Georgina Baillie Looks Good On Halloween

Would you serve Russell Brand and Jonathon Ross in your pub?

That’s the question on The Publican's website poll this week and, unsurprisingly, the majority of people would.  I’d certainly serve them, but then I must also be the only landlord in the country who would serve Alistair Darling too – though, admittedly, I’d premium the price of his drinks and make him sit down with all the aggrieved customers so that he could understand just how much of a muppet he has been in his approach to the alcohol trade.

Pubs are supposed to be welcoming, hospitable establishments where people can go to relax and forget about the trouble and strife of their days and lives.  Pubs are great levellers, sociable environments where the airs and graces of twenty-first century life can be left at the door and where judgement shouldn’t be meted out.

We have a great sign on the wall in our pub: “What you see here, what you do here, what you say here, what you hear here; when you leave here, let it stay here.”  It’s a guideline that so many of my customers adhere to, and by doing so it creates a lovely, lively relaxed environment.

I don’t condone the actions of Brand and Ross in this particular instance.  Whilst I would have thought Jonathon Ross should have known better, it doesn’t surprise me that Russell Brand was involved in such an act of thoughtlessness.  I have never been a fan of Mr Brand’s particular style of comedy, but it doesn’t mean he should be ostracised for his ineptitude – and let’s not forget we’re talking about a pre-recorded radio show, where somebody in authority had the opportunity to pull the plug before it was aired.

What amuses me most about this whole story is that only a couple of people had complained about the prank that Brand and Ross played on Andrew Sachs.  Whilst their comments were cruel and childish, taking part in a gag that only a fifteen-year-old boy would truly find amusing, it wasn’t until the media got hold of the story that more people made complaints.  30’000 people have now been offended by the actions of these stars – but only because they’ve read the story, voluntarily downloaded a clip of the offending programme and listened to the Jeremy Vine show.  Had it not had such tabloid coverage, almost nobody would have complained about it.

Even Gordon Brown has waded in to the action, grateful – I presume – that by being a bit of a prat, Russell Brand has managed to take the focus off the incompetence of the Prime Minister’s government.

I do feel sorry for Andrew Sachs, a man who is still beloved in many of the nation’s hearts for his portrayal of Manuel, the downtrodden Spanish waiter in the 1970’s sitcom Fawlty Towers, but it’s his grand-daughter at the centre of all this furore who could end up benefitting most from this.

Georgina Baillie has taken advantage of the media interest to deflate Russell Brand’s legendary lothario ego and who pointed out that the comic found it amusing to cry out “Que? Que?” during their intimate encounters. 

But the twenty-three year old is no stranger to bizarre encounters herself.  A member of a little-known group called Satanic Sluts Extreme, Miss Baillie takes part in erotic dancing and mentions on their Myspace page that she is interested in meeting anybody who appreciates sex and horror and who can sell cheap, fake blood.

And - seeing as it's Halloween - I'd serve her in my pub, too.

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Update 2nd November 2008
Following a comment left on this particular post, I've included a link to the Wikipedia page that gives details on what this news story is all about, and includes links to the call transcripts.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgina_Baillie

Better Policing Needed

Every day we read about one crime or another being perpetrated in our beautiful country and, whether it's a speeding motorist or a thief making a dash for it, our motorway patrols and police helicopters often seem to do what they can to catch the criminals.

But I wonder if would-be bad guys would be put of from committing crimes if they knew they were to face tougher policing.  Take, for example, this video below - it's a straight forward guide to how the police in South Africa deal with motorists who fail to stop when asked nicely by a policeman, and it might just help reduce crime if we were to adopt a similar idea here in the UK...

The Greatest Campaign Poster. Ever!

The image beneath the blog below contains nudity.  If you are easily offended by such images, please do not view this particular entry.  If, however, you have a great sense of humour, have a look - it's quite funny.

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I don't get all that involved in politics at the best of times, and to be honest I certainly don't get involved in American politics at all.

The last time I concentrated on politics in the United States of America was in November 2000; stuck in Boston on business I found myself in the States just as George W. Bush was being elected president. And we all know what happened there, don't we...

But this image landed in my inbox this afternoon and, as US Campaign Posters go, I have to say it got my attention. And, despite my inability to understand America's political playground, this would probably get me voting for John McCain. (Though, to be fair, I'm a fan of the Die Hard movies so I'd probably have voted for him anyway...)

