Sunday Mercury - Lorne Jackson Online

Message for Lady Ga Ga - Outrage is out of date

2010-09-22T11:13:11Z

POOR Lady Gaga! My heart goes out to the platinum-album selling, serial award-winning, multi-millionaire pop star.

She just isn't getting the attention she deserves.Park.

]]>

I'm not being sarcastic. Record buyers and music reviewers are gaga about Gaga, as they should be. She's one of the most gifted songwriters in the biz, and is blessed with the sort of charisma and marketing nous that keeps her face on the front pages, and her songs in the charts.

But that's not enough for Our Lady Of The Permanent Wardrobe Changes.

Gaga wants to go down in rock history, along with Elvis and Madonna.

Which means doing more than merely composing an endless succession of cracking tunes.

To earn her place alongside those other regal rock and poppers, she has to be the cause of fury, outrage and disgust.

What other reason can there be for her wearing a dress made from what appeared to be raw meat, when accepting one of many MTV awards last week?

Sure, it was a crafty marketing gimmick. Guaranteed to attract the maximum amount of attention.

But the steak dinner dress was about more than attention-seeking.

It was Gaga's bid to be despised; shunned by the easily shocked.

Elvis gained notoriety wiggling his hips. In the 1950s there were genuine fears that his jailhouse jiggle would corrupt the morals of the teenage nation.

Presley's hips were so hot that eventually broadcasters would only film him from the waist up.

A quarter of a century later, Madonna's sensual gyrating caused stirrings in the trousers of young men... while stirring up outrage from the moralising mob.

Gaga wants a slice of that action. That's why I feel sorry for her. Because she isn't going to get it.

It's a different world, now. Outrage is outdated. At least in its ancient forms.

When we glimpse Gaga in a meat dress, most of us ponder whether it would taste better with pepper sauce or an orange jus.

She swanks down a street wearing no more than a thong, and we sigh: "The poor pet! She'll catch her death in that skimpy little number!"

If her heels are too high, we smile indulgently, as though watching a toddler recite the alphabet."How awfully clever of her not to topple over in those things!"

Most of us are willing to buy Gaga's records. But nobody is taking her bait.

Though I do know how she could go about earning our enmity, if only she had the guts.

Lady G should openly admire the teachings of the Pope.

The Pontiff - in Birmingham today - has been the target of the kind of opprobrium that Elvis and Madonna received in their heyday.

Though it's not the right-wing ranters who are gunning for the head of the Catholic Church.

It's those smug lefties... today's snapping and sneering set.

This thoroughly modern moral majority has gleefully heaped bucketloads of scorn upon the Pope, even before he set foot in the UK.

In many ways I understand their distaste for the man and his archaic beliefs.

He stands firm against many of the tolerant attitudes that have evolved in this country.

Attitudes we now cherish.

And his reaction to the child abuse scandal in his church proved he has the flaws of a man.

Yet isn't the liberal mind-set that opposes the Pope in danger of becoming as fearful of challenge as the right-wing dogma it replaced?

To refuse to debate the Pope's beliefs, and, instead, dismiss him as a ridiculous and morally bankrupt figure isn't just bad manners.

It lacks intellectual courage and curiosity.

Just over one hundred years ago, the Catholic novelist, GK Chesterton, published a fine novel, The Man Who Was Thursday.

It begins in a pretty little suburb called Saffron Park, a place where feckless, pampered, liberal 'intellectuals' hold sway.

Into this insular world arrives a right-wing poet who scoffs at the local bohemians' stale affectations.

The UK seems a lot like Saffron Park at the moment.

Smug. Sanctimonious. Complacent. Far too secure in the belief that right-on always means being right.

The Pope may be looking in the wrong direction.

But at least his gaze reaches far beyond the insufferable suburb that is Saffron

BBC's Coronation Street is just Dyer

2010-09-21T11:00:13Z

THE Road To Coronation Street, shown on Thursday, was a drama about the creation of Coronation Street fifty years ago.

The one-off programme - made for the BBC - highlighted how Corrie's creator, Tony Warren, fought hard to make sure the actors in his show came from the same Northern streets where his programme was set.

It was a key reason why Corrie became such a hit for ITV.

And did the BBC follow Warren's maxim? Not a bit of it. The Road To Coronation Street starred Jessie Wallace... from EastEnders.

At least they didn't have Danny Dyer playing Hilda Ogden.

