If I Had It All My Way...

This is Big Brown, Would David and Nick Please Come to the Diary Room

2010-04-15T15:16:00.001-07:00

And so on this fateful night, Britain took another leaf out of the USA’s books, and televised a live political debate between the three main protagonists vying for Number 10.

But as so often proves with British politics, it was a typically dull affair, lacking fireworks or the pantomime applause so often generated over the pond.

Ringmaster Alistair Stewart, who claimed in the lead up to the debate that he would ensure it wouldn’t be boring, admittedly, didn’t help the show.

Whenever things looked like spicing up, the leaders speaking over each other in desperation to make their point heard, Stewart turned a potential Madras into a tentatively mild Korma by interrupting mid-flow and diverting the debate onto another subject or onto another of the trio.

Stewart wasn’t needed, and neither were the questions from the audience. All you really needed was a middle class supermarket shelve stacker to scream ‘the economy’s screwed, sort it’ and they’d have been talking for longer than a pair of grannies discussing cross-stitching.

Stewart was merely a middleman, a Jerry Springer figure, the conductor of an orchestra that wasn't in tune.

Springer’s bodyguards weren’t needed here; Stewart was the dam in a river, nothing was allowed to go past him.

For what it’s worth, Nick Clegg the Liberal Democrat leader, so often in the towering shadows of Gordon Brown and David Cameron came off best, and it was particularly noticeable that with every response he was the only one to look directly into the camera, as if he had been studying body language and realised the importance of direct eye contact when engaging with your subject.

But as so often proves with the media, he was afforded the least time on camera. That, or Labour has gone all China on my Internet feed and censored any coverage that may not be of any benefit to them.
On the Labour subject, we all know what to expect, Brown didn’t disappoint and was his usual charismatic self. Oh wait I didn’t mean charismatic did I?

Cameron was most disappointing, almost trying to come off as too charming, dishing out compliments to the audience that stank of almost desperation to be liked, like a schoolboy on his first day trying to befriend the whole playground.

But even if Stewart hadn’t been there I fear the show still may have failed to been the circus that we see in the States.

Which is why the reality TV approach should have been taken.

First of all the debate should have been staged on a far greater scale than a studio in Manchester, they would have been far better off staging it at Old Trafford. Get them in front of 70,000 people rather than a paltry 200. Being in front of live TV cameras isn’t going to faze them at all, lets face it these fellows lead their lives with the scrutiny of cameras ever present. They probably know the intricacies of a TV camera better than their own wives.

They will have never stood up in front of 70,000 people before and expected to perform, but that is exactly what they have to do in order to win votes.

You’ve got a screaming crowd, you’ve got atmosphere, you’ve got 30 million watching at home, the leaders will be sweating under the spotlights. Why not make them sweat even harder by installing a Britain’s Got Talent style cross-board over their heads, or as suggested by someone on Twitter, a Noel Edmonds House Party-style gunge machine to humiliate the least impressive candidate.

Or even as another suggested, get them to stage a political ‘It’s a Knock Out’ much like the Royals did, but with much more at stake.

It’d certainly win them more friends, just look what ‘Have I Got News For You’ did for Boris Johnson. There’s no way he would have become Mayor of London had he not presented that show.

But I think that’s the real point here, get them working, and we’ll find out which one is most like us, and ultimately, that’s who we’ll vote for.

Much like the current Economic Status, my life is in recession

2009-07-22T23:24:00.000-07:00

Folks, I’ve made a quite horrible discovery-I’m leading a life in reverse.

Why, you may ask do I think that, after all you’ve been to university, got a job, passed your driving test and leading a good life?

Well my answer to you is a complicated and unusual one.

At an early age it was clear I was an intelligent kid. I’m not quite sure where I got it from-my dad can’t spell to save his life, and my sister certainly hasn’t inherited any degree of intelligence whatsoever (hello Zoe).

My mum must be an understated, undiscovered genius.

