THEY'RE ONLY CRISPS

I WAS at a small social occasion just yesterday when I happened to notice the crisps, or should you be in North America, the potato chips. To say I was stunned would be an understatement.
I made a note of just three of the varieties on offer. They were Texas Barbecue Sauce, Sour Cream and Onion and Thai Sweet Chilli and Lemongrass. For heaven’s sake these are crisps not poncey soaps!
Time was, and not so long ago at that, that there was just one flavour available – crisps, the only choice you had was to sprinkle the salt in the bag and give it a good old shaking or to leave it out all together.
Now we’re reaching the stage where should you happen to ask an innkeeper for a bag he’ll present with the crisp list so that you can make the appropriate choice. “Having a pint of Old Peculiar are you sir? Well might I recommend a packet of Honeydew Melon and Chive to offset the hoppy flavour?”
What used to be a pleasant little snack in a pub has now turned into some sort of nightmare ‘exotic nibbles and trendy savouries experience’.
In this, as in most things, I blame the marketing men for this. They’ve got nothing better to do all day than dream up ever more ridiculous products to part the gullible punter from his cash.
We all used to get a good laugh reading the paint colour charts – some of the titles they dreamed up for the various hues were a hoot. Now the same thing is happening with soft drinks, supermarket ready-prepared meals and the types of basic grub that should be shovelled into the mouth on the flat of the hand.
Let’s face it culinary progress of any value stopped at just about the time that draught lager started appearing in pubs and ludicrous male cooks on television.
There’s just one thing that I want from the type of cretin who dreams this sort of thing up – please, can we have our world back?

THE 'SWINGING' SIXTIES

IF like me you were a ‘child of the 60s’ or a baby boomer then you will remember the music as it really was and not as a record company executive with a budget as limited as his imagination would have you believe it was.
As midnight struck on 1st January 1960 I was 14 years old. So it follows that a decade later I was 24. Smack on the age that was the target for so much brilliant music and an awful lot of dross besides.
According to the editors of compilation albums with titles as original and attractive as ‘The most wonderful and marvellous hits of the 60 ever put together’ The Beatles and The Rolling Stones made no recordings at all during that decade. Perhaps in their lengthy titles these albums are all missing out one vital word – cheaply.
Should any Bladderistas out there be too young to remember that decade let me assure you that Herman’s Hermits, Ken Dodd, Solomon King and Petula Clark were not at the leading edge of the youth revolution. I don’t care what the money men in suits might tell you now they were not.
A list of those who were would probably fill up this blog and a couple of others as well but the range would cover a span from The Who through to Tim Rose with a lot of ground in between. Any comments listing the greatest of the decade would be gratefully received and might prove of help to those too young to have seen things at first hand.

COME ON YOU BREWERS

WELL you’ve certainly got to hand it to the Japanese; they don’t do anything by halves.
Making cameras and cars, miniaturising everything from portable wireless sets to tape recorders or invading neighbours, they set about it with a single-minded determination that almost puts the rest of the world to shame. Now, so the Daily Telegraph reports, they have shown the rest of us the best way of organising a good old-fashioned booze-up and a healthy one at that!
At the Hakone Yunessun spa you can book in a for a relaxing bathe in, of all things, Beaujolais Nouveau. Whilst relaxing in this brew, glass in hand, the customers do their best to drink themselves out of the liquid and empty the huge communal bath.
Once again the British are lagging behind. Why are we not allowed to bathe in Spitfire, Old Peculiar or Directors? Have the brewers in this country no imagination?
What could be better for the aches and pains of everyday life than a slosh around in a massive tub of best bitter, pint glass in hand and thirst at the ready? In fact this is exactly the sort of thing that our National Health Service should be promoting.
But oh no. You can bet your life that a bunch of killjoys, mealy-mouthed abstainers and retired bank managers would start their usual moaning and groaning and get the idea scrapped before it properly got off the ground.
Once again this nation drags along behind the rest of the world. When will we ever learn?

DAVID WHO?

SITTING in a pub just yesterday I found my thoughts wandering as I stared at the row of spirit bottles lined-up along a back shelf. Strangely they turned to George Brown, the old Labour politician, I can’t for the life of me think why but they did.
Now say what you like about the old boy but you can’t help remember him with a degree of affection. Which is a lot more than most of us will ever be able to do about most of the present lot.
Could anyone but the most lunatic of pessimists ever imagine that 40 years from now anyone could be thinking about David Miliband, a man so instantly forgettable that I had to check the spelling of his name before committing it to electronics yet can remember Zuckerman, from Solly a government advisor in the 1960s, with no problem at all.
So David Miliband is instantly forgettable, has as much impression on most of us as the wind does on the Great Wall of China and is probably even greeted by his own family with the words, “and you are?”
Does that make him a bad foreign secretary?
Does anybody know? Does anybody care?
His own spin doctors might have given the game away when they revealed that his first ambition was to be a bus conductor. Sadly government’s loss was public transport’s gain.
From there on it was all down hill for the public at large. Returned to parliament in 2001, for of all places South Shields, this, London born and bred, cockney sparrow was well on his way up the greasy poll within a year.
Can anyone imagine the dearth of personality there must have been in that intake if this near-invisible cipher managed to rise so far, so fast?
George Brown was a man with a penchant for the bottle, a skin as thin as an expensive condom and an ability to commit gaffes second to none. Yet political friends and foes recall him with a degree of affection, even warmth. Miliband will, inevitably, slide beneath the waters of history without even a ripple, quickly forgotten and scarcely mourned. What a reflection on the parliamentarians we have foisted on us these days.
Not that it’s a lot but I can find one thing to say in Miliband’s favour – he might be bad but, at least, he’s not Harriet Harman, and anybody, anybody at all should always remain eternally grateful for that.

