GREEDY AS A GOODWIN

Hello, again. How can I let Sir Fred Goodwin go without comment. Can’t be done, can it?

The failed banker who somehow talked his way into a £693,000-a-year pension for life, at the age of 50.

Greedy, uncaring, immoral bastard are the first four words that spring to mind. Greasy used car salesman almost sprang to mind, but that isn’t fair on used car salesmen, greasy or otherwise.

The banks and the government ministers/bureaucrats responsible for this shaming debacle are just as guilty, but of neglect and incompetence.

The only constructive thing to come out of it is that our fine inventive language now has a new phrase – greedy as a Goodwin.

THE PARTY THAT DIDN'T QUITE BREAK OUT

A belated happy new year to all my reader! I know you’re there somewhere, you little rascal.

I didn’t get round to it on January 1 because I was a mite hung-over. Mrs N and I entertained our two oldest friends (think Methuselah) on new year’s eve, and we decided we’d try to recapture our youth, when new year’s eves could be a day-long affair.

We would, however, bear in mind that all four of us are sexy-genarians, some more than others, and make a steady start with just a glass of wine or two with a snacky lunch. We didn’t bear in mind, however, that today’s wine glasses are buckets compared to the dainty affairs of the 1960s. And by mid-afternoon we were sitting in comfy chairs trying not to nod off.

We had family visitors just before five and they were obviously expecting a drink before going on to to their own celebrations, so my mate Terence and I cracked open some beers. Veronica stuck to wine and Mrs N had a break because she had volunteered to cook.

The family visitors stayed for an hour and a half, and we resumed comfy chair duty and awaited the last supper of 2008. It was a good ‘un, worthy of more wine and then some port, maybe a beer.

A party was ready to break out – but the lure of the comfy chairs was too great. We played music and chatted (to keep ourselves awake) and then joined Jools Holland for his Hootenanny. We made it to almost half-past 2009 before we just had to go to bed or collapse on the floor.

We all slept in on January 1, eventually crawling out for a massive, late-morning fry-up, and a long inquest on why we couldn’t do it any more, and why we did it when we were young.

There is, of course, only one answer. It’s the law when you’re young. It’s the law of diminishing returns when you get past a certain age.

A WORD TO THE WISE ...

When I said yesterday that 'it's downhill all the way', I meant downhill, obviously; not downhill.

Downhill as in free-wheeling, easy to do, no hard-pedalling; as opposed to downhill, meaning getting steadily worse.

Funny old language, ours, where a word or phrase can indicate two diametrically opposed ideas.

Still feeling under the weather, by the way. Under the weather, meaning not very well; as opposed to being so well I can stand outside fearlessly whatever the elements. The elements meaning bad weather, obviously; not big grey things with funny long noses.

Merry Christmas! As in Bah humbug ...

THE NEWS IN SHORT ...

It’s the shortest day, my tinnitus is whistling like Roger Whittaker on acid, I have an annoying floater in my right eye, I have been laid low by a very bad cold-flu thing, and my head is full of snot.

Yes, it’s the shortest day! It’s downhill all the way now, and things can only get better.

Surely ...

WHAT'S IN A NAME? ASK ARNOLD HITLER ...

I googled the word Napper this morning, and came up with Nappers galore from architects to photographers to an acting coach. Then I googled Robert Napper, and came up with Broadmoor inmate, murderer, killer of Rachel Nickell.

Yesterday's conviction 16 years after the murder that outraged the nation makes for a sad story, but it's somehow even sadder for me because the aforementioned psychopath is my namesake. Thank God he’s not a relative.

Napper is not a particularly common name, and I can’t remember anyone else with the name making the national headlines in my 60-odd years on this planet. Shame it had to be this way.

It could be worse, however. Imagine being called Arnold Hitler, or Kevin Pol Pot. Or Simon Cowell.

It makes you shiver, doesn’t it?

MOORES THE UNMERRIER

England cricket team, eh? What a load of useless tossers. After the unadulterated glory of England's sporting year was revealed in all its glory by the BBC's Sports Personality Of The Year show last night, our cricketers demonstrate the ultimate act of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

True, India have some fine cricketers, but any half-decent team with fire in their bellies would have shut them down.

