Peter Butterworth

Welcome to paradise.

 

Best known, of course, for his work in the Carry On films (although he also played the role of 'Betting Man' in the infamous 1954 picture The Gay Dog - a film about illegal dog bumming competitions held on the western outskirts of Newcastle upon Tyne, see previous post) Peter Butterworth enjoyed no little success and was instantly recognisable by sight, if not name, to millions.

Butterworth usually played mild-mannered eccentrics: chiselling camp site owner Josh Fiddler, the randy Admiral with wandering hands in Carry On Girls, Pepe the hotel manager in Carry On Abroad - "sausage, beans and chippings!". His characters might’ve been a bit mischievous at times but they were never any bother, he had one of those faces that prevented him from playing the real villains, like a wistful conker with a glint in its eye - not completely lived in, but definitely looking like it had kipped on your settee a few times after a night out on the light ales down Ye Olde Racist Pigge.

He married the actress and impressionist Janet Brown in 1947 who later became famous for her impersonations of Margaret Thatcher. There were rumours that Butterworth struggled to come to terms with his wife's success and he infamously commented in one interview "if she's the Iron Lady then she'd better start doing my fucking laundry", Butterworth apologised for this "uncharacteristic outburst" and blamed the bibulous research he’d been doing for the role of the toby jug in the title sequence of Never The ‘Twain, the marriage survived.

Butterworth died of a heart attack in 1979. He was found in his hotel room during a run of Aladdin in Coventry, he had been playing ‘T’Widow Wankey’ – a bawdy, Lancastrian take on the traditional panto role. The remainder of the run was cancelled out of respect and Butterworth was buried in Danehill cemetery, East Sussex. And that was it, his legacy was secured in his film work, the Carry On films became an integral part of the lusty British traditions of innuendo, big tits and comedy sound effects and have continued to be shown ever since their heyday.

Then, in 2009, he surprised everyone by making a comeback ITV’s Britain's Got Talent. It was his biggest part yet - the Hairy Angel, Susan Boyle.

I Can't Believe It's Not Butterworth.

As Susan Boyle, Butterworth captured the hearts of the nation with his ability to hold a tune whilst in character as a batty auld Scotch crone. He might not have managed to crease the poisoned veneer of BGT judge Amanda Holden but his version of I Dreamed A Dream set him on the road to stardom a second time over.

Butterworth (Boyle), or Su-Bo (Bu-Bo) may have lost the Britain’s Got Talent battle - finishing runner-up in the final to dance troupe Diversity, but ultimately won the war. His first album achieved record sales for a debut and earned him £5m in his first year back in the limelight, he has released a further two albums since and now enjoys global fame having appeared on network television in the USA, Japan and Australia – never once breaking out of the “beardy wee wifie wha’s daft in the heed” character. He learned that in rep, the young ‘uns these days wouldn’t have a clue.

See - death isn’t the end after all. Big Dave Cameron was a Beluga whale you know. He kept the looks but lost the perma-grin and swimming ability and now spends a fortune on rouge (“Keep it ruddy, ya?”). So now you know, but sometimes the big answers only lead us to bigger questions: What were you? Who were you? What will you return as next time? Sweet or salted? Open or wrapped? Complicated this life lark, innit?

Galen of Pergamon

Galen, yesterday.

September AD 129 – c. 201"Arguably the most accomplished of all medical researchers of antiquity" - Steve McLaren.

Galen contributed greatly to the understanding of numerous scientific disciplines including anatomy, physiology, pathology, pharmacology, and neurology, as well as philosophy, and logic. He wasn't a total square though - he was also the first person to successfully turn on the Bunsen burner gas and blame someone else, his write-up on the subject, 'Who's Boffed?' (AD 132) was his first published work and is still in print today.

Galen's father, the celebrated Pergamon minstrel Alexandra van Galen, died when his son was 19. This left Galen independently wealthy and his first action was to take the 1st Century equivalent of a gap year. This meant travelling widely in order to further his studies, not tooling his way around South America, growing dreadlocks and posting photos on facebook of him and his horse-faced mates up a mountain tagged with comments like 'peasant cocktails = good times' and 'chilling with the locals, laughs actually'.

Feet back on the ground, he settled at the great medical school of Alexandria long enough to learn the various schools of medical thought, making himself unpopular with other students due to his habit of reminding the teacher about homework and tests, like a big swot. Despite his love of studying he only graduated with a 2:2, much to the delight of his classmates, before returning to Pergamon to take the job of physician to the gladiators of the High Priest of Asia.

Galen made his name as a practising physician in Rome, having moved there in 162AD after a clash of personalities with John Fashanu. Again Galen found himself to be unpopular, this time among the medical community in the city who were jealous of his abilities as a physician. He was branded 'Gay Len' because of his combined interests in hygiene and anatomy, the smear campaign affected Galen so much he felt obliged to leave Rome, returning only at the behest of Emperor Marcus Aurelius after the breakout of the Antonine Plague which also became known as the Plague of Galen (and later still, the AIDS).

