SATURDAY 5th JULY
How time flies… it was two years ago this weekend that
I left Fusion for Pussycats. I never imagined it
would’ve worked out so well for everyone. To use a
football analogy, they’re a great team to play for.
We had our busiest Friday this year for the appearance
of boyband chart-topper Duncan James. He was a really
nice guy which isn’t always the case with celebrities
who visit us. Sadly, he was delayed massively because of
a motorway being shut after a crash and he didn’t stay
as long as we hoped.
A friend of mine, Toni Massive Breasts Marie –
not her exact name but you get my drift – asked me this
week whether she should change her hair colour from
blonde to brown. Hello? I don’t do head hair. It was a
bit like asking Fred and Rose West for tips on
fostering.
Jennifer was evicted from Big Brother at the weekend
with 90% of the vote and was booed so loudly it was
hilarious. Or ‘hirarious’ as fellow housemate Kathreya
would say. I watched it on Sky+ over and over and it
never tired of being funny. The vote should have been
100% of course and now, fingers crossed, the housemates
will nominate Bex and we can dispatch the vile creature
into obscurity.
I’ve granted myself a few days away from the cretins in
Big Brother. Yes, I’m in Ibiza again this week.
I read recently that Kinga from Big Brother 6 went to a
party at Amy Winehouse’s place. Let’s hope for
everyone’s sake that they didn’t ask her to bring a
bottle of Chardonnay…
Graham Norton: “Amy Winehouse performed at the
Glastonbury festival last week. Poor Amy, she had to
wade through all that disgusting muck, filth and litter…
but then she left her flat she went to Glastonbury.”
A bit of hilarity on Facebook this week as the
anti-djwanker mob upped their game. I don’t mind people
taking the piss out of me (unless they take it too far –
I’m watching, Danny) but when they pick on my
friends in an unpleasant way, it’s time to have a quiet
word. To be fair, I’ve been flooded with positive
messages from Pussycats regulars and I found that
incredibly touching. It’d take too long to thank
everyone personally but you know who you are. Thank
you... and the cheques are in the post.
One of the local hoodies – I won’t name him because
it’d be unfair to tell you it was Ross McDonald… oh,
hang on – was critical because I play off CDs instead of
vinyl. Over 90% of the music I play isn’t available on
vinyl so that kind of blunts that argument. He also said
I shouldn’t try and be entertaining. A DJ should look
miserable, with head down and say nothing, according to
him. Then again, he likes drum’n’bass and if I played
that all night, I’d probably look fucking miserable.
His main gripe
was that I shouldn’t bother with a ‘stage name’ because
it devalued the job. “You don’t need gimmick names as a
DJ,” he said. Yet on his Facebook page his favourite DJs
and MCs are called… wait for it… Hazard, Dangerous D,
Jack Frost, Pilgrim, Mampi Swift, Lemon-D, Dillinja,
Stevie Hyper-D, Bassman, Spyda, Trigga, Juiceman, Eksman
and Shabba D. Hahahahahaha. When it comes to standards,
some people do double.
Just for
the record, I chose my rather unusual DJ name because I
thought it might raise a smile from one or two people
and they would realise that it was self deprecating. A
lot of DJs are pretentious and too-cool-for-school. I'm
certainly not. My name is there to illustrate that I can
laugh at myself. It's not meant to be offensive. Most
people get the joke although I can understand why some
don't.
TV: One to miss – the new fly-on-the-wall documentary
on Living TV featuring the Cheeky Girls.
It was announced this week that the British Formula 1
motor racing Grand Prix is to move from Silverstone to
Donington Park over here in Leicestershire. I did a
double take when I heard that. I thought it was moving
to Donington in Shropshire. All those souped-up cars,
with revving engines, making lots of noise, being
totally annoying and going around and around in
circles... just like a Friday night in the Asda car
park, I suppose. The difference would be the chavs
necking White Lightning cider instead of champagne when
they’ve finished.
TENNIS (part one): I was very proud of the inspiring,
muscle-bound British hero Andy Murray when he
spectacularly came from two sets down to beat some
Frenchman at Wimbledon last Monday.
TENNIS (part two): I was so ashamed by the dour,
whingeing, miserable Scottish git Andy Murray when he
surrendered so weakly to Rafael Nadal in the last eight
of Wimbledon last Wednesday.
Tim Henman was ill on the day of Murray’s game with
Nadal and didn’t take up his place in the BBC commentary
box. So no place for Henman in the quarter final once
again.
Jimmy Carr: “The crowd got right behind Andy Murray at
Wimbledon… as they queued for the exit.”
Fuel prices continue to rocket. It cost me a whopping
£70 to fill the car up this week. Those oil-producing
Arab states have us over a barrel. So to speak.
Famous last words:
John F. Kennedy: “It’s a lovely day to take the open top
car.”
Steve Irwin: “The stingray is one of the gentlest
creatures.”
Princess Diana: “Put your foot down, Henri.”
Abraham Lincoln: “I fancy going to the theatre tonight.”
Bex from Big Brother: “Don’t worry Jennifer, they'll
never vote you out…”
A man in my home county of Leicestershire has been sent
to prison for six weeks for repeatedly failing to send
his children to school over a long period of time. I’m
not sure a prison sentence is going to deter this
pitiful man. If parents were told their benefits would
be cut or removed totally then I suspect the kids would
be sent to school rather more regularly. If the free
money stopped, how the hell would they pay for fags and
booze and scratchcards?
Bible question: Did Noah keep the bees in an archive?
Old Jokes revisited:
A man is driving happily along when he is pulled over by
the police. The copper approaches him and politely asks,
“Have you been drinking, sir?” ”Why?” snorts the man.
“Is there an ugly bird in my car?”
American actor Bill Murray has just been granted a
divorce. It’s his second divorce. Must be like Groundhog
Day.
And finally… why do you need to make an appointment to
see a psychic? Surely they know you’re coming…
SUNDAY 29th JUNE
Reaction to last week’s blog was consistent. About half
a dozen people all wrote the same thing: “For someone
who said they were lacking inspiration and didn’t have
much to say, you certainly seemed inspired and had
PLENTY to say.”
I would like to thank a good friend of mine for what he
said to me this week. The actual details are irrelevant
at the moment but it left me with a warm glow.
Conversely, someone gave me some less good news – again,
the details are not relevant here – but that’s the
ying and yang of life, I suppose.
We’re all getting very excited about our next celebrity
night at Pussycats. Duncan James form Blue is probably
one of the biggest ‘names’ we’ve had joining us and
he’ll be meeting you all this Friday (4th
July). Everyone is talking about it. The buzz is quite
amazing. It promises to be a really busy night so get
down early, avoid the queues and see Dunc the hunk in
the flesh in Telford.
Head to the gallery my friend and check out all my
weekend photos from Pussycats.
I was always brought up to take praise and criticism in
equal measure. It stops you getting carried away. I’ve
always said that I accept that some people will think
that I’m a shit, talentless DJ who plays rubbish music.
People are quite entitled to that opinion. Conversely,
there are one or two who quite like what I do. I’ve been
at Pussycats for almost two years and we’ve seen the
place become massively busy. I like to think I’ve had a
small part to play in that. People keep coming back
because they enjoy what we as a team have to offer.
However, success breeds jealousy, which is
understandable. There is now an anti-DJ Wanker group on
Facebook. It’s for people who hate me. To be honest, I’m
quite flattered that some chav has taken the time to set
it up.
This chav lists drum’n’bass as his favourite music so
Pussycats wouldn’t ever be his choice for a night out.
He describes me as a ‘flid’ and a ‘shite bag’ and says
I’m a wanker. Yes, the clue is in the name. But the
difference, my friend, is that I’m PAID to be a wanker.
It baffles me a little… if you don’t like a DJ or the
music or a club then surely you don’t go there. I
haven’t got a problem with that. But lots of people DO
come to Pussycats. They come week in, week out. Maybe –
just maybe – they actually like the place, the music,
the DJs, the atmosphere etc.
This made me laugh… the first person to write a message
on this group was a girl who used to be a Facebook
friend of mine, has a photo with me on Facebook (taken
only a month ago) while wearing an “I Love DJ Wanker”
sticker and now she says: “He’s the main reason I don’t
go to Pussycats. The music is shit.” This is the same
girl who kept messaging me on Facebook saying nice
things. Now I’m confused – I don’t know which of her two
faces to look at!