As it is, I'm British and we have somehow ended up with Gordon Brown. If, however, you're not offended by nudity, enjoy this pic!

Doing It In Dubai...

We’ve all been there and done it – something naughty that we knew might just get us in to trouble, or be a little bit embarrassing.  Getting caught having sex with your girlfriend in your parents’ double bed when you’re sixteen, for example, or leaving your boxer shorts in the back of your girlfriend’s dad’s car after a night on the town.

How often have you undertaken an act of naughtiness that sends a rush of adrenalin coursing through your veins?  Something that you knew might get you in to a spot of bother, but only with the people around you.  The worst most coppers would do if they came across a car with steamed up windows is tell the embarrassed couple off and send them on their way.

Unless their name’s Gillian Taylforth, of course...

So I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for Michelle Palmer and Vince Acors.  A bit of nookie on the beach usually results in sand in uncomfortable places and an occasional embarrassing glance from a passing stranger walking their dog, and the worst that normally happens for an interrupted couple are a few blushes and some fumbling to get their underwear on.

Not so for Palmer and Acors, however, who – because of some drunken fondling – have had their faces splashed across the media worldwide and have, today, been sentenced to three months imprisonment.

This might seem a bit harsh if you were caught doing it on Brighton Beach, but sadly for this couple they were in Dubai, where acts of unmarried sex, public indecency and drunkenness face punishments far more severe than we issue to teenagers who repeatedly beat and rob elderly victims.

In England, undertaking a middle-lane driver on the M6 when no other traffic is about can potentially have you sharing a cell with a prisoner who insists you look quite pretty, but in the Emirate States it’s quite common for the youngsters to take their four-wheel-drive vehicles and perform “skiing” on the E-44 Highway without getting in to trouble.  Here, if we get a bit amorous with an office colleague the worst we have to worry about is the gossip over the water cooler; that, and maybe a lumping from her husband.

Unfortunately for the 36 year old Ms Palmer and her amour, 34 year old Mr Acors, acts of public indecency in Dubai are dealt with quite severely.  A 1’000 dirham fine (roughly £160) and a three-month-jail sentence for unmarried nymphomania are apparently quite common so, in case you’re planning on visiting Dubai’s Jumeirah Beach in the near future, here’s a guide from the BBC on how to behave yourself ...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/7606578.stm

Could Kubica Become Poland's First Formula One Champion?

With less than twenty four hours to go until another Formula One weekend gets underway, I find myself wondering whether Lewis Hamilton really can take the Driver's Championship for Britain - or whether I even actually want him to.

In what has become another season of Wacky Races, it seems that Hamilton has managed to do all he can to make himself look like a petulant, spoilt brat.  As the sport heads towards China - a race that, last year, saw Hamilton's own cockiness take a pivotal role in losing him the title in his first season in F1 - just five points separate Hamilton from Massa.  But, more importantly, Robert Kubica is only twelve points behind the championship leader with two races and a potential twenty points up for grabs.

Some would say that Kubica is only a bit-player in the closing stages of this fascinating championship, but they were saying the same about Raikkonen last year and the Finn ended up taking advantage of the rivalry between Alonso and Hamilton to win the title by one point in the final race.  Raikkonen may be too far behind now to retain his title, but he can still do an awful lot to help team mate Felipe Massa to retain the numbers 1 & 2 on the Ferraris next season.  And with Fernando Alonso, still bitter from his McLaren experience in 2007, announcing this week that he will do what he can to aid the Brazilian in his attempt to beat Lewis to the title in the final races, it'll take an awful lot of resolve from the young Brit to finally win this championship.

And that's where Robert Kubica, the unassuming BMW driver from Poland, can come in.  As Massa and Hamilton squabble for the title, aided and abetted by team-mates and old rivals, all Kubica will need to do is keep a straight head and his car on the track and he could become the first ever Polish Formula One Drivers World Champion.  I wouldn't have minded having a tenner on that bet at the start of this season.

The problem with Lewis Hamilton, however, is that unlike other drivers, he has never had a bad car.  From his first race in Formula One at the start of 2007 he has driven a car capable of winning races and the title and, whilst it was unexpected at the time, he scored a podium in his first ever F1 race and quickly proved himself to be more than a match for Alonso.  Whilst few of us agree with the Spaniard's tactics during '07 in his bid to get McLaren to back him for the title, nobody can deny that he started his F1 career with Minardi, a much-loved but always under performing team that granted him nothing better than tenth place in his first season in F1.

