What's In A Name?

June 16th 2006

Film star Michael Caine’s real name is Maurice Micklewhite. Not a lot of people know that. But a lot of people would guess that he changed it to Michael generic cialis Caine because Maurice Micklewhite is a really crap name. ‘The Italian Job’, starring Maurice Micklewhite? I don’t think so. It would never have got beyond a suggestion. ‘Get Carter’? Get somebody else, per…lease!

John Wayne’s real name was Marian Morrison. So he was doubly cursed, named both after a woman and a down market supermarket. You can well understand the Duke’s eagerness to change his name, because if he hadn’t people would have had to call him the Duchess. And just imagine someone called Marian Morrison as a Roman centurion having to deliver the line ‘This truly was the Son Of God’. I mean even with the name John Wayne he made a balls of it.

Judy Garland’s real name was Frances Gumm. Really. ‘A Star Is Born’? Not with a name like that she wouldn’t have been. ‘A Star Is Aborted At Three Months’ possibly.

Sean Connery’s real name is Juan Accent. Enough said.

We can well understand then why film stars change their names. It’s simply because their real names would be a source of embarrassment to them. And it’s the same with well-known people in other walks of life. For example – 

John Prescott, who not only changed his name but also his nationality. In reality he’s a Thai named U Phat Twat.

Jonathan Ross’s real name is Jonathan Ranker.

JKR Tolkien was born Herbert Horseshit.

JK Rowling  was Hannah Horseshit.

Dick and Dom were christened Ant and Dec

Bruce Forsyth was once Jim Smut.

Snoop Doggy Dog was christened Scoop Dogshit.

Mary J Blige was Mary J Bilge (and still is some would say).

Sven Goran Eriksson was born Will Fuckanythingwithapulse.

Gary Lineker was once Gary Mogadon.

Arthur Arsehole was christened Ben Elton.

David Beckham was Hugh Know.

Elton John was once Ben Dover. (It is claimed his real name is Reg Dwight but that’s obviously a lie as Elton John is an even more embarrassing name than Reg Dwight. 

There are no doubt many others I haven’t heard of.

Ball Park

June 14th 2006

There is no doubt that the older you get the more awkward and intolerant you become. I don’t know whether or not it’s  because once you get past the age of sixty people expect you to be awkward and intolerant, and because you’re aware this is you take advantage of it, but it is a definite fact, and I am living proof of it. An example –

I went shopping for a new up and over garage door this morning as the other one has never been quite the same since The Trouble backed into it when she was going through the menopause (neither has The Trouble been quite the same for that matter, but whether it’s because of the menopause or backing into the garage door is not clear).

After taking the particulars of my garage door the salesman worked out a price and announced: “The ball park price is £210.”

If there’s anything that’s guaranteed to get my goat it’s the Americanisation of the English language. I treated him to a withering look, then in my best clipped Captain Mainwaring tone said: “What did you say?”

“It’ll be £200. Ball park.”

“Which ball park would that be then?”


“Yankee Stadium? Shea Stadium? Candlestick Park?”

“I’m sorry?”

“They’re ball parks. Or perhaps it’s some other ball park to which you refer?”

  A shake of the head. “I’m not with you.”

“When you said the ball park price was £210?”

“…….It’s just a ball park price.”

“So it’s any ball park?”

“…….Well yes. I suppose. Any ball park.”

“So what’s the normal price then?”

“The normal price?”

“The price that isn’t the ball park price?”

“….Well it’s the same.”

“The same?”

“The same price. As the ball park price.”

“Then why call it the ball park price?”

“……Well…. well it’s just an expression.”

“Well here’s another expression. Stick your ball park price up your arse along with your up and over garage door.”

After shopping round all morning the best price I’ve been able to get for a new garage door is £230 so it looks like my awkwardness and intolerance will be costing me £20. But as this isn’t a ball park price it will cheap at the price.

Swimming Lessons Two

June 13th 2006

Having taken the precaution of equipping myself with a pair of goggles should the fat fuck Mr Liddiard take it upon himself to jump in the pool again I decided to risk continuing with my swimming lessons, and I’m glad I did because the second lesson went a lot more swimmingly than the first. The same can’t be said for one of my fellow learner swimmers, the dwarf, Mr Leeson.  

One of the teaching techniques employed by the swimming instructor Miss Hobday is to have the learner swimmers stand in the shallow end of the pool, squat down a little so that their shoulders are level with the top of the water, then practice the arm movements of the breast stroke. This, she assured us, would give us the feel of actually swimming and build up our confidence.