Anyway, by the time first school came to an end in 1996, I was an expert in all things Volcanoes, Earthquakes, Space Travel and Dinosaurs, was writing stories Roald Dahl would be proud of, and was even showing signs of becoming the next Alan Titchmarsh.

For example when I was very little, and when other kids my age were playing football in the park, I was discussing Geraniums and Marigolds in the garden with my dad.

And this isn’t a lie, I once invited my best mate over after school, and while others would be showing off their latest Action Man figure, I was showing off my dad’s latest Petunias in the front garden.

Well, at least so my friend claims, I certainly don’t remember it.

My dad must have been wincing, offering me a football to play with, only for me to bat it away in favour of some potting compost and a watering can.

I would regularly go to bed, not with a Game Boy or a Television, but with a complicated book or magazine aimed at a generation above me.

But something must have worked back then, heck, in those days I was even a success with the ladies. I would spend many a playtime walking around the playground hand in hand with two Australian twins.

If I’d have realised how good that would have sounded when I was 22, I would have made more of an effort to stop them emigrating back to Australia at the end of year 3.

I was a total academic success (note-I wasn’t a geek!). The only thing I was useless at was sport.

But now I’m on the verge of joining the local hockey team, but am doing a job that any 16-year-old could do.

It’s a complete role reversal. I remember my dad once saying “Ah Rich, you’re useless at sport, but at least you’ve got a brain.”

Sadly that sentence would now read “Rich, you’ve got a useless job, but at least you’re playing hockey now.”

But this is my point exactly; my life has taken a dramatic reverse. It’s like I was born with the brain of a business executive, and am gradually regressing to the state of a toddler.

I should have made the most of it and taken my idea of a felt tip pen with a clock in it to Dragons Den while I still had business acumen.

"It's a pen, with a clock in it. I'm looking for a £10,000 and a pack of Fruit Pastilles for a 15% share of my company." Theo Paphitis and co would have snapped it up in an instant.

But my stories these days generally consist of “Bob and Bill were playing in the park, got bored, and went to a Pub. The End.”

My knowledge of Volcanoes and Earthquakes has been shaken to the ground, my thoughts on Dinosaurs are extinct and my knowledge of space travel has burned up on re-entry.

I can’t tell a daisy apart from a buttercup, and the last time I held hands with a two girls at the same time we were all drunk as sailors.

I may be a walking encyclopaedia of Motorsport, but that hasn’t got me off the starting grid yet.

I made a success of Middle School as well. I won the Science Achievement Award and a Public Speaking Award on my final day of Year 8.

But these days I can’t tell a kidney from a heart, and the periodic table sounds much more like a woman’s monthly schedule.

And when I stand up in front of people these days, all that’s heard is a garbled mess, devoid of any sense or interesting content.

These days I eat more sweets than I ever did when I was young. I have an addiction to fizzy pop. I enjoy riding a bicycle for pleasure. It’s a wonder I’m not riding up and down the street, hands off both handlebars screaming ‘wheeeeee look at me mummy!’ at the top of my voice, before slamming head first into a parked car.

This time next week I’ll be calling for old friends asking if they want to play hide and seek.

Frankly this is all getting a little worrying. I’m considering placing an order for some Pampers just in case my digestive system starts to regress too.

But my worries are now over, I’m off to get some milk formula and some strained carrots. Life is good.

Internet dating is a thing of the past, Supermarkets are the way to go.

2009-07-09T23:32:00.000-07:00

Well it’s been over a week now since I joined Match.com, apparently the UK’s largest online dating site, and as of yet, I’ve had no luck.

I say that, I’ve did receive an email off a woman the other day (Yes, I know, I almost had a heart attack too).

Now before I go into details, I should point out that on my profile I have stated I’m looking for women aged 18-24.

This woman is 39, and is looking for guys between the ages of 40-50.

Can you not read love?! When I said I was looking for girls aged 18-24, I didn’t mean 18-24, give or take 15 years.

