Is it safe?

By way of a ‘thank-you’ for nursing him through his recent trials (see items past), my agent, Bernie Shimshelwitz, bought me a gift token to be redeemed at ‘A Friend in Knead’ massage parlour. I went for the Indian Head massage as I’ve never had one before and am always willing to try new things. What a mistaka-to-maka. I don’t know if I caught L-O-L-A Lola on the wrong day like, but she mashed my bonce up good and proper. I was told it was meant to be refreshing and stimulating, this was anything but. I don’t know if it’s possible to shrink the human head, but when I came out my sunglasses didn’t fit me anymore. Lola’s meant to be giving me a waxing session next week ‘Back, sack and crack for £14.99’ I think I’ll give it a miss.

What's on your iPod #6

This week I have been listening to this 1983 album ‘Joyce’ by Joyce Drake. I bought it online by accident (I was actually after something by Nick Drake) but my initial disappointment was soon replaced by pure Joyce joy. As I’ve mentioned in a previous post I was once understudy to Leslie Grantham in ‘Tootsie’ so this sleeve picture was already a reminder of times past, but any suggestions that Joyce may not be all woman are soon dismissed when you get to track 3 ‘They get stuck in me teeth’ an ode to pubic hair to the tune of Guns n Roses ‘Paradise City’ – top class.

The recession Biggins

To celebrate his (emotional) release from his iron lung my agent, Bernie Shimshelwitz, decided to take me for lunch at the Ivy. He’d arranged for us to meet his old school friend and one time whist partner Chris Biggins for a bite to eat and a few Pina Coladas. As soon as I turned up I could see that Bernie was on edge and it turned out that all this talk of recession was playing high havoc with his nerves. Apparently he’d called his broker that morning to find out what shape his portfolio was in and was shocked to learn that his portfolio was currently crammed under the leg of the brokers’ wonky desk and had been there ever since Bernie had insisted that he buy as many shares in Ratner’s as possible. This news had sent Shimshelwitz into a mental panic and he had spent the rest of the morning trying to cash in his assets, namely a shed load of 70’s and 80’s memorabilia, ‘Murder She Wrote’ box sets and a baby grand piano that once belonged to Bobby Crush. Bernie’s financial freak out had been intensified by his son’s misuse of the family phone. Apparently when Bernie confronted Conrad with a phone bill for over £2,000 the boy claimed that his constant use of the phone was essential due to the fact that he was ‘The Banker’ off ‘Deal or No Deal’ a claim that Bernie could neither prove or disprove (I didn’t have the heart to tell him that most people in the industry know that ‘The Banker’ is Mr Blobby.) It was only when Biggins rolled up that Bernie began to calm down and it was cocktails allround. Lunch was delicious, I had the Scampi, Bernie tucked into a trout and Biggins had the Kangaroo cock and Koala ball sack medley. He told us that ever since he was crowned King of the Jungle the only way he could maintain his profile was to dine on the goolies of various marsupials. I found the whole tale quite Faustian (apart from the bit about the cock and balls.) It was a great lunch and by the end of it Bernie had cheered up no end, mainly because Biggins had bought a signed Showaddywaddy album and a Metal Mickey annual off him and told him that he would “think” about Bobby Crush’s piano. Tough times ahead; I must check my hedge fund.

We should do this again sometime...