How many more debacles must we suffer before coach Peter Moores resigns? I say let Fabio Capello do it in his spare time. He may be Italian, he might not have a clue how cricket works, but he couldn't do worse ...

ANYBODY WANT TO BUY A FLOATER?

I’m having trouble with a floater. I can’t seem to get rid of it.

I beg your pardon!? I’m talking about a ghostly little squiggle in my right eye; what were you thinking of?

My floater suddenly appeared the other day. Apparently it’s caused when the eye’s ‘gel’ breaks up, which can happen naturally when you get older. There is a chance it could be something slightly more worrying, so I have to go to the eye hospital to be safe.

Meanwhile, I decided to do a little research on the interweb. I found some useful medical stuff. And then this:

Looking for eye floaters? Go to Kelkoo to compare and shop from thousands of choices online … etc

Out of curiosity, I thought I’d click and see what sort of eye floaters I could buy, should I need a new one. It seems the choice boils down to Eye Cream, Eye Pencil, Eye Shadow, and such like.

I decided not to buy anything. My floater doesn’t need enhancing.

I did, however, decide to try another little experiment. I Yahoo’d ‘sweet kisses’ and (beside lots of weird Youtube offerings) came up with, as if you couldn’t guess: Looking for sweet kisses? Go to Kelkoo to compare and shop from thousands of choices online …

Is there no end to what you can find to buy on Kelkoo? I started looking for a Money Tree last night. I’m up to page 749 …

FINAL WHINGE ON WHINGING BASTARDS. FOR NOW ...

So, Alistair Darling says he is going to make us better off this afternoon – unless you’re a high earner. The leaked, and therefore accurate, figure is £150,000 a year. And I would bet at least £149,000 that if you are in that bracket, you are already whinging.

Now, listen here, greedy bastards – the time to whinge is when you’re on the minimum wage and some greedy bastard like you begrudges paying even that.

Anyway, what goes round comes round. In my sixty-plus years I have seen recessions and Chancellors come and go. Good times and bad times. And I have spent the past year and a bit recording some of them. But I have a pile of work to do – in the hope that I might earn £150,000-plus in my dotage. And if do, I won’t whinge when I have to pay a wedge to the Exchequer, to help make this sick country better. I will just thank my lucky stars that I’m not on the minimum wage, sitting in the cold, eating like a mouse, wearing clothes that are falling to bits.

Yes, I know – I keep saying this, but this time I mean it. I am taking a little sabbatical from the blog. I use the word sabbatical rather loosely, however. This is not a paid leave, nor will it be unbroken.

I will pop in every so often, when time and commitments permit, to have my say, so please check occasionally. I just warn you that the entries will, of necessity, be rather pithy.

Tho, thee you thoon …

SO HOW DID I PRODUCE A RABBIT FROM A BLOG?

I may have mentioned before, the Google ads on this page are generated randomly by the search engine locking on to key words and topics.

For instance a site about, say, golf might generate ads for Golf Clubs, Golf Balls, Golf Holidays, Golf Courses, Pringle Sweaters, The Weirdest Trousers, The Golfer’s Book Of Unusual Swearwords, and Divorces R Us.

But a blog about everything and nothing, say like this one, is more problematical. That’s why I often get lumbered with ads about Jackhammers, Jack & Cylinder Repair, Jackboots, Jack Russells Need Good Home, Jacket Potatoes U Like.

However … as several readers have pointed out, in recent days the ads have been headed by one promising “Rabbit Rampants Exposed”, with the blurb All Top Brands Tested, Reviewed & Rated. We’ve done the work for you, followed by a web address.

Sorry!? When did I write about Rampant Rabbits? Never. Very strange. My mate Frank mentioned the subject in a funny passage in his novel When It Comes To The Crunch, and I have mentioned the book once or twice (go to www.huckbooks.co.uk). But how did Google know about the Rabbit? Is it psychic as well as Freudian?

