A Day of Disappointments

The line of newly decapitated chickens left to drain over the bath tub told me that this was not going to be a day full of sunshine. I knew as much when I switched on my PC this morning. My attempts to lure Telegraph readers here with my newly launched blog had resulted in nice round figures. The round figure happened to be zero, which was also the number of people I'd managed to attract here after reading my post about Gordon Brown’s lack of humour.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that these Telegraph readers are a somewhat humourless bunch, conservative in their tastes, and the type of people who can’t appreciate a handsome Welshman in a thong. I also have another more sobering suspicion: that the Chipster has found his level. I shouldn’t post on anything other than generously proportioned underwear, genitals, and guide dogs for the blind. If recent comments are an indicator, I should also get drunk every night and go out on early morning raids to adjacent blogs where I should leave my badly types ramblings.

The utter failure of my posts at My Telegraph has been an ever greater disappointment because I’ve been giving more thought to trying to find a little work in freelance writing. I’m not sure what I could write, where I could sell it, nor who would buy it, but I have been reflecting on how stupid it was to turn down the chance to write for Britain’s best known publisher of hardcore pornography. I might not have known many of the words but, as Gabby pointed out, what are dictionaries for if not for looking up all the filthy synonyms for parts of the body?

The second big disappointment was Gabby’s announcement that she and her sister intend to record a third Cheeky Girls album. It was the reason for the chickens. She claims that white meat helps her vocal chords. Help them do what, is what I’d like to know. I’ve hidden this news here in the body of the post because I don’t want to unduly alert the media. The last time the Cheeky Girls got back together, the government stuck a military cordon around Bangor. It might not mean much to you but the people of Bangor suffer when those girls start to sing. They’re already talking about guest vocalists including Charlotte Church. I don’t think I need to say any more.

The third disappointing thing I’ve discovered today is that a good friend of mine, an honourary thonglateer and second most handsome man on the planet, will no longer be the head of the Welsh Liberal Democrats. The good news is that he’s hoping to become chairman of the Lib Dems next year. I wish him well with that. I really do. If more men were like Lembit Opik, this world of ours would be a better place.

The last disappointment to come along was the news that Richard Madeley is considering giving up blogging. Yes, you heard me right: it is a disappointment. I feel sorry for the man. I really do. We’ve had our public fallings out but we all know that they were only for the cameras. It was done in the best possible taste. I like reading his blog and I want him to reconsider. Come on Dick. Chin up. All three of them.

This has been an odd bitty post but I’m a bit of an odd man. I’m now off to write something intellectual for My Telegraph. I might even wear a cravat.

A Question Nuance

Today I blatantly stole an idea from Dave Hill (and now a picture from The Spine).* I opened a blog over at The Telegraph.

Actually, I didn’t steal the idea as much as I went back and posted on the blog I’d registered earlier this year. I’m A. Aaron Esq, which as you’ll no doubt know is the name of my grandfather. I didn’t expect any replies to the small piece I wrote about Gordon Brown. Nor did I expect people to misunderstand me and actually accuse me of liking the man. So, in response, I wrote the following, which I’m also posting here so as to bore you all with yet more of my wise words about the great man himself: Mr. Bernie Clifton.

I opened a blog here at The Telegraph and people immediately misunderstood me. Did I really say I liked Gordon Brown? It seems that I did. Or I didn’t, depending on which comment you read in response to my original post. I don’t know where I went wrong. Things are never this difficult on my own blog. But there I’m usually writing about sling-backed thongs, stripping, and the North Wales exotic dance circuit. Do I really smell of pineapples and am I really the owner of the largest collection of thongs in Wales? Well, yes and yes. Do I like Gordon Brown? Of course I don’t. It’s a foolish thing to ask of a man who is often mistaken for Lembit Opik. It was a question of a nuance that some people just didn’t pick up.

Nuance. Can’t live with it. Can’t bash it on the back of a head with a spade.

Miscommunication has to be one of the less enjoyable novelties of trying to communicate on the internet. Irony doesn’t tend to work without a fat smiley at the end. Nor does sarcasm or anything that isn’t as blatant as: ‘I dislike Gordon Brown and wasn’t so hot on Blair.’ Yet out of it comes at least one interesting question. Who do I like? There’s so much negativity around, shouldn’t I begin by saying who and what I like? If we’re all going around castigating Brown, isn’t it good to know who we’d like to see in his place?

I don’t know if I have the answer to that question, but I do like Bernie Clifton.

I’ve been thinking a lot about him in recent days. Last week, I bumped into him in the local shopping centre where he was collecting money for charity. I’ve written about this elsewhere so I won’t go into too much length about him here, but things seemed simpler in the days of Crackerjack. Even now, people seemed to have so much faith in an old comedian with bad knees and dressed in a faded yellow ostrich suit. Yet it’s hardly surprising when we’re led by a man whose personality hasn’t been bypassed as much as it has had a ring road built around it.

