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Friday 5th February 2010, 01:14
Just for posterity, my awful car story from last weekend...
Gigging up country, including two nice gigs on the way up in neighbouring East Midlands settlements Okeham and Stamford. Okeham was a museum gig. A stage, set up among vintage cars and tractors. Odd but nice. Stamford was the 2nd gig that night, and a lovely - just lovely - downstairs comedy room, with low ceilings and great audience members and nice banter and good people and even fine cuisine including Sloppy Joes and Po' Boy sandwiches, which reminded me of our Louisiana and Texas stop-offs in America last year. Yum.
The next day would hold, in theory, two gigs in the Northwest. I opened in Preston, then while hotfooting it to Manchester for Friday gig no.2, my car conked out on the M60. Properly conked, as in wouldn't even make the hazard lights work, which is even more of a hazard, especially on a motorway with traffic accelerating towards you. I managed to get onto the sliproad, but no further. I called the RAC. A minute later, an AA van appeared. Hurray! I thought. But no, he merely yelled through his open window, "Have you called someone?" "The RAC," I responded. "Good luck," he yelled, and drove off. Bstrd (add the AAs to that).
Then an incident support truck arrived (who are not the police), and advised that if the police catch me here, even though the car's broken down, they can charge me £300 just for being broken down on the motorway. With that, the police arrived. I put on my biggest charm offensive, and sure enough wheedled my way out of any £300ness. My car started, the police said "Follow us off the motorway", and my car spluttered a metre before conking out again, as the police accelerated off into the distance.
RAC man arrived, spotted the fault and said it was unfixable tonight, so I'll tow you to where you're staying tonight. I didn't know where I was staying, so spouted various places I thought it might be - Sale, Hyde, Trafford, Rusholme... hoping they'd all be near each other. The RAC man laughed in my face in a "You're not from round here" kind of way.
I don't have good history impressing RAC chaps. The last time I needed one (for running out of petrol on the M1 - they don't take kindly to a basic fault like 'The tick-tock petrol bit pointed at the E not the F, and then it stopped'), he scoffed at me, "Are you ok to rejoin?" "Yes," I replied, "I am very happy with your service, and shall definitely rejoin at the end of the year." "No, you moron," his eyes said, "Rejoining the motorway from the hard shoulder." "Oh. Yes. Thanks. Bye."
So anyway. The next day, up in Manchester, a 2nd RAC man came to fix the problem - drivebelt came loose. £75. Fine. Fixed. That evening, on the way to Preston for my last gig before driving 4 hours home, the car conked out again. Balls. Phoned RAC man yet again, at 6pm, and he showed up at 10pm, to say, a) It's buggered, and will cost £1000 to fix, and b) you need to be towed home, but your RAC membership is invalid because you didn't update your address, so the tow home will cost £500. Tow truck will be here at midnight.
Thus began a night being towed home from Preston to Guildford, including a stop in Birmingham as tow truck man no.1 decided he had to go home (yeah, so did I, keep driving), so after 2 two-trucks, 3 RAC men, £1575 cost, 2 cancelled gigs, and a 7 hour drive home, I arrived back at 7am Sunday morning, much poorer than when I left. And to be honest thinking that those vintage tractors in Okeham Museum on Thursday night, probably would have been a safer bet than me knackered Kerensamobile.
Thursday 14th January 2010, 10:16
Am I getting more prudish in my old age? Earlier this week I watched Disney's 1940 film of Pinocchio, and balked at how the levels of mild horror in it (it's a U). Plus I picked up a DVD of Poirot free with a paper (I know it was the Daily Mail, but Poirot's Poirot. Besides, I live in Surrey, it helps me blend in). And that DVD is also rated U, despite containing blood, murder and some near-xenophobic taunting of a Belgian.
Then in HMV this week, in their sale section I found two porn films: 'Giant Breasts 3' (bucking the trend of many recent trilogies by making the 3rd film in 3d) and 'Student Girls Gone Wild' (I'm not sure just how feral they get, although the picture on the back does involve a harness, so I'm presuming they go rabid or something). These weren't just light adult naughtiness - I could tolerate Doctor In Trouble or Wild Things 2 in the sale section - but these were proper, pornographic nakedity on front and back covers, without I presume plot, characterisation, subtext or even that many deleted scenes or an audio commentary (let alone an alternate ending).