Onto other news and Big Brother bully Alex, who was
kicked out of the house, has been the subject of threats
and has had to move away with her daughter. No-one
condones threats like that but kids these days (God –
how old do I sound?) seem to forget that every
action has a consequence. Think on, children.
BB has kicked out another cretin this week. Dennis was
axed after SPITTING in the face of another housemate.
What a vile piece of work. It all started when one of
the housemates, Rex, did a daft thing, slightly defacing
a picture. ‘Slightly’ being the operative word. The
woman who painted it, Jen, went mental. She totally
over-reacted. Rex apologised and apologised and
apologised. Jen kept moaning – completely out of
proportion to the incident – and others, like Coventry
chav Becky and the two meat heads Dale and Stuart, all
joined in, blindly sticking up for her. They were
totally out of order but not as out of order as Dennis
who spat at Mohamed. It all stemmed from a small,
largely inconsequential event, people over-reacted and
it escalated. This is where people go wrong in life.
They don’t keep things in perspective. I was ashamed at
these idiots behaving like, er, even bigger idiots. It’s
easy for me to criticise because, as you know, I am
perfect and beyond reproach…
The way these people tried to defend their behaviour
the day after the big kick off was quite jaw-dropping.
Typical of modern society, they didn’t think they’d done
anything wrong and it was all someone else’s fault. I
felt my blood pressure rising watching these deluded
imbeciles passing the buck. Yes I know it’s only a
reality show. Yes I know I shouldn’t give two hoots but
I’m a passionate person and I hate irrational behaviour,
especially when there were people being picked on in
such an unpleasant way. Sarcastic, fun piss taking is my
trademark. Yes, I cross the line on occasions but it’s
never malicious. Some of these brain-dead pondlife just
have no idea.
As you can probably tell, I’m quite angry with myself
for getting reeled in by something as unimportant as a
bloody television show! I say it every year – I’ll dip
in and out but not get hooked. And then it pulls me
towards it and I hate myself for watching. It’s car
crash telly. I’m a rubbernecker. Don’t judge me too
harshly.
Now this will get you angry… A woman in Lincoln left
her two-year-old son ALONE in her flat while she went
out partying one weekend. The baby even searched through
the bin looking for scraps of food. The child is now in
care and the mother got a six-month prison sentence. Six
years would’ve been better. I’ve said many times that
people should be tested before being allowed to have
children. Thick, stupid, financially inadequate
specimens must be banned from being parents. I dare
anyone to disagree.
Athletes are now turning to Viagra as it could enhance
their performance on the track… as well as in the
bedroom. No doubt if they’re caught they’ll get a stiff
sentence. I can see it helping the men in the pole vault
although you’d have to be careful in the baton relay…
A friend of mine has got in a spot of bother with his
job. He was hauled in before the bosses for a
disciplinary hearing. He works at a helium balloon
factory. He told his superior: “I won’t be spoken to
like that.” Haha.
Jim from The Corrs… what a deluded fucking idiot. I’ll
say no more.
I gave blood this week. I wasn’t in a fight – I was
donating. It’s a worthy thing to do.
Leicester City Football Club has a new manager. His name
is Nigel Pearson. I imagine that I’m about as excited as
you by this news…
Latest pile of shite from Labour: Harriet Harman says
women and ethnic minorities should get priority for jobs
in this country. I have a really radical idea. Why not
just give the job – any job – to the best person,
regardless of race, sex or colour? I don’t care what a
person looks like or sounds like and I don’t care where
they come from. The best qualified candidate should get
the job every time. It’s so ridiculously simple.
Labour came in FIFTH place in the Henley by-election
this week. Fifth! Hilarious.
Gordon Brown has announced that he’s to give £200 to
the poorest people to help them climb the social ladder.
I can imagine the scene now in the newsagents in
Woodside: “I’ll have £200 worth of scratchcards please?”
Nah, that wouldn’t happen. They’d never say ‘please’. Or
as comedian Jimmy Carr put it: “For some, £200 is the
difference between living in poverty – and living in
poverty with a Playstation.”
Another reason why the country is going downhill: A
school caretaker has successfully sued Hampshire County
Council after falling off a stepladder. Nothing much
wrong with that you might think. However, his argument –
and, amazingly, the court agreed with him – was that he
wasn’t shown how to use the ladder properly. Yes, that’s
right – he claims he didn’t know how to use a ladder.
And he won the fucking case! Who foots the bill as this
idiot wins compensation? The taxpayer… you and me.
Sooty the puppet has been sold for half a million
pounds. When I was a kid, my granddad told me he was the
original creator of Sooty. I didn’t believe he was the
actual creator but he might have had a hand in it…
Frankie Boyle: “Amy Winehouse looks like a campaign
poster for neglected horses.”
Retired British tennis loser Tim Henman is commentating
on Wimbledon for the BBC this year. It’ll be a bit
strange for him, I guess… lasting the whole two weeks
for once. Because he’s no longer playing, the chances of
Tim winning Wimbledon are about the same as... well,
when he was playing. Andy Murray is the new great hope.
If he does well, Murray is a British hero and we’re all
very proud of him. If he does badly, he’s a miserable,
annoying Scottish twat and nothing to do with us
whatsoever.
And finally… if the police
arrest a mime artist, does he still have the right to
remain silent?
SUNDAY 22nd JUNE
I’m lacking inspiration. After writing the thick end of
3000 words last week, mainly about my recent break in
Ibiza, I’m struggling this week. Nothing much has been
happening. I’ve been a bit under the weather – as always
after Ibiza – and have done very little which merits my
usual waffle. My heart did melt on Thursday when
Aaleyah, my surrogate 11-year-old god-daughter, said:
“Thank you for being the father I’ve never had.” Even a
hard-nosed bloke like me found that terribly sweet. Her
mum (my ex) is trying to fix me up with one of her
neighbours. No thanks.
I had a really enjoyable weekend at Pussycats. Friday
was much busier than the week before and people just
seemed bang up for a party. Saturday was the usual
monster session. There’s a real buzz surrounding our
next celebrity appearance when Duncan James from Blue
joins us on Friday 4th July. Everyone seems
to be talking about it, especially the women which I
suppose is totally understandable. I’m taking bribes for
which hotties get my guestlist places that night!
It’s
worth remembering…it's not the years in your life that
count. It's the life in your years.
Morbid update: I went to see a solicitor this week to
draw up my will. I’m considering leaving every penny to
the Woodside Regeneration Fund. Let’s face it… it needs
it!
Bizarre but true: A Japanese woman spent a year living
secretly in someone else’s house – hiding on a shelf in
the closet. You won’t be surprised to hear that this
strange woman is single. Or on the shelf, if you like.
Reasons To Be
Cheerful:
You can lie on your CV and still get hired by Sir Alan
Sugar.
Heather McCartney has moved to the United States.
I now have over 1150 ‘friends’ on Facebook and more
than 600 members of the DJ Wanker Appreciation Society.
And people still expect me to remember their names in
the club! Give a man a break...
Kerry
Katona was voted as the most hated woman in Britain in a
recent poll. Cherie Blair came fifth. Whoever came
second, third and fourth must be pretty vile to be voted
worse than the wicked witch Blair.
Tunes I’m
Into At The Moment:
Sharam featuring Daniel Bedingfield – The One.
Chicane vs Natasha Bedingfield – Bruised Water.
Joyrider featuring Bros – Big Bros.
Talking of Big Brother, I see they kicked out the
rather unpleasant Alex for threatening fellow
housemates. Now they’ve just got to get rid of that Zezi
character who presents the Little Brother show. How the
hell did she ever get a job in television? Oh hang on –
that actually sounded like I cared. Rewind – delete.
Alan Carr: “The price of petrol is terrible. I can’t
even afford to fill up the car to go dogging.”
Things
You’ll Never Hear A Commentator Say At Wimbledon:
“And now it’s the all-British final…”
“Is it me or are they just hitting it back and forth?”
“Don’t you just love it when they grunt?”
This week’s ‘No Shit, Sherlock’ award goes to a
dieting doctor who said that people eating a big
breakfast would feel less hungry, particularly in the
morning.