BY REQUEST OF JK

JOHN Richmond has always been a friend of George Dawber’s so has a bit of a reputation as ‘bad company’ with certain sections of our community. He might be a bit of a rough diamond but there’s certainly no harm in him, unless he’s sorely tried, and that’s exactly what William Shatten did the other week.
Now the Shatten’s have lived around these parts just about since the Normans arrived on a single ticket. The last couple of generations of them have managed to make a fair bit of money out of agriculture, something that one or two other people with no particular talent have managed locally. Anyway, William, never, ever Bill, has added to the family wad of money and possessions and taken on a fair few airs and graces along the way.
The family lives in a rambling sort of a house, all black beams and white panels, that has stood like a timeless rock in the ebbing and flowing currents of time and tide since as long ago as 1978. William immediately named it The Manor House, much to the merriment of everyone else. He may not be the squire but he’d certainly love to be and never stops acting as if he actually is.
On the other hand John Richmond does, what he describes as, ‘a bit of this and a bit of that’. He’ll help out on local farms, when he’s needed, do the odd day’s gardening, casual labouring or anything else that will keep him in hand-rolling tobacco and Abbot Ale.
His cottage is, to be frank, a bit of a mess. There are a couple of derelict cars where the front lawn should be and they’re usually adorned with a few pieces of washing that have been left out in the optimistic belief that they will eventually dry off, add to that a few rolls of bailing wire, a couple of chickens and a pile of top soil that ‘might come in handy one day’ and you can see that this not a residence, old as it might be, that any photographer is ever going to consider as a suitable subject for a Beautiful Britain calendar. The trouble is that it sits right on the corner of the lane that leads to the parish church and that was where William Shatten’s daughter, Fiona, was to be married.
Of course, as with everything in her family, everything had to be perfect. A fleet of white Rolls Royces were ordered, a marquee the size of a couple of tennis courts, filled with enough flowers to keep the judges at a show occupied for a week, was erected in the garden and food and drink fit and sufficient for an army was laid on. The only fly in the ointment was that the guests were going to have to drive right past the eyesore that passes for John Richmond’s front garden. A single speck of gloom was forecast for the day. William would have none of it.
Everyone agrees that he didn’t handle the affair at all well, in fact he handled it disgracefully but, even so, opinion differs on whether or not he deserved what he got. William started the ball rolling by marching straight up to John’s front door and demanding, in the manner of a French aristocrat addressing a starving peasant, that he clear the place up and be smart about it. He then strutted away, leaving John a bit lost for words. That didn’t last for long once he got down to The Lark Ascending and a few of his pals.
John, who likes to rub along with his neighbours as best as possible, had been planning to do a bit of a tidying up operation. He was strongly advised against it. As the ale levels in the glasses on the tables dropped and dropped again the talk got wilder until revolution was in the air.
At the end of the evening a slightly unsteady Richmond was heard to ask “who exactly does that Shatten think he is, ordering me to clear up my yard like that?”
Still the cold light of day and a night’s reflection made him change his mind. He decided to do the clearing up but to leave it until the Friday, on the eve of the wedding, just to make William sweat a bit. But it wasn’t to be.
On the Wednesday the father of the bride employed a gang of men and sent them into John’s garden to do the necessary while the owner was out. A lovely job they made of it too. John didn’t see it that way though, he was furious, so were his gang down at the village’s favourite pub.
During the hours of Friday darkness they put all the rubbish back and a good lot more besides. For good measure they walked George Dawber’s horse Lucky Laddo up and down the lane for several hours. Not to put too fine a point on it George had put the poor creature on a special diet which ensured that he had a very bad case of the runs. The wheels of the cars were going to end up in a bit of a state, not to mention the shoes of those walking to the church.
And that’s exactly what happened. William was furious, The Lark Ascending rocked with laughter for two days and Lucky Laddo is back to being his normal self. It won’t end there though, of that I’m certain especially since George was heard to say that “Next time it’ll he a herd of cows”.

MR CANOE FROM SEATON CAREW

Whilst nominating the chap as my man of the year a thought struck me - is he the unfortunate victim of a conspiracy? Any of the usual suspects could be behind it all - the KGB, the CIA, MI5, Cuban exiles, the Vatican or even Prince Philip.
Were submarines operating in the area on the day he vanished? I think that we should be told? Is the Mafia very active in Panama? Did he have a double? So many unanswered questions I begin to suspect an establishment cover-up.
After all, could anyone who is not a professional politician be so utterly stupid as to throw away everything in such a ludicrous manner? Talk about snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. This man really takes the biscuit.
There could be a book in this one - a few hundred thousand gullible readers required, I can already hear the sound of ringing tills.