Galen's main interest was in human anatomy and despite the prohibition of human dissection under Roman law he made a major contribution to medicine by using pigs and primates for his research. His interest in the respiratory system started by accident when he was giving an impromptu puppet show using a pig carcass and a pair of bellows and noticed the effect the articifial ventilation had on the passed porker. This is also thought to be the origin of the Pinocchio story.

Galen's understanding of anatomy and medicine were principally influenced by the theory of humorism; advanced by Greek physicians from Hippocrates onwards, the theory held that an imbalance of any of the four fluids or 'humours' in the body would affect the health and temperament of the person. The four humours of Hippocratic medicine were slapstick, stand-up, improv and highlighting something then asking "what's all that about?”. It was this fourth humour - the McIntyre Humour (thought to narrow the eyes and make the head wobble) that attracted the most criticism and eventually led to humorism being discredited in the mid 16th Century by Andreas Vesalius in his book ‘Pull Back and Reveal’, a collection of printed descriptions and illustrations based on human dissections and mother-in-law jokes.

The full importance of Galen’s contribution to medicine was not appreciated until long after his death. His written output was so vast that it continued to reveal secrets for centuries after his death - he wrote on the benefits of colonic irrigation, invented and discredited homeopathy, collaborated (by correspondence) with Leonardo da Vinci on the air ambulance and was working on a prototype of the elastoplast at the time of his death. He wasn't always on the money though, he was less successful with the treatise 'On the benefits of an additional phallus' and his experiments on synthesising blood from a mixture of piss, honey and beetroot juice are best left on the page. Can't win them all can you. Pint of 'blood' anyone?

Beau Brummell

Davva is?

7 June 1778 – 30 March 1840

Educated at Eton and Oriel college Oxford, George Bryan 'Beau' Brummell rose to the rank of Captain in the Tenth Light Dragoons before leaving the army when he was stationed in Manchester, he didn't like the rain and bread and dripping made him feel bilious, the final straw came when was sounded out for a guest appearance on the Coronation St penny opera as Betty Turpin's fancy man, he hated low-drama and wrote to Granada declining the role, saying he "wouldn't put even my cane up her hot pot", the role eventually went to a young Paul Shane, he didn't mind a bit of rise n' shine in the name of entertainment. 

Brummell returned south and set himself up in Mayfair, initially he lived within the means he had inherited from his father who died in 1794, but the lifestyle of his flash mates began to turn his head and he started living in an increasingly extravagant fashion. Soon he was spending all day at Ye Olde Gamblery, betting on cock fights whilst eating larks tongue pasties and drinking fine port from a crystal goblet he had kept for him behind the counter. His evenings were spent with the Prince Regent and the architect John Nash, drinking and womanising. Nash was particularly well endowed and had a scandalous reputation as a cad, 'nashing lasses' was a popular and highly competitive pastime among the group.

Noted for his understated dress and meticulous attention to personal grooming, Brummell established the mode of men wearing fitted, tailored clothes; favouring dark suits and full-length trousers. He bathed daily, fastidiously brushed his teeth and shaved his whiskers. This sense of style soon caught on among his wealthy friends in Mayfair. 

Circumstances changed for Brummell in 1811 when he called the Prince Regent a "lardy get" after he snubbed him at a house party Brummell co-hosted with his fellow Mayfair dandies Cuthbert Kid n' Forbes Play. This was a key event in Brummell's story as he immediately lost favour with Prince George and by extension his social circle. He became something of an outcast and was forced to spend more time in the areas surrounding Mayfair, his reputation and appearance ensured he wasn't ostracised from society completely, however, and he soon attracted a new crowd around him.

His acolytes became known as 'Brummers', they dressed in the same fashion and hung around the same parts of town. This term gradually came to describe the men-about-town who socialised in the same drinking dens, but as the term grew in popularity it gave rise to the mondegreen 'bummers' which attracted a whole different element to Brummel's new patch; Soho has never been the same since, with its pink pavements, salad bars and proliferation of YMCAs.

In 1816, tired of having his signature look aped and being pestered by his debtors, Brummell nicked off to France. Here he completely reinvented himself, not only learning how to pronounce 'onion' properly but also developing his Continental look: a combination of Rockport boots, tracker bots tucked into white socks and stripey jumpers, inventing each item specifically for the ensemble. He also took to smoking with his Gauloises inside his hand, the 'invisible technique' - this was soon adopted by the gentlemen thugs of the time, on hearing this Brummell responded by switching to snuff, a decision that would cost him a fortune in hankies.

Brummell died in France having spent his final years in debtor's prison and an asylum for the insane, his interest in fashion had long since waned and his personal hygiene had gone the same way. The French, man. France.