Short story: Sunday Bloody Sunday

2010-09-19T11:46:03Z

ONCE upon a time. Once. Upon. A. Time.

Wilson Burke had no truck with those four words. Even as a child he knew fiction was foolish. Pointy-hat wizards? Pointless. Newspapers were better than make-believe. Articles about missing children and grieving mothers amused Wilson. All that hand-wringing! The boo-bloody-hoo brigade.

Showbiz scandal was best. Football scrappers and mini-skirt slappers - bring it on, and bring 'em down!."

]]>

But Wilson hadn't read newspapers regularly for two years. Not since he lost that Call Centre gig. (Accused him of stealing! Proved zilch, mind. Same went for the sex-pest charges.) Now he hoarded his cash for life's essentials. Lager and chips.

MONDAY

Wilson snored fitfully, slumped on the sofa in a mist-grey vest and thundercloud Y-fronts. A half-empty lager can balanced on his belly. Jeremy Kyle burbled in the background.

A thump at the front door woke him. Something soft, yet heavy, landing on the mat. He crossed the hall, pushed open the door (the lock was broken) peered out, and down.

On the raggedy mat, a newspaper. The Sunday Mercury.

He studied the Mercury at his stained coffee table for five minutes, before realising the exercise was pointless. Today was Monday. Yesterday's news. As stale as the chip wrappers and empty cans scattered round the flat. Yet he kept his nose in the paper. There was a gory report about Birmingham serial killer, the Midland Mauler. He'd struck again.

But what really hooked Wilson was eye-popping news about the United player, Jevon Holmes. It was the first Wilson had heard about it. How had he missed such a shocker? Surely he'd have stumbled upon a telly newsflash, while flicking between 'Dave' repeats and Channel 4 pornumentaries? He read on...

HOLMES GOES HOMICIDAL

Premiership striker kills soap-star girlfriend

The article had juice. Cocaine. Jealousy. Knife-gouging. Now United's star player was holed up in Winson Green. No chance of a Premiership start until the 2025 season. Meanwhile, Hollyoaks needed a replacement blonde, and sharpish.

Wilson clicked on Sky News. No mention of Jevon in the sport report, or the serious news. Not a cough or spit in the showbiz round-up. He turned to the BBC. A similar blank. The telly was treating a mega-story as though it hadn't happened...

TUESDAY

Thump!

Wilson was shaken from a drunken doze by the soft, heavy thud at the door. Unslumping himself from the sofa, he staggered through the dirty hall. A Mercury on the mat. Different edition, though. Another sensational front page.

CHARLIE IS KING OF BURGER ALL

Protest Prince Takes Job Flipping Burgers

According to the report, Prince Charles stormed out of Buckingham Palace when the Queen refused to abdicate. Now he'd joined the board of Burger King, and was introducing vegetarian hamburgers made from lettuce leaves and Dandelion Clocks. Madness.

Wilson tossed the paper across the room and turned on the telly news. Nothing about Charlie. He was about to click back to Kyle when he registered that the anchorwoman was a babe. Licking his lips, rubbing the ginger stubble on his chin, he settled into the sofa.

"To round up this morning's news..." said the babe.

"You can round up all over my face, love," leered Wilson.

"... Premiership footballer, Jevon Holmes, was charged with murder an hour ago..."

The leer vanished from Wilson's face.

WEDNESDAY

No sofa slumping today. Wilson stood bolt-upright at the front door, ear pressed to wood. Nothing. He pulled the door open, peered down the gloomy hall. Nothing.

The soft thump came while he was preparing a Pot Noodle in the kitchenette. Whoever delivered the Mercury had vanished when he opened the door. At the coffee table, he studied the front page.

SCHOOL BUS CRASH KILLS TWENTY

Youngsters die on way to zoo

The bus had smashed into a fallen tree on Kirkmarten Drive. That kind of story had to be on the local TV news. Wilson switched on the telly. Zip. Nyada. But the main news was interesting. The Prince Of Wales had resigned... and joined Burger King. Charles was speaking to a Sky reporter, live. The words coming from his mouth were the lines quoted in yesterday's Mercury. More madness!

The Sunday Mercury was arriving when it wasn't Sunday. It plopped on his mat, even though he didn't order it. And it was packed with the next day's news.

Who was delivering this rag? A wizard in a pointy hat? Maybe Wilson was going insane. His mum always said he was a weird 'un.

