Moobs’ blog

I am doing the Tolley's proofs today. I sent off my first batch a few minutes ago. No doubt the in-house editor will be impressed that I appear to have mis-labelled them as "Corrected Poofs"

As it is summer, I am reading a bit of Wodehouse. The plots are convolted and the characters stereotyped but the language is so wonderful I can't help but revel in it.

Just to take one example: I am reading "Uncle Fred in the Springtime". Early on an engagement is broken off and the jilted man asks: "so you are handing me the mitten?"

It is phrases like that (probably few of which are original)* that are so colourful and so pleasurable that they are the literary equivalent of a boiled sweet.

The proud boast of the Hotel Cosmos is that it was designed by the French and built by the Yugoslavs. It may not be immediately obvious to the traveller why either fact justifies much in the way of crowing. The French have certainly been proud enough to have erected a 100 foot tall statue of General Charles De Gaulle outside. He stands grimly, his back to the jauntily corruscating neon frontage of the "Kasino". For admirers of statuary, or french derrieres, it is worth making a visit to the Terrasse Bar on the third floor which affords an immediately impressive view of the General's enormous bronze bottom.

The rooms have been decorated in a charming "penal" theme. The double rooms each have a pair of beds with mattresses like pieces of damp toast and pillows like half-inflated bin bags. Should you have time to spare,each room also has a television set which may be tuned to range of channels each one being broadcast direct to the hotel from 1979. Should that not excite you plenty of other entertainment is on offer. The lobby is dominated by rows of slot machines that tinkle merrily into the early hours. Not to be missed is the arrival, at around 6 pm, of a phalanx of prostitutes. The visitor is struck first by the bowwave of perfume and then the heart is gladened by the sound of 12 stiletto heels clacking on the stone floor. The procession of leather skirts and designer handbags makes its way to the somewhat over-priced 24 hour cafe where the ladies sit demurely smoking and being entertained by their pimps. The pimps themselves affect a henchman chic of ultra-tight t-shirts stretched over gym-honed musculatures. It is a sight, as impressive in its own way, as Red Square itself.

The hotel staff are reassuringly brusque but despite their obvious resentment are prepared to assist you should the need arise. For the hurried businessman there is a diverting mezzanine of shops selling tat with which to stuff your bag with guilt-assuaging purchases for the family.

I have put up a review of Disgruntled's book at the main site.

This weekend has found me once again in the garage dealing with the consequences of a policy of hoarding anything which I considered might at some point have some potential use. Old Curtains? What if we were to move back someday into our old house or one with windows of exactly the same dimensions? Well, we'd rue the day we threw these away!

At the bottom of the borehole I have driven through sedimentary layers of junk I found a small box containing the very first things I felt precious enough to hold on to. First out of the box was my autograph book.

Collecting signatures was a craze that gripped me for perhaps a month or so. Frinton was not built atop a hellmouth of celebrity and I would have died of embarrassment if I'd had to speak to someone famous anyway; so I had to resort to polite letters and enclosing stamped self-addressed envelopes. Somehow the exquisite delight of receiving a letter (any letter - Lord, how I miss letters) was more attractive a proposition than standing in the lashing rain outside the theatre at the end of Clacton Pier shouting hopefully at Freddie Starr.

I started with Chelsea Football Club who sent me a 500th generation photocopy of the players' signatures that even then seemed crushingly lacking in glamour. I was not even sure that they counted as autographs. The BBC were infinitely better. It was as if the knew I'd be waiting, tortured, for the postman to shovel stardust into our gloomy hallway. My hero, Tony Hart autographed a piece of gummed paper so that I could stick it straight into my little green autograph book: so thoughtful, so Tony.

The Mona Lisa in my collection was an autographed photograph of the comedy giants of that moment: The Goodies

I recently bought a collection of Goodies episodes on DVD. They were so cringingly awful that I switched it off as I simply was not mentally resilient enough to cope with the scale of the disappointment. At the time, however, I had no doubts. They were a chart-topping novelty band (with "Do the Funky Gibbon" and other abominations) and their stories of giant kittens and tomato soup nerve agents turning people into clowns held me rapt. The picture was so precious to me that I stuck the envelope it came in into the book and would only remove the item itself from inside in order to impress my very closest friends and then with a sacramental reverence that would have impressed the Pope himself. I felt as if television had extended a fizzing, scintillating hand and laid it on my shoulder; it was a distillate of pure glamour.

The fever broke and I moved on to he next craze - probably Top Trumps or Pocketeers, and I allowed the BBC to get back to its business. There was, however, a twilight period during which I lowered the hurdle of fame a little and added signatures from people I merely knew and loved. One of these was Father Clover, my priest. I set his contribution out below, firstly to demonstrate that there was a time when people took a pride in their handwriting and secondly because it is only today that I have recognised that his inscription (which I had thought merely a Christmas Cracker proverb of the sort that might amuse an old gentleman) contained a (barely) hidden message for me.

