It’s hard to convey with words the wanton despair or complete lack of enthusiasm Jeffman feels for anything in this world on an almost daily basis. So he won’t. But it seems that some folk have no trouble entering into the spirit of things, and indeed, taking it that one step too far.

Despite ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day’ falling on Sept. 19th annually, and lasting for precisely 24 hours, the Somali leg of the organisation appear to have gotten the wrong end of the stick and are under the misapprehension that it is in fact a yearlong event. What’s more, they’ve thrown themselves into the festivities with a little too much gusto and started swiping ships across the high seas, as if it’s going out of fashion.

However, from the photographs of captured pirates I’ve seen over the past few years, it is evident that when it comes to the dressing up part they must try harder.

Of all the pirates that have been rounded up and herded off of a Navy Gunship under the watchful eye of an AK-47 assault rifle, not one has been sporting a jaunty tri-corner hat; an eye-patch; a peg-leg; or a bloody parrot.

It would seem that these pirate characters’ absolute commitment to the cause has to be called into question. As will my judgement in writing this if any of the latest batch of hostages wind up riddled with bullets.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Speaking of self-righteous pricks, one of the few pleasures that lifts Jeffman’s otherwise dull and dreary weekdays watching a wall in case it decides to change colour, is occasionally listening to the abject nonsense that spills with seemingly carefree abandon, and no due consideration for nearby animal or plant life, from the mouth of a man he is forfeit to share office space with.

We have met this particular character before. He was number five of Seven things you needn’t know about Jeffman. From this moment on we shall refer to him as Case M.

Not that he’d recognise himself were he to happen upon this page whilst scouring the internet for topless photographs of Margaret Thatcher or PDFs of the Daily Mail Guide to Social Justice and Enriching the Dispossessed Classes (Page 1, string the buggers up). Not even if I were to post his full name, his address, and the combined age and shoe-sizes of his wife, cat and dog. Such is Case M’s almost terminal condition of self-absorption, self-importance, and misguided self-belief that elevates him to the same pedestal of self-centred idiot presently reserved for the likes of Simon Cowell, Jeremy Kyle, Piers Morgan, and anybody who considers themselves worthy of a place in the Big Brother house.

Case M would have you believe, given half the chance, that it was he who discovered fire, fashioned the first wheel, put a bullet through JFK’s skull, and single-handedly raised the Mary Celeste with nowt more than a rubber dinghy and a fishing rod liberated from a passing garden gnome.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

As promised last week, one delivers the most agreeable ‘Sweet Talkin’ Woman’ from Electric Light Orchestra’s 1977 double album: Out Of The Blue.

And a fine album it is too.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

In yet another bid to prevent the great British public from getting royally rat-arsed and – horror of horrors – maybe actually enjoying themselves in this grim, grey wasteland they’ve so generously created for us, the right honourable members of Parliament (members, indeed) are calling for an outright ban on what was once the finest exponent of the British pub trade, the happy hour, as well as cheap supermarket booze.

The good people elected to protect our interests have even proposed putting a minimum price on alcohol. This in particular nearly caused Jeffman to spill his pint.

These sparks of brilliance stem from a committee headed by keen defender of free speech, the publicity shy MP for Leicester East, Keith Vaz, a man who by decree of his very religion is unable to partake of alcohol.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

The Not What it Used to Be TV critic, Jeff Mann, braves new show Britannia High and quickly wishes he hadn’t:

It would seem that creativity has rolled out the off-white rag, hoisted it from the highest flagpole, and died ceremoniously on its arse. As far as British TV is concerned anyway.

Anyone who’s brave enough to have read any of this nonsense once and then without so much as a ransom note written in their first-born’s blood, returned to read it again, will probably know that I’ve railed against the saturation of village idiot television on more than one instance in the past.

But last weekend, finding myself once again confined to barracks with a cold, the likes of which has not been seen in mainland Britain since the glory days of the Black Death, I was unfortunate enough to witness some of the tripe first-hand. Force-fed intravenously to me via the life-support machine in the corner of the living room.