Hamilton still needs to learn a little humility in his on-track performance.

Hot-headedness, however, is a trait of the young and the Latino, and at just 23 years old Hamilton's temperament is every bit a match for Brazil's Felipe Massa.  It's fair to say that Massa has benefited from some oddly relaxed judgements from the Stewards this season, but Hamilton has equally made some foolish errors during this season - not least the pitlane incident in Canada.

But where Hamilton truly fails is in his ability to see similarities between his own attitude and that of Ferrari.  Whilst Massa truly did deserve a drive-through penalty for his part in spinning Hamilton on lap two in Fuji last week, Lewis feels his own penalty was too harsh: "Massa hit me," he protests, "I didn't hit anybody."  His comments intimated that Ferrari were still getting lenient treatment from the stewards.

And Hamilton's right - he didn't hit anybody, but what he fails to acknowledge is that his own impetuous approach to losing the lead of the race at the start became the cause of several cars behind tussling with each other and the ultimate early demise of David Coulthard's race.

I think he got away with that one quite lightly...

"That'll Be A Hole Then"

There’s a famous video that’s been doing the rounds on the Internet for years now, which I’ve included below, that we all – at some point or another – have giggled at.  Unfortunately, though, after this morning I have become all too familiar with the sensation that this poor girl experiences in the video.

Having spent the morning sorting out the cellar, getting my dray order ready and generally pottering about, I found myself standing at the bar talking to my window cleaner about the state of the economy, pubs in general and how I think a two-tier tax system should be introduced to charge more tax on alcohol sold through supermarkets and off-licenses than that sold through pubs, who offer supervised environments for people to drink alcohol in.

In an effort to demonstrate how much I feel about this situation, I stepped back to be able to take a dramatic pose – and disappeared through the open flaps that lead down to the cellar.

Paul, the window cleaner, says the moment was reminiscent of Wile E. Coyote as he steps off the edge of a cliff in pursuit of the Road Runner.  Apparently my eyes opened wide in realisation of what was about to happen, and then I vanished.

Bryony, my nineteen year old barmaid, could not help me as she was laughing too hard at the fact that rather than scream, shout, curse or simply burst in to tears, I just crawled back up the stairs from the six foot fall and said “That’ll be a hole then.”

And then I said: “bugger, my arse hurts.”  Mainly because it did.  And still does.

On further examination, it would appear that I caught my right buttcheek on the edge of the cellar hatch on my way down, and have subsequently removed a fair amount of skin from my bottom.  Savlon, which really does sting, followed by gauze to prevent the blood have been applied to an area of my bottom larger than my mobile phone and I now cannot sit down.

Still, professional as ever, I was swiftly able to recover my composure and went straight back to talking to the window cleaner about alcohol tax...

Personally, I blame Alistair Darling for my accident.

Monkey Madness

In an effort to reduce some of my running costs, I am looking at areas where savings can be made.  Ordinarily, businesses in the leisure trade are quite often found to have employed illegal immigrants in an effort to keep their wage bills down.  I'm thinking of copying the example of a restaurateur in Japan (video below) and replacing my staff with monkeys!

From Beer Goggles to Mail Goggles

Have you ever woken up the morning after a heavy drinking session, thinking how amazing it was that you managed to cross the road safely from the pub, get in to the house quietly and then climbed gently into your cosy bed?

The reality, you soon discover, is that you narrowly avoided getting run over by a passing motorist, you woke half the neighbourhood up crashing through your kitchen as you tried to make a cup of coffee, and you fell on to the bed with your trousers still wrapped around your ankles.  Your wife will then moan to all and sundry about the level of your snoring and your impotent advances in the early hours of the morning and the fact that beer breath is not conducive to intimate responses.

And then you’ll discover that, between the coffee and the bed, you sent an e-mail to your boss telling him just what you think of his latest mission statement, called him a name that rhymes with tanker and advised him just what you’re hoping to do to his secretary at the Christmas Party.

