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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

Three cheers for Dickie Davies. He is the cut of chap that harks back to a more elegant and - dare I say? - a more innocent era. A time when a gent was well within his rights to pepper a young ruffian with buckshot, happen he was to catch such a delinquent youth loitering upon his grounds. Without fear of prosecution, one might add.

This was a time when a cad, and indeed, a bounder was readily accepted into the homes of the troublesome Proles each and every Saturday afternoon, simply because they were aware of his superior breeding and quite rightfully showed the respect that was due.

But there was more to Dickie Davies than just an exemplary bloodline. He was the quintessential English gent and the erstwhile presenter of a World Of Sport. Immaculately turned out at half past midday every Saturday, when the nation’s lower orders were staggering blind drunk out of their public houses and speakeasies, his crystal clear delivery of the Queen’s own English was only matched by a sartorial elegance that was second to none. Even if his perfectly maintained coiffure did give the impression of a man who had just finished painting the ceiling.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

You may have heard of the Stanislavsky method of acting, studied by students of the greasepaint, the length and breadth of the globe. Or there’s the equally influential Lee Strasberg Institute, where greats such as Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, the recently deceased Paul Newman, and Arthur Mullard learnt their craft.

With this firmly in mind, it is with the utmost of pride that Not What it Used to Be can reveal that we have been exclusively chosen to announce the opening of The Brian Blessed School of Acting – ‘Where the Beard Outweighs the Performance‘.

For those of you unfamiliar with either the man or what is known as the Blessed method of acting, allow me to elucidate a trifle further.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

God help us!

Is Frank Spencer the only hope left for the Labour movement? If so, I’m resigning my post forthwith and buggering off to live on some distant uninhabitable island, where I’ll be only too happy to take my chances amongst the nests of poisonous spiders and malignant coconuts. It beats chavs and treacherous politicians any day.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Although not a fan of the species myself, I concede that women have a place in the world. After all, how is a chap going to water, feed, and clean his immaculate self without a woman there to do it for him?

But what fresh hell is this? By the deuce! It has come to my attention that there are murmurings among those of the female persuasion that they consider themselves the equal of the far superior chap.

Such lunacy can only have sprung forth from the mind of a woman and is evidence, if evidence is at all needed, that such murmurings should be treated with the all around contempt that they deserve. The foolish creatures are clearly unhinged to consider themselves of a similar cut and stature, or even to believe that they share the same capital mindset of the sporting gent.

Since learning of this blatant affront to all that is good in Her Majesty, the Queen’s, god-fearing land, I have visited my local library – where nowadays they not only allow the poor through the gate, but let them handle the Jackie Collins – and boned up a little on the subject. It did not for pleasant reading make.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Putting aside any differences that may have arisen following his inaugural address upon these pages, Lord Thackery Fotheringay-Fanshawe has kindly agreed to surrender some more of his valuable time to once again tell us what is wrong in his world.

By Jove! The Sun newspaper has a bally lot to answer for. A bally lot!

It would seem that a chap can no longer spend a week or four holidaying in one of Her Majesty’s fine seaside towns, without finding himself in the unfortunate position of having to rub shoulders with the manner of fellow he would normally only retain for building work, maintaining the grounds, or a spot of shooting practice.

The sterling role that Rupert Murdoch and the News International Group played in the eradication of socialism within our borders was undone in one fell swoop when one of those journalist Johnnies over there at Fleet Street, or wherever the deuce they fetch up nowadays for whatever it is they call work, took complete leave of his collected senses and came up with the idea of the so-called ‘Sun Holiday’.

Henley Regatta! My flabber was indeed gasted, old bean, when I chose to take one of my rare holidays at a little caravan site I know in one of the more tranquil parts of God’s fair land, and found it to be overrun with the type of tattooed oik I usually have no hesitation in giving both barrels.

Primarily my thoughts were that I’d taken a wrong turning and inadvertently driven my Cushman Truckster into a gypsy encampment, Heavens forbid. There were toothless crones aplenty with hair scraped back and golden hoops adorning their ears, the size of which I had never seen before. But the absence of any burning tyres and the obligatory bear-pit drew me to conclude that this was something far worse.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Recorded on a battered Sony TCM-200DV dictaphone on 27/08/08

Another depressing bus journey home. The same cast of faces that would stop a clock at fifty paces (my own included); the same air of demoralisation; the same legion of identikit kids worshipping the cult of chav.

And whilst all this goes on, the slope becomes slippier. If, like me, you believe everything you read and hear, then we’re plummeting into a recession that could spell the end for us all. So where is our rudder? Our chosen champion? The one to guide us through the coming turmoil and out the other side without so much as a hair out of place.

Whilst the nation burns, Gordon Brown fiddles. This time in Beijing, kindly informing the President of China that the 2012 Olympics will be an equally successful event. I’m afraid that if I could be bothered enough to care, I’d be failing to share his confidence. Not with this bunch of chancers in charge, anyway. The Millennium Dome and Wembley are obvious examples that spring to mind, but it would be far too easy to liken such fiascos to what might occur in the next four years. So I won’t.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

The day well known free-thinker, scientific gadabout town and outrageous beard-wearer, Charlie Darwin, risked damnation and hellfire by publishing his renowned airport novel On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or The Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life; he could not have foreseen just how far the human race would evolve in the intervening time.

True, we may still be land-bound bipeds, no closer to flying, breathing under water, or speaking without opening our gobs than we were 149 years ago, but take a look around and you’ll see the spoils of evolution everywhere.

Tis true, I tell thee. You only have to switch on your TV set to be greeted by upstanding members of the evolutionary scale. Those fine individuals that result from generations of predecessors fighting hammer and indeed claw to eliminate weakness and brain defects from the gene pool, ensuring that not just they, but all of us, are blessed by their almost superhumanly talented legacies.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

We here at Not What it Used to Be are fortunate enough to be graced by the presence of the incorrigible Lord Thackery Fotheringay-Fanshawe, who has so generously agreed to give up a portion of his valuable time to speak at us all on a subject he nurtures close to his own good heart.

By Jove! Whatever happened to the working classes?

There was a time when a chap of certain breeding could lay back in his favourite chaise lounge, take in the summer air, and dwell on a fine summer’s afternoon in the safe knowledge that his income was being maintained by the lower orders doing what it was they were born to do.

A Lord, like one’s self, was kept in the manner with which he was accustomed by the legions of drones that were ready and willing to forfeit their free time in the pursuit of contributing to the upkeep of what is the divine right of all members of the higher orders, one’s self in particular.

But by the gads! They suddenly stopped working.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…