I then dubbed myself an activist for moral decency, and took it on myself to remove these offending items from being sat pride of place in the sale section. Yes they were in the sale, but I don't think that means they should be sat, cover facing outwards, opposite the chart CDs for all sorts of kids and nuns to see. So I picked them up to carry them to the adult section of the store.
I couldn't find it straight away, and then got distracted by the complete boxset of The West Wing (Jed Bartlett would have approved of what I was doing), so suddenly realised I'd been walking around clutching two porn films in a shop frequented by a lot of my friends and neighbours, and both DVDs couldn't be turned around to hide the crotch-out front-and-back cover photos. I briefly tried to conceal the images from passing children by hiding the DVDs in my jacket till I could find their rightful home, but then quickly stopped that when I realised the difficulty of convincing a security guard as to my moral stance. "No officer, not stealing - just protecting the youth."
I couldn't find the Adult section in the end - I don't think they had one, which is probably why they ended up out by the front doors in the sale section. I thought of just dropping them off at the nearest section, but that was Children's Animation, so thought that just makes thing worse. In the end I buried them in Horror. That's not an indication that I think the female naked form is something to be terrified of (I hope), but just because if you're of an age and mindset to be looking through horror DVDs, I think you can take the image shots of Giant Breasts 3 and Student Girls Gone Wild. Or if you're a curious 11 year-old, you'll have think you just struck gold. Even though they should be at home watching Pinocchio.
Thursday 7th January 2010, 11:18
Ein gutes neues Jahr!
What's the most frequently repeated TV programme ever? That Last of the Summer Wine ep when they slide down the hill in a bath? (Little-known fact - they slide down the bath in most episodes, so no, they are different ones.)
No, it's 'Dinner For One', aka The 90th Birthday, aka Der 90. Geburtstag. It's apparently massively popular in mainland Europe, and is shown every New Year's Eve as a locked-down tradition. On Dec 31st, 2003, it was broadcast 19 times on various channels.
Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the title, so I ordered on my online DVD rental list a film called Le Diner de Cons, which is a French comedy. It's not bad, and is certainly the funniest French comedy I've seen (ie. funnier than Amelie and La Haine), but is not the one I was after. Still, I found a good way to watch subtitled films if you just want to get through them really quickly is to watch them on fast-forward. I got through the entire film in 20 minutes, thanks to a good bit of speed-reading.
Dinner For One is viewable on the internet, I've now found, and is a black-and-white sketch from 1963, although originally performed in the 1920s. It stars English comedian Freddie Frinton and is massively popular in Germany, as well as Australia, Norway, Sweden, Finland, South Africa... basically everywhere but the UK. If you haven't seen it, imagine Mr Bean as a butler, and you're not far off. Have a look on youtube if you want to see what the fuss is all about.
But then, we have our own bonkers tradition. I had to explain earlier today what a panto is, to an American friend. And when you write out exactly what one is, it makes you wonder why it ever caught on. Somehow a panto isn't a panto without a cow played by two people, or an ageing celebrity in drag delivering sexual innuendos to an audience of children, or a bucket being thrown at the audience as if it's got water in it when actually it's tinsel. Yet caught on it has.
A factette you can take away with you: Panto has caught on around the world, in Australia, Canada, and others - not as much as in the UK, but with ex-pat pockets making it happen every year. My favourite? The Phnom Penh Players of Cambodia, who always bill a celebrity guest star who fails to appear. 2009's 'Snow White and the Jackson 5' advertises Jude Law as appearing - every night so far 'he's cancelled' and the understudy steps in. Jude, if you're reading this, go on, show up, just for one show...
Thursday 7th January 2010, 05:50
Yesterday we bought a Christmas tree (a Nordman Fir, since you ask, who I'm sure was bass guitarist with A-ha), and while we were there, we bought a goldfish on a whim. You know what it's like at these shops. In Tesco, you've bought your groceries, get to the till and there's a Mars bar, so you buy the Mars bar. Similarly at the garden centre, everyone's buying trees, holly and/or mistletoe, so what's the best accompaniment to go with that that they put near the tills to lure you in? A goldfish.
This one's named Robbie. We have a tradition of naming goldfish after the first name we hear on the radio as we drive away from the pet shop/Christmas Tree outlet. And this time we were foolishly tuned into Magic, so it was only ever going to be Robbie, Ronan or, this time of year, Mariah. I'm thinking this is a tradition we should keep for naming everything from goldfish to dogs to children. I love the idea of explaining one day to a 10-year-old named Spoony, "Well, we had Radio 1 on by accident..."