I was in Church the other day. Gavin went mental when
he found out…
Things You’ll
Never Hear A Newsreader Say:
“And Sir Gary Glitter received his honour at the palace
this morning.”
It’s been a bad week for Sainsbury’s. Their online home
delivery service was out of action for two days. Their
slogan suggests ‘Try Something New Today’ – yes,
and it’s probably going to be Tesco or Waitrose.
Well, that’s it for another week. Not a classic blog I
know but sometimes even I struggle for words!
And finally… if man evolved
from monkeys and apes, why do we still have monkeys and
apes? And what species, dare I ask, is Wayne Rooney?
SUNDAY 15th JUNE
It’s been a busy few days since I last sat here in my
office, banging away at the keyboard, carefully crafting
those words which you seem to enjoy reading every week.
I went straight from Pussycats on Saturday night to the
airport, dashed off to Ibiza for five days before
heading back for more of the usual weekend shenanigans.
Most people were asking me what I was doing at ‘Cats
this weekend as they assumed I’d still be away. Don’t be
so silly. I’m not one for taking time off work. I’d miss
you beautiful people. More on Ibiza in a moment.
Today is Father’s Day which, along with Mother’s Day,
is the most important day of the year for me. Your
parents bring you up and do their best to model you into
the person you are now. I’m not sure mine are overly
delighted that they have a son who calls himself a
wanker but they understand it’s a gimmick, an act, a
means to an end. This week they celebrate 38 years of
marriage and if they’re half as proud of me as I am of
them, then you won’t find me complaining.
Did you
know that Sol Campbell, the England footballer who won
the FA Cup with Portsmouth recently, was in Pussycats
having it large last week? The man clearly has taste. A
date for your diary - Duncan James from Blue will be
making the women go weak the knees when he comes to
Pussycats on Friday 4th July. We're expecting a very
busy night, especially with the ladies coming to see the
big hunk Dunc.
My mate Ian Stringer was on the Weakest Link last week.
He did okay actually, certainly better than on The
Apprentice, where he got the Alan Sugar firing finger
after just three weeks. He starts at BBC Radio Leicester
this week, doing the job that I used to do in the mid
1990s, commentating on Leicester City.
I desperately wanted to avoid mentioning Little Hadji
this week but he provides me with so much material that
it’s hard to pass up the opportunity of sharing it with
you. Now you probably know that he has a worrying love
affair with his camera. I asked him on Saturday about
3am how many pictures he’d taken on the night. “I’ve
been very good – I’ve only taken about 10,” he said.
Understandably I was quite surprised and asked Hadji to
count them. After consulting with his memory card, he
said: “I’ve actually taken 48.” Hmmm, 10 or 48 – it’s an
easy mistake to make. If you’re a fool. Or drunk. Or
both. Or Hadji.
So onto my little break in Ibiza… it’s one of those
places that keeps dragging me back. It’s got an
addictive vibe and energy coupled with a chilled and
tranquil side. I don’t like pretentious Ibiza. I really
hate all that bollocks… sniffy workers in their little
cliques, wearing sunglasses at night, over-stating their
own importance. And they do this in the ‘West End’ on
San Antonio, effectively the cheesy, arse end, low rent
bit of the island. Fortunately, all the workers I know
are not like that. They’re down-to-earth and up for a
laugh. Some even wear the infamous djwanker stickers,
possibly just to be polite.
I’ve been plastering the island with stickers for the
past couple of years. It’s quite useful because if I’m
ever drunk, I just follow the trail back to the hotel.
It didn’t help my good friend Dale, Pussycats PR man and
spin doctor, when he staggered back from the bars on his
own last year. It took him over an hour to make the
five-minute walk. I think he went via a strip joint or
was maybe distracted by the chicken baguette man. Nah,
he was wasted!
I knew the weather forecast was crap for the week. The
internet told me so. It pissed it down with a vengeance
on the first day and it didn’t get a lot better after
that. Every time the sun looked like it was going to pop
out for a few minutes, I was ready to pounce for the
pool. Subsequently, I’ve come home with the worst tan
Ibiza has ever given me. Or not given me.
I worked there for six months as a 2wentys holiday rep
back in the day. Well, back in the year of 1996 to be
exact. It was the hardest work of my life for the
smallest financial reward. That said, it left me blessed
with a treasure trove of memories not to mention some
great friends. I love coming back to see them,
especially Darren, my old boss. The man’s a legend. As
head of 2wentys Ibiza, he was great to work for. He’s
still a top man now.
Darren runs a couple of bars – Rehab and Studio 22, you
can find their websites on the links page – and he never
fails to make me welcome. He calls me the gayest
straight man he’s ever met. I think it’s a compliment.
In the 12 years I’ve known him, I’ve not found anyone
who dislikes him.
First night out there I had a plan. Darren didn’t know
exactly when I was coming over so I bought a mask – a
ghastly, scary Red Indian face with long, black hair. I
walked into his bar in this disguise and held out a
piece of paper to the barman, Craig, simply saying:
“Vodka and Red Bull, please.” I went and sat in the
corner, did some crap dancing and wandered around
aimlessly for about half an hour while everyone laughed
at me. It was okay. That was the plan. Then when Darren,
Craig and DJ Danny were stood together at the bar, I
whipped off the mask. “It’s me,” I exclaimed. They
pissed themselves laughing.
Darren said it crossed his mind that it might be me
when I walked in. Yeah, right. In hindsight, it was a
juvenile plan, not even that funny but I enjoyed it.
Predictably, it didn’t take long for someone to say:
“Aagghh – take that ugly mask off, you’re scaring me.”
Needless to say they were pointing at my face AFTER the
mask had gone. Yeah, yeah, yeah very funny.
Every time I go away, I tell myself to take it steady
on the booze on the first night. It’s because I don’t
really drink back home. Every time I fail. It goes down
my neck at a rate of knots. Within two hours, I felt
ill. And by this point, I’d smashed my camera. My
expensive camera. I was not in a happy place.
My good friend DJ Jaffa did his best to sympathise.
I’ve known Jaffa about five years. He’s a top lad and an
excellent DJ. When I first met him in Ibiza, we
discovered we had a number of mutual friends in England
– Justin, Greg, Daz, Sexy and others. Jaffa works in
Eden Rooms and Play2. I got collared in Play2 by some
lass who was trying to get a job out there. She was
under the mistaken impression that I was gay. I suspect
this was because Ross, the barman and another good
friend, had told her, as a joke, that we were lovers.
It’s his cheeky Bradford sense of humour. Ross is the
most genuine bloke you could meet but the little scamp
loves a wind up.
I don’t stay at the Hotel Brisa anymore. It’s not
because we’ve fallen out of love with each other. It’s
just the guests have got louder and rowdier and a man of
my age needs some sleep. I stay at a smaller place
around the corner but the wonderful Brisa people allow
me to laze around their excellent pool area.
Salvatore works behind the bar. He’s a slightly
overweight, balding Spanish man in his 50s and you can
tell he loves his work. He’s got a smile for everyone.
What I didn’t expect was him to tell me the following:
“During the winter, I went on your website and read the
blog. You make me laugh. You talk a lot about football
and your team. They seem to make you very unhappy.” He’s
not wrong. I couldn’t believe he’d been on this site. I
was surprised he even knew how to use a computer!
Victor is the old man of the Brisa staff. Actually I
better call him ‘daddy of the staff’ rather than old
man. He does the evening bar shift but he’s more than
just a bloke who serves gobby Cockneys pint after pint.
He talks, he listens. He once said he thought of me as
part of his Ibiza family. I’ve known him a long time. He
commands respect.
As I made notes for the blog while sat around the pool,
I pondered the following question… Do people from
Northern Ireland always speak loudly or is it just when
they’re on holiday?
I paced myself better on the second night, even if I
started by knocking back pints of vodka-Red Bull in
Rehab. Pussycats light jockey IanC was watching the
Rehab webcam back in England and sent me a text setting
me the task of putting a djwanker sticker where he could
see it. So I did. Seconds later, he texted: “Mission
accomplished.” Aah, the magic of the internet.
I’m not addicted (like Hadji) to taking photos but with
my camera seemingly beyond repair, I needed another to
capture those priceless Ibiza moments… and to capture
pictures of fit women wearing my stickers, of course. I
spent £50 on a cheap and cheerful camera in San Antonio.