So, was he the ultimate Dandy? Personally I think that was the one where Desperate Dan got his name after thoroughly irrigating Korky the Cat's colon whilst eating a cow pie off his back? LOL. Brummell did popularise the wearing of ties and trousers, we might still be wearing knee-high britches if it wasn't for him, no wonder there's a statue of him in Jermyn St, think of all that extra tailoring he's responsible for. Then again, fancy wearing a pair of britches to work tomorrow? Didn't think so. Just remember that next time you're complaining about the price of Woo Woos down on Old Compton St.


Status: Dead
Lookalike: Liam McGough (Big Brother 8)
In Three Words: Champagne boot polish

Cutty Sark

Afore

1869 - date

 

Named after a character in the Robert Burns poem Tam o' Shanter, a 'cutty sark' was the short skirt worn by Nannie Dee (who is also depicted in the ship's figurehead). The name was a compromise: having seen the plans and realising what kind of craft they were getting, parents Scott & Linton's original choice of 'Salty Scrubber' was reconsidered in favour of a more oblique reference to dirties so as not to offend the conservative sensibilities of the day. That must've been a proper blueprint, eh lads?

She was built specifically to outsail the clipper Thermopylae, known not only for its speed but also the original mast which was small, withered and useless but retained as a feature of the ship at the insistence of Captain S. J. Joy. Cutty Sark's first captain, John "Jock" "White Hat" Willis (born Throckley, Newcastle upon Tyne) was infamous for his lack of personal hygiene and his 'in the kegs and down the legs - only fakes visit the jakes' philosophy won him few friends among his crews and earned him the nickname 'Captain Arseflea' amongst the men, if not to his face. Such was his reputation that he preferred the soubriquet "White Hat" - even though it was a reference to the poor circulation he suffered in his bell end.

Cutty Sark enjoyed a formidable reputation for speed early in her career and was said to be the fastest ship of her size. Fast and loose. In her years as a tea and wool carrier she experienced the lot - mutiny, murder, diabolical shipmates, cholera, a snapped rudder, a string of tempestuous relationships leading to hull syphilis and at least one aborted life boat. The ongoing repairs she underwent in these years gave her a taste of the benefits of judicious carpentry, this would inform the choices she made in later life that took her into darker waters.

The advent of steamships at the turn of the 20th Century meant Cutty Sark was forced into finding other work to keep herself afloat; she became a boat of the night around the meditteranean and South Africa and even enjoyed brief stint as a reggae toaster in the Caribbean, scoring a hit with "Di 'Ornpipe" recorded under her own name. It was in the West Indies, in 1922, that she met and married Captain Wilfred Dowman, the newlyweds returned to their native England, Cutty Sark took work as a training ship in Kent and supplemented her income endorsing her own brand of whisky. This is how she saw out her active days until eventually weighing anchor for good in a Greenwich dry dock in 1954. 

Dotage can be a difficult stage for some, especially a ship of the world. Always conscious about her looks, the onset of old age and ample time to dwell on it persuaded Cutty Sark to undergo a succession of surgical procedures; Dowman disapproved of cosmetic carpentry and it became an issue that festered and didn't come to a head until 2007 when she announced yet another round of treatment; Dowman snapped, calling her a "wooden wench, a doxy and a 'Trigger's broom'". Cutty Sark ignored his protests and went ahead with the deck tuck as planned, Dowman was furious - he was a natural oak man, the couple separated.

Cutty Sark lurched straight into a brief and disastrous affair with a Captain Ahad, the destructive fling culminated in a disastrous night in with a takeaway which left her with severe burns to her whole body and Ahad, always a mysterious figure, disappearing without trace ("in a cloud of smoke" -  that's what a two-bit hack would say if they were cack-handedly trying to anthropomorphise our naval heritage). Her future now lies in the hands of a team of dedicated professionals who are trying to get the old girl patched up and on parade in time for the Olympics, the public love a traditional old English slag don't they - Lady Godiva, Princess Di, Liz McDonald, your mother. I bet Seb Coe will be there for her grand re-opening, the dirty bastard.

After

Status: Zombie

Lookalike: HMS Peaches Geldof

In Three Words: Baby Got Stern

Grey Owl

Pimp My Wigwam

September 18, 1888 - April 13, 1938

Bullshitters abound. Some people just can't help themselves - "here man I used to be a ninja but I got thrown out of the Warrior Assassins because I was too hard and everyone got jel of me skill", we might even do it ourselves at times - embellish things a little for the sake of a good story. I'd never do that though, ask John Candy if you don't believe me. Some people have to take it too far, whether they do it by design or whether a little white lie sets off a fictitious tsnuami of domino rally proportions, things can get out of hand sometimes and this brings us to Chief of the one-man Pork Pie tribe (self-appointed) - Grey Owl.

Grey Owl was born in Mexico to a Scotch father and an Apache (tribe, not the helicopter) mother, his parents knocked about with Will Bill Hickok. He was a 'Mexican Scout' in the US Army and he was adopted by the Ojibwe tribe after he set up camp with one of their squaws in a place called Bear Island. 