But then again maybe she skipped my details and looked straight at my photos, thought “yeah he seems like the mature type, well groomed, full head of hair, probably a pipe-smoker and tweed flat cap wearer-I’ll give him a try.”

If she looked at my photos and assumed I was between 40 and 50, then something drastic must have happened, the other day a customer at work assumed I was 16.

I’m aware of the saying that a camera adds a few pounds, I didn’t realise in my case it added a few decades as well. Crikey, I’ve aged at least 24 years in 2 days. Someone book me a funeral, and while you’re at it, I want a gold casket and Shaheen Jafargholi to perform a tribute.

You thought Michael Jackson’s funeral was something special-you wait till you come to mine!

Sorry, I’ve sidetracked horribly.

Anyway, The fact she missed that I’m looking for a girl 15 years younger than her also tells me to avoid.

But then at the back of my head I hear those words that have dogged me my whole life; “Ah there you go being all picky again!”

I’ve also been told to lower my standards, which I intend to do, but not to the point where I’m dating someone old enough to be my mother.

Heck, if I got with this woman I could end up being her carer when I’m supposedly in the prime of my life.

“Rich, you up for the pub tonight?”

“Nah, sorry mate, I’m giving the missus a bed bath and a cup of hot cocoa.”

And another thing, the latest TV advert states that the website is full of ‘gorgeous girls.’

Am I missing something here? All my matches so far look as if they shot out of the womb straight into a brick wall.

This does not mean, by the way, that once again I’ve set my standards too high. These girls just have to be seen to be believed.

Actually, no that’s disgracefully harsh of me. They’re not that bad, I’m just being picky, again.

But to be honest I’m now thinking that Internet dating is over-rated, and so I’ve devised a new plan.

It’s called Supermarket Sweep, and before you ask, no it does not involve dashing around filling up trolleys with items you’ve been told to find by a perma-tanned, camp television presenter.

But what a great idea it would be if Waitrose, Tesco, Morrisons or Aldi were to hold blind date sessions at their stores?

If you were upper class you’d find a girl at Waitrose, if you were more middle class you’d head to Tesco, and if you were bottom of the barrel looking for a cheap fix you’d go to Aldi.

You’d be assigned to each girl at random, help her with her shopping and have a friendly conversation while you’re going along.

What better way to find out everything about a girl?

“So, Rich, does this girl like Motorsport?”

“Beats me, but I know she likes Broccoli, uses Herbal Essences shampoo, drinks Jacobs Creek rose wine and listens to 80’s music.”

And also, if she picks up a crate of beer, or hair removal cream, you’d know to run a mile.

After all I wouldn’t want to be sitting in my garden sipping away at my Fruli, only to turn to my right to see my girl on her fifth John Smiths of the night, with armpit hair billowing out of her crop-top.

Actually if she’s buying the crate of beer for me then that’s acceptable I suppose.

Literally anyone could take part in Supermarket Sweep-even guys too shy to actually meet girls could boost their confidence by trying to charm the scanners off the self-service checkouts, let’s face it that computerised voice is quite seductive.

“Please scan your Clubcard.”

And there’s another thought-successful dates could always be rewarded with Clubcard points, and those dates that don’t quite work could be refunded, or exchanged for an alternative date-after all, every little helps.

You know what, I think I’ve struck gold here. Tesco, expect a phone call.

We'll find you love-if you pay us £10.99 a month first!

2009-06-30T22:09:00.000-07:00

Well there's no beating about the bush-you can't put a price on love. Those who find it will tell you it's the best thing that ever happened to them-meeting the one person they can tell everything to, the one who makes a hard day at work bearable knowing they'd be collapsing into their arms when they got home, the one who makes their life complete.

They'll tell you the stories of how they met, and all the while you're thinking 'lucky bastard' and whether or not a punch in the face would be the appropriate thing to do in order to shut them up.