The date was a shocker, the Banks Charm just couldn’t find a foothold. First off Angie was not what I’d expected by which I mean I hadn’t expected her to be so freakishly unattractive. My Barista, Dan Tang, had told me that she was as “pretty as a picture” but he didn’t tell me that the picture was a Picasso. My first instinct was to throw myself into the hedge before she saw me but I decided to do the right thing and go through with the date hoping that her personality would compensate for her offensive features. It didn’t. Angie’s main problem, apart from her stench which I can only describe as 'Eau de Commode', is her obsession with Hollywood ‘has been’ Richard Gere and after five minutes of listening to her harping on about the actor I decided to try and get in on the conversation by asking her if she wasn’t put off of Gere by the fact that he’s had a hamster up his bum (allegedly). All hell broke loose in the Harvester (Pub & Grill). Without warning Angie’s picked up my Liebfraumilch and huzzed it at my head, missing me and covering the old timer on the next table who happened to be in an electric wheelchair. The booze managed to short circuit the motor sending the chair and the pensioner in it bombing into the rotisserie stand. His wife starts screaming: “He’s a vegan, he’s a vegan” and we both rush over and attempt to excavate him from a landslide of hot (tasty) chicken. All that steam was making my cold sore itch like bonkers so I’m giving it a good scratch with my tongue. Next thing I know some joker’s throwing punches at me convinced I’m giving the old boy the ‘Deacon’. His wife had just managed to get his head above the chickens when the ‘have a go’ hero’s sparked him out cold with a misplaced upper cut. Needless to say, I picked up a lifetime ban from Harvester, which was a shame as I’d never been to a Harvester before. I shared a cab home with Angie who only spoke to tell me that she wouldn’t care if Richard Gere had Gordon the Gopher and Pip Scholfield hanging out of his arse, she’d still "get off with him." If only I’d known that from the start. What a night.

Love is in the air.

I’ve been so busy recently that I’ve had no time for romancing the ladies so when my good friend and barista Dan Tang offered to set me up on a blind date I jumped at the chance. I’m not so sure that it was a good idea, I’m meeting Angie tomorrow night and if I’m being honest I haven’t been this nervous since I got an invite to a pool party at Barrymore’s house last year. Dan Tang’s done his best to reassure me that Angie’s good fun plus a little slutty so I should prepare myself for a wild night. Fairdos, it’s like riding a bike isn’t it? (Although I’m more of a unicycle man.) Anyway, I thought I’d prep myself for the evening by nipping down to my tanning salon (‘Tanfastic’ (above ‘A Guy called Tony’) on the high street) and getting a bit of colour on my face, I would’ve had the full body tan but I’m playing the legs of a corpse on BBC's 'Casualty' next week. Things didn’t go exactly to script due to the fact that I had a raging cold sore on the left side of my mouth, which meant that I could only get the right side of my face tanned. I was sure that this would create an aura of mystique about me but in reality it’s made my face look like an eclipse. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the old Banks charm will see me through and that Angie will be my kind of girl. I like my women how I like my coffee, ginger with big tits. Wish me luck.

Rooney's a jolly good fellow

An update for all Bernie Shimshelwitz fans. My agent regained the power of speech yesterday and although the doctor insisted that he remain in his iron lung for another 48 hours he was happy enough to let him be air freighted over to Italy for Wayne and Coleen’s wedding (Rooney and Shimshelwitz are top mates from the brothel circuit.) I’ve just got off the blower with Bernie and he’s having a Whale of a time. He told me that he’s guaranteed to be in loads of the Hello Magazine snaps due to the fact that the waiters mistook his iron lung for the buffet table and loaded it up with Fray Bentos, Mini Kievs and the Battenberg wedding cake. You can’t buy class. He took this picture of Coleen on the camera phone he’d stashed in the lung.

The Man in the Iron Lung.

I thought I’d update those of you that have emailed me about my agent Bernie Shimshelwitz’s wellbeing after he was crushed under the weight of Bobby Crush’s baby grand piano last week. Unfortunately his condition has gone from critical to ludicrous after a bumble bee happened to find it’s way into his ward and sting him on his exposed big toe (with the exception of his bonce the only part of his body that wasn’t restricted by his full body cast (due to its fungal infection.)) Bernie’s intolerance to bee stings left him fighting for breath which meant the doctors had no other choice but to stuff his rigid body into an iron lung. The doctors on E wing had never had to cram a patient in a full body cast into an iron lung before and referred to the situation as a ‘double yolker’. It wasn’t long before the tabloids got wind of the story and were all over it, crowning Shimshelwitz ‘The second most unluckiest man in Britain’ (Gordon Brown was rock solid on pole.) Next thing we know the producer’s from Channel 5’s daily hospital based docusoap: ‘Don’t let me die here’ are all over Bernie’s story like a dose of scabies. Due to the fact that Bernie’s blinking communication system was shot to shit because his conjunctivitis had flared up I had no choice but to talk on his behalf. As the producers and I wrangled over a suitable fee for my voice talents I noticed that Bernie had managed to write ‘10%’ with his nose in the condensation on the viewing mirrors on his iron lung. Luckily, by the time Nadia Sawalha turned up to present the whole story the percentage had faded away. Get well soon Bernie.