Most of that is unmitigated cobblers, cooked up, presumably, in a billy can over an open fire in the Northern Territories. In the real world Grey Owl was born Archibald Stansfield Belaney to English parents near Hastings, raised by two maiden aunts, educated at the local school and worked as a clerk for a lumber firm. It was whilst filing the documents and filling the ledgers with details of their business that he first got wood and experienced the call of the wild.

Shape-shifting? Piece of piss.

Belaney emigrated to Canada in 1906 after being sacked by the lumber company, he had almost destroyed their building with fireworks ("trust me, I've done this millions of times - it can't fail") and left ostensibly to study agriculture. He became a trapper, guide and ranger and started an association with the Ojibwe that kickstarted his transformation from Archie the outdoors enthusiast to Grey Owl, native American. Brown Tongue would've been more appropriate.

He didn't stop there though, he had three children by three different mothers and dabbled with bigamy by having a wife either side of the Atlanic at one point. He would make light of these relationships, dismissing criticism by saying it was "the way of the 'prey". The most significant woman in his life was Gertrude Bernard, a Mohawk Iroquois who also took the name Anahareo (meaning Pony, on account of the amount Belaney bunged her dad to secure his blessing). 

Bernard herself was an interesting character, she rescued and fostered a pair of beaver kits, the couple incorporated a lodge in their cabin. Belaney was unhappy with this at first, complaining that the beavers put him off his stroke but eventually he was won over and in later life couldn't get a stalk on unless there was a rodent watching. Bernard encouraged Belaney to forgo trapping and concentrate on writing about the wilderness, he began to focus increasingly on conservation and had a series of articles published under the name Grey Owl in Forests & Outdoors. He also wrote another column on the side under an assumed name in Forests & Outdoors (After Dark) called 'Grizzly Madames' to keep him in firewater.

Belaney knew what he was talking about when it came to conservation but because he did so as Grey Owl he ultimately undermined his own authority. When the story about his true identity unravelled after his death his books were withdrawn from publication and donations to conservation projects dropped. Now, because he spouted so much bollocks, he is known as the Grandfather of Climate-Change Denial and is held up as a figurehead for environmental sceptics. Fibbers take note and look to Ray Mears, he'd never pull a stunt like that. Bear Grylls? We'll see.

Status: Heap Dead
Lookalike: Tawny Kitaen (one for the owl-and-Whitesnake-enthusiasts demographic there)
In Three Words: Pants On Fire

 

   

John Candy

Upstairs.

October 31, 1950 – March 4, 1994

 

John Candy had a secret. The Canadian actor was born in 1950 under a cloak of secrecy, such was his father's desire to keep details of his illegitimate son from the public eye. Candy's father had just begun his own television career and didn't want any potential scandals scuppering his big break; he was young a star, he lived in a picnic hamper and he swore down to Looby Loo he would only put the tip in. Yes, Andy Pandy was the randy Candy dandy. Suddenly it all makes sense. He might've been sent to adoptive parents in Canada under an altered surname (an allusion to the the candy striped pyjamas that his father made his name in) but the clues were there for the eagle-eyed - the chubby cheeks, the desire to entertain, the affinity with food baskets, working with bears. Occam's razor, innit.

He played losers, geeks, doofs and irritants, yet the audience was always on his side. Del Griffith - shower curtain ring salesman from hell, Gus Polinski - Polka King of the North West. The under-achieving, all-drinking, all-gambling 'Uncle' Buck Russell. People you would avoid like a kiss from a syphilitic virago, portrayed by John Candy they were loveable cranks. Who doesn't like a lunkish underdog? If only he'd taken the role of Louis Tully, his filmography would be textbook.

John Candy understood and obeyed the universal law of the big lad - always be jolly. That's what people expect of ballaties, that and the expectation that they'll greet a gambit such as "you're big" with surprise, charm and, ultimately, gratitude. No-one likes a sullen fatty, see, look at Roland Browning - unpopular at school, he later matured into a low-level drug-peddling DJ; Michael Moore - unkempt bovine grump of the Left. You'd never get that kind of behaviour from Candy. He bought into his local american football team, set up an Italian domestic appliance manufacturer and travelled back to the 13th Century to invent confectionery, and did it all with a big dippy grin on his wobbly gish. That's why he got his own postage stamp. This is what you want from your celebrities. You can shove all those tortured artistes right up your arse.

John Candy: actor, big 'un, tattoo:

 

*

Status: Dead
Lookalike: John Savident*
In Three Words: Ten million dollars!

Admiral Lord Collingwood

If I could turn back time!

26 September 1748 - 7 March 1810

Cuthbert Collingwood was a premier league English naval hero doomed to relative obscurity because of the parallel lines mapping his career and that of Horatio Nelson. Nelson's shadow is hefty enough to obscure the achievements of most team-mates, certainly big enough to cloak fifty years at sea, an undisputed fight record in the Napoleonic wars, a peerage and progression through the highest ranks in the navy. Yes, not only is Collingwood's story no less amazing than his old mate Nelly Noo's but it also features a full compliment of limbs and it's about time it was told. Let's get salty.

