No fog!

Norwich, driving gloves, Roachford: all roads lead to Alan Partridge. Alpha Papa might not win Steve Coogan any Oscars, but it's been a long time since ninety minutes skipped by so quickly in a picture house. Kiss my face.

They do things differently there

Just lately I feel like a character in a Samuel Beckett play. I'm surrounded by the past: instead of it being something I look at occasionally in the rear view mirror, it’s coming right at me. I've had long lost relatives coming out of stasis, finding me via social networking sites and, since moving house, I've discovered that my next door neighbour and I share links to friendship circles going way back. And don't get me started on the photographs I've come across; photographs that purport to be me. Really? I was that young? And I've even got Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep as an Earworm.

But most recently I've been getting flashbacks of childhood summer holidays spent in Ireland - including vivid, high definition, room by room dreams of my grandma’s house in Co. Roscommon. I couldn’t get the images out of my head; so a couple of weeks ago I Googled the town and the street where she lived. What happened next should be filed under ‘s’ for spooky: the house had just been put on the market. One click was all it took and I was being given a virtual room by room tour on the Estate Agent's website. Just like in my dreams.

To those looking for a profound final paragraph asking what all this means and demanding a compact summary of what this says about the state of my head at the moment, you've come to the wrong place. Regular readers will know I'm neither cut out to give such erudite summations and nor would I want to. Regular readers will also know that, truth be known, if I could go back and live in 1972 you wouldn't see me for glitter dust. 

It takes Allsorts

Jeff Lynne seems like a nice bloke. He'd be good company on a long train journey; you know it wouldn't be long, on a jaunt between London and Edinburgh say, until his bag of boiled sweets would come out to share - maybe somewhere between Peterborough and Grantham. Unlike Paul McCartney, on the other hand. His goodie bag wouldn't see the light of day 'til the 125 was pulling in to Waverley. Most likely.

Lynne cares for the planet too. But not in a shouty shouty way. I really do love this song that first appeared on his Armchair Theatre album in 1990.

Karl Wallinger must have liked it too. Not for the first time he took an idea from ELO's front-man and ran with it; Always on my Mind tells a similar tale and, for me, is the standout track from World Party's Dumbing Up long-player from 2000. I don’t know how Wallinger would fair on the boiled sweet litmus test though. Anyway, he's probably a Jelly Baby man. Or maybe he has a soft spot for Liquorice Allsorts. Who doesn't? In which case I would understand perfectly if he kept the bag to himself. That said, he's welcome to the round pink things with the black middle. What were Bassett's thinking?

Grounded

With just hours to go before the transfer window closed, (Get) Real bought Subbuteo maestro Johnny Flick from some team or other for a record breaking two bob and a conker. Flick has been playing 00 scale football ever since he left the plastics factory that, quite literally, made him the player he is. He will undergo a thorough medical the minute he gets out of the jiffy bag, including the glueing back on of any limbs that may have fallen off in transit. Speculation is rife that as a sweetener to the deal the club have also acquired a new Morphy Richards, thus ensuring that they can iron out any creases on the field of play. Flick was remaining tight lipped about his alleged wage packet (rumoured to be in the region of ten shiny new pennies a week) and insists that he'll be keeping his feet firmly on the ground.

Cold Comfort

Don't be fooled by the above photograph. Ice cream has a dark side. And I'm not talking about the side effects of eating it whilst simultaneously drinking cups of blisteringly hot tea -  a pastime reserved for lunatics and nutjobs. No, ice cream can be sinister. And if you don't believe me take a look at this clip from Bill Forsyth's Comfort and Joy. Warning: contains moderate Scottish accents and mild peril. Not to mention blood raspberry essence.