This exercise is fine for people of normal height, but as I mentioned last week the shallow end of the pool is four feet deep and Mr Leeson is only three feet tall, a discrepancy of one foot on the part of Mr Leeson. Last week when Mr Leeson got in the pool and promptly disappeared underwater he quickly got out again before he drowned. He obviously didn’t want the same thing to happen again so when Miss Hobday – who had more than likely instructed dozens of other would-be swimmers since our session last week and had probably forgotten all about Mr Leeson’s problem – asked us all to get in the pool, Mr Leeson refused point blank, and told Miss Hobday his reason for refusing, i.e. that if he did he may never see dry land again.

Miss Hobday had a think about it but from her bemused expression clearly a solution to the problem was beyond her. She told us to practise the arm movements of the breast stroke on dry land and disappeared for about ten minutes. When she returned, obviously having taken counsel from a higher authority, she told Mr Leeson that to overcome the problem he would be transferred to the ten-year-olds swimming classes, where the pupils would be the same size as him. She added that unfortunately, unlike the Oldie lessons, the lessons wouldn’t be free and would have to be paid for by Mr Leeson, but it was the best they could do under the circumstances.

Mr Leeson hit the roof. Or as near to the roof as it’s possible for a dwarf to hit.

“Are you trying to belittle me?” he protested, ignoring the fact that nature itself had belittled him, in a manner of speaking. “If you think you’re putting me in with a load of ten-year-old kids and expect me to pay for the privilege you’ve got another think coming. People will accuse me of being a bloody paedophile!”

“Yes, I’ve already had to stop being a Santa Claus because of that,” said one of the normal men, Mr Littlewood.

“And anyway,” said Mr Pargeter, the man with the glass eye, “How do you manage to teach children if they’re the same height as Mr Leeson, how come they don’t disappear under the water?”

A good point, and one I hadn’t thought of myself.

“Yes, if the water goes over Mr Leeson’s head it’ll go over a child’s head as well,” said the man with the hump back, Mr Gearing, adding his threepennorth.

Miss Hobday had the answer to that: “We use a different teaching system for children.”

“Well then use your usual system for us and the children’s system for Mr Leeson,” said Mr Pargeter “If Mr Leeson doesn’t mind.”

“No I don’t mind,” said Mr Leeson. “Anything that means I won’t have to drown before I’ve learned how to swim and I don’t have to pay for it.”

The plan was adopted. The lesson continued.

You Twat’s First Walk

June 12th 2006

My intention was to take You Twat out for a total of five walks, contriving to lose him on the fifth of our jaunts. I would have preferred to lose him on the first of our walks, because since he has started barking and howling again he’s quickly built up to and seemingly surpassed his previous sound levels, but to do so would only point the finger of suspicion at someone who is already deeply under suspicion for recently rendering him comatose.

Things started to go pear-shaped the moment I attached You Twat’s new lead (£4.50 from Dogerama) to his collar (£6 from Dogerama, a necessary purchase after I’d bought the lead only to discover that You Twat didn’t have a collar either. Actually this suited me; if he’d had a collar there might have been a name and address on it. Naturally there is no name and address on the collar I bought, not a good thing if you happen to be a lost dog and someone finds you, but a good thing for someone intent on losing a dog).

The problem that immediately presented itself was that having attached the lead to You Twat’s collar I set off walking for the back garden gate at my usual steady three miles-per-hour, whereas You Twat set off at a speed that would have left the winner of the Greyhound Derby in its wake.

I could probably have coped with a greyhound but You Twat is a big strong dog, and as I held on to the lead its breaking strain was tested to the full and unfortunately not found wanting. Consequently my arm was almost wrenched out of its socket as I held on to the lead, and both my feet left the ground at the same time.

I was now on my knees, being dragged along the Pollitt’s dog shit-strewn lawn towards the back gate. I managed to stagger to my feet only just in time to avoid being dragged into an ornamental stone bird bath, and was dragged into a fully laden clothes drying carousel, where my head became entangled in the washing lines. Fortunately I managed to grab hold of the carousel’s central column with my spare hand otherwise my head could very well have been pulled clean off my shoulders.

You Twat ploughed on regardless of my plight.  Fortunately the carousel mustn’t have been mounted very securely because after only token resistance You Twat, assisted by me, pulled it clean out of the ground. I was now being dragged along the lawn again in what can only be described as a melee of carousel and Pollitt’s sundry clothing.

At this point I had the good sense to let go off the lead. (Some might say I might have taken this precaution at an earlier juncture but the entire incident only lasted for about five seconds)

I hauled myself to my feet and took stock of myself. My right arm felt as though it had had a tug-of-war team pulling on it for the last half hour; my neck was throbbing from almost being strangled; thanks to my unnatural exertions my bad back had started up again; and, while not covered in dog shit, my clothes bore more than a passing acquaintance with it.

You Twat stood at the back gate looking anxiously at me and wagging his tail. He could have wagged it all day as far as I was concerned. My You Twat walking days are over. Enough is enough. Plan B is called for.