It did the job.
In Ibiza, whether you’re sat chilling around the pool
or throwing awkward shapes on the dancefloor, you meet
random people from random places and make random
conversations. I enjoy that. It doesn’t mean anything.
It’s a short, disposable friendship. In fact, it’s not
even a friendship. It’s people exchanging words for a
brief period; words that don’t even have to make much
sense. But as long as they are ‘of the moment’ then
that’s okay. It’s those random moments which pop into
your head months later and make you smile. Of course
there are randoms everywhere, not just Ibiza. But the
island does attract a fascinating cross section of
nutters.
Darren was a busy man during the winter doing up
Studio22. His lovely missus Jo used to run the bar when
I was a rep and Lisa, girlfriend of another Ibiza pal DJ
Jay Moore, works there. So does the equally gorgeous
JoJo. Pop in and tell them djwanker sent you. See their
faces drop and hear the words “oh yes, him with the
bloody stickers” echo up and down the bar.
I was in there on the third night and met two cracking
girls from Birmingham who I called ‘the lovely lesbians’
because, well, it was an accurate description. We all
ended up in Play2 where Jay dropped some trance classics
like Tiesto’s Adagio for Strings and Lethal
Industry, For An Angel by Paul van Dyk and
the daddy of them all, Café Del Mar.
From there it was on to Vive, run by Nathan Seal,
another familiar face, who did the closing DJ set which
included my old favourite Finally by Kings of
Tomorrow. Nathan advises me on great books to read. He
came up with a couple of belters last year. He loves his
football, too. He offered me condolences for the shower
of shite that I support.
Wednesday was a total write off because of the weather.
I barely ventured out of my room so I caught up on
writing notes for the blog, sleeping and reading. The
only time I tend to read books is in Ibiza. I can’t be
arsed the rest of the year. I must have got through
about 15 during my five visits there last summer. I
managed three last week, the first of which was an
excellent account of a season in the Premier League by
West Brom fan and cool-as-a-cucumber TV presenter Adrian
Chiles.
I then rattled through Chris Moyles’ “Difficult Second
Book” which was fairly short and to the point, a bit
like him really. I like the guy. He’s about the same age
as me and references a lot of stuff from our respective
youths. We both got into radio at a young age because it
seemed exciting and fun. He, like me, went on to be a
loud-mouth, opinionated, love-him-or-hate-him DJ. There
the comparison ends – he has eight million listeners a
day, hanging off his every word. I work weekends in
Telford! Then again, he’s happy with his life and I’m
more than happy with mine. He’s a bit of a sensitive
soul on the quiet. I only like a handful of people to
see my sensitive side – I can’t have too many people
thinking I might actually be ‘nice’ underneath all the
foul-mouthed nonsense. A girl in Telford once called me
“a poor man’s Chris Moyles” as an insult. I took it as a
compliment.
The next book I read was “Don’t You Know Who I Am?” by
former newspaper editor and broadcaster Piers Morgan. I
loved his previous book “The Insider” and this was
equally as good. It details his life after being sacked
by the Mirror and a move into TV work. I actually
interviewed him years ago when he was on The Sun and
wrote a book about Take That. Whether all the anecdotes
are true in his latest literary offering I don’t know
but he certainly tells the stories well. And he’s the
kind of shameless name dropper I like.
Wednesday in Ibiza is Garlands night at Eden and it’s
always a cracker. Before I got in, I bumped into two
girls who have been working at Pussycats recently doing
stilt walking and fire eating. They’re out there working
for the summer and were breathlessly excited telling me
about all the gigs they’ve got lined up. Then I heard
this voice shout: “Alright Mr Peters?” It was DJ Tony P
– man-about-town, friend of the stars and all-in-all a
sound bloke. We had a picture taken and, having now seen
it sober, I realise I was almost crushing the poor bloke
to death. If he’s all hunched up next time I see him, I
know it’ll be my fault.
Inside Eden, the club was bouncing. DJ Dave Booth
happily posed for a photo with a djwanker sticker on his
nose and wore it until the end of the night. I like
Boothy. He’s not your typical too-cool-for-school Ibiza
DJ. He’s mid-forties, slightly geeky and is an unashamed
crowd pleaser. He plays big tunes – remixes, mashups,
bootlegs – proper hands-in-the-air classics. The
highlight for me was when he dropped a remix of Born
Slippy by Underworld. That song exploded during my
summer in Ibiza in ’96. I also bumped into Simon Donald,
media personality and the man who launched Viz
magazine. I think he was surprised someone recognised
him. Top bloke.
The sun god smiled on my last day. He had his hat on
and was out playing, kindly allowing me the chance to
get burnt. Now I’ve been likened to many people in my
time – Johnny Vaughan, Dale Winton, Kevin Costner (no,
really) – although more recently it’s been ‘him off the
Crystal Maze’ and ‘him out of Right Said Fred’. These
pissed up Irish fruitloops around the pool called me
Moby as they thought I looked like the American music
producer. Not sure I can see it myself but hey ho.
A classic moment around the pool on Thursday… four lads
sat next to me were talking about the previous night at
Eden and mentioned these stickers that were in there.
“Did they say djwanker on them?” I asked. “Yeah, who the
fuck would call themselves that?” said the loudest one
in the pink cap, wearing vomit-inducing Fuji-film colour
shorts. Exactly!
Ibiza is not all about dance music. My mate Darren has
booked ‘The Holics’ to play a few live sets in Rehab
every night. They are superb. One of the guys is called
Stevie Sideburns and the other one is his brother. Or
maybe it’s the other way around…
I always bring about half a dozen compilation and mix
CDs for the hotel. I do it for a couple of reasons –
firstly, it’s a good thing to do, showing that care
about my friends who work there. Secondly, and more
importantly, it means I get to hear the music I want
while sunbathing. Selfish? Yes. Clever? Yes. Annoyed if
someone changes the CD? Most definitely.
I suppose I could’ve summed up the mini-break much more
simply by saying that the daytime was largely shit
because of the weather and the night time was excellent
apart from when my camera got smashed. But that would
have been extremely dull. Therefore I’ve made it even
duller by going into such great detail. Okay, so you
won’t recommend anyone else to read it but you’ve got
this far – over 2500 words – and there’s no going back.
It’s 10 minutes of your life you’ll never see again.
Let’s face it, you make the decision to come on here
and check out the blog. It’s totally your choice.
Stalkers, the lot of you – that’s what you are!
Anyway, are you up for joining me on my next trip to
Ibiza in a few weeks?
SUNDAY 8th JUNE
As much as I try and fight it, Big Brother is back to
dominate my Sky+ for the next three months. I love the
show but hate it in equal measure. I know I shouldn’t
bother with it. It just keeps dragging me back in. I
applied for it in 2003 and they liked my video so I got
to go for an audition. It didn’t go any further than
that but maybe it was for the best. The housemates are
usually just a bunch of muppets sitting around and
slagging off people. I think I would’ve fitted in
nicely…
To be fair, the opening night this year was quite
entertaining – certainly a million times better than
last year’s all-women bore-fest. It’s got some promise,
especially the twist. Mario looks like the love child of
Sylvester Stallone and Joey from Friends. Rebecca (Vicky
Pollard) & Kathreya (Ting Tong) have escaped from Little
Britain.
Imagine if Little Hadji went into the BB house. He’d
struggle without his camera, although there’d be plenty
filming him. I wouldn’t be able to switch the telly off.
It would be car crash TV but pure gold. His hyperactive
hounding would wind everyone up within minutes and he’d
be all over the women, slobbering like a dog on heat.
BB5 winner and ugly freak man-turned-woman Nadia said
this week she’s still single. No surprise there then.
Last year’s winner Brian Belo may be a genuinely sweet
and lovely guy – he certainly was when he came to
Pussycats – but is, as we know, not the sharpest tool in
the box. He was recently asked the following question:
“Dutch people come from which country?” His reply… “Er,
is it Dutch?”
Talking of Big Brother, I read with interest that
Aisleyne (from BB7) was seen out clubbing with Mike
Tyson. According to reports, he was “all over her and
nibbling her ear.” Well he had plenty of practice with
Evander Holyfield.