He scanned the paper. Witnesses from nearby houses said the bus crash took place just after 2pm. If his newspaper really was predicting the future, that meant tomorrow...

THURSDAY

Kirkmarten Drive, 2pm. Wilson hunched against a wall, across the road from the fallen tree. At 2.02pm a bus rounded the corner. Wilson caught a glimpse through the windows as it sped onwards. Children. Wilson smiled.

FRIDAY

Thump!

The future was waiting for him on the mat.

MIDLAND MAULER STRIKES AGAIN

Pretty student latest victim

The Mauler, up to his old tricks! The modus operandi was familiar. Victim's throat slashed. Lumps gouged from body. Since Wilson was reading a Mystic Mercury - reporting the future - this meant the murder would happen on Saturday.

The article stated that the victim's screams were heard at 11.35pm. Her body found in Simmerson Alley. But Wilson had the power to stop this grisly future. He could save the damsel in distress. Or maybe just watch...

SATURDAY

11.30pm. Wilson lurked inside the dingy bus stop, across the road from Simmerson Alley. Saw the pretty brunette enter the shadows. Then, a figure in a balaclava, following her into the dark. Wilson stumbled across the road, paused at the mouth of Simmerson. Heard the scream. He took two more steps. And there it was. Better than TV. Better than Kyle.

Wilson mumbled, licking his lips. Then he fled into the night.

SUNDAY

Wilson in his flat, pacing. Mouth dry. Needing that fix. It didn't come. All day.

"No Mercury on bleedin' Sunday," he spat. "That figures!"

It arrived at midnight. He heard the soft thump, and it sounded like his heart. He raced through the pages, hungry for blood, carnage. But the ink was smeared on every page. A black mash with no meaning.

Except one page. Page 22. But this was no good! It was a new Mercury feature. Fiction! A story called Sunday, Bloody Sunday.

Wilson read. A chill ran through him.

He read about a no good bum. A bum who received a mystic newspaper. A bum who watched kids and a pretty student die - and smiled as he watched.

The bum had a name. Wilson didn't want to look at that name. He kept reading.

A serial killer glimpsed the bum in a dark alley, according to the story, and followed him home. The psycho waited a day before heading back to the bum's flat, then he pushed open the front door with the broken lock...

Droplets of sweat fell from Wilson's forehead, staining the last lines of the story. Ink ran, ink blurred. Wilson couldn't make out how it all ended.

A shadow fell across the newspaper. The Mercury shook in Wilson's hands. He couldn't turn round. Just stared at the page. Started reading from the beginning (if only he could return to the beginning).

"Once upon a time," he whispered. "Once. Upon. A. Time

Cameron/Clegg - A new balance

2010-05-21T17:31:55Z

THE main problem with the Cameron Clegg alliance is that the partnership pulses with so much comic potential that all my smarty-pants ideas for lampooning the two leaders in today's Mercury have already been used up.

]]>

"Eureka!" I screeched on Wednesday, snapping my fingers with delight. "I'll compare them to Morecambe and Wise!" Then I opened that morning's tabloid newspaper, along with a broadsheet, and discovered both papers had already had that idea - and acted upon it.

Next, I thought about wittily referring to Cam and Clegg as Ant And Dec.

Turns out that was as original a concept as an unwanted pregnancy storyline in EastEnders.

Another idea was to mention The Odd Couple, that classic 1960s movie where Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau are forced to share a flat.

I've not spotted that angle yet, though I have a sneaking suspicion it's been used, and abused, already.

Even if it hasn't, my readership is so youthful, dynamic and forward-thinking, I doubt any of you have even heard of the 1960s, let alone watched a movie made in that era. So you wouldn't get the reference.

(I don't know for sure that you lot are youthful, dynamic and forward-thinking, by the way. I've never commissioned a poll. That's just how I imagine you. Plus you're all female, and wearing spangly gold hot pants that you hoist on especially to read my column.)

Celebrate

Finally, I decided there was only one way to celebrate the partnership between Tories and Lib Dems. Or rather two ways.

Since two parties are in charge of the country, I'm rewarding you with two columns for the price of one. Let's just hope they get on okay.

Column One: First I'd like to say... actually, why don't you go first?

Column Two: No, no. Love to hear what's on your mind. Blast away!

Column One: But I insist!

Column Two: Au contraire...