MRS BLADDER JOINS MURDER INC

IN our kitchen Mrs Bladder has enough instruments of death to start a small war in the Balkans. They could be used for stabbing, throat slitting or disembowelling she also of balls and balls of the wherewithal to garrotte a battalion or two, not to mention enough salt to lay-low a platoon of special forces troops.
Outside the door is a car which could, potentially, kill not only the user but scores of innocents as well. Our medicine box could be used for a fair bit of mischief too, Mrs B likes to hang on to things so could probably set-up as a freelance, independent or consultant poisoner at the drop of an out-dated prescription.
I don’t suppose that our house is unlike any other in the land – we all have the facilities available to indulge any whims we might have for mass slaughter.
So why aren’t the namby-pamby, do-gooders lining up to demand that sharp knives, cars and umpteen other bits of everyday lethal kit are banned?
Because everybody has got them and they would be laughed out of court if they dared to suggest it. So in their eternal crusade to stamp out enjoyment and merriment they concentrate on the smaller things, which may or may not be lethal, but do not enjoy universal support.
They started off with smoking; they’re half way to their ends with that one, so are now free to concentrate on the demon drink. Just you watch the pressure on that ratchet up now that the numbers of antis have been bolstered by all those former stop smoking activists. You will also notice remarkable similarities in the arguments and tactics of the two campaigns.
They may be right – smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol might kill you. But it overlooks the obvious – we are all going to die anyway. Some of us just choose to have a little pleasure and enjoyment along the way. And that is the single thing that these busybodies and killjoys simply cannot stand.

A DEADLY DANGER

WELL you can never say that The Red Bladder didn’t warn you.
Scientists, well one of them, in the form of Professor Marc Hamilton of the University of Missouri, have discovered a health risk just as great as that from smoking cigarettes and it is obviously one that is going to be banned before you can say “Have you got a light Prof?”
The Danger? Sitting down. No I’m not making it up – even I wouldn’t dare come out with anything that daft.
Millions of us who sit at desks for long periods then going home and watching TV are increasing our chances of being laid-low with heart disease, Type 2 diabetes and obesity. This risk, so he tells us in the medical journal Diabetes, is a great as smoking or over-exposure to the sun.
This is serious stuff. Thousands of pubs up and down the land are actively endangering their customers’ health by providing chairs and stools for them to sit on. This must stop and it must stop now.
The government must, as a matter of urgency, ban the use of chairs in all public places. Local authority inspectors must visit all pubs, clubs and bars in their area to ensure that there is no illicit sitting down going on. The customers must be protected from the risks and the staff must also be protected from the perils of passive sitting down by being forced to watch others practising their deadly habits.
Now it is possible that some elderly and infirm drinkers might be in need of a little rest every now and then. They must be catered for but certainly not in areas where the public have access.
The best place for these people is outside the pubs. Should landlords wish they could place the odd bar stool or settee outside, provided that it was hidden from view.
This is a matter of public health, it is urgent and it is vitally important. The organisation Action on Sitting Down and Health are already gearing up for their campaign and ministers are being lobbied. Delay is not an option – the public must be protected.

DRIVING CUSTOMERS AWAY - PART 1

PUB landlords are having a bit of a rough time of it these days. What with the smoking ban, the near-giveaway prices charged for booze in the supermarkets and the general air of disapproval around for anything enjoyable these days means that more and more of our pubs are struggling or even disappearing altogether.
Now I’m doing my bit and donating a regular amount to my favourite charity, the one where you get a pint of liquid in return for your donation rather than a paper flag to stick in your lapel.
Even so I despair over some boozers – they just can’t get it right. Why can’t some landlords realise that what will bring customers flocking through the doors in one area can, just a few streets away, turn them away just as effectively.
A few days ago I visited an old favourite of mine. On and off I’ve been drinking there for more than 40 years. Not so often lately but still regularly.
New landlords have been moved in by the pub company that owns the place. Have they got a clue about their local trade? Not a shred of one.
This is in a village on the very outskirts of a large suburban town and sits on the green. On the green itself there can’t be a property that would fetch less than £1million in what the spivs who run it call the housing market. The rest of the village is filled with dearer houses and a few that might just fetch a few bob less.
Six months ago the restaurant area of the pub would have been packed with family groups enjoying a leisurely meal on a Saturday lunchtime, which is when I visited. At the same time the two bar areas would have been packed with drinkers.
I got a shock when I walked in.
The curtains where closed even though it was a bright and sunny day. Two huge television sets dominated the bars; both were showing football which the four or five drinkers seemed to be enjoying. The restaurant was next to empty.
Now in the town, some two miles away, there would have been more pubs than you could shake a stick at showing the self-same matches, perhaps the message that all the former customers were sending to the new licensees was that they don’t appreciate soccer with their refreshments. Could be but I’m not a businessman so what would I know about it?
I quickly drank up my single pint and left. I shan’t go back. By the looks of it neither will most of the former-regulars. It doesn’t matter much to me, I live nearly two hundred miles away and only use the place rarely but some poor devils have had the only pub in their village turned into a no-go area.
I shall always think of that when I hear about the pub trade declining – some, only a few but some, landlords just don’t seem to realise what it is their customer-base wants.