I imagine next week’s blog will be full of stories from
Ibiza. If last year is anything to go by – and I went
five times – then you can expect much of the same. It
will involve chilling around the pool all day avoiding
eye contact with naked women, hanging out at night with
my mates who are bar owners and DJs, photographing
randoms and being photographed with randoms, sampling
the best chicken baguettes on the planet and plastering
‘I Love DJ Wanker’ stickers on every spare bit of the
island which isn’t already covered by them!
ODD BUT TRUE: I had some burgers last week, cooked for
me by the father of telly star Gok Wan!
Rustie Lee is a legend. What do you mean; you don’t
know who she is? I’ve known her and her husband getting
on for 15 years now and we had a long chat last week,
putting the world to rights. For those of you not in the
know, Rustie’s a famous TV chef and has appeared in
EastEnders this year as Gus’s rather loud auntie. I
don’t watch the show ordinarily but I made an exception
to see her in it – she was SO funny. And that hearty
laugh of hers is real, believe me. She cracks me up
totally.
It was Little Hadji’s 21st birthday last
week. His dad got him a cake in the shape of a pair of
boobs, apparently. I hope he enjoys it - it’s the
nearest he’ll ever get to the real thing, of course.
Someone suggested his dad should’ve got a cake in the
shape of a lady’s under carriage… but god only knows
what he would’ve done with that! I hope the only thing
he would put into a cake like that would be a knife…
I got a friend request on Facebook last week from a
woman I worked with as a rep in Ibiza in 1996. She was
the one rep I really didn’t get on well with. She
grassed me up on my third night there for kissing a girl
while we were out on a bar crawl. Reps were not allowed
to fraternise with guests. She was the only one who saw
us have a quick peck and instead of having a quiet word
with me, she went straight to the boss. We clashed all
the time after that and her boyfriend made my life hell,
too.
It said on her Facebook page that her dog, Elvis, had
died and loads of friends had posted ‘deepest sympathy’
comments. I avoided the temptation of posting “Elvis has
left the building” because even I can hold back
sometimes. I’ve never had a dog – and never want one. I
find it bizarre that people buy them presents (and even
wrap them) and on occasions I’ve had a Christmas card
off friends with the dog’s name on it. You may love dogs
and understand but I don’t.
You may have seen that incredible dog on Britain’s Got
Talent – sat between Piers and Simon.
My dad has been doing some work on the family tree but
he got a bit stuck trying to get in contact with a
relative. I managed to get hold of someone via Facebook,
she passed the details on to her mum, who passed the
details onto someone else and, fingers crossed, my dad
will soon get the information he needs. The magic of the
internet! I now have a new Facebook friend who is
actually a distant relation… when I say distant it’s
something like our great, great, great, grandfathers
were brothers!
Great quote: I do not suffer from insanity, I enjoy
every minute of it.
Euro 2008 is here and, of course, no England to cheer
on. So who are you going to support? Frank Skinner,
writing in the Times, says what we should do is choose a
team to hate and then support whoever plays against
them. The man’s a genius!
I know I’m probably not in a position to question
hairstyles but I’m a little perturbed by the current
trend for women to have it bunched up at the front. It
looks similar to Cameron Diaz in the ‘jizz-in-hair’
moment from “There’s Something About Mary.” Sort it out,
girls.
Despite being old, I still know a thing about youth
trends. ‘Emo’ kids tend to be miserable, wear black
clothes, slap on too much make up (both boys and girls)
and live in skinny jeans. I always thought ‘Emo’ was Rod
Hull’s sidekick.
The BBC is planning a Christmas special of Jonathan
Creek, five years after the comedy/drama series
finished. There’s no word on them broadcasting the
highlights (or low lights) of Leicester City’s
relegation season, provisional title: “Up Shit Creek…”
I currently fancy… the woman who plays the saxophone in
The Zutons.
Manchester United got lucky in the European Cup Final
when they beat Chelsea in a penalty shoot out. It’s
often said that penalties are a lottery. So if it’s a
lottery, just give each player a scratch card and be
done with it…
Church Stretton in Shropshire has become the first town
in the Midlands to be given ‘Walkers are Welcome’
status. I mis-read the story initially and thought they
were welcoming me. Oh, just one letter out.
The man who designed the tube for Pringles snacks has
died at the age of 89. The Times newspaper reported that
his ashes were buried in one of the cans. The
advertising slogan for Pringles was ‘Once you pop, you
can’t stop’ – although, out of respect, they should
change it now to ‘Once you pop your clogs…’
And finally… why do you press
harder on a remote control when you know the battery is
dead?
SUNDAY 1st JUNE
Why people have such an interest in my blog, I really
don’t know. I’ve had more feedback about it in the last
week than ever before. It was all positive as well. I’m
thinking about making it more interactive to incorporate
your questions and my answers. Someone sent me a message
about 18 months ago saying: “Why are you such a c**t?” I
genuinely didn’t know the answer so I’ll throw it open
to you guys. This new feature is a bit like “Ask Me
Anything” on the Friday Night Project. Let’s see what
interesting questions you’ve got for me. I’ll answer
honestly or lie with my fingers crossed. Email me at the
above address.
Little Hadji is so obsessed by this blog that he was
reading it on his mobile phone in Whispers last Sunday.
He couldn’t wait to get home and his face lit up when he
saw he got a mention.
It’s his 21st birthday this week and he was
out celebrating at the weekend. He was convinced that by
wearing an “I Am 21” badge, women would instantly fall
at his feet and suddenly find him attractive and great
company. I’ve bought him a dictionary for his birthday
with the word ‘deluded’ highlighted with a bright yellow
pen.
Great quote from Pussycats regular Scotty: “Maybe Hadji should go into the porn industry
and film the stars performing – he might actually learn
some stuff about sex while getting to use a camera all
day.” I wish I’d thought of that. Hadji would love that
job… he’d get the porn stars to wear a badge saying “I
am the housewife” and “I am the plumber.”
Talking of badges… a woman sued her bosses after she
was forced her to wear a joke badge at work saying: “I’m
simple.” Quite incredibly, she won £5k in compensation –
so she presumably can now afford to wear a badge that
says: “I’m not as simple as I look.”
According to Hadji (so probably totally untrue), his
dad said to him this weekend: “It’s your birthday soon
son, so go and fuck someone.” Don’t worry Hadji, you’ll
pop your cherry one day.
He was more hyperactive this weekend than I’d ever seen
him before, so much so that I actually wanted to pin him
up against the wall and knock some sense in to him. It’s
sad that women cringe around him because he doesn’t know
how to act in those kinds of social situations (it’s due
to his behavioural disorder) and I hope he’ll take on
board the advice that I and many others give him about
not pestering people so much. He was in such a state
that even Cos, the club owner, had to have a word with
him about calming down. I hope he listens and learns.
We had some unexpected guests joining us at Pussycats
on Saturday. A couple had got married in the afternoon,
went on to the reception and instead of shooting off on
honeymoon or at least heading to the hotel for some
dirty, marital sex, they chose to come and party with
us. The bride was still in her wedding dress! Only in
Telford…
I got a phone call in the week from my Friday night DJ
partner, Redd7. He said: “Hi Geoff. I’m in the bath and
looking down at something pink, bald and wrinkly – and
it reminded me that I needed to give you a call.” I
replied: “Well as you’re looking at something small,
that reminds me I need to give DJ Ivory a ring.”
I talked at some length last week about the Eurovision
Song Contest. It turns out that the winner from Russia
is quite a big star in Eastern Europe and had his song
(and album) produced by American music legend Timbaland.
I’m told it’s the equivalent of the UK entering someone
as big as Amy Winehouse for the event. And surely no-one
in their right mind would want to enter her – apart from
Pete Doherty maybe.
I would like to see the event changed next year. Let’s
have the fittest woman from each country parading around
in just their underwear with the show presented by
someone with a lisp. We can call it… The Eurovision
Thong Contest.
Jonathan Ross: “Eurovision is tightly fixed – just like
Amanda Holden’s forehead.”
