Back To The Future

Mooching through some of the Thanet films my old factotum Mr Ceaucescu (no relation) used to throw together in between masticating in the ensuite, it struck me how much improved Margate Harbour Arm is these days.

Only three years ago it was derelict and vandalised, as this grab from Margate - The Last Resort demonstrates:

Mooching along the East Pier in our lovely Ramsgate Royal Harbour the other day, it struck me how derelict and vandalised it is these days, as this photo demonstrates:

Only three years ago, these lights were a twinkly feature of the harbour after dusk. Now the pier's dark of an evening, and you'd be lucky to find a single light that hasn't been knackerated.

Of course, the council will blame the scallywags.

Of course, I will blame the council for not installing vandal proof lighting in the first place.

And the moral of this tale? Well, despite being unsurpassed at playing with their spheres while Thanet burns, it would appear that the Cecil Square duffers can only cope with juggling one ball at a time. Find a grant, do it up, let it rot. Find a grant, do it up, let it rot. No wonder I'm getting a horrible feeling of deja vu!

Thanet Lad Gets His Willie Out For England

Football fever isn't something I indulge in more than once every four years, but I'm pleased to see local tunesmith Lonnie Donegan Jr has re-worked and re-released his dad's 1966 World Cup Willie anthem for this year's footie fest in South Africa. Who knows, perhaps it'll do the trick again 44 years later.

Meanwhile it seems a bunfight is brewing between Thanet's cabbies and our beloved council over whether they'll be able to fly the (made in China) England flag from the roofs of their P reg Peugeots while the tournament's on. One annoyed taxi driver told me recently it was his right as an England supporter, and that there'd be a riot in Cecil Square if the jobsworths put the mockers on patriotic displays of footie fervour!

I Won't Be Back

Seeing as the rash is clearing up nicely, I thought I'd risk an outing in the G-Wiz to Westwood Vue last night. Given all the publicity surrounding Christian Bale's luvvyfit during the making of the film, I assumed there'd be some top method acting, characterisation, plot, story... y'know, all the things that go to make up a good movie.

Sadly I was very much mistaken. Despite some effective sci-fi action sequences, the whole edifice deteriorates into a 'what shall we do now?' shambles of bullets and explosions, culminating in a fleeting glimpse of the Governor of California, topped off by a truly desperate attempt to justify a sequel. There's nothing in this sorry effort that even echoes the novelty, wit and suspense of the original Terminator series.

So honestly, do not risk permanent hearing impairment by seeing this film. Despite inserting the F1 grade earplugs I wear for outings on the old throbber, I'm still deaf this morning. Worse still, Westwood Vue managed to cock up the first five minutes of the film, resulting in sound but no picture. When they finally managed to restart it, they didn't start it at the beginning. Oh no, they started it about five minutes in, missing out one of the few key plot moments. In the words of Bale himself: 'What the f*ck are you doing? Are you professional or what?!!!?' Hasta la vista, baby!

Illuminating Stuff

I see the workmen repairing our crumbling East Cliff here in Ramsgate have had it away with the fascia from one of our last remaining, albeit defunct, illuminations. The arch of lights over this cheeky chappy used to light up in sequence to give the impression that he was juggling his balls. These days the only ball juggling you're likely to witness is at the offices of our beloved local council.

Thanks to regular contributor Millicent, however, there may be a solution. She's pointed out that Blackpool's go-ahead council is auctioning off a whole heap of its illuminations to make way for super-duper new lighting. Items being flogged off include genies with lamps, seahorses and seashells, and a 60 foot, illuminated replica of Thunderbird 3. Estimates range from a measly £50-£350.

Blackpool Illuminations still attract 3.5m visitors a year. With a bit of a whip round, we could put Ramsgate back on the seaside map!

Click here for full story on BBC website

Hatchet Job

It's not often one has the opportunity to witness a youth in a tracksuit, wielding an enormous rusty meat cleaver, running down the street shouting 'I'm not gonna f*cking put up with this any f*cking longer', but that was the delightful vision that confronted the Eastcliff mincers today as I toddled down the road for my afternoon snifter.

Yes, I did think of ringing the rozzers, but on balance I decided they probably had more important things on their plates. Such as a vital pensions meeting, or a presentation on health and safety most like.

Holly Nickers

Nothing to do with personal feminine itching. No, I've received this email from a reader on the Dickensian east side of the island calling himself Joss Bay, a pseudonym we must assume:

I read in the papers recently that there's a national shortage of holly this festive season, and prices are going through the roof. So I was not entirely surprised as I was driving home the other night to see, as I approached my house, a shadowy figure who appeared to be cutting branches from the holly tree in my front garden. As I pulled into my drive, I remonstrated with the woman, who, calm as a cucumber, retorted: 'It's only a bit of holly' and sauntered off.

I thought about reporting the incident to the police, but she was the wife of the copper who lives a few doors up.

Crikey! Still, you've got to pity the rozzers. They've just had a piss poor pay deal, and what with that and the prospect of having to retire on full pay at 40 and set up their own security business, no wonder some of them are being driven to desperate measures!

Ladyboy To The Rescue!

I see my local MP, Dr Steve Ladyboy, has sent out a circular asking for views on the three post office closures that are proposed here in the Millionaires' Playground.

Well, when I last looked, the Post Office was still owned by HM Government, incumbents Gordon and Chums, the very same party that Dr Ladyperson represents. So couldn't they just tell them not to go ahead with it? I mean, a report out today predicts the UK population will rise to 157m by the middle of the century, and everyone's constantly urging us to cut our carbon footprints and shop local, so it's a bit short-sighted to shut local POs, isn't it?

In other news, the old Toyota Priapus was vandalised last night along with a number of other cars in the street. Must be the half term holidays.

Blimey! With Dr Biggles taking a break from Thanet Life at the moment, I seem to have taken over as the island's Chief Tory!

The Wrong Arm Of The Law

The doorbell rang this afternoon and who should it be but one of Her Majesty's Testicle Jugglers!

'Are you Ricky?'

Well, I suppose in a manner of speaking I am, although I haven't been called that since I was eleven. So in order to obtain clarification I replied:

'Ricky who?'

At this point the rozzer gave me a thoroughly suspicious look. Admittedly his suspicion may have been aroused by the fact that I was ever so slightly dishevelled, having just woken up from my afternoon nap.

However, when a peeler looks at you like that, I find it immediately prompts one to riffle through one's mental diary desperately searching for any misdemeanours in the past ten years, drunken or otherwise, which might have attracted the attention of the local constabulary. Having drawn nothing but blank sheets, and dismissing out of hand the notion that the uniformed dullard standing in front of me may have apprehended the moron who detached the bumper from the TT while I was away last week, and had bowled over to convey the glad tidings, I decided the best plan of action was to return the compliment.

After a silent stand off that lasted a good ten seconds, he cracked.

'This your flat?'

Flat? Flat?

'No. This is my house. All of it. I own the lot.'

At that point his suspicious look turned to an expression of confusion mixed with greed and envy, and with a curt apology, and mumbling something about having the wrong address, he plodded back down the garden path.