Collingwood's most celebrated achievement came when he broke the enemy lines in his ship the Royal Sovereign (named after his favourite brand of budget tab) in the big away match against FC Franco-Spain at Trafalgar stadium, he then assumed command of the fleet after Nelson got capped and starting getting fruity with the menials. The British forces didn't lose a single ship under Collingwood but Nelson had made the ultimate career move, he died in action and in doing so he won the public vote, a spermatazoan Simon Cowell watched on and clocked the potential of a strong back story and a popular character. The die was cast; for Nelson, for Collingwood and for the future of Saturday night television. Thanks lads.

It's said that in all his career in the navy 'Old Colly' only spent three years on dry land. Despite this he obviously held his native Northumberland close to his heart, "Whenever I think how I am to be happy again, my thoughts carry me back to Morpeth." You can't blame the lad, it's got a lovely park and that sandwich shop down by the bingo hall is decent despite the faux-Italian histrionics you get from the proprietor. Collingwood was a tuna sweetcorn man - on a ships biscuit, swig of water straight out of the Wansbeck to wash it down. Tough as auld boots these navy wallahs you know.

Collingwood had a dog called Bounce, it was on long country walks with Bounce that Collingwood would indulge in his obsession with planting acorns, his reasoning being that in doing so there'd be enough English oak in the future to keep the navy in ships. He might not have foreseen the move to steel in the shipbuilding industry but think about the environmental benefits of his one-man reforestation work, not to mention how many squirrels he kept happy - no wonder you can still find the red ones parading about like the rodent princes of Arcadian Northumberland. There ain't no grey in their Union Jack.

At Collingwood's request, Bounce was stuffed after its death. Through a sequence of tragi-comic events too torturous to make-up detail here, Bounce enjoyed a second career when he was robotically animated, had his name altered just enough to avoid invalidating his life insurance payout and reappeared as Ramsey street's most famous mutt in the Australian soap opera Neighbours. His slightly awkward gait on the show was due to the limited availability of prosthetic canine knee joints (size: Labrador) at the time and was covered with a storyline about arthritis which led to  'Bouncer' becoming the face of the Australian Rheumatic Society Education Scheme (ARSES) from 1989 until his 'death' in 1994.

So what is Collingwood's legacy besides the fighting, flora and fauna? While Nelson got his own column in the middle of Trafalgar Square, Collingwood's statue enjoys an even more prestigious spot at the mouth of the Tyne; looking out on the North Sea - on home turf and beside the seaside, not in a seething mass of tourists, mudlarks and pearl-encrusted cutpurses. Nelson's statue is guarded by lions, Collingwood's by cannons, not surprising who survived Trafalgar is it? Meanwhile Collingwood Street is currently the place to go out in Newcastle for a jigger of rum, half price drinks if you turn up dressed as one of his ships (HMS Pelican and HMS Badger are the most popular). Collingwood is also the only maritime figure to have an England cricketer named after him, unfortunately marmalade bollocks didn't read the script and tragically ended up a mackem, well done sunshine. No sense of heritage some people.

Status: Dead Lookalike: Alistair Darling In Three Words: Pagga! Chicken Soup!

Sunday Dinner

Hypocritical Chicken & Fennel Risotto (Recipe: author's own)

If you look at the Wikipedia entry for Sunday dinner, apart from noticing that it resembles Clement Freud venturing in his Just A Minute pomp, you'll see that it offers two explanations as to the origins of the meal:

1. During the industrial revolution, Yorkshire families left a cut of meat in the oven before going to church on a Sunday morning, which was then ready to eat by the time they arrived home at lunchtime.

2. The Sunday Roast dates back to medieval times, when the village serfs served the squire for six days a week. Then on the Sunday, after the morning church service, serfs would assemble in a field and practice their battle techniques and were rewarded with a feast of oxen roasted on a spit.

Leaving the Yorkshire propaganda to one side, that seems a bit generous of the squire if you ask me. A weekly spit-roasted oxen just for a bit of tilling and crop rotation? They really did put the food in fuedalism back then, no wonder peasant dishes are all the rage nowadays.

Anyway, far from just rehashing a Wikipedia article and throwing in a few derogatory mentions of a certain impoverished area on the western edge of Newcastle to make it mine, I'd like to offer a third explanation for the start of Sunday dinners:

3. It's lush.

It is though isn't it? What would you rather have for your dinner, something delicious or something not as nice? Hmm, tricky. I'll admit it wasn't as good when you were a kid, Sundays were a different prospect then what with homework, bad telly and the shops being closed. I don't remember liking my Sunday dinner that much then, too many memories of the smell of over-boiled vegetables hanging in the air and condensation on every window. Sundays are much better when you're a grown-up, swap homework for hangovers, the telly is still bad but you can enjoy it for what it is now and everything is much improved by having a proper dinner, especially if someone else has made it whilst you loaf around scratching yourself. 