This week I stumbled across Britain’s Got Talent for
the first time. As ashamed as I am admitting watching
it, a few of the acts were outstanding. The sexy female
violinists were my favourites. I didn’t vote though. Had
I done so, I would definitely have given them one. I
think it’s time for a regional version. And now we go
live to Malinslee village hall for the latest round of
Telford’s Got Talent…
“Hi I’m Kylie; I’m 17 and live in Woodside. I’m a
single mum of six and they’re called Chardonnay, Jordan,
Chantelle, ASBO, Dwayne and Chlamydia. My talent – along
with popping out babies to different men to scrounge off
the social and get a free house even though I’ve not
done a day’s work in my life – is that I go to
Oakengates every weekend and have so far avoided being
stabbed.”
Top Gear presenter Richard Hammond has revealed that
after his much-publicised crash he developed a liking
for celery and pizza – despite not liking it beforehand.
His wife Mindy said: “Richard hated pizza with venom.”
Strange that… I prefer mine with cheese and ham.
Apparently… the
Vikings believed that Hell was cold. I'll get my coat. I
might need it.
One of the cleverest men on the planet, Stephen
Hawking, was in Leicester last week. I went along to the
talk he gave. It was an honour and privilege to meet
such a smart and intelligent man… he said to me
afterwards.
I took him a present although he didn’t appreciate the
‘Speak and Spell’ toy…
TUNE ALERT: Ian Carey – Keep On Rising... an old song
given the remix treatment. It’s a massive anthem.
I’ve been working hard on trying to get a slightly
flatter stomach ahead of my forthcoming trip to Ibiza.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle on Thursday as we all got
chucked out of the gym when the fire alarm went off. The
fire brigade turned up looking suspiciously like my old
‘friends’ Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble
and Grubb...
While we were hanging around outside, there was a woman
near me with her family. I recognised that she was the
first girl I kissed and ‘went out with’ when I was 10. I
suppose she was what I would call my first ever
girlfriend. What scared me more was the fact that it was
25 years ago!
A poll for the Daily Telegraph on Friday said the
Conservatives were now 24 points clear of Labour.
Downing Street also revealed that Gordon Brown
personally telephones random voters to talk about Labour
policy. I hope he rings me. “Gordon, you should remain
as Prime Minister. The longer you’re in charge, the
better the chance of kicking out your disgraceful lot at
the next General Election. Now fuck off.”
A newspaper has reported that the Crystal Maze could be
returning to TV screens with Russell Brand as host.
Surely they need a bald, slightly camp Richard O’Brien
lookalike to present the show. Now if only I could think
of someone who fits that description…
Big Brother is back on the telly this week. Be afraid.
Be very afraid.
And finally… why does a round
pizza come in a square box?
TUESDAY 27th MAY
More
than 100 pictures from my three-night weekend at
Pussycats are now in the gallery. Feel free to steal
them for your Facebook and Myspace accounts. Make sure
you add me on there if you haven't already done so. As I
don't have many friends in the real world it's nice to
have a few 'virtual' ones in cyberspace!
Slammin'
Sunday Part 3 - the WKD Beach Party - was a massive
success as we hoped it would be. I was taken aback at
how many people dressed up in beachwear. I had on a
flowery Hawaiian-style shirt which Big Dave bought for
me for my birthday. It was too wet and too cold for
shorts - that's my excuse anyway. In truth, I didn't
want people seeing my legs. That, coupled with too much
alcohol, might just have tipped some over the edge.
Music-wise we went right
across the board so it was bound to annoy some but
that's what we do every Slammin' Sunday. I always enjoy
playing retro dance classics but the indie stuff went
down especially well - Razorlight, Scouting For Girls,
Oasis, Fratellis, Kooks etc. The tune I probably enjoyed
most was "You Get What You Give" by the New Radicals.
There were so many highlights on a random and eclectic
night. My number one blog stalker Peggy was out in
force, shovelling bucketloads of booze down her throat
and texting me every half hour telling me how much of a
legend I am. The words 'restraining order' spring to
mind...
Those of you who love the
Slammin' Sunday nights will have to wait until August
for the next one. Those of you who thoroughly detest the
Slammin' Sunday nights can happily fuck off somewhere
else with my sincere blessing.
SUNDAY 25th MAY
When’s the summer coming? We’ve had about four decent
days and thank god I’ve got Ibiza to look forward to in
a couple of weeks.
Talking of god (or God), I didn’t make it to church
today even though I had that kind offer as mentioned in
my blog last week. Some smart arse emailer suggested the
ladies who came to my door were not from the Mormon
Church but were recruiting for the Moron Church. Thanks.
Another correspondent, however, did kindly say that only
I can make a visit from religious fruitcakes interesting
and funny. Compliment accepted.
Little Hadji didn’t make it to Pussycats on Friday. He
was perving over some models in Shrewsbury apparently
and was breathlessly excited that he got photos with
them. He was in ‘Cats on Saturday but without his
camera. He said his dad had confiscated it and he was
going to ‘lamp him’ for doing so. Brave talk – but utter
bollocks, of course. Even though he’s socially inept,
you can’t help liking him. To quote Big Daddy Merk:
“Hadji’s a good lad but on occasions you still want to
throttle him.” How true.
Despite the crap Bank Holiday weather, we had another
excellent weekend at Pussycats. Life doesn’t get much
better when you’re banging out anthem after anthem and
people are having it extremely large. Even a couple of
annoying breaks for power cuts didn’t break our stride
on Saturday. We’ve got some exciting news in the
pipeline about the future of ‘Cats but we’ll keep our
powder dry on that for the time being. All you need to
know at the moment is that if you keep coming, we’ll
keep doing the business for you. We’re a tight-knit
team, all pulling together to make your weekend clubbing
experience as good as we can.
Honestly It’s True: I had permed hair when I was about
18. Sadly, photo evidence does exist.
Big Brother is back on our screens very soon and I’ve
promised myself that this time I’ll only watch
occasionally. One of last year’s most annoying
characters was Chanelle, the Posh Spice wannabe. You may
recall she had a fling with fellow housemate Ziggy, who
came to Pussycats back in March and was one of our best
ever guests. Well, Chanelle recently decided to launch a
pop career. She said if her debut single was a flop,
she’d give up on music. The song reached number 63 in
the chart. Shut the door on the way out, love.
Talking of terrible women, Cherie Blair – Tony’s ugly
wife – has written her autobiography. Back in 2002, she
refused to confirm some information about their son’s
health saying it was “a private matter” yet she has gone
into great detail about it in the book. The loathsome
hypocrite has been paid a reported £1m for her memoirs.
That will pay for enough soap to clean the blood off the
hands of Tony and his slimeball sidekick Alistair
Campbell following the sad death of Government scientist
Dr David Kelly in 2003. Dr Kelly took his own life after
being hounded and pressurised by Labour people trying to
save their own skins. It was one of the most shameful
episodes in 11 years of incompetence from this useless
bunch of lying, deceitful fuckwits.
I hope Gordon Brown remains Prime Minister until the
next General Election. If he does, then it’s almost a
fair bet that the Conservatives will be back in power
and rightly so. Yes, all politicians and political
parties are pretty woeful but at least with the Tories
you get lower taxation and more freedom. Let’s hope the
blue bandwagon keeps rolling on and on and crushes
Labour for good.
According to reports, David Beckham will climb Mount
Kilimanjaro to raise money for charity. I have some
sympathy with Beckham. It can’t be easy putting yourself
through the pain barrier – but then again he’s no
stranger to that having been with Victoria for over a
decade…
Just a thought: The ‘tooth fairy’ teaches kids that you
can sell body parts for money.
Honestly It’s True: My first car was a tiny little Mini
Metro. How the hell did I squeeze into that?
The plastic Manchester United fans have been out in
force after their very lucky Champions League win over
Chelsea in the week. Plenty of people who have never
been to Manchester let alone Old Trafford claim deep
love of the Mancs and bang on about “their” club. They
know fuck all about proper support. Proper support is
travelling the country, following a team you have a
deep, emotional attachment with and riding the football
rollercoaster. It’s easy (and lazy) to latch on to the
most successful team. Then they start mouthing off about
how great “their team” is. I’m no Chelsea fan at all but
cheering them on was the lesser of two evils. ABU =
Anyone But United. Yes, they have some great players but
they also have some of the most arrogant and smug fans
on the planet. Winning with grace and losing with
dignity is beyond them.
