#11 - The Curious Incident of Bill Nighy and the England Football Team in the, er, Night-Time

In the week of David Beckham’s recall to the England squad, Bill Nighy – yes, that Bill Nighy – has felt compelled to go public to express his consistent and undiminished support for his fellow national treasure. It turns out that he was so incensed by Beckham’s exclusion from the team last year that he actually went so far as to write to the footballer’s management to sympathise.

Nighy told The Sun the other day: "I wrote to David to say I thought it was unfortunate he was no longer part of the England set-up. I had a bee in my bonnet. Let's just say I was confused by the decision and I thought I'd like to disassociate myself from it”.

Well, thank God that’s cleared that one up. At least Nighy has finally done the decent thing and clarified his role in Beckham’s omission. I just hope we can now draw a line under the whole sorry affair. But if he’d only come forward earlier, perhaps we could have avoided the kind of understandable confusion that I overheard from a neighbouring pub table recently.

Man 1: The England team are going from bad to worse. Why did we have to jettison our talismanic captain David Beckham so prematurely?

Man 2: I couldn’t agree with you more. It’s all very well wanting to make a clean break, but we just didn’t have a player of sufficient quality to replace him.

Man 1: That bloody, meddling, Bill Nighy!

Man 2: I know! Why can’t he stick to light romantic comedy acting? Aren’t all those awards enough for him? Why does he have to exert such all-pervasive influence over the national football team as well?

Man 1: Only the actor Nighy seems to believe that Shaun Wright-Phillips has the chops to adequately fill the right midfield position. Performances certainly haven’t borne this out.

Man 2: Far from it. Talk about Shaun of the Dead!

Man 1: And apparently the elegantly weathered star is said to be continually interfering in the maintenance of the national team’s playing surfaces.

Man 2: Well, I’ve heard of The Constant Gardener, but that’s ridiculous!

Man 1: Come on Nighy – bring back Becks now.

Man 2: Yeah! We want The Lost Prince back!

Man 1: I haven’t heard of that one.

Man 2: Nor me. I just looked it up on Wikipedia. The wi-fi in this place is great!

Man 1: I haven’t felt like this since Terry Scott kept Glenn Hoddle out of the 1982 World Cup team.

Man 2: And just what did Victoria Wood have against Matt Le Tissier?

Man 1: Hold on, who’s that listening in to our conversation on the next table?

Man 2: Isn’t that Barney Myerson? I expect he’s writing one of those Naptime 500’s.

Man 1: Well he hasn’t got anything like 500 words there. And I’ve completely run of things to say.

Man 2: Me too!

Man 1: Did you know that Leslie Crowther was Phil Lynott’s father-in-law?

Man 2: Yes.

#10 Jeremy Clarkson: Fancy a Ginger Beer?

I’m not always the best judge of character, but if someone solemnly assesses that something is “political correctness gone mad”, I can be pretty sure that someone is a bona fide tosser.

Jeremy Clarkson is clearly one of that number, a sort of public-school, lanky Gary Bushell. Sporting a blazer, and a grain-sack gut spilling from suffocating drainpipe jeans, he made his name coochy-cooing at whopping engines, and starting sentences with: “If this car were a bird...” Thereafter he spent much of his time verbally holding his nose and making a flushing gesture, littlejohning on about speed cameras and tree huggers sending this country to the dogs.

For sure, an easy target for whiney, wishy-washy, baa-baa-black-sheep-banning poindexters. So the BBC must brace itself for charges of overreaction as it upholds complaints regarding Clarkson’s description of the Daihatsu Copen as “ginger beer”.

It turns out, he was only following the lead of a Top Gear audience member, who had spontaneously labelled the aforementioned vehicle as “gay”.

But before we go all Barney-Myerson-on-George-Bush, lamenting perspective sacrificed in order to find a stick to beat someone with, let’s dig a little deeper.

Clarkson has form for using “gay”. This is him in the Sunday Times in February 2006. In an article entitled “This is the kind of gay I adore”, he deems the Mazda MX-5 “gay, in both the new and the old sense of the word. The balance, the poise, the gearchange, the exhaust note; they're all spot on."

The old model was "...just a teensy bit gay...you just knew that given half a chance this little car would be off to the gentlemen's public lavatories with its friends George and Michael. That's why we all liked it so much."

So far, so innocuous. But you get the idea. He likes the word “gay” a bit too much. Now let’s slip it down into fourth, put the foot down, and see how this baby really handles: a quote from a few internet sites attributed to Clarkson in January 2000...

“So, they're lowering the age of consent for homosexuals to four ... and the Army is to become a hotbed of single-sex fumbling...How long will it be before we get ‘Gay Lanes’ on the motorway?"

Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we. Tongue-in-cheek, yep, but it’s telling. Forget the daft non-sequitur punchline. Note the homo/paedo connection; the profound blindness to the real issues of equality and recognition. I love the use of “is to become”. Soldiers? Doing each other? It’ll be prisoners next.

So did Clarkson copy the audience member, or did the audience member copy Clarkson?

Here’s another one: who cares? Clarkson made the mistake off veering away from the increasingly diluted “gay” to rhyming slang for the more punitive “queer”. Sussed.

I like my PC world. I dislike Clarkson’s, where it’s okay to openly assume all Hyundai designers are spaniel eaters, all BMW workers are Nazis, and all Americans are dull-witted.

Stereotyping often offends oppressed victims. Political correctness only offends Clarksons.

#9 Chris Tarrant: Do Me a Curry Favour!

It must be rubbish being Chris Tarrant sometimes. He is never more than twenty minutes away from a village idiot asking him whether he’d like to “phone a friend”.

Misunderstand me not, for a well-executed Millionaire cliché can a zinger make. Spot Tarrant on a public telephone – or, hell, maybe even a new-fangled mobile doobrie – and you have the perfect oppo to pounce with that old standby. Tarrant would collapse into a hysterical heap and want to be your life-long friend.

Not so, I’m afraid, if you desperately try to shoehorn. And certainly not so if you can’t, in the words of Reeves and Mortimer, let it lie. A tenuous and enduringly repetitive offensive turns an everyday, common-or-garden twat into the real deal: an olympic-standard arsehole.

Following the curry fracas, it’s tempting to stoop as low, and custard-pie Tarrant with a similarly obvious line...

But we don’t want to give him that!

So Chris’s side of the story reads approximately like this: I was at the Memsaab with a producer when some peckerhead tried to impress his bird by engaging in banter with me. I was absolutely fine with it, no animosity. Which is why I lobbed (I emphasise “lobbed”) something like a serviette (or, yes, it might have been a fork or a knife, or both, whatever, let’s not lose sight of the wood for the trees) at their table. I was surprised to find later that the man had seen his rump about it and tipped off the Heat. Jeez Louise, strangers dispense pints of lager onto my head in good humour all the time. What’s the world coming to when I can’t, in jest, throw (lob, I mean, lob) a spoon at someone’s dinner?

Is that your final answer, Chris?

I see his point. I remember when I was little, at the Sunday dinner table, my dad gently ribbing me about the girl next door...my mum and my brothers giggling in that slightly stifled way. And me, beaming with respectful amusement. Then lobbing (we’re talking seriously slow underarm action) my cutlery into his beef and yorkshires. The table erupting with mirth. My gravy-splattered father included, slapping his thigh with some force, yelling, “He got me a good ‘un there!” Yeah, nothing keeps the atmosphere light-hearted like a timely discharge of cutting instruments.

Surely staff and fellow diners can shed some light on this. They must be able to confirm that Chris, actually, I mean come on, lost his cool big time.

So let’s ask the audience!

Eff all use they turn out to be. First, there weren’t really any fellow diners. The much-lauded eatery was dead. Chris, producer, peckerhead, girlfriend. That’s pretty much it. And in spite of this, the owner has suggested the staff hadn’t even noticed Tarrant filling his face, never mind doing a whimsical knife-throwing act.

Though I’m guessing the blame can be split down the middle.

I need a wisecrack to end on. What’s another, snappy way of saying “split down the middle”?

#8 Barney Myerson's debut - George W Bush!

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no great admirer of George W Bush. But in his bumbling, folksy, murderous way, he has actually added greatly to the gaiety of nations. I speak of the Bushism – those solecisms, verbal blunders, mangled formulations and gaffes that have turned him into a sort of dark-side David Coleman.

Bush’s every word has come to be scrutinised and held to ridicule by people more articulate than himself. And at the outset, Bushisms were indeed a delight. Remember this classic: ‘Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.’

But after a while, Bushism quality control began to suffer, and any utterance he makes now seems to be eligible for consideration. Take this recent example: ‘Information is moving through the blogosphere and through the internets’. Wow. He said internets. I think the only living person that would find that funny is Bill Gates.

This all culminated this week in his now famous ‘gaffe’ that occurred during the visit of our own Queen Lizzy 2. I expect you saw the headlines. ‘Bush Rewrites Royal History’. ‘Bush Gaffe Ages Queen 200 Years’. Yes, it appeared that the prez had embarrassed himself by claiming that the Queen had been present at the country’s bicentennial – in 1776. The big, stupid, American dumbo.

