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If you are not British the chances are that you will have absolutely no idea who these people are and are probably also sick of Brits thinking that unrelenting irony is functionally equivalent to wit. For the rest of you, enjoy:

http://tinyurl.com/2eylfj

UPDATE

Amazon appear to have deleted all 337 “reviews” of this meisterwerk.The humourless bastards. That’s the last time I’m buying anything from them.

Someone has selected their top 10 reviews and reposted them. They miss my favourites. I enjoyed the one which credits Peter Andre with a voice that “makes cats dance and plaster fall from the walls” and another which asks, rhetorically, how often one can say one has encountered an album recorded by “three enormous tits”.

You may have noticed something of a gap between posts. Partly this is because I have been playing here: http://moobz.vox.com. Mostly it is because I took on the challenge of a tag tossed at me by Emma. The challenge is to tell you 5 things about me that you do not know. Given that I have been blogging for a while now that is rather more easily said than done. What I have not spilt out here I have drizzled into comments left on other sites. Furthermore, some of you are either related to me or have been friends since school so it is unlikley that there is anything that I can reveal about myself which is not so scandalous that it would be likely to lead to expulsion, ex-communication or revoking of privileges. All I am willing to say therefore is that I have done my best. As usual I have gone on at length so that the answer will appear in two parts.

(1) My Real Name

It may come as a surprise but Moobs is not my real name. I have toyed with making it my real name but that would get in the way of my lifelong ambition to change my name to “Mr Deed Poll”. My real name is Seán.

Well, I tell a lie, in fact it isn’t but I’ll come back to that.

My mother, being from Dublin, was homesick when I was born and wanted to call her firstborn something that reminded her of home (I guess I am lucky she didn’t name me after Ireland’s premier fast food outlet: Abrakebabra).

Mum chose the gaelic form of the name and so began a lifetime of spelling my name to idiots. Here is a scene from childhood: I am lying in a hospital bed awaiting my appendectomy. On my head is a pair of disturbingly sticky heaphones through which I am listening to the sonic delights of Hospital Radio Colchester. HRC has only one song recorded after 1946:”Will You” by Hazel O’Connor in which a woman plaintively entreats her man to stick around and satisfy her needs rather than “just politely [saying] goodnight”. By this point I have heard that song 70 times. Everything else in the station library was either danced to by Fred Astaire or else sung by soldiers on troop ships. As the sedatives take hold I hear the following exchange between the two DJs:

DJ1: “Hot Dog! We have a request here for a SEEN in Ward 4 …”
DJ2: “Er, I don’t think it’s SEEN I think it is pronounced ‘SHORN'”
DJ1: “Well it says S.E.A.N like ‘bean'”
DJ2: “I’m pretty sure that it’s pronounced ‘SHORN'”
DJ1: “Whatever. I’m sure she’ll forgive me.”
DJ2: “Actually, I think it’s a boy’s …”
DJ1: “Here is Hazel O’COnnor with ‘Will You”.

As I was sedated I found I couldn’t gnash my teeth and punch things as I wished to. I was reduced to dribbling angrily. It was as a result of that that I founded “The International Brotherhood of Seans” back in 1993.

I said that I lied about my name and I did: my real name is not Seán. Instead, my real name is Séan as my own mother mispelled my name on the birth certificate putting the accent over the wrong letter. Bah!

(2) I am not English

Despite my bowler hat, furled umbrella and sock suspenders I am not actually English. I was born in South Africa. My parents emigrated there shortly before I was born. So I was squeezed bawling into the world in Durban. My father was a ship’s captain trying to become a pilot.

During the first 18 months of my life my experiences included steaming along the African coast in the ship my father commanded. I am told that I became so used to the roll of the ship that I was once found, having fallen from my bed, rolling back and forth across the cabin floor fast asleep. To me the idea of the voyage seems hopelessly romatic. Unfortunately, by the time I was capable of remembering anything about my day to day existence we had washed up in Gravesend in Kent, which was every bit as glorious as the name suggests. Gone was the sight of dolphins breaking the water at the bow only to be replaced with a view across the marshes to Tilbury power station.

One afternoon, back in my schooldays, I was sat in French class with Chaz Ward, one of the more humourless members of the teaching staff (a very exacting standard). We were reading a jolly passage about a parrot and an African villager packed full of racial stereotypes so egregious that they would these days undoubtedly lead to prosecution. After the passage had been read aloud, the textbook provided a number of comprehension questions. To my delight I heard my teacher call out my name and then ask “Etes-vous Africain?”. “Oui” I answered “Je suis Africain”. Chaz’s face darkened. “I have had enough of you insolence boy. Get out!”

Having been expelled from class I had to stand outside in the corridor and await a “talking to” when the lesson was over. I knew the drill and insolence was usually my downfall (except once where the problem was farting – but that is another story). I enjoyed the moment – not because I enjoyed being booted from class but because I knew that the moment I left the classroom a hand would go up and my fellow pupils would delight in informing the still fuming Chaz that my answer had been an entirely accurate one and that he had some major climbing down to do. He managed that task with an awe-inspiring lack of grace. That memory alone more than compensated for the many teenage years I spent crapping myself that the South African Army might decide that I had to spend sometime shooting at people by way of military service.

Christmas Eve

We are standing at the edge of the drop off car lane at heathrow. The man who is supposed to have come and collected the car is 25 minutes late. We have twice been told he is on his way only then to be told that they don’t even know what terminal we are at. P is weeping tears of frustration. The gate closes in 15 minutes. I am shouting down the mobile telephone connection at the unhelpful man at the parking company. I inform him that if we miss the plane I intend to come and spend Christmas with him.

We make the plane by the skin of our teeth. I turn to P, sigh, and say “at last the holiday starts”. She lays a clammy palm on my hand and says “I’m going down with a cold”.