The Battle of Britten (aka the Battle of the Bulge)

Poor old Fern Britten. What a fuss the press is making about her gastric band operation. You learn something every day though, I thought a gastric band was a troupe that played music in resturants.

Up your end Bobby!

I’ve just got back from visiting my agent Bernie Shimshelwitz at the hospital. It’s diagnosis ‘RIGID’ for Bernie unfortunately. He’s in a full body cast and only able to communicate by blinking: once for ‘yes’, twice for ‘no’, three times for ‘higher’ and four times for ‘lower’ (he’s a huge ‘Play your cards right’ fan.) Poor old Bernie, he’s had a shocker of a week, all he wanted to do was surprise his wife on their 30th wedding anniversary. Bernie and Mrs S met in a freak car accident. Bernie was driving the car and Mrs S was the freak, by which I mean that she worked for a travelling circus as the bearded lady. Their eyes met through the windscreen and Bernie never looked back (largely due to chronic whiplash.) They were married that very same summer and Bernie was true to his word and took Mrs S away from the circus and put her in the movies (she was Brian Blessed’s stunt double in Flash Gordon.) The silver screen just wasn’t for Mrs S as all she really dreamt of was to be able to play the piano like her childhood hero Bobby Crush, a dream that Bernie never forgot. It was that very same piano that Bernie Shimshelwitz successfully won in a tense Ebay auction last week (I’ve a hunch that Bobby Crush was bidding in order to drive up the price.) Anyway to cut a long story short, the piano was collection only and as Shimshelwitz and Crush were attempting to get the baby grand into the back of the Volvo, Crush’s weak wrists gave way (suspect) sending the piano crashing down, pinning Bernie between the tow bar and the key of ‘F’. By the time the ambulance men got there Bobby Crush was inconsolable, convinced that Bernie would be dishing out some negative ebay feedback. A cleanly shaven Mrs S got to the hospital just in time to see her beloved mummified. “Bernie you bloody fool” she cried “How many times do I have to tell you? I want to play keyboard like Rick Wakeman not Bobby Crush”. The room was silent. I looked into Bernie’s eyes, they blinked twice and I added the exclamation mark.

Misquoted History #2

I’m between jobs at the moment, but I’m spending my free time immersed in factual books at my local library. I’m learning all the time, as you just never know what the next job might require of you. For example, I’m auditioning for a small part in 'An Ideal Husband' next week and my reading up on Oscar Wilde has taught me the following; widely regarded as a genius in the field of spontaneous wit, Wilde actually had a full time ‘editor’ by the name of Gimp on his books. Gimp it was who was responsible for keeping from the world what Wilde actually said at New York Customs in 1882 i.e “I have nothing to declare but my genius…and 400 Marlborough Lights.”

A sign of the times

Is it me or are road signs getting more and more specific these days?

A-chooz life!

This was the scene out of my agent, Bernie Shimshelwitz’s, window when he was in rehab a few years ago. He represented Hear’Say for a while and keeping up with their cracked-up, whacked-out lifestyle took its toll on him, so Mrs S booked him a room at the Priory. Admittedly that’s one hell of a view, but poor old Bernie developed hayfever on a biblical scale and discovered he was allergic to horses to boot. Whenever I see him now he’s 8 miles high on Clarityn or swigging Piriton straight from the bottle. His dealer (Boots the Chemist) calls him the Antihista Mean Machine.