Going out for Sunday dinner is becoming increasingly popular but it doesn't really work because of the enforced formality, then you've got to do things like walk your food off or go to a craft fair and baulk at the price of hand-made cakes of soap. At the very least you have to travel home afterwards, you can't lumber straight from the table and collapse on the settee to spend the next few hours wallowing in your own gluttony, elaborately blowing off and blaming it on one of the young 'uns. You're getting the meal, which is good, but out of its proper context it's just not the same.

Who sits for a proper Sunday Scoffer these days though? You're more likely to get people grazing fast food on the hoof rather than prepping veg and ramming a lemon and some garlic up a chicken's flappy hoop. I used to work next to a McDonalds and the queues for the drive-thru always peaked on a Sunday; as far as I know they weren't offering Ronald's Roast Beef with all the McTrimmings. Dillons fish and chips in Throckley (bingo!) opens seven days a week, just in case you fancy a donner meat pizza to go with the Eastenders ominbus on your stolen telly. Disgusting. They always did have a lower class of peasant around there, the closest they've ever got to roast oxen is in the Real Crisps flavour range.

Don't get me wrong - there's nothing wrong with takeaways (and I know people love to trot out the old "I'm too busy to cook" lie) but not on a Sunday, takeaways are for Saturday nights in or Friday nights on the way home from the drinker. The least you can do on a Sunday is have egg sandwiches, it might not be a lovingly roasted gammon but they're an acceptable alternative, especially in the summer. At least that way you're not contributing to the collapse of civilised society as we know it. You know who you are.

Status: Dying
Lookalike: Microwaveable Roast Lamb-style Dinner For One
In Three Words: More Tea Vicar?

Geordieland

Geordieland (Gateshead Zone)

 

Let's get this out of the way in the very first line - there is no such thing as Geordieland. It doesn't exisit, not in the real world anyway; but, like unicorns, the 'truth' about 9/11 or the veracity of TV presenter Dermot O'Leary's heterosexuality - that doesn't stop people going on about it.

In the 1960s T. Dan Smith went for 'the Brasilia of the North', Sir John Hall took it further still when he automatically started babbling on about 'the Geordie Nation' whenever someone pointed a TV camera at him in the 1990s. Now we have 'Geordieland', it might only exist in the world of lazy newspaper articles, low quality television programmes and people who think everything above the M25 is "ap norf", but that's enough and enough is enough. Enough. It has to stop. Geordie Nation? Jesus H Spender...

Newcastle upon Tyne is Geordieland in the same way that London is Cockneyland, Sunderland is just Cockland (they always get it slightly wrong don't they?) and Gloucester is (Fred) Westworld. "Shall we go to Gloucester this weekend love? Dirty weekend? The kids'll love it".

If Geordie FInishing School For Girls (BBC Three) and MTV's Geordie Shore are to be believed then most Geordies live on the breadline, spend their nash on fake tan and booze, hump without blobs and go to the gym a lot. That's it, nothing else. If you didn't know any better you could be forgiven for thinking that's all that happens in this Geordieland. Obviously there's far more to it than that so allow me to flesh it out a bit:

Geordies? They're mad aren't they?  (Yeah, look at Raoul Moat - absolutely mental)

Newcastle - it has pubs.

They don't wear coats. None of them. Ever.

If you can't pull in Newcastle you can't pull anywhere (no comment).

There is a river. It is called the Tyne. There's also a weather condition know as fog. At certain times the two are not mutually exclusive.

Geordielanders communicate solely through the use of the phrase "why aye". There are no other words, not in Geordieland.

Are ye gannin doon the Grove Spuggy?

See? See the richly textured layers of diverse culture and society that get 'lost in the edit' as they say in television circles. It's the BBC's fault; they might not have started it but they took up the reigns and now look where we are. Branded as languageless simpletons, broke, bronzed - but happy. Licence fee boycott anyone?

Status: None-existent.

Lookalike: Brasilia (T. D. Smith), Barcelona (J. Hall)

In Three Two Words: Why Aye!

The Turnpike

Routine Visit

Reputations. Some are are glaringly ignored (King of Cherry-Poppin' Michael Jackson), some meticulously cultivated (heterosexual TV presenter Dermot O'Leary), some uneviable (Jimmy Savile), some are just baffling ('Princess of Hearts'? Really?). Some are merited (Mike Tyson was feared by men and women alike), some not (Greggs snobs have a lot to answer for) and many are nowt more than a feeble moonshine of piss and vinegar (the Towers of London spring to mind. From the streets of Chalfont St. Giles!).

If a pub has a reputation it's usually for only one two things - nice food or bother, and never the twain shall meet. The Turnpike definitely had a reputation and it wasn't for its delicious array of locally-sourced platters. In the face of stiff competition it could hold its napper high in the pantheon of radge pubs once found in radius of a few miles in west Newcastle which also included:

- The Whin Dyke: drugs. Now closed.

- The Runnymede: drugs, murder, bar staff charged with manslaughter after a fatal drinking competition between father and son. Now closed.

- The Royal Frenchman's Arms: Lock-ins, sizzling steaks and ghosts. Now closed.