Given that Robbie is our 9th fish, I figure that any day now I'll sadly forget the names of previous fish, so this blog serves to store for posterity the fish of yesteryear. We will remember them...
Jerry - Jerry was the first to go. Odd since we named him after the character in The Good Life (pre-dating our 'radio name' rule), and Paul Eddington who played Jerry was the first (and currently only) member of the cast to pass on. The fish carried on that curse.
Tom - Again, Tom & Jerry were not named after the cat-and-mouse cartoon, but after The Good Life. We happened to name these two after the men, and true to form they popped their clogs earlier than the women.
Barbara - Barbara & Margot stuck around for a little while, and even survived a house move. For a bit.
Margot - Margot won The Good Life survival stakes. So we got her some friends...
Harriet - It's here we started naming after people mentioned on the radio. We turned on to the news, where they spoke of Harriet Harman and...
Gordon - ...Brown. Typically Gordon stuck around the longest, and far longer than anyone expected. Also typically, he was rather podgy with funny eyes.
Walter - When Gordon was left alone, we got Walter, a giant-finned golder-than-goldfish, named after a character on a Radio 4 play. That took 5 minutes to name him. Frustrating sample dialogue: "Are you going to run off with him?" "Run off with who?" "You know who. Do I have to say his name again?" (Us: Yes!) "I can't bring myself to say his name..." (Say his bloody name!) "Go on, say it." (Please!) "It's... it's Walter, isn't it?" (Oh, is that it?)
Marigold Heyworth - We use her full name, cos that entire name is perfect for a goldfish. Named after someone who wrote a letter to Radio 4. Little does she know that letter prompted a fish to be named after her...
Robbie - And now the latest new fish on the block joins Marigold Heyworth. A fine two-tone red-and-white little fishette. Long may he remain with us, long enough even for Spoony to be able to play with him...
Wednesday 23rd December 2009, 15:19
I done a nativity for a bit of a jolly, so I blog it here for you as a Christmas gift. What have you got me? Nothing? That's about even then. Happy Christmas...!
A CHRISTMAS PANTO NATIVITY CAROL, by Paul Kerensa (aged 30+11/12ths)
Long time ago in Bethlehem, so the Holy Bible say, Mary’s boy child Jesus Christ, was born on Christmas Day.
The Angel Peter Gabriel came to visit Mary, and said, “I wanna be – hurrrrrrrrh! – your sledgehammer!”
And Mary interpreted this as meaning she would have a child from God and call him The Baby Jesus.
Joseph came along and the angel scarpered, as Joseph voice was heard. “Fe, fi, fo, fangel! I smell the blood of an archangel!”
And Mary told Joseph of the news and what was to come, and after an hour or several of convincing, including trying to track down CCTV footage of the angel – to no avail – Joseph believed her. But he thought, “If this happens again, I’m getting in Jeremy Kyle’s lie detector.”
At this time, there was a census taken across the land, and so every man had to return to his place of birth. This really annoyed, for example, an Egyptian family who’d taken years to emigrate to Turkey, but needs must. So Joseph took all that he owned: Mary and a donkey, and rode to Bethlehem, on one of them.
Meanwhile, there were three wise men: the wise man of Christmas past, the wise man of Christmas present, and the wise man of Christmas future. Since Christmas hadn’t happened yet, the wise man of Christmas was actually a simpleton. The wise man of Christmas present was kept having the feeling something big was about to happen. And the wise man of Christmas future knew all about what was going to happen, as well as the eventual growing commercialism of Christmas, beginning with Dickens inventing turkey, Coca-Cola inventing Santa, and Simone Cowell inventing the Queen’s Official Singalong Karaoke Christmas Message, from the year 2018 onwards.
While they were waiting for Christmas to happen, the wise men decided to follow a star to find the newborn baby. But they were intervened by Evil King Herod, who was busy trying to write his Christmas speech to the nation, when he had suddenly started to wonder why he was doing a speech every year, and how he’d do anything to get out of it. It occurred to Herod that if he killed the baby, there would be no Christmas and no Christmas speech. He only did the speech because the wise man of Christmas future told him to get in early, so he summoned the wise men and told them to report back to him when they had found the baby. The wise men said they would, but they decided that actually they wouldn’t, just to see the look on Herod’s face. It would be a picture.
