Your best mate Dave

June 12, 2014

I make no great apology for returning to the subject of Channel Dave.

I have had a bit of a quiet week on the work front (not sure why, but did I read somewhere recently that the rules have changed for sacking grumpy old blokes? That should make us more employable, not less…) and apart from blogging to my new friends (say hello to Alan, ladies and gents…), , I have been watching…well, yes…Top Gear on Dave.

I like the way it is a trip back in time, and I’ve explained this before. But what I want to talk about today is the proposition ‘Surely it is the best job in the world?’

Well think about it. Every week, 30 weeks of the year (or thereabouts) , you get to drive one of the best cars in the world round a track, round a town, or possibly halfway across a continent … or desert …or mountains.

You have a film crew, and probably a medical team, following you, so the chances of being at any risk are minimised because they want you in the hanger/studio on Thursday or whenever it is for the chat part (and why, apropos of nothing much, are all the blondes being shoved to the front of the laughers in the most recent series? Are we worrying about the number of male viewers falling?)

Excuse me now…i must adopt a jaguar online…oh, not the car then…?


Back in the swing…

May 22, 2014

You may wonder – or you may not – where I’ve been since my last blog. The fact is, dear readers, and to put it simply, that I’ve been in the throes of carnal bliss with the mrs m. At least, until last week…

I know, I know , I said a year ago that it was over, and I genuinely thought it was. I had packed my case and gone down to say my goodbyes, and she was, shall we say, persuasive.

“Summer” of lurve

July 4, 2013

Mrs M is quite something. Or, rather, was something. Not, I hasten to add, that she has moved on to that great chintz-curtained parlour in the sky. Oh no, she is still with us, very much so. It’s just that she and I are no longer, as they say in celebrity circles, involuntarily making that very uncool double fingered two handed quote marks in the air gesture, An Item.

And why, I hear you ask, out there in Blogland, are you writing about it now?Surely, you aver, with all the cynicism of the innocent bystander, that is singularly ungallant? Well…yes it is. And While we were together, I really had better things to do. Much better. If I’m feeling even less gallant tomorrow, I’ll tell you more.

Well, not me exactly. I’ve never met Minnie Driver, but Bob, the IT manager at work has. Not only that, but he shared a pot of Ski strawberry yogurt with her. Women wanting to share ¬†yogurt with him is the sort of thing that happens to Bob, even though he is a bit of a boffin and has a beard.

When he told me about the yogurt sharing, I must admit I wasn’t sure who he was talking about. “Minnie who?” I wanted to ask, but it was obvious from the excitement bubbling in the rest of the office that I should know who she was, so I did a discrete google search. Mind you, I still didn’t recognise her.

Apparently Minnie went to school with Bob – or so he says. One day, Bob’s mum (a woman with five husbands, albeit not at the same time), sent the 10 year old Bob to school with no money for the 1960s school delicacy of fried spam and freeze dried mash. Minnie, apparently, took pity on Bob and gave him her pot of warm strawberry ski in return for a rubber Tigger pencil top (remember those?).

“Of course,” said Bob, “had I been able to see into the future, I’d have kept the empty yogurt pot and sold it for thousands of pounds on ebay. And married Minnie.”

He’d have to get rid of the beard first. Full on beards and famous Hollywood actresses don’t really go, unless the beard belongs to George Clooney.

I said as much, wondering what all the fuss was about anyway. It wasn’t as if the yogurt sharing incident happened yesterday, after all.

Bob’s lips puckered under his tangled bush. “Not a Minnie fan, then, Alan?”

“No, not really.”

“Well, you won’t want to meet her later today, then will you. She remembered me from school, looked me up, and hey, I am going to star with her in some television show where she goes back to her pre-Hollywood roots.”

She’ll probably end up at some primary school eating spam and mash. And Bob will end up marrying her.

Wonder whether he’ll let me tag along.

I don’t know about you, but I have never thought having children was an unmixed blessing. Forgive the double negative there, but it is a very un-PC thought and I wanted to spare Daily Mail readers the pain of the horrid truth.

Magnus has been with me for a while now. I have in fact lost count of how long, because I can’t remember what it was like without him. I had a pleasantly balanced bachelor life which I can only dream about now.

Tak the contents of my fridge, for instance. Time was when it might contain soya milk, the makings of a salad, and a half empty bottle of champagne with a spoon in the neck.

Now, though…

A moment of Magnus

March 3, 2013

I think I mentioned my boy Magnus a few days ago. Don’t think I said much because, well, quite frankly, I’ve been overtaken by events.

The doorbell rang and there he was. And he was not alone. Not accompanied by some fey girlfriend in an ethnic headscarf, mercifully, but by a random assortment of suitcases and cardboard boxes, and a large number of carrier bags, mostly from Lidl. Well, at least the boy hasn’t inherited his mother’s spendthrift habits, I thought, as I studied the bags with care.

That cheered me up briefly. Then he uttered the words every father dreads:

‘Dad, can I stay for a few days?’

Speed traps

January 12, 2013

I try not to drive too much, because living in London – well, ok, Brentford – generally renders a car unnecessary, expensive (congestion charge), a target for thieves unless you pay a fortune for a garage, and a general waste of time, money and emotional capital.

Thus it was with some trepidation that I finally made use of my zipcar account last week. This was partly because I was dpi g some work for them (online direct mail, or if you prefer, e-newsletters) and partly because I had to move some stuff for Magnus, my son and heir.

Hmm. Well, I haven’t told you about Magnus. I’ve been blogging for , without looking, a couple of years now, and I may not have talked about him much on here because, well, to be brutally frank, we haven’t seen eye to eye for some years.

There is much of his mother in him, but no great evidence of me, which sometimes makes me think uncharitably of his mother… Oh there’s the doorbell … To be continued.

Where was I? Oh yes, Magnus, and his stuff. Well, I was curled in my Minnie driver onesie last Friday night when the doorbell rang. Answering it, I found a tall young fellow who much to my surprise, embraced me and tearfully blurted out ‘dad!’ as if in some strange unaccountable way, we might be related. Now, I didn’t stint myself-3-