- The John Gilpin: drugs, stolen goods, armed robbery. Had the cigarette machine stolen one night and regulars selling cheap tabs the next. Now closed.

- The Centurion: all of the above and more - cottaging, slavery, you name it. Now closed.

- The Rokeby: hostile ambience even if it was empty. Now closed and reborn as a Farm Foods - this is an improvement.

Notice a pattern emerging? The Turnpike was the last of the bother pubs. Notorious in my youth after a machete attack, it treaded water for a few years with the occasional pagga before upping its game; seeing in the new millenium with a fatal stabbing. It was another eight years before its notoriety was sealed with a shooting. Guns - the big time. The premier league. Top of the pops. Throckley boys night out. 

The Turnpike continued to trade for a few more years before the inevitable happened; patronised, no doubt, by die hard regulars, turf-claiming dafties and impressionable young charvers looking for a voyeuristic chaser to go with their teenth of tack (nee dink) and pint of LCL. Where they, the luminous-nosed auld dongs and low-level tattie-peelers go for a night out now is anyone's guess. It comes to something when your local carks it and you've got to travel just to have a pint and see someone get their lips danced on, watching someone have Hunters Chicken for their tea is no substitute.

Status: Dead

Lookalike: The Chapel Park

In Three Words: Time Gentlemen Please

Gay Dogs (by request)

Right, deep breaths all round and let's get through this one as quickly as possible.

Pedigree & Chum

Now, the naysayers may scoff but it is a statistical, zoological and societal fact that some dogs are gay.

Some breeds are exclusively gay - the Japanese chin, pomeranians, Welsh terriers of course. Dingos are almost exclusively gay and only mate strictly as a biological necessity to ensure the future of the breed. Obversely, it's a popular misconception that poodles are gay. Poodles aren't the slightest bit gay, poodles are proper rock. Don't be taken in by stereotypes and think before you start patting, belly-scratching or fiddling with your flies in secluded car parks.

I RUV YOU!!!

Individual dogs are are also friends of Dorothy and it goes without saying that the world of entertainment has more than its fair share of mince terriers. Forget Lassie, he just needed the work, the first publicly gay dog on television was Huckleberry Hound. Not only did he make it acceptable for alternative-lifestyle canines to be represented in popular media but he aslo consolidated his breakthrough by giving Yogi Bear his big break. From that point gay figures, animal and human, became the norm on the television. Huckleberry Hound became the face of the LGBT movement until legal challenges from Hanna Barbera over image rights in the late 1970s, the rainbow flag was subsequently adopted as an alternative. Heterosexual television presenter Dermot O'Leary is rumoured to have a Huckleberry Hound tattoo in an intimate area. 

His bell-end.

Not all stars had the courage of their convictions however, Aramis from Dogtanian & the Muskehounds spent his entire career in fear of being outed, he married a dalmatian and had seven litters of pups to provide a smokescreen for his secret shame. If only he'd known that Milady was a popular face on the animated French gay scene at the time. His double life was only revealed when someone drew a picture of his funeral at the Paris pet cemetery in which his widow meets a string of his ex-lovers.

Are gay dogs dead though? That's what you're asking and you're right to do so. As we have seen above some undoubtedly gay dogs have sadly passed, so it wouldn't be fair to then single out and name, for example, Roxy Irwin - the Briar Lane Boner, just to prove the point conclusively would it? Yes, he definitely cocked more than his leg, but he mightn't want the world to know about it. The least we can do is respect his privacy (to dog-bot his way around the impoverished streets of Throckley). I have it on questionable authority that other dogs not known to me personally were fond of the flexi-lead but I'm not going to name names. I don't want Peter Tatchell on my back, again.

Humpers of the left leg, we salute you.

Status: Dead, Alive & Immortal

Telltale Sign: Hides the remote when Will & Grace is on.

In Three Words: A New Low?

Alexander von Humbolt

EFIL4STOWS

September 14, 1769 – May 6, 1859

Over-achievers. There was always one in your class at school. There's often one at work. Some of us have them as friends (not me, of course). They can be admirable, inspiring, annoying - depends on the personality type, of both the over-achiever and the achiever-perceiver.

Alexander von Humbolt (AvH, A-Hum or 'ver Uber Boffin' if he was getting a write-up in the red-tops) was the over-achiever's over-achiever. The thinking man's crumpet. Intellectually, he'd get it.

Let's take, for example, his summer holiday of 1789. Humbolt went on an excursion up the Rhine and by way of a memoir of this trip he wrote the treatise Mineralogische Beobachtungen über einige Basalte am Rhein or Mineralogic observations on some basalts at the river Rhine. Treatise. Mineralgic observations. He was 20 years old. Hmm.