Or so you would have imagined from the hysterical reaction that followed. Surely Bush must have said something like, ‘I am pleased to welcome the Queen, who was definitely at our bicentennial in the year 1776, because the USA was founded in 1576, and I genuinely believe her to be 281 years old’. What he actually said was, ‘You've helped our nation celebrate its bicentennial in 17 ... in 1976’. He was thinking of 1976. He said ‘17…’ – not even 1776, just ‘17’. He slightly tripped over his words. Big. Fucking. Deal.

And then he winked at the Queen, which was outrageously claimed by some to be another gaffe. You have to admire the nerve of our parastocracy (I just made that up! Parasites/aristocracy!) for inventing these absurd self-serving rules then accusing anyone blissfully unaware of them of an offensive breach of protocol.

The Queen, humourless old trout that she is, responded to this breezy flirtation – probably the most action she’s had in forty years – with one of her trademark frosty glares. Suitably briefed, she later opened a dinner speech with the words ‘When I was here in 1776’, to much completely genuine, un-sycophantic laughter. Oh, the banter.

Incidentally, remember Bush’s overheard ‘Yo Blair!’ greeting? Journalist Geoffrey Wheatcroft recently named a book about the Blair/Bush relationship after it. But people who have actually bothered to listen to the recording have spotted that Bush really said ‘Yeah Blair!’. Now you may still find that impolite, but the point is that it’s markedly different. Now, naming a whole book after something someone didn’t actually say? That’s what I call a gaffe.

#7 Jesus Christ! (No, but I'm his dad...)

Good friends often raise an eyebrow when I, a card-carrying atheist, show an interest in the life of Jesus Christ. It’s hard to explain, but my Christ complex must be something to do with it.

We do have a lot in common, JC and I: both sons of carpenters ; both better at spouting bullshit than banging nails ; both have a penchant for sporting dodgy beards ; both like a drink ; both borderline autistic.

So I’m a godless soul. Big deal. How does that preclude me from a belief and fascination in the past existence of a nutcase who thought he was the Messiah in a time when everyone believed in Messiahs? Back then, when someone as influential as John the Baptist piped up you were God’s rugrat, you damn well listened. What beggars belief more is somebody like David Icke. He purported to be Son of God in 1991 on The Wogan Show, a time and place in which almost nobody believed in God, let alone His sons. How come I’m allowed to believe that David Icke existed?

Jesus taught his followers to turn the other cheek. This means you can take the piss out of him mercilessly with nary a consequence. Forget hippies and the E generation. Jesus was doing the one-love shtick thousands of years before – pre-cannabis, pre-ecstasy, in a society which ruled that not wishing to skewer one’s closest friend with a rusty railing over a disputed sandal was tantamount to being gay. Having made the celebrity A list, he hung out with a tart – in full view of everyone – and didn’t give two shits.

Kum-bay-yah-ers are not the only ones left affected. His school of thought is sewn into the fabric of modern, liberal morality: the simple goals of tolerance, peaceful resolution, and love. Here and now, only Richard Littlejohn would not sign up to that.

Net research makes entertaining – if risible – reading. Wikipedia, as ever, is the model of studious inquiry and savvy, balanced thesis. Their article vindicates me: most proper historians reckon the Saviour stripped of all mythological claptrap was real. The mythological claptrap gets its fair share of column inches too.

However, put “Jesus Christ” into Google and, Wiki apart, you get a load of old balls.

Take whoisjesus-really.com. This site wants to answer some “tough questions” like “How can I be sure the Bible is really the word of God?”. It offers “facts” so that you can come to an “informed decision”. Intrigued, I read on.

A number of facts make it reasonable to believe the Bible is accurate and reliable. Jesus, the Son of God and the greatest spiritual authority of all time, attested to the accuracy of the Bible, even to the "smallest letter or stroke."(Matthew 5:18)

Did you get that? In summary, we know the Bible is accurate because it says so in the Bible.

I’m not sure how he managed to proof-read the bits written after his death.

Maybe a manuscript was Fed-Exed to Heaven.

#6 Paris Hilton: Sign the Petition to Throw Away the Key

We, the undersigned, wish to see Paris Hilton man-handled roughly into Century Lynwood, tossed into the most austere of cells with her rancid little dog, and secured with a series of premium locks – the keys for which should then be melted down and refashioned into steel marbles to be posted back through the flap as her only means of entertainment.

She must be denied the standard three magazines and one book, as per human rights: we would not, on anybody, wish the painful brain overload caused by what amounts to three times Ms Hilton’s literary tolerance level. Not to mention traumatic exposure to an actual book.