LEAVE THE POKER IN THE FIRE

IT was with a feeling of deep gloom that I read a report in the Publican that forecasts a boom in poker playing in pubs.
As if the drinking classes don’t have to put up with enough already MINTEL, have come up with survey of some sorts that seems to suggest that what the British drinker really wants is to have his pub turned into some sort of Wild West saloon. Now these are a bunch that goes around stating the obvious, dressed up in flowery language at a price that would make a Las Vegas whore blush, for the benefit of anyone prepared to listen.
The report tells us that Matt King, senior leisure analyst at MINTEL, said “Live games are just as popular as online ones, and it would appear that the extra excitement and the social side of the game is an important aspect for many players”.
Senior leisure analyst eh? Sounds like nice work if you can get it.
Extra excitement! Listen matey all the excitement I want when I’m in the boozer is to know if the next pint is going to be a decent one and if not just how quickly mine host will change the barrel if it isn’t.
I know that pubs are struggling under a welter of ludicrous bureaucracy, pettifogging laws and unwanted visits from various inspectors, commercial travellers and customers wanting to drink fizzy water and a cup of Horlicks but come on.
Darts – fine, cribbage – OK even the occasional frantic bust of Pin the tail on the MP but poker?
No Mr King you go back to throwing the bones, casting the runes or whatever else a senior leisure analyst does to fill the long hours while the pubs are closed and leave the rest of us to have an enjoyable and relaxing pint or 18 in a bit of peace and quiet.

ONE FOR THE POT

AT this time of year many-a-thought turns to making a few quick quid. For those of you who see themselves as entrepreneurs in the making or just want to make a few extra bob I’ve had this idea for years and have finally decided that I’m never going to get round to doing anything about it so will share it with you.
One thing is certain – there’s a fortune to be made.
First thing you need is a bit of land, it doesn’t need to be very big but it does need to be beside a road – the busier the better.
Once you’ve got that you go out and buy yourself a few baby turkeys. Feed them up, cherish them and generally look after them as though they were your own children until they are fully grown, nicely plump and ready for cooking.
That’s when the money starts to roll in.
Because outside your premises you erect a large sign that tells the waiting world ‘Free range Turkeys. Kill your own.’
Those six simple words will, in one way or the other, appeal to everybody.
The green fraternity among us go for the ‘free range’ bit as will all those opposed to ‘factory farming, would-be country people always go for pick-your-own or anything else that lets them kid themselves that underneath their veneer of city living they are, at heart, horny-handed sons of the soil. And for the small, but economically important, group of psychopaths among us the invitation to kill your own would prove irresistible.
An added attraction could be offered in a choice of the method if despatch. Shotguns could be available, for hire of course – extra money rolling in there, ropes for strangling, wire for garrotting, axes for decapitating and daggers for stabbing.
Start this up and you will have them queuing right up the by-pass and as far as any supermarket in the vicinity.
Why not give it a whirl – I’ve seen dafter ideas succeed in the festive season.

A CHANGE OF BEER

THE Red Bladder is away for the weekend so will not be posting for a couple of days. This is due to his daughter getting married and wanting to be given away. All of which means that he will be spending a little time in Greene King territory where, with a bit of luck and a touch of crafty planning, he might manage the odd pint of Abbott Ale. In the meantime why don't you have a crafty peep at some the stuff here and then drop him an e-mail to let him know the sort of thing that you enjoy and would like to see more of. The Red Bladder likes to think he is accommodating. Best wishes to you all and keep checking in for all the latest developments.

A PINT WITH A VIEW

ONE of the great joys of life is slipping along to the pub for a quiet drink, a bit of idle chatter and a lot of laughter. It makes you feel better for having done it.
For myself I can’t even bear music in a pub, it is often so loud that you can’t hear anything else and is usually for the benefit of the staff rather than the customers, which strikes me as no way to run any sort of business.
This summer’s ban on smoking has already torn the atmosphere out of many of our hostelries up and down the land and now things look to be going from bad to worse.
According to the Morning Advertiser, the trade paper for those who dispense life-sustaining beverage, more and more pubs are having to resort to having strippers to attract trade, so much has it fallen since customers are no longer allowed to light up.
Dawn Pugsley, of Angels Exotic, an agency that supplies the young ladies says her trade is booming, “We are getting a lot more enquiries from pubs and the numbers have risen sharply over the past few months or so. Licensees are telling me they are being forced to look at alternative forms of entertainment because they are struggling so badly.”
Strippers in pubs! Whatever next, bingo sessions in Canterbury Cathedral, a herd of Goats wandering around the British Library or Go-Kart racing around the boundary of Lord’s?
I know that there used to be some pubs, rough ones, that used to have these sessions on Sunday lunchtimes but they could be avoided and anyway they catered exclusively for the sort of clientele that likes that sort of thing.
Now it’s spreading and the poor landlords are having to do it out of sheer desperation – anything to get money passing over the bar.
What a pretty pass it has come to when one of our great institutions is well along to road to being wrecked and all by a bunch of do-gooders who never used the places anyway. Talk about throwing the baby out with the bathwater. And all from the very people who assured us that pubs would become more ‘family-friendly’ once smoking was banned.
But it’s the landlords who are suffering, condemned by the likes of me for having strippers, faced with ruin if they don’t.
Peter Hampton, the licensee of one establishment showing this form of entertainment says the business brought in by the strip shows has balanced smoking ban losses. “We are a beer pub and 95% of our regulars are smokers, so the ban hit us badly when it first came in.
“We started the shows a fortnight after the ban started and it’s definitely worked for us. Before we would have between 10 and 15 customers in here on a Monday, but now we are getting up to 50 people in the bar.”
I wish I could argue with that but I can’t – some people will only be satisfied when the last pub in Britain closes its doors for the last time. God rot the lot of them.

