Coming soon...

My wife versus Vic Reeves. Which is the same story as Auntie Joan versus Matt Lucas. And the cool thing. She doesn't read this blog so she'll never know.

My Wife Versus the Chick from Thunderball

How many years ago is it now? It must be at least ten. We went to the National Film Theatre on the South Bank to see a premier screening of the Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes TV movie "The Master Blackmailer" - the cast and crew were mingled in the audience - minus Jeremy Brett who was seriously ill, close to death, in fact. As the credits rolled I saw Claudine Auger's name scroll upwards and almost involuntarily in a stage whisper said words to the effect of - "Hey! The girl from Thunderball!" Shortly thereafter, Ms Auger appeared on screen and my wife, in a voice several decibels louder than a stage whisper said, "My God! Hasn't she aged!"

Unfortunately, it seemed Ms Auger was sat in front of us. She did stay for the whole movie but kinda slunk out at the end without joining the rest of the cast on stage for a question and answer session.

But you know what? We all age. And I'm sure it is better to age gracefully that to go the cosmetic route. Claudine Auger, I salute you.

The Last of Old Harrah

You have been patient my people...so here goes.

Yes. This story involves me mercilessly killing a spider; so best that you mentally prepare yourself now. Not that I'm necessarily an arachnophobe...but I certainly wouldn't ever touch one. The household is full of family members who are arachnophobes though and it's muggins here who is called upon to terminate with extreme prejudice. Why not just put 'em outside, I hear you ask. Well, I'm pretty sure that the British house spider isn't designed for outdoor life and wouldn't last long anyway. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. Oh yeah...and the other thing you need to know is that the Fortean Times message board has a thread about spiders psychically communing with people...so away we go.

Last summer we stayed at a friends beautiful thatched cottage in Wiltshire...several days into the holiday my wife called my down to the hallway and said words to the effect of 'That has to die' as she pointed to the largest house spider I have ever seen as it ambled slowly in the direction of the under stairs pantry. Ambling is uncharacteristic of the species but this thing was frickin' huge - looked like it was four and a half inches across (maybe more). It is looked like it was changing course for the lounge where the kids were watching The Brave and the Bold. I took off my blue suede slipper (indicative of both middle age and an admiration of Elvis Presley) and whacked it. Just as I brought the slipper down the following thought (swear to God) popped into my head - "I've got a name, you know!" And then it was dead. I cleared up the mess and wondered why I suddenly thought of/or rather 'heard' the spider claim to have a name. Just pangs of guilt perhaps.

Our good friend Paul - the owner - dropped by later in the week. "What was the name of that giant spider that used to live in your pantry," I asked.

"Used to?," said Paul. "That was Old Harrah."

The spider had been right, he did have a name.