Green Day

Taking a turn around Tony's Tent, or, as it is now known, the O2 Arena, one is reminded yet again of the ginormous waste of money and effort this big top acid trip represents. That it has become the weekend venue of choice for marauding bands of East End slappahs bent on alcoholic annihilation, seems only fitting. Especially when you consider the idea for building it could only have been conceived at the end of a particularly ruinous and depraved New Labour drinkathon.

No matter. We are here now, T Psych and I, to immerse ourselves in the three chord clatter of California punk puppies, Green Day. By puppies of course, I mean grizzled hounds. Perhaps out of denial of my own advancing years, it hadn't really dawned on me how long this band has actually been around. Frontman Billie Joe Armstrong soon puts me straight as he dashes across the stage like a demented Emo Pixie yelling,

'We've been doing this for fucking twenty years now, and this shit never grows old.'

Ye Gods, twenty years! I fumble for my fisherman's friends and turn down my hearing aid as the first single off the new album that sounds like the last single off the previous album, jangles into life. Bless his skull n' cross-bone socks though, Billie Joe sure knows how to please his demographic. He's constantly pulling up kohl eyed kiddies from the front row, taking pictures of them, encouraging them to stage dive and generally treating the whole thing like the end of season talent show at Butlins. He even comes over all lay preacher at one point, demanding children be brought before him so he can lay hands on them in some profound metaphorical way that possibly related to the song he was singing, but utterly went over my head and probably those of a number of slightly disturbed parents too.

In a final act of tweenie fan heaven, he calls on any young drummers, guitarists and bass players to show themselves, then selects three budding musos to take over from Tre Cool, Mike Dirnt and the other dude playing guitar whose name eludes me. Never has a child been so gifted from on high as BJ sing along over their brave efforts and every adult in the room go' Ah bless.'

T Psych has staggered back with four more pints thank G and we are able to reinforce ourselves for the inevitable encore. Or encores I should say, as the greedy buggers have the cheek to go off and on twice. This is a stoning offense in my book, but Lo, all is forgiven as BJ take to his acoustic and do a soopa medley of 'Time of your life/ When September ends', reducing all to blubbering wrecks, tho perhaps that was my distended bladder placing pressure on my eyeballs.

We're finally allowed to leave the building after being told we are a much better audience than any American one, which seems a tad of a betrayal but never mind. A cheeky beer/depissing in one of the many faceless drink o' mats residing under this tatty canvas, then it's the last tube home for us.

Ta muchly to T Psych for his great generosity and ebullient company, perhaps just the one bottle of Sake next time, we have been doing this shit for twenty years after all.

B

Jobs I could do Part 1

Now, this looks like the sort of gainful employment I should be seeking out. Taking in the noonday sun, a band of panting 'best friends' round my ankles, the promise of a jolly gambol on Clapham Common ahead of us. With an enterprising spirit and lots of 'boggle' bags, (as the Wild Australian Boy used to call what I prefer thinking of as 'shit sacks') I could soon become the Barbara Woodhouse of the South.

Unfortunately, I see it all going wrong very quickly. Being given responsibility for someone's pet in this country is right up there with watering their plants or weeding their allotment; you don't take the task lightly. If it was their kids you were coddling, sure, you can slack off a bit, but mess with precious little Colin's walkies...

I'd cope for the first week or so, but repetitive, inane jobs atrophy my little brain, causing it to wander into subversive territory quite quickly. I'd then become obsessed with the idea of attaching micro-cameras to each animal and streaming these collar-cams live to the web. 'Dog days of our lives' would soon develop an audience of millions. People would jump from collar to collar, goggling away at unexpurgated views of tedious and feral British life, as seen through the eyes of the one creature they all thought they could trust. The outcry would echo across the azure fields and brute retribution of the tar and feathers variety would follow swiftly. Worse yet, it would be back to the old job centre for me (after a short stretch in chookie).

Fine, let's tick that one off the list.

B

It will have blog they say, blog will have blog

No need for fanfare, or any form of ticker-tape parade, Billsworth is back. Slightly revamped and sporting a jaunty new cap, the blog that never really gave much, returns to serve up even less, as it regales you with tales of daring-do from the world of the employmently (and perhaps grammatically) challenged.

Not being one to make a fuss, I've chosen this astounding piece of kitchen sink realism to be the first new image to grace these pages. That said, it is an elegant lesson in plastique minimalism which brings a smile to mien fleshy facial protuberances, every time I look at it. uPVC is a ubiquitous beast that many an impoverished homeowner has been forced to invest in due to the crippling cost of double glazed wooden sashes, but dammit it all, I think it looks good. Its twin went into our en-suite bathroom, and new doors now grace the rear entrance and the balcony. I've had the Mondrian hung in the West Wing and faithful Farnsworth is polishing the Buconium chandelier in the Bassoon Hall as we speak.

Being as I am, a man of enforced leisure, I get to dip my toe, and in some cases my entire body, into the dark and murky waters of the Day Borne Dead (TM). Those that wander listlessly through streets and supermarket isles during the daylight hours, desperately throttling time, while time gently and methodically chokes them back. I could of course slide into utter catatonia by suckling on the cankered narcotic teat of day-time telly, but this is an end of days activity; a point (I'm fairly sure) I haven't reached just yet.

So instead, I shall blog. Who knows, perhaps the novel everyone keeps banging on about, lurking dormant in some primordial recess of my brain, will lurch and stumble into action. Hell, it sure beats watching Jeremy Kyle.