'IT'S NOT MY DAY' DAY

DAVID Cameron has declared that today is non-election day and thinks that Gordon Browns decision, taken over three weeks ago, not to call a plebiscite today is going to prove unpopular with voters.
Not, as some might say, on your Nellie matey. As well as non-election day it is also ‘haven’t been bored rigid by party political broadcasts day’ as well as ‘haven’t had my letter box stuffed with meaningless bumf day’ and ‘I have been able to walk along the high street without some half-wit with a manic grin on his face trying to shake hands with me day’.
If he was really honest ‘our Dave’ would also admit that whole swathes of his candidates will have been heartily grateful that today wasn’t ‘lost my deposit day’, ‘blow it now I’ll have to find a proper job day’ or ‘perhaps next time, if they’ll have me again day,.
And if he were totally truthful with himself, and what politician is ever that, he might have a sneaking suspicion that for him it might just have been ‘now where did I put that draft of my resignation letter day’.
Back in Downing Street a certain Scotsman might well be raising a glass to toast ‘national phew got out of that one and something good must turn up soon day’.

SCREAMING LORD WHO?

WHENEVER I want to let a bit of sanity into my life I return to the press of 1966. Lately I’ve being doing a bit of researching, or idly turning the pages of old newspapers whilst waiting for the pubs to open, of the general election of that year.
Anyway it was at this shindig that Screaming Lord Sutch first showed his political face.
He stood, against Harold Wilson, in the Huyton constituency for the National Teenagers’ Party; he had yet to come up with the Monster Raving Looney bit.
His ‘platform’ had three main strings, which were regarded, at the time, as a bit outrageous, if not wildly stupid. They were: votes at the age of 18, the introduction of commercial radio (the legalisation of the pirate stations) and allowing pubs to open all day.
Which begins to make me wonder just who were the looneys? Then, as now, probably all professional politicians or they wouldn’t be in the job.
Now I’m not for one moment suggesting that old Screaming was some sort of HG Wells or Jukes Verne but he was a bit ahead of his time wasn’t he?

LIVING CAN SERIOUSLY DAMAGE YOUR HEALTH

“EATING red meat and drinking alcohol, even in small amounts, increases the risk of developing cancer, a global conference will hear tomorrow”. The Daily Telegraph tells us with all of its usual straight-faced solemnity.
This conclusion has been reached by a bunch of scientists who have spent the last five years studying the subject.
No doubt they weren’t the same researchers who recently told us that quaffing red wine as though it were all going to dry up tomorrow helped prevent cancer. Or the other lot who told us that drinking any alcohol increases our chances of avoiding the disease.
I haven’t got a crystal ball but it’s got to be the contents of Bill Gates’ wallet against a week old, losing lottery ticket that within a couple of months yet another bunch will come along and urge us to scoff as much roast beef as we can and to make sure that we wash it down with buckets of real ale – that’s the sort of advice I would listen to.
In the mean time I really think it is high time that the government stepped in and issued a health warning about all these health warnings. People are getting worried by it all and worry causes stress which leads to illness – probably even cancer.

A NICE PAIR OF CRUSHERS

A BARMAID in Western Australia has been fined $1,000 for performing a fairly memorable stunt in her place of work. Somehow she crushed beer cans between her bare breasts.
Luana De Faveri, 31, was fined $1000 in the Mandurah Magistrates Court after pleading guilty to two breaches of the Liquor Control Act. The local police said, De Faveri twice exposed her breasts to patrons in the Premier Hotel in Pinjarra, 87 km south of Perth, reports the Sydney Morning Post.
Her colleague, Tracey Amanda Leslie, was fined $500 after pleading guilty to assisting the commission of a breach of the act by helping hang spoons from De Faveri's nipples.
Even the landlord ended up before the bench, Roy Williams was fined $1000 for failing to stop the women's behaviour.
Superintendent David Parkinson of the Peel Police said, "It sends a clear message to all licensees in Peel that we will not tolerate this type of behaviour in our licensed premises”.
Now whilst Luana might not be exactly the sort of woman you would want to take home to tea to meet your mother she most definitely has a rare talent. Hughie Greene never had anything like that on Opportunity Knocks.

MANILA POLL LATEST!

THE headline to today’s front page lead in the Manila Times says it all really, “Polls generally peaceful with only 23 dead, authorities say”.So not much of a story there then.
Mind you these were only local elections. In May’s national poll they managed to clock-up 121 fatalities. No wonder then that Avelino Razon Jr, the director general of one the participating parties, was able to boast to reporters that “at the rate we are proceeding, we can see a largely honest, orderly and peaceful outcome of these elections”.
Orderly and peaceful – with 23 dead! What exactly do you have to do in the Philippines to be adjudged disorderly?