Column One: Very well, then. Thanks awfully. Anyway, to begin... David Cameron. What have the British people done to deserve this? More to the point, what has Cameron done to deserve this?

Well, I suppose he has worked hard for many years to overcome the disadvantages of an Etonian education.

And no, I'm not being satirical.

All that state school kids have to worry about is drug pushers in the corridors, class disruption from thugs, lack of resources, broken-down buildings, broken-down teachers and an ingrained elitist system that ensures they're at the end of the queue when the best jobs are handed out.

Meanwhile, the little Etonian blighter must figure out how to balance that pesky top hat on his head. Though I suppose if there are any nasty mishaps he can always purchase a state school kid to crawl after him, picking up the topper when it falls in the dirt.

No doubt Cameron would say school days are in the past, and a man should be judged on what he's about to do, rather than where he comes from.

To that, I must counter with a measured argument of my own.

Rubbish!

Years ago, I went to a party with a friend. We didn't know anybody there, probably because we gatecrashed.

Instead of being quiet and demure, so nobody would notice the strangers in the corner, my friend was immediately astonishingly rude to everyone in sight.

"What the hell are you doing?" I said.

"Being astonishingly rude to everyone in sight," he said. "It saves time."

He was right. There's no need to figure out whether you like somebody or not. Use your eyes, use your nose. Taste the air around them. Prejudice is an often abused critical faculty. There's no harm in a little pre-judgement, every now and then.

It saves time - especially when there's a Tory in power. What's more...

Column Two: Hold on! You've had your say. We're running out of space. Besides, I want to add something nice about Cameron.

Column One: I'm finished when I say I'm finished! Now, back to Cameron the cad...

Column Two: Typical. I give you an inch and you take a mile.

Column One: What's all this mile rot? Nothing wrong with European measurements.

Column Two: If you don't watch out, I'm gonna give you a kick in the kilometres...

So there we have it, my young friends in your spangly gold hotpants.

Not only is there a new style of government, there's also a bold new journalism of balance and bonhomie.

And just like the fresh politics, it looks as if it's going to last - for another few minutes, at least.

World Cup cost-cutting?

2010-05-21T10:29:20Z

CAN it be true? Brazil are such an amazing footballing nation, blessed with layers of ball-belting talent, that they can afford to leave two-time World Player of the Year, Ronaldinho out of their World Cup Squad.

Being a Scot, I can proudly reveal my country has gone one better.

We've left all our players out of the squad for this summer's competition.

Meanwhile, England hopes to host the 2018 World Cup.

Isn't the country broke?

Guess this means that if the Government wants to pay for the expensive shindig, they better get round to Oxfam, fast, and stock up on old jumpers for goalposts.

Steady on Gordon, that's how you win a General Election

2010-05-04T12:57:13Z

I know Labour are on the verge of a drubbing, the cusp of a trouncing, the margin of a mauling... but did Gordon Brown really have to start cheating in the election?

Yesterday the PM made a great speech, and that's just not allowed.

The rules of the game state clearly that Brown has to be dull and heavy going - an inarticulate lorry.

Then he goes and spoils it all at the Citizens UK conference by being a feisty firebrand,
a proper Old Labour orator, stirring up the crowds, being all charismatic and passionate.

Lucky he didn't try that a couple of weeks ago, or he might have accidentally won the election, and then what would David Cameron have done? With the recession starting to bite like a Rottweiler's jaws on a postman's skinny ankle, Dave would have struggled to get any sort of decent employment.

It's not as if the doors to the boardrooms of industry and commerce magically swing open for Old Etonians, is it?

Recipe for lazy hacks - just add volcano smoke

2010-04-21T10:43:59Z

When there's a General Election round the corner I usually get sick to death of the TV coverage pretty darned fast, and become anxious to see something - anything! - else reported on the news.

Not this year.

]]>

This year I'm so sick of coverage of that pesky ash cloud billowing from the Icelandic volcano that I'd rather watch politicians bluffing, blustering and bumbling.

Dullest of all are the journalists who think they're so darned clever every time they use
the ash cloud as a metaphor for the election.

Sparkingly original and so NOT a big fat clichÃÂ©, chaps!

For any whippersnappers out there who fancy a cushy job waffling in the meeja (just like me) here's a handy recipe for instant success.

Recipe For Producing Journalistic Cobbler(s)
Ingredients:
Volcanic ash.
Dull British election.