It’s not that I want my politicians to act the buffoon, but I don’t seen buffoonery as being anathema to being serious. It’s a lesson that politicians simply fail to heed. Churchill recently came fifth in a poll of great wits. Does anybody think him a lesser politician because of it? The same is true of Einstein who once stuck out his tongue and it became one of the iconic pictures of the century. Groucho Marx’s aphorisms are routinely quoted as if wisdom and Chaplin is seen as a great artist making significant political films.

Gordon Brown would never countenance an ostrich outfit. I don’t imagine at any point in his life he’s ever donned a pair of yellow stockings and feathered shoes. But then, can we imagine him sticking out his tongue, saying anything witty, or even making a significant political point on anything? I don’t suppose it means I should dislike him any more than I already do but it certainly doesn’t make me trust him.

And that’s why I like Bernie Clifton. It’s all a question nuance and seeing the absurdities in ourselves. Life seems so much more healthy that way.

*Thanks to David at The Spine for letting me use the picture.

The Chipster's Theory About MyBlogLog

Pour me a stiff drink. I’ve had my first comment from a real world fan! Thank you Jane, wherever and whoever you are. I'm delighted that you enjoyed the show. You have to make yourself known to me the next time you come see me perform. I’ve a complimentary thong with your name on it.

Now I’m back in Bangor, I thought it about time to take stock of my life with my blog. Jane’s comment only brought into focus my disappointment with the reality of blogging. If I performed on stage to the silence I find of the blogosphere, I don’t think the Chipster could get his shoes off, never mind the rest. And then there's all the work it takes, coming up with something new to say each day. The whole thing is a worry to me...

You know, I’m not getting any younger and I have to think about a career after the thong when my perfectly formed buttocks begin to sag. I’d hate to be still stripping in ten years time. That's why I think of alternative occupations. I enjoy writing and would like to find work crafting words, which is why keep pestering the local newspapers to see if they want any pieces of thonglateering to put next to their ads for second hand motors.

Sadly, my appeals fall on deaf ears. And I can’t help but feel disappointed that there have been far too few invites to review the papers on Sky News. The same is true of the BBC who ignore me daily. And as to the newspapers: they don’t even seem to know me. I’ve not had a single offer to write a piece for The Telegraph, The Guardian, The Times… The list could go on and on.

Yet the one place where I feel like I’ve made some progress is with MyBlogLog. I subscribe to it a while ago and have found it lightens up my otherwise drab days. I enjoy nothing more than looking at the faces of some of you visitors and trying to gues what you’re all really like. I tell you that there’s a thrill to be had by looking at the picture on the Mybloglog profiles guessing what your blogs are going to be like before I see them. I’ve studied it for a few weeks now and I’m ready to reveal my conclusions.

The Seven Categories of MyBlogLog Visitor

1. The Beautiful People

Okay. We all know that I’m one of these. You can spot those of us who belong in this category because the picture on our profile shows you how bloody gorgeous we are. We’re the type of person who really knows how to communicate with our bodies and understand every commination sent out by our bodies in return. Webcams were created for those of us in this category. As were tropical beaches, which is where most of our pictures are taken. We’re also the sort of people who look straight into the camera. You’ll know too that we beautiful people usually have beautiful blogs where you can read all about our beautifully rich lives. Admit it, you hate us and love us and you want to be just like us. Bless...

2. The Charlatans

You can spot these people because they’re usually in some dynamic pose. They’ll probably be pointing at you in a ‘get off your arse’ way. These are the people who want to change you life for the better. The photo might have been taken an usual angle, full of Feng Shui. If you click on these people’s profiles, you’ll usually end up at a blog that’s promoting some sort of modern day quackery. These are the estate agents of the internet. The faith healers. The lifestyle gurus. The career consultants. The readers of the stars. In other words, these are the lowest of the low when it comes to blogging. Avoid them at all cost and never give them your credit card details. I hate to generalise but they all do strange things with animals and smell of feta cheese.

3. The Extrovert Shy

These are the people whose have their pictures taken but then go to great lengths to obscure their identity in some way. These are the people that hide behind their hands or they use Photoshop to obscure their features. Sometimes the pictures are taken in the semi darkness. These people are a mystery and their blogs are usually equally mysterious. Satanic rituals are usually involved and they don’t use any kind of blog template. Their websites are usually built from scratch, have a black background and yellow fonts and they’ve used javascript to play a tune and turn your cursor into a magician’s wand.