It's hard for a singleton whose never found love, especially after 22 years. So recently I bit the bullet and joined Match.com (they've got a love guarantee-I thought I'd see if I could push it to it's boundaries!).

And from the outside it seems great-you enter a few details about yourself, upload a couple of photos, and boom! The honeys come rolling in.

Wrong. You spend an hour entering the most irrelevant details about yourself. One such example being whether or not you like Dogs. I clicked 'I like but don't have', and now half my searches come back saying to me 'ooh you may like this person, like you she is a dog lover.' I'm not a bloody dog lover!

And frankly ‘Dog Lovers’ scare me a little bit. I couldn’t kiss someone who just moments ago had planted a sloppy kiss on their dog’s nose, and probably with more passion than they’d use to give you a smacker.

And another one-What best describes your daily diet, Meat and Potatoes, Vegetarian/Vegan, Fast Food or Keep it Healthy? What do you do if you like your meat with vegetables?! And what happens if you work in a fast food restaurant but don't want to admit you actually eat so much crap it's a probable danger to your health-not that I know anyone that works in a fast food joint of course...

Do you play a Musical Instrument? Well yes I do, I've played the electric guitar since I was ten, and quite frankly think that would be a nice thing to say on my profile. Of course there is no guitar option to click on there-the nearest thing is 'rock band' or 'string quartet.' I clicked 'other,' and since when was 'rock band' or 'string quartet' a musical instrument anyway?!

Finally it gives you a list of your turn ons to choose from. What so you're telling me what my turn ons are now? You don't know me! What happens if leather bound books and the smell of rich mahogany get me ticking (you stay classy San Diego!)? I bet that's not on your list now, is it?

Then for the profile photo. You upload a few shots expecting one to show up as your default-but no, there's a longer way around doing that just to keep you on your toes.

But your hours of waiting are now paying off. You've built your profile; you've dealt with the interrogation and passed the upload photo test (and are now waiting 24 hours for it to be approved). It's time to get searching for the person of your dreams.

What's that? No I'm not a cat lover either. For goodness sake.

You make a few searches and find nothing, but then, bingo! Yes she's the one! She's the one! Are you interested? Yes! You frantically click ‘yes’ to send her your interest. If you're lucky she'll click ‘yes’ back.
After a few days of waiting you receive a notification. You've scored; she's clicked ‘yes’ back. Time to start talking, time to let the love blossom, time to send her an email.

You what?! £10.99 to send an email. You're really having a laugh now.

I could have written my message of romance on expensive paper, put it inside a cast-iron chest, added some extra weight (roses, wine, chocolate), sent it via airmail, and paid extra to make sure it arrived before 9am the following day, and it still would have been cheaper.

Well that's brilliant isn't it? You've found someone who could be the one for you, but will now need to spend £10.99 (a month, and for at least a further five months!) for the privilege of sending her an email, during which she'll probably reply back saying she wasn't that interested anyway and her clicking 'yes' was as a result of a late night binging session, which Match.com assumed I was also interested in simply because I clicked 'I like alcohol' in my profile box.

So I have a solution. Go to a bar, find a girl, get talking, and do it all the proper way, and forget all about the useless, time wasting, expensive, robotic experience that online dating is.

Actually, scratch that, I've just found a girl who happens to really enjoy Formula One-so if you'd kindly excuse me I'm about to take my chances and engage in some Match.com style flirting with her- by clicking 'yes.' I do hope she's paid for emails...

A warning to all romantic couples-kissing is practically deadly.

2008-12-10T00:19:00.000-08:00

It'a amazing what constitutes a news story these days. Normally the news is a drab affair. "Fighting broke out in the Gaza Strip today leaving hundreds dead and thousands injured," and "So and so tragically died today aged 80."

But every now and then you get one of those classic news stories that can't fail to make you giggle. Stories like this one-http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/7772902.stm

This quote from a Doctor is classic:

"The kiss reduced the pressure in the mouth, pulled the eardrum out and caused the breakdown of the ear."