Then again, I have my own worries. My team got
relegated to Division Three for the first time in their
history a couple of weeks ago. They are the team I love.
They’ll almost certainly never play in the Champions
League. They may never play in the Premier League again.
They may never climb any higher than they are. But one
thing is for certain – they’re ingrained so deeply in my
heart that, come what may, they’ll always be my
Leicester City. Leicester born and bred, Leicester to
the core and Leicester ‘til I die.
By the way, we sacked our manager Ian Holloway on
Friday night. So our colourful chairman and owner is now
looking for his sixth manager in just over a year. No
wonder we’re in the shit.
All moaning and waffle aside, life was put into
perspective for me on Thursday when I attended the
funeral of a young woman, taken from us far too early.
Holly was 26 and one of the most beautiful people I’ve
ever met. I didn’t know her that well but her dad is a
good friend. Funeral-goers were asked to wear something
pink as that was her favourite colour. It made a dark
day that little bit brighter.
It made me think about my mortality so I’m definitely
going to get around to writing a will. Maybe I’ll also
start planning my own funeral. I think I’d like my
coffin to come in with the haunting acapella version of
‘Finally’ by Kings Of Tomorrow ringing around the
church. ‘Abide With Me’ is definitely a shoe-in as a
hymn because of its sporting connections and I’d like to
leave the church with ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ playing.
It’s morbid to think about death but doing so
occasionally reminds me of how lucky I am to share
precious moments with those close to me.
Scandalous: Tiesto’s version of Adagio For Strings only
reached number 37 in the UK singles chart.
Ridiculous Explanation Of The Week: Film legend
Harrison Ford says the reason he shaved his chest is to
highlight the loss of rainforests. As I live in the real
world, unlike Mr Ford, I’m happy to admit that I do it
for purely vain reasons, because it’s tough being
Telford’s favourite metrosexual…
Honestly It’s True: I have the best academic record in
my immediate family. And that makes me proud.
Brace yourselves… Jade Goody could soon be back on our
screens. Living TV is
apparently planning new projects for her. A source
said: “Whatever she’s done, viewers have missed
watching her exploits.” No they haven’t. “We’re now
looking at what she could do for the channel.” Send it
into oblivion? The source also said: “She’s sorry (for
her mistakes) and spent quite a while keeping her head
down.” Viewers of Big Brother in 2002 will remember how
keeping her head down (under a duvet) gained her the
initial notoriety…
So it was another woeful Eurovision Song Contest for the
United Kingdom, as they finished joint bottom with
Poland and Germany. It’s not about the music any more.
It’s about countries voting for their friends and near
neighbours. The Eastern Bloc always stick together – to
give you an example of how they collude, winners Russia
received the maximum 12 points from former Soviet Union
stablemates Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Ukraine, Belarus
and Armenia. Yes, they had a good song – by Eurovision
standards anyway – but it’s all about politics. Andy
Abraham didn’t have a bad tune for us but because
of the despicable, racist nature of many Eastern
European countries, the UK had even less of a chance.
Hang on, it sounds like I really care about Eurovision…
I can assure you I don’t!
Ireland’s entry – a puppet called Dustin The Turkey –
didn’t even make the final show, being knocked out in
the qualifying round. It set me thinking… Dustin The
Turkey – sounds like a euphemism for one of my favourite
hobbies!
Canadian singer Alanis Morissette has accused the music
industry of being sexist. I hate sexism and told Alanis
that when I met her. Well it was just after I asked her
to make the tea and sweep the floor…
A Topical Spin On An Old Poor Taste Joke That’s Not
Even That Funny: Josef Fritzl – the man believed to have
imprisoned his daughter in a cellar in Austria for 24
years and fathered her seven children – is facing the
death penalty. The bad news is that John Terry is taking
it.
New Drink: John Terry Vodka = bottled in Moscow, of
course.
And finally… whose sick idea
was it to put an "S" in the word "lisp? They must have
been taking the pith…
SUNDAY 18th MAY
Apologies for the delay in updating the blog – it’s
because I spent an hour at the front door with a couple
of Mormon ladies from The Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter Day Saints. Ah yes, the world famous LDS – which
sounds like a drug for dyslexics. I took pity on them
because the majority of people probably slam the door
before they’ve had a chance to even say hello. That, of
course, would be a rude thing to do.
I’m not a religious person – aside from football, which
is a proper religion. I was interested in what they had
to say and wanted to ask a number of relevant and, to be
fair, some completely pointless questions. The two
ladies were Americans in their 20s, over here as
missionaries. I considered making a comment about
missionary positions but bit my tongue. I did invite
them in to listen to a Donny Osmond record and have a
nice cup of tea. They appreciated the joke even though I
suspect you haven’t got a clue what I mean. Maybe you
could look it up on the internet and learn something.
They also invited me to come and join them next Sunday
at their church in Leicester. I’m not sure it would my
scene really. Maybe if they sign up to the cult of DJ
Wanker we might have a deal. They did leave me a copy of
their ‘book’ to read and Sister Lambert suggested close
inspection of the bit about sinners repenting. I said I
was beyond help.
Mormons have a ‘law of chastity’ which bans pre-marital
sex, masturbation and the viewing of pornography.
They’re not allowed to drink alcohol, gamble, smoke or
swear. And they donate a percentage of their earnings to
the church. Wow – that sound just like the life for me!
As a final point, they tried hard to convince me that
God truly was my father. That’s really going to piss my
dad off when he finds out mum had an affair with him.
Newsflash: Angelina Jolie says she’s expecting twins.
Presumably in a parcel from Orphans-R-Us.
Another busy weekend at Pussycats has passed. We had a
live performance from N-Dubz on Friday. They dressed
like they’d just got the bus in from Woodside and one of
them wore a tea cosy on his head. I must be getting old
because that’s never fashion…
Little Hadji has begged me not mention him in the blog
this week although secretly we know he gets upset if he
doesn’t get talked about. If he didn’t come out with the
most ridiculous statements and questions then he
wouldn’t make so many appearances here. This week he
claimed that his parents hadn’t had sex since he was
born. “Parents only have sex to make babies,” he added.
For the record, Hadji is almost 21 and not just 10 years
old as you may think.
Not only did I manage three trips to the gym this week
but I took domesticity to a new level. I’ve never been
one for gardening. It’s not my thing. However, I twice
went to the garden centre as I wanted to brighten up my
small and perfectly formed plot of land out the back of
my Leicestershire palace. I managed to pot a few plants
– trust me… that was some achievement. Whatever next in
the domestic world – learning to cook? Don’t be silly.
It won’t be long until my first trip of the summer to
Ibiza. I’ve been watching the webcam this week from my
mates bar in San Antonio and it’s definitely got me in
the mood. Hadji wants to come with me – but I’m not sure
Ibiza is ready for him yet.
Horoscopes are a complete and utter waste of time. But
I would say that – I’m an Aries…
The man masquerading as our Prime Minister – some
miserable looking useless chap called Gordon Brown – is,
we’re told, a big fan of the Bee Gees. This, quite
predictably, allows me to raid their back catalogue and
make cheap jokes at Brown’s expense. Yes… after the
latest disasters and local election hammering, Brown is
only just Stayin’ Alive and if Labour stay in
power much longer it would certainly be a Tragedy.
Taxi for DJW!
Posh Spice has announced this week that she’s giving up
singing. What? She’s a singer?
And finally… if money doesn't
grow on trees then why do banks have branches?
SUNDAY 11th MAY
I’ve calmed down a bit after my football rant last week.
I was upset as you could probably tell. It did spark
some interesting responses. One correspondent said that
even though they didn’t care about or understand
football, she liked the way I was so passionate about my
team and the manner in which I wrote about them. Yes,
I’m still gutted about getting relegated but that
immediate pain has drifted and acceptance has sunk in.
I did manage to soften the blow a little when I played
football at the Britannia Stadium this week. That
ground, you may recall, was where Leicester had their
fate sealed last Sunday. I was playing for a media team
against some Stoke City staff in a ground that holds
27000. It wasn’t quite a full house – maybe a dozen
people were there. What they witnessed was a pretty good
display from Stoke. Their team was made up of young, fit
footballers who play to a decent standard. We were
relatively unfit and over-the-hill. It was one-way
traffic and the final score finished 15-1 to them. I
think it was 15 – most of us had stopped counting by the
last 20 minutes when the referee, out of sympathy,
allowed us to finish the game with 13 men!