However, she should be subjected to every prison cliché doing the rounds. She should be made to tear off a scrap of sheet to use as a head band ; learn to play the harmonica; succeed the top-dog’s left-hand-side bitch; become a pool ace ; and sport an iron-pumped physique covered in more ink than a biro factory.

We feel strongly that state pen represents an unprecedented opportunity for Ms Hilton to do a decent day’s graft. (By that, we mean an actual day’s work: not the twenty minutes she has to do for The Simple Life while the cameras are there.) Perhaps the laundry press would be her forté. Her earnings, no matter how meagre, should be involuntarily donated to a charity that works with the victims of drunk drivers, as a gesture of moral rather than financial support.

Ms Hilton may also be surprised to discover she is not the only one to pay somebody else to read her mail for her. Many prisoners too: although they will pay less (market rate: two smokes per letter). Their reasons for doing so will differ: an inability to read altogether; as opposed to the sickening indulgence of a spoilt, bone-idle, talentless self-publicist with the scruples of a ferret (and the inability to read well).

Ergo we believe that Ms Hilton should be assigned the role of Jail Reader. (Her next single could be “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”? Never mind.) The authorities should censor any big words (not that many are likely to be bandied about by the nearest and dearest of yardbirds) and post all ciggies to Brian Vallery, Blogosphere, UK, so he can sit in a traditional boozer with likeminded masochists and pull through as many as possible before the July ban.

And, while you’re at it, the undersigned reckon you can bung Nicole Richie in with her too. And her dad, for that “Hello” video, in which he overcomes the obstacle of ugliness by exploiting disability; and breaches teacher/student trust to get his end away.

And Richard Hilton. For calling his daughter “Paris”. Was that a billionaire’s particularly witless idea of a joke? It doesn’t even work. His hotel is called the Hilton Paris.

Okay, maybe the undersigned are going too far. But we definitely think that Paris Hilton should stay where she belongs: with all the other vile, self-serving whores.

#5 Brian Turner's Bread and Butter

You may know Brian Turner as the TV celebrity chef who blusters in a Yorkshire whine that he's right about everything. His philosophy can be summed up thus: shepherd’s pie and spotted dick are much better than any of that foreign muck – a view you’d expect from your slightly racist Uncle Tony, but not so much from a supposed culinary icon.

Everyone knows this is poppycock. Anyone who insists that the imported way (concoct a simple yet tuneful blend of subtle herbs, punchy spices and mouthwatering sauces) is inferior to the British method (smother in lard and flour, then cremate at gas mark 11 for sixteen hours) is an imbecile. I’ll bet anything Brian Turner, as a debutant restaurateur in the eighties, was at least partly responsible for all that backlash nouvelle-britannique bullsugar, subjecting foodies to microscopic portions of tripe and onion for sixty quid.

So, it shocks one not that the man – contrary to his no-nonsense, lowborn demeanour – is a shrewd business fellow. Not one to shy away from a soupcon of self-publicity and dinero, he’s now the face of a range of rip-off sandwiches.

You’ll find them in buy-this-here-or-starve establishments. You know, motorway services, airports, Londis shops positioned miles from any half decent supermarket. Hospitals, too. I bought two for me and the wife during the usual five-hour wait in children’s A & E. For your concern, my daughter had a nasty gastro-viral thing. She needed a drip and a two-night stay-over, but she’s fine now. The Naptime Five Hundred is back in business.

What did we make of Brian’s butties? Actually, not bad, I admit with a nagging sense of shame. My wife, who had professed a lump in her throat, was seduced by the blurb (in Brian’s world, “bacon and egg” is something like “delicately coddled scrambled hen embryo with rashers of freshy slaughtered ale-sodden suckling Tamworth"). She opined, with all the promise of a budding food critic, that is was “nice”.

In kiddie casualty, a bloke’s job is twofold: to get stuff (already achieved) and to lighten the mood. So, unoriginally, I quipped that they’re nice because Brian makes them with his own bare hands. Consumed by fatigue and anxiety, we could at least raise a smile at the thought of Turner beavering away in a factory kitchen, buttering and laying meagre allowances of processed pork with the heed of a perfectionist.

Internet reviews I checked were not so generous as we. Sandwichguide.co.uk bluntly concludes:

BLT: Horrendously mediocre.
Egg and bacon: Where’s the bacon? (Good point. “Rashers” is a breach of trust.)
Chicken and bacon: You’d think it came from a supermarket.

The latter is the nail on the head. My beef is the £2.25 price label. Tesco’s seafood cocktail is as good as anything “by” Turner, and costs a quid less. You pay that extra nicker to see his ugly boat race and some descriptive bravado on the plastic lid.

I’d pay more than one pound sterling to never see his stupid moustache again.