CAMPERS SAY "THE EXCITEMENT IS INTENSE"

ACCORDING to the latest report pitching a tent and getting the primus out for a camping holiday may soon be a thing of the past.
A report from Mintel, quoted in the Daily Mail, shows that the numbers of holidaymakers slipping long socks under their sandals, whilst wearing shorts, knotting the corners of handkerchiefs and using them as hats and knocking on about guy-ropes and ground sheets has dropped by some 20% in the past five years.
The market research company’s report goes on to predict that camping will decline by a further 23% in the next five years.
This could well be because the numbers of those prepared to face gale-force winds, monsoon-style rain and freezing temperatures protected only by a sheet of thin canvas is declining simply because those willing to do so are dying off. Probably due to a mixture of hypothermia, pneumonia and boredom.
But the suburban Bedouin’s champion, the Camping and Caravanning Club, will have none of it, saying that "camping is actually quite trendy at the moment and many families want to give their children a back to basics experience”.
Well this summer’s weather will certainly have got them back to basics. Sliding about in mud, putting on soaking wet clothes each morning and trying to light a stove with a box of wet matches are obviously not only enjoyable, they are character building.
Will all those looking forward to repeating the experience next year form an orderly queue in the nearest telephone box.

THAT'S NOT A BONFIRE, THAT'S ELVIS

THE annual Guy Fawkes night celebrations in Slough will be missing a bonfire this year. It is to be replaced by an Asian Elvis Presley impersonator.
Needles to say it is all the doing of those merry pranksters down at the local health and safety fun factory.
Slough Borough Council, a force to be reckoned with in those parts, has decreed that a bonfire would be unwise “since sparks may fall on the crowd and the move will also prevent air pollution”, reports the widely-read and authoritative Slough and Windsor Observer.
Last year many regulars to the event were a touch miffed when the bonfire was replaced by some trapeze artists and a laser show. This year the circus act will be back but the lasers have been dropped in favour of Slough’s very own response to the King of Rock and Roll.
Of course there will be fireworks but no doubt those sons of fun down at the town hall will be keeping a very close eye on the proceedings – after all some of them might produce sparks and smoke.

HAVE YOU GOT A DUTCH CAP FOR MY DUTCH WIFE?

JAPAN’S lonely amateur photographers have a new source of inspiration to get them snapping.
Orient Industries, the nation’s leading manufacturer of silicone inflatable life-sized dolls, known in Japan as ‘Dutch Wives’, is offering a 200,00 yen (£850 - $1700) top prize for a shot of the photographer’s best and most intimate friend.
The Candy Girl Photo Contest is being held to celebrate 30 years of the sex aids production and, reports Mainichi Daily News, is expected to attract a huge number of entries.
As well as the cash prize the winning shot and those from runners-up will be exhibited in the prestigious Moto Azabu Gallery in Tokyo.
Clearly the sponsors do not expect any degree of embarrassment preventing entries for a contest that, in other countries, might be seen as attracting only those with rather fewer of the social graces than many of their fellow citizens.

DRUNK IN CHARGE OF AN UGLY WOMAN?

THE NHS have produced a leaflet which attempts to bring home one of the best reasons yet why young men should not fill their boots with lager and then go off with a woman.
If they do, the leaflet warns, they might wake up with an ugly one.
The writers of government leaflets might not be aware of it but some poor devils have been doing that for years and not a drop has passed their lips since their ill-fated wedding nights.
The Sunday Mirror tells us that the pamphlet gives youngsters the invaluable advice. "That person you're pulling might look gorgeous after a few drinks. But what about in the morning?" That ignores the fact that the waking up might do more to frighten them off the booze than any number of leaflets lying around in doctors’ surgeries, hospital out-patient departments and land-fill sites around the land.
All of which is pretty insulting to ugly women everywhere. What about girls who have a skin full and wake with a cross between Quasimodo and Andrew Lloyd Webber? It’s possible that they might feel a bit let down by the whole experience and decide to foreswear the demon drink for good and all.
As a man who has indulged himself since before Harold Wilson became Prime Minister for the first time there is only one thing that would make me moderate my intake. Without doubt that is the fear of waking up after a session and finding that I’ve been reading the sort of drivel put out by a bunch of government-employed health fanatics and kill joys.

SEX WITH A BIKE? THE MIND BOGGLES

TODAY’S Daily Telegraph brings us the sad story of an Ayr man who has been convicted of attempting to ‘have sex with a bicycle’.
Robert Stewart has had his sentencing deferred and placed on the sex offenders register. Of course he should be – after all in this, once great, nation of ours bicycles must be free to lean against lampposts, sit in racks or be propped against pavements without fear of molestation from any passing pervert.
No doubt the bicycle has been offered counselling and a visit from the local Victim Support Unit. But is that enough?
For too long our bicycles have been abused and, often, treated as mere sex objects to be used and discarded at the whim of men. Stand up for the bicycles, say I – or is that what got poor old Robert into trouble in the first place?

"STINKING" CIGARETTE SMOKE

IT’S STARTED. On the very day that The Red Bladder warned of the coming attacks on our pubs , the The Publican, the newspaper for the trade, reports that Chelmsford Borough Council are harassing a pub landlord for a “nuisance caused by odour from cigarette smoke”.
The Queens Head in Boreham, Chelmsford is now to be monitored under the Environmental Protection Act 1990. This all comes in response to a complaint from a neighbor.
Half a dozen or so of the pub’s drinkers gather in the garden to smoke, as they are now forced to do. This happens some 20m from a six foot high fence which separated the pub garden from the neighbor’s premises – so the smell of smoke must be absolutely overpowering!. This neighbor has now complained, in much the same way as those moving to Slough, in west London complain about the noise of aircraft arriving at Heathrow.
So now the poor old landlords can’t let their customers smoke in the bar and are likely to face the wrath of some jumped-up town hall official if they let them smoke outside.
Is it any wonder that hordes of them are lining up to leave the trade.
The attacks on our enjoyment are being stepped up. These people are determined to stamp out all forms of smoking anywhere. Then they can get down to working on the big one – a ban, or a severe restriction on the consumption of, the demon drink. It’s going to happen – it will take time but it will happen. Non-smokers generally feel that this is not their battle and has nothing to do with them – it will be, it will.