Instructions:
Take an industrial-sized Moulinex Blender.
Crush volcanic ash and dull British election in blender.
Give it a whisk.
Spoon out the resulting clichÃÂ©d mush.
Serve to bored British public.
Then serve again. And again. And...

The X-Factor is a good reason not to get married

2009-10-21T11:55:58Z

THERE are many reasons why men embrace marriage.

Cuddles on tap. An excuse to purchase a Pringle pullover, plus a stack of those Golf magazines that pile up in dental waiting rooms. The married man can also move to the 'burbs, vote Conservative with pride and start seriously considering where the kids should be schooled. (Top tip: Don't pick the school where the janitor wears a clown costume, carries a paper bag packed with sticky sweets in one hand... and a child-sized tadpole net in the other.)

But there's one crucial reason for missing out on all that marital bliss.

]]> Once you're married, you have to watch X-Factor. Every Saturday night. There's no getting out of it. You're not even allowed to sit in another room and read the paper.

Because that's not being supportive. Besides, wifey will want to discuss every woeful warbler who struts on the stage, then decides to swallow the microphone whole; something known in the trade as 'smashing it'. (Why would you want to smash a song, anyway? Songs should be petted like kittens; wooed and cooed into supine submission, like a Valentine's date. You smash tennis balls and earwigs that stampede into your kitchen. Not songs. Never songs.)

The best thing about being a single man is that when someone asks him for his opinion of Simon Cowell, he merely shrug dismissively, then says: "Wasn't he the guy that used to play the ship doctor in Love Boat?"

Ignorance truly is bliss.

Well, maybe not always. Remember, the single guy will be out on the pull every week-end. To bag his prey, he must persuade the girl in his sights that he is good breeding stock.

Not so simple.

Because as he talks nonsense to her in one ear, she'll be making the sort of rapid calculations that only NASA computers can equal, when they blast rockets into orbit.

Calculation number 1: Are his shoulder nice and broad, so I can balance on them when he takes me to watch Take That Live?

Calculation number 2: Is his spine nice and flexible, so I can bend it to my will?

Calculation number 3: Is he already losing his hair, meaning his confidence to chat-up other birds will vanish, along with his comb?

Calculation number 4: Can he read, and is he interested in current affairs? If so, will he use these attributes as an excuse to swagger off and peruse the paper in another room, when X-Factor is on?

Yup, guys. Even single girls want to know whether you're willing to at least pretend to be interested in X-Factor.

So, in the spirit of camaraderie with my single brethren, I offer a few educational tidbits regarding the contestants on the current show, to be sprinkled into all club night conversations.

Jamie Archer
The most selfish bloke on the planet. Sitting behind him in the cinema would be more than frustrating. Though not if you remembered to bring along a handy pair of garden sheers, or a grazing Shetland Pony.

Stacey Solomon
That voice, that face... At last we know what happened to Roland Rat after his contract with breakfast TV was terminated.

Danyl Johnson.
I call him the snake. Not because of any trouser or hip action. It's just that in order to belt out the big notes, Danyl regularly dislocates his jaw, like a snake would do if it was trying to swallow a pregnant hippo. Don't knock it. It's more impressive than his singing.

Lucie Jones
Lucie is from a small village in Wales. But what ever you do, don't mention the small village in Wales! Lucie mentioned it once, but I think she got away with it.

Rachel Adedeji
Grace Jones? More like Grace Drones. (Then when she's up for the chop, Grace Moans. And moans. And moans...)

Olly Murs
Are there enough Dermot O'Learys in the world? Simon Cowell doesn't think there is. So he's added a second one to the X-Factor mix.

Miss Frank
When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning or in rain? When the hurlyburly's done, when X-Factor's lost and won. (Actually, just lost. Miss Frank are rank.)

Lloyd Daniels & Joe McElderry
Two for the price of one, here. One is blonde, one is dark. Both so dull you could wrap them round your head and wear 'em as sunglasses. But which is better at singing and simpering? Who cares? It's the bland leading the bland.

John and Edward
Must win. At all costs. So splendidly sinister, they make Hannibal Lecter look like a tofu-chewing vegan.

X-Factor needs to be more erotic like Strictly Come Dancing!

2009-09-25T12:06:39Z

THE allocation of work is pretty fair in my gaff - everything is split fifty-fifty.

I hoover the carpets, cook the meals, dust the furniture, wash the dishes, polish the cutlery, delouse the pets, scrub the decks, splice the main sail...

