizarre scenario of driving into Central London, parking the car and catching the tube out again to the O2. I returned to my car at 10 minutes after midnight.

Am I alone in thinking that such lax organisation is an absolute disgrace?

A Nice Warm Pair of Gloves

I'm off on one now. Footie does rather aggravate me these days. Especially when I see grown men taking to the field of play wearing a pair of gloves.

Perhaps like me you view this with a high degree of how shall I put it...distaste. Football is a man's game and we don't want to see a big girl fashion statement in the millinery department dancing down the left wing. That's why I've come up with a fans chant to the tune of "Who let the dogs out". "Who put their gloves on...wuss, wuss."

That should solve the problem.

Why Can't Gillingham Win Away?

Sorry to start off with a few words about football. It won't all be like this. But as a Gillingham supporter, there is one question that simply won't go away. Why do they have the most lamentable away record? At the moment it's as bad as it's ever been.

I think I have the answer. All it needs from the manager is a little motivation. Not the sort where you tell your star striker that if he pops one in away from home he'll also get a night of unbridled passion with Gladys behind the counter of the local chippie.

No. You need to mix motivation with fear. So it's, quite simple. You tell the players that if they lose, when they trot off the pitch, their clothes will have been removed from the dressing room and will in fact be on the team coach which in turn has been removed from the stadium. A 1 goal defeat, the coach is parked a mile away, a 2 goal defeat it's two miles away and so on.

Trust me. it's sound psychology and it will work. You don't need to be a genius to realise that having to leave the ground, still in kit, map in hand, and weaving your way through the crowds along the back streets of Stockport or Oldham, isn't the best way of ending a Saturday afternoon.

Mark my word, Gillingham will be banging in the away goals before you know it.