Now I would like both myself and those of you taking time out from your busy schedules to read this, to think that I was the cut of chap that would wilfully put himself through all the excruciating crap that pollutes the airwaves so that you don’t have to. Unfortunately I’m not. I lack the necessary cast-iron stomach for the untreated sewage-water that is The X Factor, Hole in the Wall, Little Britain USA, or anything else of their decidedly dodgy ilk – in fact, my views on The X Factor, Britain’s Got Talent, and Simon Cowell in general, have been well-documented on previous occasion.

But before I’m detained on suspicion of leading you up the garden path, there was something last weekend that managed to steal two minutes of my life that I’ll never get back. I refer to the heavily publicised Britannia High, upon which I drunkenly stumbled last Sunday evening.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

This week I was going to put up ‘Sweet Talkin Woman’ by the Electric Light Orchestra, but due to a recent saturation of ELO and related groups within the musical interlude, I’ve decided to put it off for another week or so.

Instead, we have another of Jeffman’s many favourites, The Bonzo Dog Doodah Band.

Yes, you read that right.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

It is in fact November the 5th, which means tonight is Bonfire night. An evening where everybody in England gathers together around a roaring fire beneath a fog-cloaked sky and celebrates the arrest, torture, hanging, drawing, quartering, and eventual burning of Catholics everywhere; via the medium of the humble baked potato.

However, recent Government edicts have made it a criminal offence to not only discriminate against, but also look at somebody else on the grounds of religion.

We here at Not What it Used to Be are taking no chances.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

There’s fashionably late and unfashionably late. I think two days counts as the latter.

As is the case with most of the landed gentry, Fanshawe’s about as reliable as Gary Glitter at a school fete. Only missing the deadline by an entire day, Fanshawe, the tiresome toff, has some of his wisdom to dispense on the matter of Halloween. It would’ve been up yesterday, but Jeffman was too inebriated to open his email. Read on and consider yourselves unfortunate:

Indubitably, my good fellow! I have seen some sorry showings in my time but just what the deuce is this Halloween chicanery all about?

During my days at Fanshawe towers, Pater and I were never troubled by such an affront to our naturally easy-going natures, as we had hired a little man whose job it was to pepper anybody whom he so much as suspected of glancing at our drive with buckshot. Admittedly we never received much with regards to correspondence, but Pater had a habit of burning the post and quite often the postman in a small iron basket he kept on the drawing room table, anyway. But it kept the revolting hordes at bay, which was all that mattered.

However, since my unexpected upheaval to pastures new (Fanshawe now resides in a 1-berth caravan in a lay-by along the A361, which he rents from a Gypsy named Roland Browning. Ed) my autumn evenings are plagued by young ruffians who see fit to leave their grimy paw prints over the laminated PVC of my front door.

There I was, just last week in fact, having presently returned breathless from a quick half up the Wizards Sleeve and toasting my crumpets over the Breville sandwich toaster, when there came a horrendous hullaballoo from outside. There was banging and shouting, and all manner of commotions, so with no further ado I put my trousers back on and went to see what this most disagreeable of occurrences was.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

More Birmingham (UK) grown goodness. Which has seemed to be a trend of late. What with The Move, Electric Light Orchestra, and Wizzard once again.

What’s the common denominator between these three groups?

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

There is a powerful weapon found resplendent in the toolboxes of all chancers. If employed efficiently and with the optimum of timing it can be used to devastating effect. I refer, of course, to the Politician’s very own favourite: Bandwagon Jumping.

All chancers worthy of their salt are trained to the pinnacle of their abilities in this discipline, and will be on a constant lookout for the latest bandwagon rolling by upon which to hike up a trouser leg and hitch a ride.

Case Study
The tool has been used admirably over the past few days or so, following the furore surrounding overpaid entertainers, Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand, and their leaving of risqué/lewd messages on the answer phone of Manuel off of Fawlty Towers. To fill in a bit of background, this happened on a pre-recorded radio show on BBC Radio 2, broadcast on October 18th. Remember that date. Now Russell Brand has a bit of a history for putting his foot firmly in his mouth, and as for Jonathan Ross – well he’s 48 and should really know better by now.

But we don’t wish to get bogged down in the rights and wrongs of this, for that is not the purpose of The Chancer’s Formbook. Instead, we shall note that to date there have been 18,000 complaints to the BBC and Ofcom (TV, radio and communications regulator) regarding this broadcast. It is also worth noting that only two of these were made at the time on the aforementioned date of October 18th.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

The jaunty and considerably pert Eve over at That’s Funny Because recently collared me in one of those ‘7 Things you didn’t know about Me’ posts that seem to be quite popular with those who’ve got ready access to the internet.

