As per my previous post, the good lord, in his / her / its wisdom, saw fit to visit us Folkestonians with an earthquake on Saturday, the first in South Kent since the mesozoic era (or something). As a consequence, I’ve been transformed from the sneering, confidently Darwinian science-based rationalist you all knew and tolerated into some kind of gibbering medieval-style superstitious wreck. Why an earthquake? Why me? Why now? Am I being warned by Loki, norse god of Earthquakes, to cease my indolent ways? Told bluntly by Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker, not to sell my house?

Or is it - I know it’s tricky, but try to get your heads around this - not actually about me at all? Is Folkestone a latterday Sodom (without the sodomy, obviously*), and is the fire and brimstone being prepared for the town by Baby Jesus as we speak? Or is it a more press-friendly culprit - global warming and “earthquake weather”? Muslims? Political correctness gone mad, going to hell in a handcart etc? I’ll let you decide through the medium of a poll…

(* - interestingly, there’s no reference in the bible to the natives of Sodom actually practising sodomy.)

As you may have heard, South Kent (where I live) was hit by a 4.3 magnitude earthquake this morning. I’m sure you’re all FRANTIC with worry, but fear not - I’m absolutely fine. The biggest worry was my house; I’ve recently a) cancelled my insurance and b) sold it (subject to contract), so was running around like a headless chicken for about 5 minutes making sure the whole structure wasn’t on the verge of collapse - but everything appears OK.

Everything’s pretty much back to normal now, aside from the fact that various press helicopters are buzzing around and I’m sure a big hullabaloo will be made tomorrow in the papers… the Independent editorial will blame it on global warming, the Mail on Sunday will say it’s the Muslims or something….

All may appear well between Reichsmarshall Busch and Obergruppenfuhrer von Blaihr, but in fact the UK and the US are as far apart diplomatically as they have been at any time since George III called his namesake Washington a “square-jawed white-haired twat” and was made to regret it.

The latest round of tit-for-tat muso expulsions is testament to the fact. UK authorities recently refused to allow one Calvin Broadus, better known as rat-faced ho-humper Scoopy Scoopy Dog Dog, entry into our sceptred realm; the UK’s subordinate protectorate Australia has since followed suit. But the Septic Tanks have been quick to respond, forbidding the much-anticipated arrival in the States of … erm… Bez from the Happy Mondays.

No-one’s quite sure why Bez was told to sling his hook, but my guess is that it’s something to do with Creationism - there’s nothing like a rock star with an incredibly long chimp face who prances about like an ape to hole weird Christian human supremacist theories below the waterline. Fellow monkey-unians Ian Brown and Richard Ashcroft have apparently cancelled upcoming tours.

(or “Does this mean anything to YOOOOOO?”)*

Not sure why, but I’ve recently been contemplating the above - one hit blunderers. Bands who, despite prolonged success, only ever had one blindingly good hit and are only remembered for that one good song (justifiably or otherwise). I’m not talking novelty songs or one-hit wonders, mind; I’ll give you some examples.

1) Ultravox; “Vienna” is one of the finest pop songs of all time - the electropop Bohemian Rhapsody. The rest of their output is more like cold haggis served up by a tiny man with thinning hair and a moustache. Called “Midge”.

2) Supergrass; despite over 10 years of album releases and tours, no-one - not even members of the band - is aware of the existence any song of theirs other than “Alright“.

3) Rainbow. Bastard offspring of Deep Purple and the newly-invented perm, they have trudged their way through TWENTY TWO albums. Almost all of it is bilge. “Since You Been Gone“, however, is astonishing; the hair-metal Bohemian Rhapsody. Ignore the little man on YouTube.

4) The Beatles. Aside from their astonishingly prescient paean to our fragile marine ecology “Octopus’s Garden”, they were crap, really, weren’t they?

So how about your nominations?

* - get the reference in the context of the piece for an easy 5 Sandwich points.

Not much of interest going on in the world at the moment; even less so on this ‘blog. So I thought I’d compound the situation with a lookey-likey that’s ropier than a combined rock-climber’s / fisherman’s “tools of the trade” convention. First up, overrated bit part actor and progenitor of the devil incarnate, Keith Allen…

… and isn’t he just the SPIT of patron saint of spotty indie kids / man solely responsible for 30 years’ worth unmusical idiots talking shite about progressive rock, John Peel….

What do you mean, “no”?

(or “formula milking”, or “ITV Fry-ing out for some new scriptwriters”)

Prog Name: Doc Martin Kingdom
Ageing comic actor playing lead hoping for a “serious” career: Martin Clunes Stephen Fry
Profession allowing the main character to be in the heart of a small rural community: Medicine Law
Overweening Character Trait: Rudeness Kindness
Hang-up: Hatred of his father Dead Brother
Bucolic Location Replete With “oooaarrrr” locals: Cornwall East Anglia
Lippy sidekick: The Secretary The Young Lawyer doing his articles

Add other common characters such The Benevolent Aunt and the Stinky Yokel, and an unfathomable need to shoehorn in as many personality add-ons as possible (”hang on, the sidekick’s not interesting enough… better make him a coeliac. No, give him seven fingers. No, make him a vertigo sufferer… yeah, that’ll do”), and you have ITV’s latest plan for making lightweight drama in a nutshell.