The ad isn’t there every time you open my blog. If it isn’t there now, try again later. You can’t keep a Rampant Rabbit down …

JUST ANOTHER DAY IN DREAMLAND

What a gent John Sergeant is. As he was saying to me the other day, after reading my blog on his Strictly Come Dancing appearances, ‘I think they’ve suffered enough, Jack. I’ll pull out and give that little rugby player a chance to win.’

I had to remind him that Jessie Wallace had already been voted off.

Ah, the power of the blog, eh?

I’ve also heard from Mr Sulu in the jungle. The helmsman of the USS Enterprise, who recently ‘married’ another man but didn’t invite Captain Kirk (some tiff over a joke involving a warp factor), sounded puzzled. He said: ‘Did you English people know that Esther Rantzen comes from another planet?’

Silly question. Of course we did.

I’m still waiting to hear back from my old mate Johnny Sparrow Depp – Deppie Baby as we call him down the pub – about whether he’s got time to sort out the pirate problem. His missus, the lovely Vanessa, told me he had been in contact with Barack Obama about it.

Barack Obama! I ask you. These celebs live in a dream world …

* Talking of dreams: Germany 1 England Reserves 2. No, I've just looked at the papers – it was real. And Fabio Capello is looking more like the real deal with every match. Halle-bloody-lujah!

ANYONE FOR PIRATE SCHOOL?

I wonder how long it will be before a bored careers officer suggests piracy as an option. Well, it appears to be lucrative, and it seems anyone with a fast boat and a few rockets can have a go.

Of course, things being what they are in 2008, the government would have to launch a Pirate School, hopefully as a Private Finance Initiative, and all those with an affinity for piracy could chip in: the banks, of course, the oil and other energy companies, the Inland Revenue, just for starters.

Students could begin on our major rivers by learning how to ease pleasure cruisers laden with expensive booze and women to secluded moorings, only to be released on payment of a hefty ransom.

Their first SATS would be conducted on the Norfolk Broads and the Lakes. Successful students would graduate to the Channel and lure ferries to the Isle of Wight, with the threat of stranding everybody there, in 1956, until a bounty is paid.

Piracy in 2008! What is all this? A concerted international effort off the coast of Somalia, blowing a succession of speedboats and so-called 'mother' ships out of the water, would soon put an end to it. I suggest the UN enlists Johnny Sparrow Depp as operations adviser. Failing that, I’m sure my old friend, Goatee Beard (like Black Beard, only shorter) would help.

I asked him the other day where his buccaneers were at the moment. He replied, ‘Same place as usual – under my buccanhat!’

How we laughed.

THEY ARE CELARIACS, GET ME OUT OF HERE!

And while we’re on the subject of celebrities … hands up all those who watch I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here! Just as I suspected – no one. My readers are all far too intelligent to watch this pile of jungle doo-doo.

Excuse me, ITV. Celebrities!? – Brian Paddick, Carly Zucker, Joe Swash, Nicola McLean? Not heard of one of them.

The Oxford English Dictionary, the fount of much knowledge, says, and I quote, ‘Person who performs a rite…’ Sorry, that’s a celebrant. Try again. ‘A large swollen tulip-like …’ Sorry, that’s celeriac. Still, bloody close!

Actually, it says ‘Famous person’. And under ‘Famous’, it says ‘Known about by many people’. Well, everyone I asked yesterday (and that was several) had never heard of any of these so-called celeriacs.

Anyway, there are two I have vaguely heard of – Dani Behr, a former model and something, and Simon Webbe, but only because somebody mentioned a pop group called Blue.

Only four would I describe as famous, and therefore celebrants: Esther Rantzen, Martina Navratilova, Mr Sulu, and Robert Kilroy-Silk. And I can only surmise they are all hard-up, and totally besotted by having a camera pointed at them.

I also suspect that each has one other driving force –

Esther: If Not Now, When Can I make A Bigger Idiot Of Myself?
Martina: Fancies Dani Behr.
Mr Sulu: Still living in another universe.
Robert Kilroy-Silk: Twat of the first order. Who sees nothing wrong with ripping off the public by picking up his MEP salary, alongside a huge TV fee, while he is demonstrably not earning it.