I’m quite familiar with the art of mis-messaging people.  Many’s a time when I’ve woken up in the morning only to find that I’ve sent an e-mail to somebody I shouldn’t have and I once had a conversation with somebody over Microsoft’s Instant Messenger tool that I had no idea had taken place.  More than once one of my regular customers and I have lamented the fact that laptops don’t have breathalysers built in to them to prevent drunken users from having access to their e-mail or websites such as Facebook.

As the plethora of ways we can communicate with each other grows, so do the chances of messing it all up.  Selecting the wrong contact in your mobile phone’s telephone book can have disastrous consequences and I once sent my wife a text message saying “I’m on my way home, be naked and I need a good snog.”  It was, fortunately, actually meant for my wife, but unfortunately I had forgotten to use the key on my Nokia’s predictive text software that rotated the words to the one I really needed.  What Ali received was: “I’m on my way home, be naked and I need a good pooh.”

Needless to say, she was fully clothed and looking slightly nervous when I returned home.

It seems, however, that the boffins at Google have finally had the foresight to think up something that might just help the late night e-mailer.  User’s of Google’s e-mail service, Google Mail, now have access to Mail Goggles, a special filter that you can programme to activate between certain hours and on certain days (by default, it’s only set to late nights at the weekend) and which will then ask the user to successfully complete a number of mathematical challenges before allowing them to continue with sending their message.  You can adjust the difficulty of the mathematical equations, so even the most inebriated superbrain might find them challenging, and if you are a Google Mail user you can find this nifty little tool in the Labs section under Settings.

It’s a simple solution, yet quite effective.

But it still doesn’t stop me from using my mobile phone to send an abusive text to a customer who just won’t stop singing on Friday nights...

The Publican: When Good Kids Go Bad

My latest blog for The Publican magazine focuses on the fact that a lot of the problems faced by our society today can be attributed more to the lack of respect for authority caused by a lack of punishment in children's upbringings than it can to the abuse of alcohol.

You can read the posting by clicking on the subject line above or by clicking on this link:

http://www.thepublican.com/story.asp?sectioncode=16&storycode=61387&c=3

Service Me Next Week

As I sat in traffic earlier, waiting to turn, the onboard computer on my car emit its usual beep-beep-beep alert that it uses to announce there is an important message waiting for me on the computer display above the rear view mirror.

It’s quite a simple and useful system, really.  The main dashboard is uncluttered, with a simple large dial for speed, a similarly sized dial for engine revs, and then four smaller dials depicting battery amps, engine temperature, oil pressure and the fuel gauge.  Obviously it has lights to alert you to anything immediately important, such as having left the handbrake on, and the usual indicator displays etc, but all the pertinent information is left to the computer display.

Usually, this display is set to show the outside temperature and current miles per gallon information – usually a terrifying figure somewhat beneath 20mpg – but it can also display information on average fuel consumption, distance left until we run out of fuel and how many miles are left until it needs servicing.

Today’s information alert was to let me know that I had left my turn signal on for too long.  Bless it, the poor thing was just wanting to check that I was still concentrating on my driving; normally, it’s bleeping at me to let me know that the washer fluid level has got low.

But I like this system.  It’s simple, and it tells me exactly what I need to know about the car’s current condition, what it needs and when it needs it, and whether everything is okay.  It doesn’t try and hide important information from me and it becomes persistent if I ignore its cries for help.

This all got me to thinking, as I sat in the traffic, that life would be much simpler if women had a similar system.  It is, after all, the twenty-first century.  Mobile phones mean we can talk to each other in any corner of the world, the Internet means that we are just nanoseconds away from the answer to any question we might have – or, more often, a lascivious amount of naked flesh – and cars can drive themselves.  We’ve achieved regular space flights and human beings are living beyond the age of 100 on a growing scale.  Soon, the Queen’s Telegram will be a simple e-mail, and you won’t be able to get it until you’ve reached the ripe old age of 186.

So why, then, can we not fit our wives/girlfriends/mistresses with a computer system that tells us everything we need to know, without us having to guess?  It would display fine when everything actually was fine and would alert us to specific periods when her sense of humour is likely to be outweighed by her sudden, aggressive change in temper.  It could give alerts for when flowers or TLC should be given, or when her rosé wine reserves need topping up.

And although a display saying Service Due In 1500 Hours might, initially, seem frustrating, when it eventually showed Service Now it would have alleviated many nights of fumbling around under the duvet only to be faced with a very thick pair of winceyette pyjamas and several complaints about a headache.