SAVE OUR PUBS

THE WAY things are shaping up this young generation could be the last to see the pub, as an institution, last through their lives.
That might sound a bit drastic, even alarmist, but if we follow the path that we’re being led down by an ill-matched coalition of government departments and advisors, assorted health-freaks and fanatics, down-and-out kill-joys and the sort of half-wits who will fall for any old bit of mumbo-jumbo so long as it is dressed up as pseudo-science then that will be the result.
Make no mistake about it this is war and it is one that those of us who enjoy a drop of booze, convivial conversation and the sound of laughter cannot afford to lose.
Those that would have had us believe that even a whiff of stale cigarette smoke, at a range of a bar’s length and a half, would make us drop down dead on the spot have won that battle and they’re moving on.
Now they are trying to strike fear into the hearts of those who enjoy a single glass of wine each evening by branding it hazardous drinking. By the Department of Health’s own admission the safe drinking limit figures were simply plucked out of the air but the gullible, the foolish and those who are hell-bent on destroying any of life’s pleasures are all too willing to believe them and heap their prissy, do-gooding, holier-than-thou disapproval on anyone who breaks the limits by as much as a sip.
Hell’s teeth they are a miserable bunch of old women, of both sexes.
At the moment all we have to put up with is their disapproval but, mark my words, the misbegotten bunch of melancholy misfits will soon be demanding action. If people won’t stop drinking to excess voluntarily, and that starts at two, yes two, pints a day, then they will have to be forced to comply.
How will they do it? Heaven knows but they’ll come up with a scheme – they’ve got nothing better to do with their time than stopping others enjoying theirs so they will ample opportunity to lay their plans.
The law will be invoked, limits will be strictly enforced, inspectors will visit and offenders will be dragged up before the beak.
Who, even 10 or 15 years ago, would have believed that it would ever become illegal to smoke in a pub? But it has. The poor old publicans are seeing their trade, their profits and their livelihoods slowly vanish at a rate that is certain to increase.
Soon it will booze that the interfering busy-bodies who elect themselves as the guardians of our health will be attacking.
Those of us who enjoy pubs, who relish pubs and even love pubs have got to act. If we lose them it will be our own fault. This is one British institution that we cannot lose, one that must be preserved at all costs. I, for one, am never going to allow some lentil-eating, silly-hat-wearing, self-serving, puritanical misery guts dictate how much I can or can’t drink
Drinkers and those who enjoy convivial company always remember – it is your patriotic duty to drink in pubs. We all owe it to future generations.
Let’s start a campaign and let’s start it now.

A BICYCLE MADE FOR VOUS

CHANEL, you know - that French lot who knock-out scent for mugs with more money than sense, have come up with a great wheeze.
Their latest product, due to be released in December, is a bike. But not any ordinary bike, of course, no this one has got a quilted chain guard and three small carrying bags, plus a pump. With a price tag of £6,000 anyone would expect at least that.
The daft thing is I know that there are idiots out there who will buy this ludicrous product - for once I'm almost beyond words. But bloody and lunacy are two that spring to mind.