What the hell was she kissing, a Dyson vacuum cleaner? Or more to the point what the hell was the guy doing to suck so hard as to destroy her inner ear?

OK, I'm no kissing expert, but even someone with my limited knowledge surely couldn't get it so catastrophically wrong as to leave my girl semi deaf.

I bet this girl is petrified of kissing now. While most would normally crave a passionate smacker on the lips, this girl will now probably break down in tears at even the sight of someones lips. Poor girl.

But what other injuries could be sustained by kissing? We've all heard of the classic tongue stuck in the braces, but up until now that's the only snogging injury I'd ever heard of.

But I wonder when we'll hear the story of the poor girl who sustained a broken nose when her over enthusiastic boyfriend headbutted her when attempting a kiss, and I bet someone has cricked a neck during one of those kisses where you keep moving your head around. What would you do if your jaw locked open during a kiss, that would be pretty annoying, and I wonder if anyone has ever bitten someones tongue off? I can see it happening somehow.

I did a bit of research on the interweb, but the only injury I found was someone who lost their lips when they kissed their Rottweiler. I mean that's just asking for an injury.

But anyway, the funny thing is that the Chinese media is now being swarmed with warnings of the dangers of excessive kissing.

Just the image of a Chinese guy meeting a woman in a bar, having a really good time, and taking her back to his place before convulsing in horror when she goes to kiss him, the thought of having his eye sucked out by an over exuberant kiss proving too much to bear.

Thankfully for the girl involved in the story, her hearing should return within two months, but that's two months of whispering sweet nothings into her ear that she'll miss. Then again, she'll probably never want to hear them again anyway.

You wouldn't modify a Morris Minor, so why modify a Saxo?

2008-12-09T01:27:00.000-08:00

I, like many of my friends here in leafy Redditch despise the current trend of modifying cars. If anyone can give me a genuine reason why a Citroen Saxo needs a two metre long rear spoiler, skirts and ridiculously styled front bumpers, without suggesting it 'looks good' frankly, deserves a knighthood-for they will display more genius quality than Albert Einstein, Islambard Kingdom Brunel and myself put together. And anyway, aren't skirts meant for girls?

They just have no point. On top of the ridiculous aesthetics, the engines are normally loudened, and exhausts are opened wider than the Thames Barrier.

They say you can hear some cars, Aston Martins, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis for example from over a mile away, and that's fine. I want to hear the glorious whine of a mighty V12 engine, singing to its hearts extent. But I swear the other night I was awoken by a Saxo pulling off a drive somewhere in Sutton Coldfield. And it wasn't the engine, it was the damn popping noise the exhausts make every time the things change gear.

How the 'yoof' see this as cool is beyond my cranial capacity. Frankly, if I ran this country I'd have them banned.

And here's another thing. Some of these 'yoof' will claim that making these modifications will increase the speed and handling of their cars-forgetting that each modification made will increase weight, thus hampering BOTH speed and handling. Then, a rear spoiler will add drag, again drastically slowing down the car. Putting a parachute out the back of the car wouldn't slow it down as much.

To think of it another way-it's like plastic surgery. If you were an average looking person, naturally you will consider some sort of cosmetic enhancement. But you wouldn't want to make yourself look worse would you? Car modification is the equivalent of saying to your Surgeon "Ah yes, Brad Pitt, I'd like to look like him, but before you do that, why don't you move my nose onto my forehead, my mouth to where my nose was, my right eye to where my mouth was, and my left ear to where my right eye was. And then you can replace my voice box with a device that artificially changes the sound of my voice, and widen my mouth so that every time it opens it pops. And once you've done that is there any chance you can tattoo my forehead with the slogan 'I'm a pillock'?"

Seriously, the only time a modified car will be cool is when James Bond pulls up outside a pretty Brunettes house, winds the window down (with some kind of drum and bass booming out of the 20-inch-subwoofer hidden in the boot for good measure) and yells out "Wot up bitch. I got me a bangin Saxo" and then shoots off into the distance in a cloud of smoke (probably created by some kind of smoke machine normally found in a night club).