We are spending Christmas Eve with P’s sister, K. She is recently separated and her three boys are with their father until Christmas Day. She has been busy organising her first Christmas as a single mum and has had to get her ex to pick up the bicycles she has bought for her boys. It meant him driving the work vehicle round to the bike shop whilst on shift. As his work vehicle is Edinburgh and Lothian Police’s Armed Response car, this leads to some very startled Bike Shop owners. K phones through to pay for the bikes. The owners hesitate to take card details over the phone. K points out that if she intended to defraud them she would be unlikely to send the Police to collect the goods. They see her point.

K and P have a lot of talking to do. I slink into the sitting room and, as stand in man of the house, seize control of a beer and the remote control and allow television to turn my brain to jelly.

Christmas Day

We are in Peebles, a picturesque Borders town. All around the house are fields hard with frost and blurred by fog. The spiders’ webs in the hedgerows look like strings of glass beads. I am crunching down the pavement looking for the Catholic Church. As I am wearing a T Shirt, jumper, body-warmer and wool coat as well as gloves, a scarf and a woolly hat, it is impossible for the locals to tell that I am English (or indeed what sex or race I am) so they are all very friendly. It turns out that K, who has given me directions,  has no idea where the Catholic Church is. She has sent me to the site of the former Evangelical Church; now closed for rebuilding. I apologise to God and set off back to the TV.

P meets me at the door. Despite her gathering illness she is in great form having enjoyed the sort of lung-searing icy tramp across the hills with a dog that the Scots thrive on (what’s wrong with cocktails at an early hour in a basement bar?) She wants to go to see her Gran who is in a retirement home a short drive away. I am a little wary. Gran has Alzheimers and, the previous week, had suffered a stroke that nearly carried her away. I agree to go along, expecting trouble. P is in indomitable spirits. As we drive across country there are birds wheeling; finally persuaded to fly south and Parliaments of crows lining the telephone wires looking bitter.

The retirement home is a model of jollity. The staff wear tinsel in their hair and the guests are participating in the festivities to the extent that they are able. Some sit staring, others mumble and a bespectacled nonagenarian called Agnes shuffles about tidying away anything she finds unattended (including the contents of P’s handbag). The nurse in charge informs me ruefully that however afflicted the guests might appear their ability to put away sherry by the mugful seems to be the last skill to wane. Some of them are being wheeled away for an afternoon with a guilt-ridden family but pause to look wistfully at the shrimp cocktail starter they are missing out on.

I spot Granny B. She is frozen in an apparent attempt to stand up. Her eyes are vacant as a result of sedation and her palms are pressed flat on the seat. Her legs are like sticks in their trousers and she smiles unwaveringly, her dentures perfectly regular and white. She no longer wears her hearing aid. P drops to her knees and grabs her grandmother’s hands. “Hello Granny, how are you?” she asks. Gran’s hands writhe in hers. She repeats the question. Gran pulls her hands free, her smile fixed, her eyes adrift. P’s eyes fill with tears. She looks at me, asks me to sit with her Gran and runs from the room. I sit down and hold Gran’s hand and gesture to a nurse. Between us we establish she wants to change her trousers as they have foodstains on them. She is helped away. P returns having been found and comforted by the staff. She has been administered a dose of hot tea; the British miracle drug.

P’s parents arrive. They are practised at talking to Gran and ask her who is visiting her. Gran says “P” in a whisper and my heart breaks in gratitude. It is a small thing but the consolation it brings P is immediate and immense. I talk to P’s dad and it is plain that for all the love P’s parents have for Gran they would rather she passed away. “She could go on for years like this” he told me in a worried tone. For the record, rather than put me in a home, sneak up behind me and shoot me.

By the time we are home, the boys are back. J is playing with Nintendogs whilst his actual dog, Holly, leaps about in front of him trying to get his attention. The two younger boys, D and W see me, point, shout “It’s the tickley man” and then jump in turn onto my bollocks for the next 4 and a half hours.

The Christmas meal is fantastic. I munch through balls of stuffing, little sausages, parsnips and slices of turkey wondering idly (having read too many US blogs) what a Turducken tastes like. Once the meal is over, I retire to the sitting room where the boys resume their insistent attempts to emasculate me with their booted feet. P’s Mum, meanwhile,  is having her usual Christmas duel with the television. At one end of the misty champs is the huge widescreen which is projecting the sights and sounds of the magical world of Master Harry Potter. I have little idea what the bespectacled wizardling is up to because P’s Mum, as ever, is winning. She is keeping up an endless stream of shouted banality “THOSE CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS ARE NICE. WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT THEY CAME FROM IKEA? THEY ONLY DO THEM IN RED I SUPPOSE. MY TEA IS HOT. WHAT A NICE MUG. DO YOU LIKE YOUR PRESENTS CHILDREN? OH DEAR MY TEA HAS GONE COLD.”

At about 6pm I begin to feel it is all a bit much and sneak upstairs to read. My friend S gloatingly texts me from Whistler to tell me that there has been 45 cms of fresh powder snow and that he has an evening of drinking micro-brewed beer and eating nachos with boarding babes ahead of him. At first I am jealous but then it occurs to me that if I am trapped, I am at least trapped in an embrace: the embrace of a family at Christmas, all trying as best they can,  not just to love one another but to let that love show a little. Painful though the constant stamping on my bollocks may be, the boys plainly like me and, I might as well admit it, I like them; snot-covered faces and blood-spattered boots and all. That is why I have tried this Christmas to pass on a little wisdom. The boys now know what “bollocks” means; that Brussel sprouts make you fart and how to swallow air and make yourself belch. I don’t suppose that’s the spirit of Christmas but frankly who cares?