As Joseph, the donkey, and finally Mary (women’s rights weren’t what they are now) all approached Bethlehem for the census, it appeared that there were more people from Bethlehem than there were places to stay there. Obviously, because whenever anyone left, someone else would move in, so you get through a lot of people living there, with no new housing developments. There was an inn, however – not a Premier Travel Inn, not even a Days Inn. More of a Travelodge. Basic, no cooked breakfast – just continental. Check-out from nine, only terrestrial channels on the TV. Even the tea- and coffee-making facilities lacked any biscuits. But Joseph, the donkey and Mary would see none of this anyway – no pets.
So the Travelodgekeeper turned the 3 – soon to be 4 – of them away. But then Joseph spied a stable around the back, and asked if they could stay there. The Travelodgekeeper looked at the shack Joseph was gesturing at, and realised he was pointing at the VIP suite. Yes, it had straw and animal dung on the floor, but it was the best that Travelodge got. So the Travelodgekeeper sent them there, since to be honest the entire hotel was empty as no one wanted to stay there.
And it was there that the baby Jesus was born, and named ‘the baby Jesus’, or as Joseph continued to call him till his 3rd birthday, Joseph Junior, just to make a point.
In the neighbouring fields, while shepherds watched their flock by night, all seated on the ground – it’s not clear if the shepherds were seated on the ground, or the flock was, but either way, all got up with a start when a host of angels appeared. And the angels greeted them, “Hello!” they said. And the shepherds were sore amazed. The soreness was because they were seated on the ground. The amazed bit was definitely because of the angels, who continued: “You must go to David’s town to pay tribute to the newborn king.” And the shepherds set off for St David’s in west Wales. “No, come back!” said the host of angels. “Not St David’s. David’s town.” So the shepherds began to book flights for Davidstown, North Carolina. “Stop!” said the hostess of angels. “See that there dusty straw room down there? Well therein lies the newborn king.”
“Oh,” said the shepherds. “That’s easier.”
And the hostess of angels with the mostess of angels turned to the other angels and mumbled something rude about the shepherds. The hostess turned back to the field of shepherds and lambs, and announced: “You must bring a gift to worship. Take one of those animals, kill it, and present it as an offering.” And sure enough, one of the lambs went and killed a shepherd. “No, not you!” spake the co-host of angels, who was more of a sidekick. “He was talking to the shepherds.”
“Ohhh,” said the lambs, who were then killed by the shepherds and brought to the Travelodge. Just as they got there, the wise men of Christmas past, present and future all appeared from the other direction. “Oh, were you going to go in?” said a shepherd.
“Yes,” said the wise man of Christmas present. “We’ve travelled a long way, weighed down by this job lot of gold, frankincense and myrrh.”
The chief shepherd replied, “Oh. Well any chance we can go in first? That gold is really going to trump what we’ve got: some bleeding animal carcass.”
And the wise man of Christmas present whacked the shepherd over the head with the gold bar, and the shepherd fell to the ground with a comedy lump and a circle of tweeting birds.
The wise man of Christmas future, who was holding the frankincense, said, “Frankly, I’m incensed.” And all the wise men laughed and laughed. During which time, the other shepherds snuck in.
Inside the stable, Joseph, the baby Jesus, the donkey, and Mary, were all laying in the manger. Well Mary wasn’t – she was standing now her work was done. And in came the shepherds with their recently slaughtered lambs. Joseph asked, “What is this you bring?”
“Oh, nothing,” said the shepherd. “Just some lamb. Does the little lad like lamb? We can puree it.”
“I’m not sure,” said Joseph. A cot might have been nice, or a pram. We’ve got to push him round for a year in this manger. It hasn’t even got any wheels. Lucky I’m a carpenter. And to be honest it’s a shame you killed the lamb – we could have put him on that.”
The shepherds looked down at the lamb in shame. “It’s halal, if it helps.”
“What?!” Joseph exploded.
“I mean, erm, kosher. It’s koshalal – a new mix of the two. And circumcised.”
“Do you not see,” said Joseph, “that this child is born to replace the old law of ritual and works to please God? This child fulfils and yet at the same time supersedes the law so that you may be saved by faith alone.” But such theology was lost on the shepherd, who just said, “Wha-?” For he still had a bump on his head.
The wise men came in, and delivered their presents of gold, frankincense and myrrh. That helped cover up the smell of rotting lamb in the corner. But at least it’s better than the smell of many Travelodge rooms.
And so the next day, presumably, Joseph registered for that census that he’d come to Bethlehem for, but that never gets mentioned again in the Bible. And he presumably kept very quiet about the baby so that evil King Herod wouldn’t find out. And they all moved to Nazareth and lived happily ever after, for a bit.
The end, for now...
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