EVEN THE PM NEEDS A HOBBY

THERE is one thing that Gordon Brown could do to improve his peace of mind, mental energy and that general feeling of well being that is so vital for those running a complex and labyrinth political machine, not to mention tinkering about with a government. To do it he will have to take a page or two out some of his predecessors’ books, not least that old Liberal William Ewart Gladstone.
Now I’m not for one moment suggesting that the present occupant of 10 Downing Street should start raking around the streets of London by night looking for fallen women so that he can save their souls but at least the Grand Old Man had something to switch his thoughts to rather than solely concentrating on the job at times of extreme stress. It must have given him a real interest and the memories of his nocturnal forays amongst the stews of the city must have helped to take his mind off of proceedings during long and boring Parliamentary debates and cabinet meetings.
The trouble with our leader is that apart from telling fairy stories to a willing and naive audience, reading to his children and having his hair cut he has got no outlets or interests outside of running the badly squeaking machine that is our present government.
Even an hour two pottering about the garden might help, although the sight of all those weeds might send his thoughts straight back to work.
There are plenty of precedents for a Prime Minister to have an outside interest. Besides Gladstone and his whores there was Edward Heath and his music.
When the French, the miners or the right wing of his own party got too troublesome he could always sit down and play his way through a Bach fugue or a couple of Chopin etudes to help clear his mind. If things got really bad then he could even escape across the bounding main on board his boat, Morning Cloud, in those days no mobile telephone could have taken his attention away from his navigation and sent it crashing back to the woes of the three day week, Harold Wilson or that woman at the end of the cabinet table who kept glaring at him in a rather odd way.
Winston Churchill was another PM with the ability to unwind completely. When things got too much and even brandy could not relieve the pressures of high office he would set up to his easel and dash off another attractive little water colour. He gained so much pleasure from the pastime that he even spent holidays painting favourite scenes – it must have beaten the devil out of going to Tuscany with a lorry load of advisors and communication equipment.
Even at the hour of the greatest defeat suffered by a party leader in the last century John Major managed to keep the sense of values and perspective that an outside interest gives. Did he sob and wail? Go on television to berate the rats who had let him down at his hour of greatest need? Not a bit of it. He sloped straight off down to the Oval and watched a day’s cricket. Dignity and decorum, did any other PM ever hand over the reins of power with so much of both?
Gordon Brown has none of these none of these diversions to fall back on. He might spend the odd evening poring over opinion poll findings, studying the small print of a couple of Acts of Parliament or setting out a few more strategic targets for local government to achieve in the next century or two but as for actually relaxing and taking his mind away from the office and all its cares he seems to be completely lacking the wherewithal to let go and get rid of a bit of steam.
An interest, a hobby or an avocation is something that everyone should have, more so those who find their work stressful and packed with pressure. If playing tennis and jotting down the odd song were good enough for Henry VIII then Mr Brown should take stock and think about an outlet.
Now I reckon that he should look no further than a previous distinguished, as well as the first, holder of his post, Horace Walpole. Throughout most of his 21-year premiership old Horace was renowned in certain circles for the quality of the beer that he brewed himself.
It might be difficult to picture our Gordon spending his spare time mashing grist, boiling wort and racking the ensuing jollop but a closer affinity with a decent drop of ale would do him no harm at all.
Instead of spending his spare time sitting on his best sofa reading the contents of ever-more red boxes he should take himself off for a walk to a handy and convivial local pub. There a couple of pints would help relax and refresh him and, with any amount of luck, the company would give him a far better idea of what is really going on in the country than any number of spin doctors, focus groups and other assorted political riff raff.
After all, whichever pub he chose for his visits, it’s certain that the regulars would tell him all about their troubles with public transport, their and their relatives misfortunes at the hands of the health service and a host of their other everyday worries and problems, the sort of things that concern people, in their millions, in pubs, clubs, cafes and fast food outlets up and down the country.
But it wouldn’t all be doom and gloom. There would also be laughter, good cheer and general merriment – just the sort of thing that is certain to take away the cares of the day and help anyone to put professional worries and concerns into proper perspective.
He would end his evening, or session, as regular drinkers soon learn to say, relaxed, convivial and absolutely certain that he would awake after a refreshing sleep able to solve all of the world’s problems before a swift lunchtime bracer, so there wouldn’t even be any huge change in his confidence level.
Provided he learnt to get his round in on time, didn’t hog the conversation with eternal preaching and laughed at all of his companions’ anecdotes he would soon build up a circle of acquaintances with as much knowledge and wisdom as could be found on any wet Thursday afternoon in the whole of Whitehall.
In fact the whole scheme could be summed up in a simple motto which Mr Brown would do well to adopt, it is ‘Drink more, listen more and do less’ it would make him happier and it would make the rest of the country happier. Can you ask for more than that?

NEW COLLECTIVE NOUNS

A stagger of drunks
A box of cricketers
A board of estate agents
A froth of lager louts
A post of bloggers

Any More?

A DECENT LITTLE PUB IN MIAMI?

“WHY Bladder”, my closest friends always drop the Red bit, ask my American readers, “don’t you come over here and try the beer?”
Well I have and some of it is not bad at all. There’s a fair few micro breweries around that turn out stuff there bears the odd quaff or 20. But I’ve never had a lot of luck over in USA in fact just about every trip I’ve made there has ended in some sort of disaster or the other.
My first trip, and they have all been for work rather than holiday reasons, was to Miami Beach to report on a convention.
Now, like a fool, I had always imagined that Miami Beach was the seaside part of Miami – well it’s not. It is a long thin spit of land off of the mainland and joined to the big bit of America by causeways.
Anyway a couple of chums asked me to dinner in their hotel one evening and we all had a jolly good time and a few drinks, as you do on these occasions. When we had finished everything that had been placed before us my friends suggested that we have a drive round, they had a hire car, and find a cosy little pub for a drop of two of the local brew.
So off we set having no idea where we were going. Over the causeway we drove, three innocents abroad, into the heart of the city of Miami.
Now this was in 1981 and things were a bit lively around those parts then. Purely by chance we found ourselves driving through an area known as Liberty City.
Gangs of locals started to wave and shout at us. We thought that they were welcoming foreign visitors and showing the sort of hospitality for which America is famous.
They weren’t. Rather they were trying to finish off what General Andrew Jackson had done to the British Troops at New Orleans in January 1815 and we would be taking the part of the Redcoats.
Once we realised that we did what any stiff-upper-lipped British gentlemen would have done and high-tailed out of the there like a Buddhist monk out of a Maltese brothel.
Ignoring red lights we flew along the streets as fast as the hire car could carry us. We had no fear of the police – in fact we would have welcomed being pulled over by Dade County’s finest, we would have been safe and small matters like speeding’ jumping red lights and other law contraventions could have been sorted out in the safety of the police station.
Well we got of there in one piece but we never did find a decent pub.
Other trips I’ve made to the states? Well briefly I got robbed in Chicago, broke my ankle in Dallas and stranded in Los Angeles. All of which would take up too much space for now – but perhaps another day – if you’re good.