And even then I doubt he'd convene outside McDonalds with 20 others to show off his latest random bit of plastic glued to the side of his car.

I wonder when all this came about-I certainly never noticed them when I was younger. And I seriously doubt this culture existed when my parents were young. I can just imagine it though, someone driving round the corner in their 1965 Morris Minor having just passed their test, only to reveal, much to his friends disgust, that the car is now adorned with an oversized rear spoiler, full length skirts and a bumper that would't look out of place on Leslie Ash's face.

But I fail to see the trend ending anytime soon, so I will send out a plea. If anyone out there has an un-modified Saxo and wishes to sell it, send it my way, and I will modify it in the most creative of ways. No, I won't add a spoiler, I won't even think of adding a bumper. There will be no need for Subwoofers, Alloys, Skirts or flashing lights.

I will simply push it off the edge of the Rotunda in Birmingham and let gravity do the rest. It will still look better than half of them do now.

The Scrawlings of Richard Randle, a Genuine Celebrity.

2008-12-02T01:35:00.000-08:00

I’m a strange sort of fellow. You would have thought that after 14 straight hours of hard work I’d be knackered. But to be honest I’m more awake than an insomniac after their fifth coffee of the day.

Anyway while at work today I was reading the paper and saw that Joe Cole’s fiancée had been voted off ‘I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here,’ and it got me thinking-I have every right to be on that programme-and here’s why.

Some of you may know that in 1998 I was actually in a movie. And by 1998 I mean 1999-as that is when it was first shown. And by movie, I mean an extended TV drama-but sod off its near enough a movie dammit. And by ‘in’ I actually mean ‘was an extra who only appeared on screen for five seconds.’

Hands up all those who saw ‘Goodnight Mister Tom.’ I bet more of you out there watched it than who know what Joe Cole’s fiancée looks like.

So tomorrow I shall pick up the phone, dial ITV and scream ‘I’M A CELEBRITY GET ME OUT OF HERE!’ demand a cheque for £1million and then slam it down again. And I’d eat one of those Witchetty Grubs, honestly, I would.

I shall then phone the BBC-inform them of my celebrity status and then request to take up John Sergeant’s now vacant place on Strictly Come Dancing. In fact I’d be rather good on that-you should see me at work. I move with more rhythm than Brendan Cole, pirouette quicker than Erin Boag, and shift my arms with more vigour than Vincent Simone dancing the Paso Doble. I look a complete prat, but heck I bet with a few hours of dance training I’d have Len Goodman shouting his iconic ‘seveeeen’ (following Craig Revel Harwood’s rather harsh ‘two’ and Arlene Phillips’ sympathetic ‘five’).

And why stop there? I’m more than capable of being on Celebrity Big Brother too. I’d be useless at cooking, would create a guitar out of nothing but cereal boxes, old toilet roll tubes and lengths of string, and scratch something far more interesting into the table than Vanessa Feltz ever did. And I’d probably win it too.

And as a single man, I’d jump at the chance to star on Celebrity Love Island, though mainly to gawp at the lovely Fearne Cotton. But put Katie White down there and I’d get her ‘tingin.’ Ho ho, I’m the worst Joker ever.

Following my heroics on I’m a Celeb, my lunacy on Strictly, my victory in Celeb Big Brother, and my engagement to Katie White on Celebrity Love Island, I’d cap it all off by appearing with Katie on Celebrity Who Wants to be a Millionaire, and become the first celebs to win the jackpot. I’d invest the winnings in Woolworths, heck they need all the help they can get at the moment.

So to all my friends on Facebook, consider yourself lucky to be friends with a real celebrity. For I’ve actually done something far more worthwhile than a desperate, concrete faced, stuck-up, 24 year old from Rhyl. I’ve starred in a Hollywood blockbuster, and never, ever bragged about it. Not even once.