And dance the sailor's hornpipe.

Meanwhile, the wife chooses which reality programmes to watch.

At the moment it's X-Factor rather than Strictly Come Dancing. A great shame for me, because from what I've spotted on Strictly websites, the women's costumes are skimpier than ever this year.

Clearly the credit crunch has hit undercrackers at last.

Of course, the dresses worn for this 'family show' have always been sparser than a 14-your-old lad's moustache. In the last series, the typical frock didn't even contain enough material to string Dennis The Menace's catapult.

This year, there's not enough material to string the catapult of Dennis's arch nemesis, Walter The Softy.

And, just in case you haven't studied your Beano recently, let me remind you that Walter is a well-behaved little chap.

Who doesn't own a catapult...

Let's just hope X-Factor goes the same way as Strictly, with a hefty helping of erotic teasing.

Although the thought of Simon Cowell trussed up in a thong, then basted in Lurpak isn't exactly appetising...

Congrats to Bob Dylan...

2009-05-08T23:09:26Z

Congratulations Bob Dylan!

Together Through Life, the latest studio album from the 60's legend, is the first major collection of his songs to reach the top of the charts since 1970's New Morning.

]]>

I never used to like Dylan, as I didn't understand the lyrics to his more complex songs. Then I realised that he didn't understand them, either. From then on, me and Bob were just fine and dandy.

Although I've had this love/hate relationship with Dylan the lyricist, I've always adored his distinctive voice.

Sure it's a cracked crumble of a croak.

But Dylan was one of the first singers to prove to listeners that ugly can also be beautiful.

If he had been a smooth crooner, minus that gravel groan, he wouldn't have been able to deliver the same sincerity or passion.

The idea that ugly can be beautiful has always rung true with me.

Picasso proved the point in paint.

Tarantino made the case using the medium of massacre.

Even John Prescott has shown that ugly can be beautiful.

Okay, maybe that's going a little too far...

Jade Goody: The tasteless media bandwagon!

2009-03-27T09:43:16Z

IT'S said that everyone alive at the time remembers exactly where they were when they heard JFK had been slain.

I can say the same about Jade Goody.

]]>

I was underneath my bed, fingers jammed in ears, hissing the mantra: "I will not be sucked in by the tasteless Jade media bandwagon, I will not be sucked in by the tasteless Jade media bandwagon, I will not be sucked in by the tasteless..."

I'd been doing this for three weeks solid, and only stopped when someone jabbed a well-aimed broom underneath the bed, and released me from my reverie by informing me that the young woman in question was now dead.

Though the story didn't end there.

There was still the mob mourning to contend with.

Strangers making a pilgrimage to the House Of Jade, to sanctify her doorstep with petrol-station petals.

Then there were the comments from the great and the good and the genuflecting. Stephen Fry - smug, though as usual, not as smart as he thinks he is - compared Jade to Princess Di.

True... in a way.

The death of both women brought out the worst in the British public and media.
Don't get me wrong. The premature death of any 27-year-old mother is a tragedy - for her family and friends.

But not for the sickening bunch of strangers laying the reefs, or reading-all-about it in the tasteless tittle-tat mags. They're just grief groupies.

Empty heads with empty lives, getting a high from inhaling the rich fumes emitted by other people's pain.

In a different era, in a different nation, I'm sure those ghouls would have learned to knit, then sat underneath the shadow of Madame Guillotine.

The Reign Of Tragedy or the Reign Of Terror - I genuinely can't see that much of a
difference.

Lorne Jackson's thought of the day

2009-03-23T12:02:40Z

Lorne Jackson drinks to forget. To forget that he drinks.

Lorne Jackson's thought of the day

2009-03-22T12:02:40Z

Lorne Jackson wonders what Christine Blakley daydreams about while pretending to interview dead-beat celebs on The One Show. Baked potato, tuna and sweetcorn?

Or baked Adrian Chiles, tuna and sweetcorn...

Lorne Jackson's thought of the day

2009-03-21T12:02:40Z

Lorne Jackson knows exactly what the advert means when it says "In Scotland there's so much more going on."

Mugging, glue sniffing, random stabbing, congenial headbutting, getting your first heartattack along with teenage acne.

Did I mention the mugging?

Lorne Jackson's thought of the day

2009-03-20T12:02:40Z

Lorne Jackson wants to know why people always calm down. There's nothing down about calm. Calm up, instead.