Being the miserable old bark that I am, I’d usually have no truck with such things, but seeing as Eve seems intent on making me her next husband, obviously for my considerable good looks, I thought it best to keep her sweet.

So here it goes. Seven things you probably didn’t need to know about Jeffman:

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

If your speakers happen to be broken, then with the amount of the dodgy perms that are on display here you could be forgiven for thinking that it’s a 1981 fourth division football team’s crack at an FA cup final single. All it lacks is Dave Beasant acting the goat somewhere in the background.

But no sir. It is in fact the Electric Light Orchestra with a tune that once again harks back to Jeffman’s whippersnapper days. He was a mere four when this came out.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

When asked as to whether he thought Ringo Starr was the best drummer in the world, John Lennon famously replied: “He’s not even the best drummer in The Beatles.” Nor was he much of a singer, as anybody who’s given ‘Don’t Pass Me By’ on the White Album a quick listen, will attest to.

Following their self-destruction the other three members of The Beatles went on to forge successful solo careers, whereas Ringo went on to get royally pissed and narrate a kid’s TV show about a train with a face. Most recently he managed to upset the city of Liverpool (Not the trickiest of achievements, I admit) by saying there was absolutely ‘nothing’ about his hometown that he missed; except of course the opportunity to use it in the title of the latest solo flop he was promoting named Liverpool 8. An album that entered the charts at the heady heights of number 91.

And then last week he told his fan(s?) not to bother writing anymore letters to him, as any received after October 20th would be consigned to the bin with the utmost of urgency. Which beggars the question just why is anybody still writing to this evidently ungrateful and discourteous drummer?

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

If anybody needs further proof that the human race is beyond saving, then they need look no further than the recent re-opening of the Curry’s Superstore in the delightful shire of Wednesbury, which offered a veritable feast of knockdown electrical consumable bargains.

Ugly displays of wanton greed are not the sole reserve of the rich, the merchant bankers, and the production line of successive arrogant politicians that have succeeded in bringing this country to its knees. Not at all.

Dignity and self respect means nothing nowadays. Not when there’s a cut-price Sony camcorder on the cards. The fangs are bared; the pigs are at the trough.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Despite what I may have said midweek regarding the imminent end of the world and everybody blaming poor Gordon Brown for it, it would seem that as I was indeed publishing said foolishness, the Prime Minister was in fact undergoing a sudden surge in popularity.

Unbelievable, I know, but Gordon Brown was suddenly hailed as the saviour of the planet following the decision to hand £37bn of our money to three of the big banks so they could continue operating, which kick-started a similar bowel movement across Europe and beyond. It would be churlish of me to mention that these are the same banks that are probably right now setting in motion procedures to repossess your home if you’re having difficulties meeting your mortgage repayments.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Ah. The great Roy Wood. The hirsute Brummy and the creative force behind the legendary Move, the early days of ELO, and of course Wizzard.

Who would’ve thought a barmy barnet and a predeliction for facepainting could’ve gone so far?

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

After another eye-bleedingly dull day in ungainful employment Jeffman has reached the conclusion that the only way to beat the astronomical odds that have been stacked against him is to sue some other bugger for their money. Everybody else in this day and age is using the courts to bolster their lack of income, so why shouldn’t he?

I have taken the liberty of drawing up a shortlist of people to sue with handy tips should those of you at home wish to acquire your own retirement fund.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Jeffman has been in the wars of late, suffering cracked ribs and a bout of flu with enough of a kick to incapacitate a randy mule. But he doesn’t want sympathy! Jeffman is crafted from hardy, all-weather materials, and always bounces back to fight another day. So please, save your goodwill and comforting words for someone who’s in greater need of them.

Gordon Brown, for instance. The poor lamb.

Jeffman’s better half even commented on how he looked as though he’d had a stroke, and she never has anything bad to say about anybody, my good self excepted.

Not that falling victim to a stroke is an indictment on anybody’s character, but I could detect from the tone in her voice that this was more of a comment on his increasingly shabby appearance than concern for his health or well-being. I’m quite astute like that, see?

Tickled your fancy? Read on…