I am a useless footballer. I can’t run, I can’t head
and I can’t tackle. I’d warned my team-mates this was
the case in advance so at least it wasn’t too much of a
surprise to them. Late on, I was in the box and well
placed when a Stoke player slid in and caught me. Yes, I
went down like Drogba/Gerrard/Ronaldo [delete as
applicable] but it was definitely a penalty. The general
feeling was that the player fouled should take the
penalty. And that was me. It was at the same end where
McAuley, Hume and Stearman had come desperately close to
scoring the goal which would’ve kept Leicester up.
Even though the goalkeeper was a bit of a chunky monkey
and I knew he wouldn’t move much, I just blasted it high
and hard and straight. He didn’t get near it. Befitting
my over-dramatic nature, I ran to the corner of the
ground where the Leicester fans had suffered just days
before and waved to a bunch of empty seats. I even
ripped off my shirt, letting the flab hang out. Well
I’ve seen Premier League players doing it and, just like
in proper football, I got a booking for my troubles!
Yes, I looked a complete twat but, hey, what’s new? It
made me feel a lot better!
It was a shame the game wasn’t a bit more competitive –
I’m being polite by saying their players took it a
little too seriously – but we all had a right laugh.
Special mention to my TalkSPORT colleagues Simon
Humphries (aka Petr Cech) and Ian Danter (aka Gary
Neville) and Radio 5 Live’s Darren Fletcher (aka Paolo
Maldini). Although I don’t especially resemble Ade
Akinbiyi in terms of looks or physique, I was about as
useful.
As I write this, three days after the game, I’m still
aching more than I have ever ached in my life.
It’s been a busy week for me. I dealt with the pain of
relegation by buying a new car. A bit of retail therapy
always helps. It’s the same make of car as I had before
but a much newer model, new front shape, very low
mileage and leather seats. Even Big Dave liked it and
he’s not normally a fan. When you do 20000+ miles a
year, you need a bit of comfort.
After a year’s self-imposed absence from the fairways,
I dusted off the clubs on Tuesday to take part in a
Steve Walsh charity golf day in Leicester. Walshie – as
you may or may not be aware – is a legend. He’s my
favourite ever Leicester player and epitomised
everything that was good about the club in the 1990s.
And, much more importantly, I’ve caught him throwing
some dancefloor shapes in Leicester nightclubs quite a
few times when I’ve been on DJ duty! Just like football,
I’m rubbish at golf but I enjoyed my round with the big
man. He’s quite good, by the way. It was a fantastic
day, capped off by having dinner with Willie Thorne
afterwards.
Talking of food, I went to a football lunch in
Birmingham on Wednesday. It was an end-of-season get
together for the Midlands journalists and managers.
Among them were Martin O'Neill, Alex McLeish, Tony
Mowbray and Paul Jewell plus Trevor Francis and Ron
Atkinson. That’s me done for the name dropping this
week.
So onto news of Pussycats and it was more of the same
really this weekend. Friday was a bit quiet by our
standards (although so too was Liquid in Shrewsbury so
maybe everywhere was) but Saturday was a belter. It’s
always a good sign when the night flies by. Sadly, some
idiot from out-of-town tried to make a name for himself
in room2 (not Ivory, I like him) by clobbering one of
the regulars. Fortunately, incidents like that are few
and far between at Pussycats because the doorstaff are
usually spot on. Although they didn’t let one of my
guestlist friends in but I’ll let that pass because
they’re way bigger than me! Anyway, what is it with
urban music that attracts aggressive idiots?
As part of our ‘Mega May’ promotion, we have MOBO
award-winning occasional chart botherers N-Dubz doing a
live PA this Friday (16th). I can’t tell you
any of their songs or describe what they look like but
apparently they’re quite popular on the urban scene.
Little Hadji was more hyperactive than normal on
Saturday. I think Fez had been feeding him too much Red
Bull. He was also buzzing because he managed to snog a
girl on Friday. “She was beautiful,” he said. He
probably told everyone he met in Whispers and Pussycats
that he’d got lucky. It was very sweet of the girl to
take pity on him. “We didn’t have sex,” he told us. “She
didn’t invite me in because her friend was staying
there. If she’d invited me in we would’ve had sex
because that’s what happens when you’re invited in.” I
told him that was not strictly true but quite often
Hadji refuses to believe the truth.
Quote of the week from Hadji: “For my 21st
birthday in June, I’m going to have 21 alcoholic drinks
or snog 21 women.” I think we know which is the more
likely outcome…
I have booked my first trip to Ibiza. I’m not sure
whether I’ll go there five times like last summer –
maybe that was a bit much – but we’ll see. I won’t say
where exactly I’m staying or when I’m going in case
Hadji comes to stalk me.
It was nice to see chiselled-cheekbone Ashley Cole
lookalike Mikey Darlington making a rare appearance in
Pussycats over the weekend. Mikey runs the Chilli Model
Agency and said he had some work for me. I knew he was
taking the piss and that was confirmed when he said:
“We’re always looking for people to model balaclavas.”
I’ve
had complaints about an item in my blog where I took the
piss out of fat fatty fat boy John
Prescott and his battle with bulimia. I appreciate now
that bringing it up was wrong. Well, he brought it up
first, so to speak.
Back to
football and I'm sure you'll all join me in collective
disappointment that Manchester United won the Premier
League. Yes, they've got the best players and probably
the best manager but they have so many smug, unpleasant,
glory-hunting, plastic fans that it's so difficult to
offer them a congratulatory handshake. I was hoping
Chelsea would pip them at the post - not that I'm a fan
of Chelsea by any means. Wanting Chelsea to beat ManU to
the league and Champions League is a bit like choosing
whether you want to die by lethal injection or firing
squad... both are painful but one is slightly less so.
And finally… if a 999
operator has a heart attack, who do they call?
MONDAY 5th MAY
Outside of family issues, I have just experienced the
worst weekend of my life. While I am mindful that one
has to keep things in perspective, it’s been a shocker.
The DJ-ing was good, as always, but the football was
simply dreadful.
Leicester City were relegated yesterday to drop out of
the top two divisions for the first time in their
124-year history. That might mean jack shit to you but
it means the world to me. I was born in Leicester, I
live in Leicester and the football club is embedded so
deep into my system that when I donate blood it’s blue
rather than red.
It’s easy to say you support a big club – fuck me,
there’s enough plastic ManU followers in Telford to
open, er, a big plastic factory – but to be a genuine
fan you need an emotional attachment which can’t be
bought. Glory hunting plastic fans really piss me off.
They don’t understand the true meaning of support.
I care passionately about football. It plays such a big
role in my life – not just following Leicester but as a
football reporter and commentator. It’s everywhere. I
was sent to Nottingham Forest on Saturday and they won
promotion. Yesterday was even worse with Leicester
swapping places with them. Weekends don’t get much worse
than that.
Of course I was a true professional, remaining neutral
and impartial on the radio. It wasn’t easy to keep it
together at the full time whistle. I didn’t cry – but
I’m damn sure I would’ve done had I been sat with the
fans. There was that sudden realisation that the
landlord had called ‘last orders’ and ‘time’ in the last
chance saloon where we were drinking. There was to be no
dramatic saviour. They were gone.
It was that moment when your stomach growls, the body
tightens and your eyes start welling up. Then the
presenter came to me for my report. The voice croaked,
emotion poured out of every word. I had a job to do. My
personal feelings didn’t come into it. I got through it.
Inside I was churning.
Without question it was the worst moment watching
Leicester since my dad first took me down to Filbert
Street over 27 years ago. I was just seven, nearly
eight, and we beat ManU 1-0. Not a bad result especially
after winning against Liverpool at Anfield the week
before. It’s been a rollercoaster since but never did I
think we’d slip this low.
I’ve commentated on them winning at Wembley. I’ve seen
them win trophies. I’ve seen them play in Europe. I’ve
seen them win at ManU, Liverpool, Chelsea, Villa and
Newcastle among others. Conversely, I’ve seen them lose
at home to some piss-poor teams. By virtue of being
relegated to League One, we are now a piss-poor team, by
Championship standards at least.
It would be easy for some to