Since I knew that the marathon would like render me immobile, I booked out a couple of days with a view to "working from home". Top of the list of chores has been working through some of the DVDs I bought from Amazon late at night and never got round to watching.

Lowering myself gingerly onto the sofa this morning, I hit the play button in the expectation of being treated to an episode of Boston Legal. Urgent music played and a message on screen informed me that I would not steal a car. That seemed presumptuous: I had only just met this DVD - how did it know?. I had to admit, however, that it had got it right - I'm not a car thief. Then it told me that I would not steal a purse. Another bullseye. Over the next 20 seconds it ran through a number of other things it was sure I would not steal. I was beginning to find this all very affirming. The range of crimes I would not commit is pretty extensive and hoped it might move on to some of the more entertaining and unusual ones: "You would not commit arson in Her Majesty's dockyards", "You would not have sex with the King's wife".

Then we fell out. The DVD warned me that downloading films was theft. The DVD was, it appeared, far from convinced that I would not illegally download movies. In fact, it dripped with suspicion.

I have to tell you I felt some discomfort: two minutes out of the box and the DVD was telling me it thought I might well be a criminal. Just in case I had missed the point, up came a couple of powerpoint slides indicating that if I did anything the DVD did not like I could face up 10 years in prison and an unlimited fine. It was actually threatening me. Frankly, I didn't care for its tone. My one hope of redemption, the slide informed me, was to turn informer and grass up other offenders. I racked my brain for someone I could turn in: had my Mother been up to no good on Youtube? Had the social worker down the road shown a DVD at the youth club when it was only licensed for home use? If I could just find someone to take the rap and become the Federation against Copyright Theft's bitch, I could keep myself out of jail.

Begrudgingly, the DVD let the subject drop and allowed me to watch an episode. The moment the episode finished, the DVD got right back into hectoring me. It immediately flashed up a lengthy message which told me that, amongst other things, that I was not permitted to lend the DVD to anyone and that if I had it in mind to take off to an oilrig and put the DVD on in the ready room I would be in very serious trouble. Then it told me the same thing in Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, Finnish and a host of other languages, refusing to let jump to the next episode. Worse was yet to come. A blacksmith appeared, heating up a cattle brand. I am not sure why a blacksmith would have a cattle brand. As it turned out he wasn't a blacksmith at all but a pirate - albeit one dressed up as a blacksmith. The pirate was apparently very angry with me and had broken off from boarding merchantmen, splicing the mainbrace and dancing jigs to track me down. He advanced towards me, his eyes burning demonically. The DVD urged me not to let the pirate brand me with his mark. I certainly didn't fancy getting branded but the DVD was short on specific advice as to how to avoid this fate.

The whole thing left me sweating and unnerved. I am plainly not to be trusted and have resolved not watch another DVD until the Federation against Copryright Theft can send someone to sit with me as I watch. Without that reassuring presence I could be one inadvertent slip away from having a blacksmithing pirate burn my bottom as I am thrown into a van and taken off to Wormwood Scrubs. Watching DVDs is just too risky for the likes of me.

Well that is another one over.

Unfortunately the groin strain did not resolve itself in time for the race. I thought about withdrawing but given the money people had pledged I thought I should show a bit of courage and give it a go. This meant that, unnervingly, I arrived at the start line already limping. I ran off with a very athletic looking hobbling gait and I did not think I had a cat's chance of finishing.

However, since it was obvious I was not going to be running any PBs I decided just to jog round and enjoy it. It was fabulous. I put away the ipod and soaked up the atmosphere. Rather than grit my teeth and beg my bladder to hold I spent 20 minutes in queues for the on course loos (The luxury! The comfort!) and pretty much stopped for lunch at Canary Wharf (an entree of granola bar and jelly beans with an engagingly robust energy drink to wash it down with).

This completely transformed the event for me. I found I was not desperately waiting for the next mile marker to arrive and almost before I knew it I was trotting down the mall and being handed a medal.

I worry that those of you who sponsored me may feel I got off lightly. I am able to offer some reassurance: the groin strain obviously got significantly aggravated so in addition to the usual necessity of going down stairs backwards I am today having to walk about the house by leaning against the walls. My nipples, however, are intact.

Having come back from holiday to find all my cases have settled I have been sent into the garage with a view to emptying it and filling a skip.

Does anyone need any of the following:

(1)   A sofabed;
(2)   A fridge;
(3)   A washing machine; or
(4)   A very cheap gas cooker?

They are yours for free but you'd have to collect them.

Sean