Actually, “Kingdom“, which debuted last night, wasn’t too bad; and indeed, I quite like “Doc Martin“… but for Christ’s sake ITV, at least TRY to disguise the formula…

So yet again, England’s sportsmen fail miserably against a bunch of countries the likes of which we used to regularly conquer, divide disastrously along imaginary religio-ethnic lines and be home in time for tea.

How come we’re breeding these failures? Is the nation of Francis Drake, Robert Clive, Lord Palmerston, Bomber Harris and Norman “Bites Yer Legs” Hunter to be represented abroad henceforth by a morass of beer-swilling, cocaine-snorting under-achieving WAG-hunting berks? Can we really be so shallow as to idolise people like Fat Freddie Flintoff, Fat Frank Lampard and retarded-Shrek-look-alike (and particular favourite of Technical Monkey) Wayne Rooney? Has it come to this - our best cricketer is a foreigner named after a packet of crisps?*

More to the point, what are we going to do about it? If the cricket team got an MBE for their streaky win against Australia in the Ashes before last, they MUST surely be in line for similarly exaggerated punishment for their displays over the last 6 months. But what? Being forced to pedalo back from the Bahamas? An open-topped bus parade combined with excrement-lobbing? A cricket bat handle where the sun never shines? A day in the company of Ian Botham (shudder…)? Your suggestions welcome as ever… (ladies, sorry if this is of little or no interest; I promise I’ll do a poll about shopping or chocklit or something in the near future).

* - 5 easy Shit Sandwich points here.

So Kate and “Wills” have split up. Whoopee-shite. Oh, alright; I hate the royals and everything they stand for, but here’s my four-penneth.

Apart from being named after documents which pertain to the disposition of property after the author’s death, he seems like a fairly sensible young man who knows better than to get married to a university sweetheart. She, on the other hand, comes across as a fairly calculating piece of work who a) claimed to dislike the media attention when she was actually loving it (plenty of film-star-entrances in a Grace Kelly-stylee), b) refused, despite supposedly being “down to earth”, to get a proper job, and c) used her position to hunt for “grace and favour” handbags / discounted cars etc. Hallegedly, hallegedly.

I wouldn’t be surprised if some more unsavoury stuff comes out now that she’s no longer the darling of the tabloids; I’ve heard rumours of her and Chelsy Davy (Prince Harry’s bit) dressing up as teutonic milkmaids whilst the boys strut around in Nazi regalia fantasising about a big-eared Aryan master-race*.

Anyways, now she’s got her wish and is out of the media spotlight she claimed to hate so much… I’ll put my mortgage on her appearing in next year’s “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here”.

(* - no, I haven’t.)

Busy busy week; recuperating from last week’s medical shenanigans, winning table-tennis tournaments, plus selling my house and trying to buy another one. So sorry I’ve been lax. To make up for it (?) a crap joke of my own invention, but which has probably been thought up and told better elsewhere -

Q - Why did Dr John Reid snub a dolphin?
A - Because he didn’t think it was fit for porpoise.

A good(ish) Easter weekend for your humble editor was spoiled somewhat when I succumbed to an epileptic attack whilst walking down Balham High Road. Some minor injuries are always to be expected in these situations, but this incident was a lot worse than usual in that I managed to land squarely on my face…

I’ll be OK, aside from being unable to shave and looking like a demi-panda for a week or so. But the whole scenario has made me the unwitting participant in an interesting social experiment - I look, incontrovertibly, as if I’ve had the crap kicked out of me, and it’s interesting to observe how people treat you when they think you’ve been fighting. For a start, everyone stares a bit longer, but will quickly avert their eyes when they see me looking back. The men who talk to me are all jocular - there’s a lot of “you should’ve seen the other guy”-style banter - whilst the women all tend towards being schoolma’am-y: “Oh dear, young man, what have we been up to?” etc.

For the first day, I was tempted to get a t-shirt printed saying “I HAVEN’T been beaten up, I’ve had an epileptic fit, OKAY?!”, but as it’s gone on, I’ve found it more fun to let people run away with their prejudices. My favourite incident happened on a train; I was approaching my stop, and suddenly became aware of a bloke sniggering behind me. “That guy’s had a RIGHT kicking!”, he whispered to his girlfriend, who was a fellow early-morning devotee of Carlsberg Special Brew. “Yeah, look at his eye!” “Actually”, I rejoindered, “I had an epileptic fit yesterday and landed badly.” “Ooooh, sorry to hear that, love…” ventured the drunk girl. “So I get your sympathy if it’s a medical condition but it’s OK to laugh at me if you think I’ve been beaten up?” I harrumphed self-righteously, and swept from the train.

More updates on my condition (and shameless milking efforts) throughout the week…