4. The Extrovert Extroverts

These are different to the ‘beautiful people’ in that they’re not actually beautiful. Yet in a way they are the people who are most a home with who they are. These are the people who put their passport photos on their profiles. Their blogs are usually very open about their lives but tend to get bogged down in detail about what their cat ate for breakfast. Ignore these people. They are extremely boring. Never under any circumstance give them your home address. They will visit you.

5. The Hidden

These are the freaks of the web. These are the people who hide their identities or prefer anonymity. Sometimes they create a false persona and blog from behind this veil of anonymity. You have to watch out for these people as they’ll often use a fake photograph. These are very odd people and you can’t believe a word they say on their blogs. They will lie about anything. You have been warned.

6. The Graphic Designers

These are the people who have designed their own logo. These people are creative bores with abnormally large egos. They seem to think they are so unique they need to corporate branding. Their blogs will be extremely well put together, with great visual style. Unfortunately their content shows why they are often accused of having style of substance. Usually that substance is weed which also makes for very long and dull ramblings about the nature of peace. They will often post about style sheets and tips on setting your website out in three or more columns. Don’t contact these people as they will definitely try to sell you some of their paintings.

7. The TV Bores

When you can’t think of anything else to use as a logo, steal something from the TV. That’s the mantra of these TV bores. They are very easy to spot because they’ll have stole a picture from The Simpsons and will be going around the web claiming to Police Chief Wiggum. These are the bloggers that usually bring nothing new or original to the blogosphere. They believe that to blog successfully you must rehash what they find on other blogs. Their sites usually contain nothing but the reposted scrapings of Youtube. Don’t visit their blogs unless you want to see videos of people getting injured, dogs attacking TVs, or long 'funny' clips of Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings intercut with scenes from the original Star Trek.

Singing Profumo On A Bicycle

Some deathly silences this morning. Being exiled by a Romanian is like suffering an excess of wax in your ears. It alters your perceptions of the world. Everything becomes more apparent. Less real. Not that I regretted the silence. My post-Superbowl hangover has only just lifted after an hour spent at the gym where I tried to redeem myself with my body by burning the toxins out of my system.

As I was cycling my way to ten miles, getting nowhere but feeling better for it, I read the newspaper. It helps make the burn seem that much shorter, but unusually this morning, I only had a copy of The Telegraph with me. I found myself in a potentially perilous position. I did the only sensible thing in the circumstances and skipped the usual editorials singing the praises of David Cameron and his veritable ape house of Eton greybacks, jibbering tax monkeys, and Chelsea chimps. I settled on the arts section where I knew I’d be safe. That’s where I first read about this new musical based on the Profumo affair.

It’s called ‘A Modern Girl’ and gets a fairly average review. They note the ‘strange lacunae in this show – no Mandy Rice-Davies, no glimpse of the notorious "man in the mask"’ but conclude by saying that it ‘deserves to take its chance in the West End.’

Being in show business myself (and few cannot deny me the right to feel a special affinity towards that word ‘show’), this kind of revisionism is most welcome. ‘The Sound of Music’ might bring in the crowds, but we must do our best to encourage the original musicals. Yet even to my limited knowledge of musical theatre, I can see how the producers have missed out on a few tricks. I regret the lack of the ‘man in the mask’ more than most as I always like to hear a song where a skilful lyricist is able to find rhymes for ‘Prince’, ‘Greek’, and ‘Edinburgh’.

However, as my calves began to feel the heat of the ninth mile, I began to reflect on how much the Profumo scandal remains in the public mind. It seems to me to be a bit too old to be worth this kind of attention. Audiences want names and faces we recognise.

Which is why I’m proposing ‘John Prescott : The Musical’. Casting to begin shortly. Check press for details. Working title only.

The story, as I see it, begins in the small coastal town of Hull, where a lonely stowaway on a cruise ship decides to pay for his passage by working as a porter. I’m thinking of clever allusions to the high jinx of the Marx Brother’s ‘Monkey Business’ (1931) to begin with, as our working class hero finds himself trapped in a small cabin with men who, how shall we put this politely… ‘like to discuss shoes’.

Alienated from his fellow stewards, John (for that’s our hero’s name) goes out on the desk and sings a beautiful lament for his failing dreams and his discomfort in being around men attracted to his taught muscular body. Just as the song finishes its coda, the lights come up and from out of the water, a giant leviathan appears, clad only in fake leopard-skin. It’s that lovely dryad of the deep, Pauline, who has come to save John from the life he hates! She magics him away from that world and into the world of court intrigue where he soon rises to become the second most powerful man in the land.

I haven’t figured the rest out, but I think if I could find somebody to do the music, I could easily knock some lyrics together. I could also use my contacts in the business of exotic dancing to provide plenty of flesh to keep the punters happy.

I don’t know what you think but a man has to think about the future when his perfect body can no longer absorb baby oil.

And that was the thought I was left with when the exercise bike beeped and told me I’d done my ten miles.