That was nothing though, Humbolt as a mere callow youth. He would look back at his inexperienced fumbling with the Rhine basalts with a mixture of wistful nostalgia and a nagging frustration that he hadn't both discovered and thoroughly researched the K-hole while he was still in his teens. Everyone makes mistakes and has regrets, but most of us don't then spend the rest of our lives standing astride the globe in polymathic splendour; going everywhere, measuring and recording everything, making significant findings in the natural sciences, geography, meteorology and the rest to boot. Most of us don't have squids, willows, towns, mountains, universities and hog-nosed skunks named after us. He does. Are you an honorary Mexican citizen? Guess what.

It was easier in those days, of course, but even still it's clear the boy was different gravy. Where I consider it an achievement to make it out of the house at the weekend, Humbolt wrote Kosmos - an attempt to unify the various branches of scientific knowledge, in five volumes. Five volumes! It sometimes takes me more than a week to come up with this dreck and most of that is copy-pasting from Wikipedia with a few silly words thrown in for good measure. I blame my generation, if I was born into a prominent mid-19th Century Pomeranian family it would be a different story altogether. I still probably wouldn't have been worshipped by Darwin though but that's all right - the whole Creation thing left me a bit cold apart from Swervedriver.

Status: Dead

Lookalike: Inspector George Gently

In Three Words: Work-Life Balance

Crunchie

1929 -

Remember Crunchies? Of course you do, amnesia hasn't been fashionable since 2007, everyone remembers all types of stuff these days. Remember postage stamps? Walking? Urinal cakes? Eeeh, remember 'cars'? Yes man, start whinging about the bloody sweets for pity's sake.

Crunchie, then. It used to just come in a bar format but now you can get it in everything - ice cream, yoghurt, Crunchie Rocks, snuff. 'Milk Chocolate with Golden Honeycombed Centre", or posh cinder toffee for the busy modern professional when the Hoppings isn't on. 

Thank Crunchie It's Friday! That was the marketing slogan for a while. What a stinker. Unfortunately I can remember actual people saying it in real life, they were probably the same people who think Chris Evans is "fun". I didn't know then what I know now - that was the first nail in Crunchie's coffin (Crunchie's Coffin was one marketing opportunity they failed to capitalise on - skellington-shaped crunchie in a special box? It would knock the munchers bandy around Hallowe'en time. There's not enough gallows humour in the confectionary world. I blame those Quakers down in Bourneville. That's also why chocolate and beer don't go together, no matter what they think at the Trent House).

Crunchies aren't dead, but they're dead to me. I bought a pack of four at the Tesco Metro on the way home the other night because a) they were the first thing you saw as you walked in and b) they were on special offer at 82p. I would never have considered buying them otherwise, in fact I can't even remember the last time I even thought of a Crunchie until then. I am nothing if not a bit of a tramp, impulsive, but a tramp nonetheless.

The trouble with Crunchie bars is they're a nightmare to eat. The honeycomb bit either jars to bite through or gets hopelessly clagged onto your teeth, or both. This means you regret eating one before you've even got the whole thing down your gullet. And you can't just toothbrush the wreckage off your choppers afterwards either so you're committed to a good half hour off picking it away with your (crossed) fingers hoping you don't take a filling out at the same time. I don't want that from a chocolate bar, teasing a bit of debris off with your tongue is fine, but not a full scale archeological dig - I associate that kind of thing with that hairy wally from Time Time, the male equivalent of Charlie Dimmock one? You don't want those kind of mental images at hand when you're putting things into your mouth.

Status: Zombie

Lookalike: Wispa Gold

In Three Words: Choose Something Different

Rev. John Stott

Stott (r) with the Holy Ghost.

27 April 1921 – 27 July 2011

The Reverend John Stott, who died on July 27 aged 90, was one of the most influential Anglican clergymen of the 20th century. He was declared one of the world's 100 most influential people in Time magazine in 2005. He also wore muckle shoes and favoured a kilt.

Stott wrote over 50 books, including the 1958 classic "Basic Christianity," which sold more than 2.5 million copies. Using the profits from his writing, Stott funded the training of ministers from poor countries before sending them back out like a botnet attack on their homelands, pestering hitherto contented goatherds with tales of God's young 'un.

So what else did he do? Let's say he invented Stottie cakes because he liked the feeding of the five thousand so much shall we? I can't be bothered researching his actual life any more. He also developed a mixture of small sugar coated sweets called Jelly Stotts but was badly let down by an unscrupulous confectionary agent who dropped the 'S' and sold the concept as his own to Rowntree-Mackintosh. Stott was probably devasted by the betrayal and this is what led him to devote his life to the church or something. He unsuccesfully ran for mayor of Nottingham on the promise of altering its name slightly so it sounded a bit more like his. I don't know. He mentored prominent religious hectorer and mate o' the presidents Billy Graham, they used to get together and watch Blott on the Landscape; John would claim it was all about him and Billy would tease him by saying it was really about Alan Knott. Billy was on the right tracks but slightly off target, it was actually about Jonathan Trott. John didn't like cricket, he liked teapots, robots and AC/DC (Bon Scott).

Status: Dead

Lookalike: An academic Bobby Robson

In Three Words: Ham, Pease Pudding